#had the urge to draw something purple

[fluffysoraa]

💜

[dollarbils]

morning, baby | b.e.

billie eilish x fem!reader

context. billie wakes you up to attend to your needs, and hers.

warnings. smut, strap, praising, teasing

request masterlist

her hair was sprawled across your collarbones as she awoke you with her soft kisses to your neck.

“bils?” you whispered groggily.

“morning, baby.” she breathed on your skin, her morning voice deep.

“what are you doing?” you chuckled at her repeated actions on your neck, but the lower she went, the harsher her kisses became. an attempt to wake you up softly, had turned into a mission to tint your skin purple.

“what does it look like i’m doing.” she smiled up at you, before moving lower and onto your stomach. her movements were slow with minimal effort, revealing her half woken state.

“billie.” the gasp left you as her lips came in contact with the skin just above your underwear, her fingers pulling the fabric down slowly.

“mhm?” she mumbled, her mouth leaving wet trails all over your stomach, which tickled your skin.

“billie.” she chuckled at this one, your incapability to say anything else amusing her.

“your little gasps are so cute, angel. but i’m going to need a little more convincing to give you what you want.” she kissed your lips, and they followed in sync. her hands roamed your thighs, teasing the place you wanted them. she swallowed your quiet moans before pulling away, questioning you.

“hm?” she was driving you to the point of insanity, her hands brushing your clothes clit when you opened your mouth to speak.”

“billiee,” you huffed, grasping at her body, pulling her down to meet yours, “please?” it was a request that needed no elaboration.

“okay baby.” her body shifted as she fumbled in the drawer of your bedside table, reaching for something you couldn’t bother identifying. she placed it somewhere on the bed before returning to her previous position on your lower stomach. her kisses went gradually lower, urging you closer to your hysteria. her hands gripped the strings of your underwear before pulling it off of you completely, revealing your soaking cunt.

“so pretty.” she said softly before attaching her warm mouth to your clit. your hands flew to her hair, and she moaned into your heat when you tugged on it with a soft force. your gasps become louder the more she devoured you, drawing patterns with her tongue, lazily. she forged your crazed state, mouth agape and eyes squeezed shut in attempt to cope with the pleasure.

“billie.” her name was like an incantation to urge her to continue, telling her you needed more.

“what do you want angel?” her words were slightly muffled, her head buried in your pussy. her actions were slow but calculated, drawing out your rise to a climax.

“n-need you.” your mind was empty of the english vocabulary. the only words capable of forming being her name and shattered cries for further actions.

“need me how?” she left your heat entirely, coming up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself, your whines engulfed by her mouth. Her hips attached to yours, the strap you hadn’t seen her put on digging into your pussy deliciously. as her body moved with yours, when she kissed you, her strap slid through your folds, weakening your body and consuming your consciousness.

“you need me like this?” she whispered, pecking your lips as she waited for a response. you opened your eyes and they met hers, sending you deep into intoxication. her scent driving you wild and her smile encompassing your heart. you nodded, knowing however, that she wouldn’t accept that.

“say it.” it was a demand but it was desperate, her anticipation showing.

“yes..need you so bad, billie.” she kissed you again, diving her tongue into your mouth, filling you with the taste of her. she lifted her hips, not once breaking the kiss, as she positioned herself before your throbbing hole. when she slid in though, you couldn’t help breaking the kiss, your mouth wide as loud gasps escaped you. she took your bottom lip between her teeth as she begun moving her hips, her thrusts slow and sloppy. since waking, you hadn’t left your state of dreams, and the deeper she went, the closer to heaven you felt.

“fuck baby, you look so beautiful like this.” her words were always a whisper on your lips, hers feathering across yours sweetly. her eyes fluttered closed as her mouth drifted to yours again, bringing you closer to where you wanted to be. the base of the strap hit her clit as she groaned into your mouth, sending you further and further to your release. you clenched on the strap as she stretched you wider, filling you up perfectly. your whines grew desperate, begging her for a little more.

“harder, bils.” she smiled as she gathered the strength to toughen her thrusts. your lips fell open when she hit your spot, over and over again until you were cumming on her dick.

“that’s it baby.” she encouraged, helping you ride out your high. your chest was heaving as you tried to catch your breath. you winced when she slid out of you, falling onto your body in exhaustion.

“we can go back to sleep now, that’s all i needed.” she smiled as you laughed softly, pulling her body closer as your eyes drifted shut again, breaths fanning each others faces in your slumber.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

ee congrats. What about a blurb or headcanons, whichever u want i suppose, of fake dating with Frank Castle having to infiltrate something or another? ^_^

Faking It.

frank castle x female reader

warnings - cursing. allusions to sex.

written for my 5k celebration - post here, masterlist here, inbox here.

He’s got his hand on your ass.

Sure, the two of you are playing a couple, undercover in a Mr & Mrs Smith style mission. But surely there’s a thousand other places he could put his hand.

You look at him with a scowl on your face and he winks, all cheeky and boyish. Heat crawls its way up your skin, and you beg yourself to calm down. It’s fake. It’s all pretend.

When you enter the ballroom of the gala, it’s packed with people. Frank winds a hand around the back of your neck, steering you in the right direction. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

You’re laughing and playing fake niceties to an old couple at the bar. They’re telling you how beautifully in love you look, and all you can do is rest your head on Frank’s shoulder and sigh wistfully as they coo. He pulls you into him with a hand on your ass, and you resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs. He knows he’s riling you up. That’s why he’s doing it.

It’s becoming a game, now. Who can wind the other person up more.

Frank is sat on a fancy leather couch, sweet talking a middle aged woman in a long purple dress. You approach, and take the spot right on his lap, wiggling your hips to get comfortable. He hisses in your ear, fake smile still on his face, and the satisfaction you feel is unparalleled.

You’re out in the hallway coming up with a plan when two men walk past, eyeing you suspiciously. You do what any logical woman would do - smash your lips to Franks and hope he doesn’t question it. He kisses you back with much more passion than necessary, one hand around your neck and the other one on your stomach, pushing you backwards into the wall. You bite his lip as hard as you can and he groans, all deep and pretty, and you’re starting to think this plan has backfired massively.

“Damn, girl.”

“Had to think on my feet.”

“Don’t think your feet were the body part you were thinkin’ with.”

You punch his arm as hard as you can, laughing when he grabs it in pain.

“Let’s get that fucking info and get out of here. I’m sick of everyone telling me how handsome my husband is.”

“He is though, isn’t he?” he teases as he grabs your hand, walking back into the crowds of people unaware of your scheme.

Your fingers stay intertwined for the rest of the evening. He squeezes every now and again, once or twice, and you figure out the code pretty quickly. It’s a silent communication, and it works. In no time, you’ve got what you needed, slipping out of the front door and down the huge winding driveway.

You snatch your hand away, and smack his ass as hard as you physically can.

“What the fuck was that for?”

“Revenge. You grabbed my ass way more than necessary tonight.”

He laughs, and you hate the way it makes you smile.

“Good kiss, by the way.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re a good kisser. Even if you did draw blood.”

“I’m about to draw a lot fuckin’ more if you don’t shut up, Frank.”

He chuckles, throwing an arm around your shoulders.

“Might suggest we play a couple every time we go undercover. This is kinda fun.”

[stave-writes]

hello!! may i request mitrun and thistle(separately) x artist!reader who is very interested in their appearance, but hides it very well. most of the time they did not notice the reader's interest in their appearance(and they don't really notice the reader either lol), but one day, approaching the reader from behind to discuss something, they make some very high-quality sketches with them?? I hope this is not a very long request and don't forget to drink water!! :)

Mithrun & Thistle (Seperately) x Artist!GN!Reader

Word Count: 555

So sorry about how long this took to come out! Been fighting writer's block but the power of Mithrun debut (!!!!!) is forcing me to make sure I'm up to date with requests ^^

Also in terms of writing Thistle, I view them as mentally still underage so this will be platonic for them, sorry to disappoint at all ^^'

Mithrun could never understand why you look at him like you do, with a gaze full of curiosity and hiding behind your sketchbook when he catches you. Was there something in his hair? Did he do something to upset you? He tended not to pay you any mind, after all, he didn't care about much anymore. So, when asked by a mutual friend to go talk to you, he wasn't exactly against it.

He'd chosen to approach you from behind, simply to see how you'd react. It was funny seeing people jump or flinch when he teleported behind them, even if he didn't have a desire to play around like a child. So, he'd appeared behind you, face leaning right over your shoulder and opening his mouth to speak before he saw it. A...sketch of him?

It made more sense now, that you'd been watching him so often, that you were always face first in your sketchbook when he was around. You'd been drawing him, and he wasn't against it. In fact, the amount of detail was impressive, even if the visible bags under his eyes and the gauntness of his face did make him recoil just a bit.

"Good job." Was his quiet mutter, turning to look you in the face while you were visibly dying with a mix of surprise and embarrassment that you'd been caught by the very man who filled pages and pages of your sketchbook. A smile couldn't help but rise on his face, chuckling softly as he moved away from your personal space. It seemed he mulled his words for a second before shrugging, speaking plainly, "Someone sent me to come get you, said they have a message for you."

And with that deadpan speech, he was gone. Although, anyone who ran into the Captain that day did seem to think he was a little...sunnier than usual. Odd.

Thistle on the other hand is used to posing for portraits with his family, sitting politely still for the painters or being urged to smile brightly to not distract from Delgal or Yaad. He quite enjoyed not being the focus of the paintings, especially with his ears not paid much attention to.

So it was a little confusing when, as he draped himself to look over your shoulder, he saw a sketch of him. With his white hair tied up into the bun, it'd been in for the last 1000 years, and his ears were floppy slightly with youth but still pointed due to his elf heritage. It was a little flattering, being the subject of someone's art!

Smiling brighter than he had for a while, Thistle leant his head on your shoulder, peering up at you with those curious purple eyes and waiting for your reaction. It was a little confusing when you seemed almost upset he'd found your work. Was...he not supposed to see it?

"It looks good! Why didn't you show me it?" Thistle queried, leaning his elbows on your shoulder with a head tipped to the side, as if tilting his head would just knock understanding right into place. Even when you explained they were just personal sketches, Thistle let out a huff. "I like them. Can you make me one to have?" Eventually, you agreed with a sigh. He was lucky he was so damn cute.

[chevroletdean]

biting / marking [sam winchester] ── ✮⋆˙

kinktober 2024 ship: sam x afab!fem!reader genre: smut to note/warnings: explicit – minors dni, vague descriptions of the reader, sam being a bit rough and unfair, oral (fem receiving), petnames (doll, princess and such) word count: 1.3k a/n: this isn’t proofread, sorry. i’m rushing through the kinktober at this point, wahhh taglist: comment a book emoji 📚 to be added to the sam x reader taglist (please note: ageless blogs will only be tagged in fluff and angst posts) @s7nburn

It started innocently enough, but the process definitely wasn’t a slow one. The first time around, a cozy morning after a long night, the sight of a hickey peeking out of your turtleneck awakened something in him. That’s all it took for him to know he likes a trace of himself on you. Ever since then, he’s deemed it his mission to make it as difficult as possible for you to cover up the evidence of your passionate moments.

Sam has always loved the aftermath, the remnants of your bliss – and why gradually pick things up when he could just wreck you right away? You always look so pretty when he’s done with you.

The way a sheer layer of sweat would stick to your flushed skin, making you glow. The way your hair would spill over the pillows, framing your reddened face and creating a messy halo. The way your eyelashes would flutter weakly against your cheekbones as you struggle to keep your eyes open. The way your lips would slightly part as you’d try to catch your breath. They’re prettiest when they’re kiss bitten, pink, plump and swollen.

But his favorite are the constellations of purple scattered across your body.

Because those stick for a while and they fill him with pride.

If he can have it his way – and for the most part, he does – he treats your body as a canvas. You’re already a work of art, but there’s this primal urge of his to add his signature. To mark you as his muse. Every artist has a favorite tool and his preferred method is his mouth.

Sure, his large hands never fail to find home in the plush of your skin and leave behind a print or two; just like right now. His grip is like iron as his fingers deftly sink into your hips to pin you down.

But his mouth creates the prettiest patterns on you.

You’re already covered in hickeys from his lips latching onto you; not to mention the indents of his teeth. Like little nicks, deep enough to bruise just slightly without drawing any blood. He could break you so easily, yet you continue your attempts to push yourself impossibly closer to him still, wanting more. The blind trust you offer him is addictive. You seem so fragile underneath him like this, completely at his mercy.

“You squirm too much, doll,” he grumbles. As if he could ever actually be annoyed by your adorable little reactions. Those noises fuel him further, if anything.

His voice is half-muffled by the flesh of your inner thigh, which he sinks his teeth into in warning fashion. You respond with a soft sob and he licks over the tender spot apologetically. His tongue is searing hot against your sensitive skin and despite your best attempts to still your movements, he still makes you shudder. In your defense, Sam has spent a good amount of time just kissing up your legs and thighs. You’ve long lost track of time by now, but you’d have an even harder time counting all the marks he’s left behind on your skin. There have been too many soft, wet kisses planted against your tummy and between your legs for you to keep track of.

Not an inch of you is spared by his hungry mouth.

“Sorry, ‘m s-sorry… just–” you whine, interrupted by yet another playful nibble of his sharp teeth. His lips ghost over your clit and you hold your breath. You know better than to make any commands – not that you’re in any state to form any coherent sentence anyway –, unless asked for otherwise. Even if you’re on the brink of melting after all his teasing, Sam’s the one deciding when he’s had enough, and his thirst for your taste is far from satiated.

“Shhh, I know,” he hums and you swear you can feel the victorious smirk on his lips right against your core. “Just stay still f’me, princess.”

Not that you have much of a chance anyway with your movement restricted by his strong hands. Sam shifts below you so his head is slotted between your thighs, one arm wrapped around your lower half enough to hold you against the mattress. Instinctively your trembling legs drape over his broad shoulders. You feel daring enough (and needy for an anchor) to reach down to him and he obliges, using his free hand to interlock his fingers with yours.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers and his warm breath tickles your slick.

He’s even more thorough when it comes to diving into your folds than he is kissing your thighs. His mouth is hot against you, drinking you in like you’re the finest liquor – and to him, you’re just as intoxicating. His tongue nestles into you with the intention to suck you dry and his sharp nose presses against your clit.

You whimper, your voice almost broken as your breath stutters in your throat. The sound is strained enough for him to pull back and place a gentle kiss to your center, giving you a second to breathe.

“You good, baby?”

You nod your head eagerly and squeeze his hand, but he lets go of it and gives your thigh a light pat or two, firmly enough to get you to respond properly. Sam always needs to make sure you’re still with him, attentive and enjoying yourself.

“Feels s’good, Sammy,” you confirm shyly. “Don’t stop, please.”

“Wasn’t planning on it, pretty,” he chuckles darkly, returning to feasting on you until his chin is glistening with your juices. You’d be bucking your hips wildly to grind against his face were it not for his strong arm holding onto you like a damn vice. It just makes you whine all the louder, but Sam’s in a giving mood. “Almost there, you’re so good f’me,” he mumbles, slurring and babbling his words like a drunk.

He pushes you right to that edge of pleasure, a familiar coil tightening in the pits of your stomach. Sam’s tongue flicks against you with practiced ease, alternating between flattening the muscle against you and curling his lips in a way that makes you moan. You’re on the brink of ecstasy, when he suddenly pulls away.

“N-no, please,” you complain desperately. He’s teased you enough! This is just cruel.

“Not done with you yet,” Sam huffs. “Gotta give some extra attention to more obvious places too, hm?”

Your mind is too hazy to make sense of his words, let alone respond, until his lips wander upwards steadily. He licks a languid stripe up to your navel, followed with soft nibs over your ribs. You swallow thickly as his lips close around one of your pebbled nipples and you yelp softly as he uses his teeth to give it a playful tug. He only switches to the other breast to give it the same treatment, working another hickey onto it. It’s a harsher bite close to your collarbone that makes you squeal, which in return makes him chuckle.

“Sorry, got a bit greedy there,” he grins, those hazel eyes of his clearly satisfied with seeing your cute pout. He decides to soothe that little frown away by pressing his lips to yours and making you taste yourself.

It should shock you how easy it is for him to make you forget all your annoyances. After all, you’re still left high and dry, and all it takes is a simple kiss for you to melt under him. His mouth wanders yet again, following a path across your cheekbone. His teeth catch your earlobe, pinching it gently. His kisses suck reddish marks along your jawline and down your neck.

Flushing, you arch your back, realizing he’s marking you up on purpose. He’s busy with a spot under your chin, making you gasp softly. “Sammy, the weather is way too warm for scarves,” you protest within a weak huff. “There’s no way I can cover those up.”

“That’s the whole point, doll,” Sam replies, the curl of his smirk pressed against your throat. “By the time I’m done with you, a scarf wouldn’t make a difference anyway.”

credit & links: ao3 ──〃★ dividers ──〃★ request here ──〃★ kinktober

[kckt88]

Closer

Summary:

Lucaela is a strong bastard-the twin sister of the boy who maimed him with a blade, but she's also the sweetest Omega he's ever scented, and Aemond soon finds himself unable to fight against the primal urge of the Alpha inside him, who has chosen his neice as the perfect mate.

Warning(s): Language, Angst, Masturbation, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Smut – Fingering, Oral Sex, Loss of Virginity, P in V, Knotting, Mating Bites.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x O.C LUCAELA VELARYON

INSPIRED BY - 'NINE INCH NAILS - CLOSER'

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Word Count: 4569

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Aemond strode across the training grounds of the Red Keep, his sword in hand, the sound of steel slicing through the air as he practiced his swordsmanship. His movements were fluid, each strike precise and powerful, a testament to years of training and discipline.

As he paused for a moment to catch his breath, a sweet fragrance wafted on the breeze, the scent of ripe peaches teasing his senses. Aemond's nostrils flared as he instinctively turned his head, searching for the source of the delightful aroma.

And there she was, emerging from the shadows like a vision—Lucaela, his niece a recently presented Omega. Her presence stirring the Alpha within. She was the twin sister of Lucerys, the boy who had took his eye when they were children. Aemond harboured a deep-seated hatred for Lucerys, but he couldn't deny the magnetic pull he felt towards Lucaela.

"Lucaela," greeted Aemond, his voice low and tinged with a hint of something he dared not name.

“Uncle” replied Lucaela.

A wave of desire swept over Aemond like a tempest, igniting a fire within his soul that threatened to consume him whole.

Lucaela was the epitome of beauty, her long, dark wavy hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of silk, framing her delicate features with an ethereal glow.

Her eyes were a mesmerizing shade of light purple, she was the only one out of her strong siblings that had inherited the Targaryen eyes.

And then there was her peach scent that enveloped him like a cloak, sending his senses reeling with its intoxicating allure. It was a scent he could never forget, a scent that awakened the Alpha within him, urging him to claim the omega as his own.

With every breath he took, Aemond could feel the pull of Lucaela's scent drawing him closer, igniting a hunger deep within him that refused to be ignored. The Alpha inside him roared with a primal need, demanding dominance, craving possession.

“What brings you to the training grounds?” asked Aemond, the point of his sword digging into the ground as he rested his weight upon it.

“I found myself drawn to this part of the castle-I was watching you train” replied Lucaela.

“-And did you like what you saw?” rasped Aemond smirking.

“Your skill with the sword is impressive-you’ll win many tourneys”.

“I don’t give a shit about tourneys-nephews have you come to train?” quipped Aemond as Jace and Luke came to a stop beside Lucaela who scowled.

“Open the gates-“

Aemond smiled at Vaemond Velaryon made his way inside the Red Keep, flanked by a retinue of guards.

Alone in the dimly lit chambers, Aemond sat upon a plush chair, his mind consumed by thoughts of Lucaela.

The sweet scent of peaches still clung to the air, haunting him with its intoxicating allure. Aemond's fingers clenched tightly around the armrests of his chair as he fought against the primal urges stirring within him.

The petition for Vaemond to seize control of Driftmark had failed, his sickly father had miraculously roused himself from his stupor and came to the aid of Rhaenyra-his favourite child.

Viserys had steadfastly upheld the bastard strong boys claim to Driftmark and Vaemond had lost his head for it.

Now he would have to endure spending more time in the presence of Rhaenyra and her brood of bastards, his presence would be expected at dinner, and he would have to be in the same room as Lucaela.

Never in his life had he been this tempted by the scent of an Omega, just thinking about her was enough to make his cock hard. He’d already fucked his fist three times since their encounter in the training yard and it had done nothing to satisfy his desire.

Aemond closed his eye, trying in vain to banish her from his thoughts, but her image remained etched into the depths of his mind. The soft curve of her lips, the warmth of her gaze—each detail a tantalizing temptation that threatened to unravel his self-control.

For an Alpha, the scent of an Omega, especially a newly presented one, is like a siren's song, weaving its way through the air and captivating their senses with its intoxicating sweetness. It ignites a fire within them, awakening desires that they struggle to contain.

The Alpha within him surged with a primal longing, a desire as ancient as time itself. It whispered to him in the depths of his soul, urging him to claim Lucaela as his own, to make her his mate, and to sire pups with her.

In the quiet solitude of his chambers, Aemond wrestled with conflicting emotions, torn between the responsibilities of his station and the yearnings of his heart. His Alpha instincts raged, demanding dominance and possession, driving him to seek out Lucaela and bind her to him in an unbreakable bond.

He imagined her taking his knot, his fangs sinking into her neck, forever claiming her as his. He pictured her belly swollen with his pups. The Alpha within him growling with satisfaction, his cock hard again.

“Fuck-“ groaned Aemond as his hands moved to untie his breeches once more.

Not even a day she had been back in the Red Keep and already he’d been reduced to hiding in his chambers fucking his own fist.

He briefly considered finding another Omega or perhaps a Beta female, perhaps if he could find one that looked similar to-

NO-the Alpha inside him would not accept a substitute, it had to be Lucaela.

His cock as hard as steel, already leaking precum and he began to move his hand up and down.

“Fuck-“ groaned Aemond his hips moving back and forth.

His mind a wash with vivid images of Lucaela, under him, on top of him, of him behind her, fucking his knot into her sweet wet warm cunny.

Gods he felt like he was in rut, his hips and fist moving faster, he was close-so close.

The scent of peaches-fuck he wondered if she tasted like a ripe peach, one of his favourite fruits.

Soft-sweet, perfect for sinking his teeth into.

“Lucaela-my Lucy-MINE” roared Aemond as he erupted, his seed spilling all over his fist and lower abdomen.

Aemond collapsed against the back of the chair, his heart pounding in his chest, the knot at the base of his cock throbbed continuously.

Then a soft knock at the door, broke Aemond out his reverie.

“Dinner is ready Prince Aemond-your presence is expected”.

“I’ll be there in a moment” replied Aemond, tucking his cock back in his breeches and reaching for a cloth.

God this dinner was going to be hell. But he must endure. He must do his duty. He supposed he could always hold his breath, that way he would smell the Omega’s scent, but that would also lead to his untimely death, and he couldn’t hold his breath all night.

His cock stirred once again at the thought of Lucaela and Aemond shook his head in disbelief.

“Fuck sake-not again” snapped Aemond as he ran a hand over his face.

No-he couldn’t indulge himself, otherwise he’d be late. So, with a deep breath he left his chambers and made his way to the dining room.

Praying to every fucking one of the seven that he could restrain himself.

The scent of roasted meats and spiced wines filled the air, mingling with the chatter and laughter of his relatives, yet beneath the facade of familial camaraderie, Aemond's inner turmoil raged like a storm.

Seated alongside his kin, Aemond struggled to maintain his composure, his fingers tightening around the stem of his goblet as he forced himself to focus on the conversation swirling around him. But try as he might to distract himself, his thoughts kept returning to Lucaela.

The Alpha within him clawed desperately at the confines of his self-control, yearning to claim her as his own, to dominate and possess her in a primal display of dominance. It whispered seductive promises of fulfilment and satisfaction, urging him to seize what he desired most.

But Aemond knew he couldn't succumb to those urges, not here, not now, surrounded by his family so, Aemond gritted his teeth against the tumult of his inner turmoil, his facade of stoicism masking the turmoil raging within. He cast furtive glances across the table, his gaze lingering on Lucaela, who sat beside her brother Lucerys, her expression a mask of serene composure.

Each glance only served to fuel the fire burning within him, the Alpha's hunger growing more insatiable with each passing moment. He longed to reach out and claim Lucaela, to mark her as his own and brand her with his scent—a symbol of their bond forged in the crucible of desire.

Not even his father’s desperate rambling were enough to distract him, not even the toasts, or even his sister Helaena dancing with Jace.

She was Aegon’s wife, but obviously the drunk cunt could only sit and stare as the bastard strong boy twirled her around in time with the music.

After his father had been escorted from the dining room, Aemond prayed for the night to come to a close, he had to get back to his chambers, his cock was throbbing with need, and he was sure the scent of his arousal was becoming more and more obvious by the second, due to the looks that Lucaela was giving him and the faint blush that dusted her cheeks.

Then the roasted pig was placed in front on him, and that bastard boy had the audacity to laugh at him.

His fist colliding loudly with the table, and he rose to his feet thanking the gods that his leather jerkin was long enough to hide the bulge in his breeches.

“Final tribute” said Aemond picking up his goblet “To the health of my niece and nephews-Lucaela, Jace and Luke-each of them handsome, wise and strong-“

“Aemond” warned Alicent.

“Come-let us drain our cups to these three strong-“

“-I dare you to say that again” challenged Jace.

“Why, it was only a compliment. Don’t you think yourself strong?” challenged Aemond, as Jace’s fist collided with the side of his face.

The dining room erupted into a cacophony of noise, Lucerys who had rose to defend his brother Jace had been slammed headfirst into the table, Lucaela had then slid her hands into Aegon’s silver hair and wrenched him away from her twin brother-and Jace had been shoved to the floor.

Aemond’s blood was growing hot as he watched Lucaela defending her brother, he didn’t give two shits about Luke, but it was the way in which the Omega had fiercely risen from her seat and thrown herself into the chaos.

The hard slap she delivered to Aegon’s pale cheek had the Alpha inside Aemond growling with delight.

But Jace had hauled himself of the floor and was charging towards Aemond, who braced himself ready to fight.

“Wait-wait-“ snarled Daemon, stepping in between the two.

“Go to your chambers-all of you go now” ordered Rhaenyra.

Aemond watched as Lucaela bowed her head to her mother and followed her brothers from the dining room.

As he watched her leave Aemond suddenly became very aware that Daemon was watching him with intrigue, following his gaze.

The older Alpha raised his non-existent eyebrows at Aemond who decided it was for the best to stand down, challenging Daemon wouldn’t do him any favours, not with Lucaela anyway.

So, he left the dining room, not bothering to deal with the aftermath of his actions as there was something else that demanded his attention.

Aemond’s footsteps echoed softly as he made his way through the corridors of the Red Keep, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. The flickering torches cast dancing shadows along the stone walls, casting an eerie glow upon his determined features.

He knew he shouldn't be here, shouldn't succumb to the forbidden desires that tugged at his soul like a riptide dragging him under. But the scent of Lucaela lingered in his senses, a sweet intoxicating fragrance that called to him with an irresistible allure, driving him ever closer to her chambers.

As he reached the door to Lucaela's quarters, Aemond hesitated for a moment, his hand poised to knock. His mind raced with a thousand reasons why he should turn back, why he should resist the primal urges that threatened to consume him.

But then he caught another whiff of her scent, carried on the breeze like a whispered promise, and all rational thought fled from his mind. With a shaky breath, he rapped his knuckles against the door, the sound echoing through the silent corridor.

The door creaked open, revealing Lucaela standing on the threshold, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of him.

Aemond's gaze locked with hers, his heart pounding in his chest as he struggled to find the words to express the tempest of emotions raging within him. But before he could speak, the scent of Lucaela enveloped him like a tidal wave, washing away his doubts and fears in a flood of primal need.

“What do you want?” asked Lucaela.

“You know what I want-“ replied Aemond as he stepped inside the dimly lit chamber.

“No, I don’t-“

“-Sure, you do” said Aemond.

“You can’t want me-“ muttered Lucaela, lowering her gaze to the floor.

“Why not?” snarked Aemond.

“I thought I was a bastard-you said it yourself. Handsome, wise and strong”

“When it comes to you I was wrong, I should have said pretty and perfect for birthing my pups” growled Aemond as he stepped forward, closing the distance between them in a single stride. He could feel the heat of her body, the softness of her skin, beckoning him closer with each passing second.

And then, without a word, he crushed his lips to hers in a searing kiss.

His Alpha roaring with delight, at the sweet taste of the Omega.

Breaking away from the kiss, Lucaela gasped for breath, her eyes meeting Aemond's with a mixture of desire and uncertainty. "We mustn't," she breathed, her voice trembling with restraint. "We should court properly, earn the blessing of the King and our family.”

Aemond's brows furrowed, a shadow passing over his features as he shook his head in disbelief. "You know as well as I do, Lucy," he murmured, his voice tinged with bitterness. "My mother and grandsire would never allow such a match to take place. They would sooner see us wed to strangers for political gain than grant their blessing to our union."

“Aemond” whimpered Lucaela as he reached out to gently cup her cheek, his touch sending shivers down her spine.

"You can feel it, can't you?" he murmured, his voice low and husky with desire. "The pull of my Alpha scent”

Lucaela's breath caught in her throat at his words, her heart pounding with a mixture of longing and apprehension. She wanted to deny it, to cling to the remnants of her resolve, but the undeniable truth hung heavy in the air between them.

"I-I shouldn't," she whispered, her voice barely a breath as she fought to resist the primal urges that threatened to consume her. "We mustn't give in to temptation, Aemond. We must honour our duty and our family."

But even as she spoke the words, Lucaela could feel the last vestiges of her resistance crumbling beneath the weight of Aemond's presence, his Alpha scent wrapping around her like a velvet cloak, suffusing her senses with a heady intoxication that left her dizzy with desire.

Aemond's lips curled into a knowing smile as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "You cannot deny the pull any longer, Issa dōna," he murmured, his voice a seductive whisper that sent shivers down her spine. "Our desires are too strong, too primal to be ignored” (My sweet).

With a soft gasp, Lucaela closed the distance between them, her lips meeting Aemond's in a searing kiss that left them both breathless and wanting more.

Lucaela had lost most of her senses the moment Aemond had pressed her onto the bed and knelt down between her open legs.

“Issa dōna Omega” whispered Aemond (My sweet Omega).

Lucaela’s eyes rolled into the back of her head as Aemond’s tongue swept across her slick wet folds.

Lucaela bit the back of her hand to keep herself from screaming as Aemond began using his long fingers to tease her entrance.

“Ivestragī issa rȳbagon ao issa dōna” growled Aemond (Let me hear you my sweet).

“A-Aemond. Oh god. Please” moaned Lucaela.

Aemond pressed two fingers inside Lucaela, moving them against a spot that made her entire body shake.

“I know your almost there. Let it happen my sweet. Come for me” whispered Aemond.

Lucaela arched her back and let out a scream as her pleasure erupted.

Aemond crawled up Lucaela’s body, placing gentle kisses on her skin as he moved higher and higher.

Lucaela blushed furiously when she saw that Aemond’s chin was shining with her slick.

“Calm yourself my little strong girl” murmured Aemond.

“I-I’ve never-” mumbled Lucaela.

“Relax and let Alpha take care of you”.

Almost as if he could read Lucaela’s mind, Aemond smiled and began peppering gentle kisses all over Lucaela’s face.

“You can take it. Ao istan vēttan syt issa” whispered Aemond as he began rubbing his hard cock along Lucaela’s wet folds (You were made for me).

Suddenly Aemond rolls his hips forward and the entire hard length of him is buried inside Lucaela.

“A-Aemond” shrieks Lucaela at the sting of her maidenhead being taken.

Aemond stills for a moment, almost as if he is savouring the feeling of Lucaela’s tight wet heat being wrapped around him.

After a few mintues, Lucaela begins to writh against him.

“M-Move please Alpha. I need you” begged Lucaela desperately.

Aemond rolls his hips gently at first, allowing Lucaela the time to adjust to the feeling of his cock moving back and forth inside her, but when his sweet Omega begins issuing pleas of ‘Harder and faster’ Aemond loses it and begins fucking Lucaela into the mattress.

Their hips pound together as Aemond thrusts hard and fast, his movements brutal and precise.

“Lucaela. My Omega” moans Aemond as his cock begins to thicken at the base.

“Yes. Yes. Oh, it’s feels so good. Alpha don’t stop. Fuck me harder. I can take it”

“Going to fill you up with my seed. I want to see you swollen with my pups” hisses Aemond.

“Yes. Alpha breed me. I want to grow round with your pup. I will give you as many pups as you desire” exclaimed Lucaela.

“Y-Your neck. I need too-Claim you” growls Aemond.

“Yes, Alpha claim me. Make me yours” begs Lucaela.

With a low growl of desire, Aemond tilts Lucaela's head back, exposing the delicate curve of her neck to his hungry gaze.

His cock throbbing with anticipation,

Lucaela's breath hitched as she felt the heat of Aemond's lips brush against her skin, his touch igniting her blood. Then, she felt the sharp sting of his teeth sinking into her flesh, a mixture of pleasure and pain flooding her senses.

Aemond's Alpha scent enveloped her, swirling around her like a whirlwind, as Lucaela surrendered to the overwhelming sensation. With a gasp of ecstasy, she arched against him, her nails digging into his shoulders as she felt their bond solidifying, the mating bond that would bind them together for eternity.

But even as Aemond claimed her as his own, Lucaela's own Omega instincts surged to life, driving her to reciprocate the gesture. With a fierce determination, she bit down on Aemond's neck.

Whilst her teeth are not as sharp as Aemonds, they still manage to puncture his mating gland. Sealing Alpha and Omega together forever. Their bond snapping into place. Their hearts as one.

The blood from their bites running down their bodies, as they moved together. Her Alpha fucked her hard and fast, his hips pounding against hers. The sound of skin slapping together echoed around the chambers.

As Aemond gives one last thrust and forces his knot inside Lucaela, spilling rope after rope of his seed inside his Omega, which made Lucaela throw her own head back and scream, as she reached her peak, clenching around her Alpha’s pulsating cock.

It didn’t stop there, Aemond only needed a few moments of rest before growing hard inside of his Omega again.

As Lucaela’s legs relaxed and let go of her hold on Aemond, his knot had deflated enough to allow him to move backwards, and he raised himself to his knees between Lucaela’s legs.

The loss of her Alpha inside her made Lucaela whimper as the ache quickly returned. 

“Roll over” ordered Aemond. It was a command, an Alpha command, and Lucaela whimpered as she felt it take control of her body, she had to obey, she had to please her Alpha.

She was now on all fours in front of him, ready to be mounted again. Her waves of scent and slick made Aemond almost stagger. He pushed his cock into the whimpering Omega once more with shaky hands and proceeded to pound her even harder and quicker than before, snapping his hips against her while grunting loudly, driving needy moans out of Lucaela. 

Aemond was gripping her hips so hard that his nails were digging into her skin, leaving marks everywhere, the pain drove Lucaela wild with need and she needed to feel more of it.

Almost as if he could sense what she needed, Aemond reached forward and grabbed Lucaela’s hair, making her head shoot back. Lucaela cried out to her Alpha in pleasure, making Aemond growl.

His knot started to slowly push inside Lucaela, and she let out a feral cry as the knot made its way deeper and deeper inside of her.

It swelled up so much, it hurt, it hurt so good.

“A-Aemond-yes-yes-please” babbled Lucaela as she peaked, her slick dripping onto the sheets.

“I will have you dripping with my seed my sweet Omega. I can’t wait to see you swell with my pups, everyone will know your mine-“ moaned Aemond.

Aemond thrust one, two, three more times before growling once again, shooting his seed deep inside Lucaela, filling her up. He grunted out Lucaela’s name chasing the pleasure of his own peak. He then let out a deep, satisfied breath before collapsing onto his Omega.

Aemond moved his face to Lucaela’s neck again, and lovingly nuzzled her.

Lucaela laid trembling underneath him, his knot had swelled and locked together,

“ñuhon” muttered Aemond (Mine).

In the depths of the night, shrouded in shadows cast by flickering torchlight, Lucaela made her way down to the skull of Balerion, the ancient relic looming over her like a silent sentinel of the past. She paused before the massive skull, her heart pounding with a mixture of apprehension and resolve.

As she waited, Lucaela reached up to the fresh mating mark on her neck and grimaced at the dried blood lingering on her skin.

At the sound of footsteps, Lucaela took a deep breath and turned to face Daemon.

"Is it done?"

Lucaela nodded, her voice steady despite the turmoil churning within her. "Yes," she replied, her words echoing softly in the cavernous chamber. "Aemond has claimed me as his mate. His seed has filled my womb."

A slow smile spread across Daemon's lips, a flicker of satisfaction dancing in his eyes. "Well done," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that echoed through the darkness.

“Thank you-father” whispered Lucaela.

"You must lay with him as many times as you can to ensure that you carry Aemond's pup," he said, his tone firm and commanding. "No Alpha would ever turn away from their own child and with Aemond on our side, your mother's path to the Iron Throne is clearer than ever."

"I-I understand," she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper as she met Daemon's gaze with a mixture of resignation and determination.

Daemon nodded; his expression unreadable as he regarded her with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. "Good," he said, his voice a low rumble that echoed through the chamber. "With his pup in your womb, our position will be secure”.

“What of those who conspire against mother?” asked Lucaela.

“Otto Hightower isn’t the only treasonous cunt involved, soon the others will reveal themselves and when they do-justice will served” replied Daemon his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister.

“Perzys se ānogar” said Lucaela (Fire and Blood).

Daemon's eyes softened as he looked upon Lucaela, a sense of pride swelling within him like a flame dancing in the darkness. Of Rhaenyra's three children from her first marriage, Lucaela was his favourite—the embodiment of everything he believed a Targaryen should be.

"You have done well" he said, his voice carrying the weight of his admiration. "But now, it is time for you to return to your mate and get some rest. Thanks to you, the war will be won before it even begins”

As Lucaela made her way back to her chambers, her mind drifted back to Daemon's plan.

Her presentation as an Omega had marked a turning point, her scent at its strongest—a heady concoction of sweetness and allure that had the power to captivate even the most stoic of unmated Alphas. It was a scent that could drive men to madness, igniting a primal hunger that could not be ignored.

Whispers had reached Dragonstone of Ottos plans to usurp the Iron Throne when Viserys passed and have Aegon crowned, and Daemon knew they had to play it smart at least for now and he had seen the potential of her power as an Omega and recognized the opportunity it presented.

Aemond and Vhagar were Otto’s biggest asset, and without them he was nothing.

So, Daemon had suggested that she deliberately place herself in front of Aemond, play coy and let her scent drive him wild with desire until he could resist her no longer.

Lucaela pushed open the door, the soft light of the moon casting a gentle glow across the room, illuminating the seed and blood-stained sheets that bore witness to their passionate union.

Aemond was still asleep, his features softened by the embrace of slumber, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

As Lucaela slipped beneath the covers and nestled against Aemond's side, his arms instinctively wrapping around her and pulling her close, a sense of warmth and contentment washed over her like a wave crashing against the shore.

And as she lay there in the darkness, wrapped in Aemond's embrace, Lucaela couldn't help but wonder if perhaps being mated to him wouldn't be so bad after all.

The fervour in which he had taken her to bed had been unlike anything she had expected, growing up the septa’s had always told her of a woman’s duty, that she existed for a man’s pleasure and not her own.

But Aemond had shown her that there was much pleasure to be had, and she couldn’t wait to experience more.

[theoxenfree]

LUCID

sleep paralysis demon x reader | 3k | 18+

you've never known a true, good night of sleep in your entire life. when your doctor and best friend, dr. sujay patel, offers to vouch for you as the perfect candidate for a "last resort" sleep study and medication trial, you don't have high hopes. the first night of the trial, things go sideways very quickly.

warnings; technically somnophilia, dubcon, hair-pulling, restraint, some eerie/unsettling details, breech of patient-doctor boundaries, alcoholism, implied addiction/addictive personality, academic cheating, some culturally sensitive discussion, roughly proofread.

this is the first concept piece for my upcoming sleep paralysis demon x reader story!! to help me shape the story, pls answer feedback questions + reblog!!!

Children at your daycare liked to draw you fanciful pictures of the other lives they lived in their dreams during afternoon nap time. You were shown orange tabby cats with green eyes garbed in full-plates of knight’s armor, brandishing a fish sword against a foe to save the world. Most often, they dreamed of their families and drew bright, brave versions of themselves holding hands with a parent, a sibling, a bipedal family dog with an electric collar. A few of the children never smiled in their self-portraits.

The proportions of everything were always silly: gigantic tree trunks with tiny, green bundles sitting atop of them, three enormous fruits supported by brittle vines and growth in bushes, cats and dogs with ears as tall as their bodies, Mom with purple skin instead of brown, Big Sis looking particularly volatile with a theratrically large snarl. Despite this, the children beamed in pride whenever yesterday's drawings would come down off the wall to be replaced with the new.

For some of these kids, this was their own equivalent of having art hung on a refrigerator; to you, it evoked dull, thready jealousy because they were in possession so simple, so biologically normal to them and everyone else around them that to be incapable of the same thing was, surely, a major defect.

Sleep was already a treasure you were seldom allotted the pleasure of greedily surrendering to, but to dream sounded like a terrifying experience to you altogether. It took work; a stringent routine of warm showers (hot and scalding water was forbidden), with an array of chalky, dissolvable tabs and shower gels and shampoos and moisturizers and essential oil dehumidifiers and soy candles and hot tea and special pillow sleep spray you’d seen in an online ad while thumbing through socials.

It took pajamas that were loose, soft but not silky, it took a satin bonnet and a satin eye covering (the kind with pockets for your eyelashes to move), comforters soused in lavender spray meant to magically work out the tightness in your shoulders and calves without the need of paying for a masseuse’s bony elbow. It took purchasing a battery-operated alarm clock to wake yourself for work so you could shut off your phone and leave it plugged into the wall downstairs.

You'd nearly forgotten—you couldn't have sugar after half past six, you had to stagger your water consumption after that time as well because the urge to piss would keep you awake for hours after the fact. The television needed to be off once you finished putting away dishes after dinner.

If you were lucky, this would work and you'd sleep a total of two or three hours uninterrupted—never fully tipping over the edge of wakefulness into deep sleep, but enough to keep yourself going during the day, grocery shop, wrangle the small children, scrape at a bar, get dicked down into your mattress every now and then, and visit Sujay for your usual appointments.

“How do you feel about trying something different?” he always gestured to one of the modern-looking armchairs upholstered in teal polyester before bringing you a tea of some sort. Today was a floral white tea with a spoonful of honey. “Ah, my friend, I worry for you. We've done so many studies, we've tried so many different things. Does none of it help? At all?”

“Not really.” you admitted after a sip, singing your tongue once and placing aside the cup and saucer pair. “I don't know if I can keep doing this until the day I die, Sujay. What do you recommend next?”

Dr. Sujay Patel was your neurologist, an utterly brilliant man, and a close friend from your early university days. Despite the rest of your friend group falling apart, pulled in separate directions by the strings of fate and temptation of money, you'd managed to stay in contact with Sujay throughout grad school. There'd been an intermission, probably a period of two years, where you'd forgotten he even existed.

You were out making a disaster of your life on sleepless, drunken benders because you hoped enough alcohol would either knock you out or kill you. The normal distractions came with it: your entire family dynamic corroding and combusting, an ex getting too big for their britches, and a roommate suspiciously eager to rally behind that ex.

Sujay came back into the picture following a nasty incident of alcohol poisoning that left you bedridden in the hospital for a week. You had decided then, in that uncomfortable bed with their starchy, crunchy white sheets and the bathroom being too far away to simply get up and walk to, that you'd abstain from alcohol forevermore.

He'd seen you in a state of soul-weary disarray not long after you were discharged and had decided to take you on as a patient.

“Now, you have a choice here, just remember that.” Sujay sat adjacent to you in the exact chair you were in. He wasn't daunted by the heat from his tea and took some time with it, whether to savor the subtle notes of it or to consider his words, you weren't sure. “But, a colleague of mine at a… pharmaceutical company has been working to get an experimental sedative into some studies. Testing periods, I guess you could say.”

You're convinced by his dedication to his tea to pick up yours again. “Does it work?”

“As of now, one-hundred percent of those who have participated have reported high-efficacy, or at least have claimed it to be effective in some manner.” His mustache moved as he sipped. You drank as well. “I think you should submit to the study and if you're accepted into one of the control groups—commit to it. We're running out of options otherwise. I don't want you to start mixing up your own cocktail of things. All it takes is the wrong thing once, y'know?”

The chair groaned while you adjusted your weight in it. You sighed. “Would that once be such a bad thing, though? At least I could sleep.”

“I'm a doctor,” Sujay looked over his square-rimmed glasses at you, forehead wrinkles enormous, whites of his eyes showing more than the hazel of his irises. “Behave yourself.”

“Fine.” Mesmerized by the stray tea leaves that had managed to escape the metal ball steeper, you said, “tell me what I need to do.”

Sujay had sent you away that day with a whole host of follow-up appointments and a glowing review to his colleague in hopes of skipping the line as much as possible. Sometimes, it was beneficial to have friends in high places, especially when that means you get a call two days later for preliminary, formal interviews and an offer to participate in said study once clearances came through and your blood work came back as desired.

A month to the day when Sujay first mentioned the possibility of a magical cure all to your relentless insomnia, you were brought into a minimally furnished room—the standard, bland cookie cutter type that hadn't an ounce of personality—dotted from head-to-toe in stickers for neuromonitoring, heart rhythm, and whatever else they fancied, you supposed.

It was only after you had changed into your soft, but not too soft, pajamas and covered in wires that you were handed a tiny purple pill. The color of it was obviously a dissolvable casing and food coloring, but what amazed you was the fact a drug this small was meant to induce the best sleep of your life.

“Take the pill, drink at least four ounces of water, and lie supine.” The technologists outside your room, speaking into an intercom, elaborated afterward that they wanted you to stay on your back while you slept. You didn't bother to point out that you weren't stupid—just tired. “We understand that not everyone finds this position comfortable, but to receive adequate results and to measure your vitals at all times, we ask that you try your best.”

You weren't going to hassle them about this and did precisely as they instructed. Shoved the pill down the back of your throat, drank the bottled water, and tried to get comfortable on your back.

You closed your eyes.

A part of you wondered why you had assented to Sujay’s suggestion so easily, especially where everything else had failed. He was one hell of a friend, and had always been that way for you, but as a doctor, you wondered if two years of cheating through medical school, so as to not royally piss off his parents and be disowned for failing, was finally catching up with him somewhat.

You recalled being startled when he told you he hadn’t married yet and didn't intend to as some deep-rooted act of spite against his family and the traditions they had held over his head all his life. Traditions that had been weaponized against him, rather than supplement his life as an extension of his history, of the things he loved, of a chance to explore more of himself.

You had listened wordlessly the entire time he spoke about it, still sipping on his tea, the results from your latest brain scan clamped to a clipboard on his lap—

This wasn't working.

This was so stupid.

You opened your eyes and sat up in the stiff bed, carefully maneuvering your fingers around your orbital bone to force away the puffiness and exhaustion still lingering behind them. It was only as you rubbed your eyes that you noticed your face was empty of cold stickers and a thousand wires. You didn't hear distant blips in the machine measuring your heart rate, nor track the voices of anyone outside your door.

The room was still the same—the outdated, bulky dresser with claw feet, a few gray chairs you could buy on display in a window somewhere, a low oval table, a bedside table for your glass of water and a crisp, neatly folded change of clothes for the next day.

It was only unusual that you were bare of the technologist’s monitoring equipment and sitting amid an unfaltering, deep silence that amplified the sounds of your very existence. Your slow breaths with a quickening heartbeat, blood pumping in your ears, and the coarse rustle of bedsheets as you shifted around the mattress to bring some sense to what was going on.

Would the technologists have come into the room and removed everything from your body without waking you? More miraculously, without you rousing and throwing your hands on them for touching you first?

“Maybe the drug worked?” you had to consider the possibility, even though it still felt as far-fetched as the holistic medicine practitioners online telling you that an herbal cleansing juice could regenerate organs entirely. “Did I actually sleep? I don't remember dreaming, though. Aren't I supposed to dream?”

You looked to the one, single-paned window across the bedroom to spy how far along the morning had progressed, but found yourself sucking in and holding in a breath instead.

There, standing in your view of the outside, was the silhouette of a tall man. Everything about him was indistinguishable aside from the depth of darkness that made him up. Within the confines of the dim room, alight by a single lamp with an amber bulb that seemed to weaken by the second, this man stood apart from the shadows as something deeper, blacker, but corporeal.

He was every bit a part of the dark as much as he wasn't. And you couldn't tell if he was fading you or turned to look out the window at the parking lot two stories below.

“Hi—hello. Are—are you one of the techs?” you had finally let out that breath, now focusing on gauging the guy’s level of sociability, and by extension, his friendliness and the likelihood of him lunging at you. “I, uh, just would've really appreciated it if someone had woken me up before taking off the stickers.”

You were able to see out the window from the gaps around his body, taking note that it was still dark. Very dark. Beyond that, nothing else was discernible from where you sat and what he blocked.

The study wouldn't have finished yet.

Those techs would've taken precaution to wake you up if something had happened.

“Am I asleep?” you asked the wordlese man. “Am I dreaming now? Are you a dream? Is that what it's like?

You never imagined that there could be so much lucidity within a dream, a level of consciousness so similar to a state of wakefulness. When you thought about moving, you could perfectly flex your fingers, curl your toes into the high-pile carpet underfoot, touch the airy fabric covering your body and feel it touching you in turn.

How normal was this really, though? No one had ever told you about dreams like this. Theirs were always fragmented and discombobulated, just like the kids in daycare who drew pictures of pig astronauts and flame extinguishing spatulas. You knew of a rare few in the population capable of controlling their dreams, steering the outcome in the direction they pleased, but even those people were overrode by their own brains.

This was something completely different.

You became especially convinced of this when you thought the stifled air suddenly shifted with a light breeze, a soft whoosh in your ear. A chill erupted over you, making your skin burst with goose flesh, your brain chasing a shiver down your spine as if cold fingers stroked you all the way down the length of it. Those same fingers stayed low, hovering across your lower back before pushing into you, arching you down onto the mattress.

That freedom you thought you had only moments ago was gone, stolen by this invisible hand on your body that was rounding to you and reaching for your chest. Until now, you thought this had simply been a part of the dream—something you had believed to be in control in when the reality was much different—but, as the buttons on your sleep shirt unfastened before your eyes, the thin layers opening you to the cold, inky air, you weren't sure what to think, to do.

Another hand joined the first with long, heavy fingers to knead at your body and take your pants off of your hips until you were fully exposed to the darkness and the thing still dwelling within the room. It hadn't moved an inch since you'd noticed it a while ago; it never became any clearer, any more defined in the clothes or wore, and trying to look upon its face only filled you with puzzlement and dread.

The large hands were so cold despite all their movement on your hot skin, all of the work they did to start riling you up and making you moan. One of them groped your chest, felt your throat, squeezed your jaw as though to force your gaze at one point in particular (the ceiling), pushed apart your lips to dip into your mouth and wet its fingers on your tongue.

You did so as it was the only thing you could do freely right now.

Those fingers, covered in your spit, caressed you between your legs, stroking you in motions neither gentle or harsh. The muscles in your thighs flinched, stomach tightening, your throat vibrating to produce a moan smothered by the second hand circling your throat, gripping firmly enough where you could breathe, but just barely.

The thing couldn’t stop your thoughts, as much as it seemed to try, so it took to interrupting them—distracting you but squeezing your neck, yanking your head back into the pillow by your hair, adjusting itself to thrust multiple fingers into your body, burying them to the knuckle.

You tried to win this war of willpower by thinking about Sujay and his mustache and his stupid glasses. They were green, sometimes blue; seldom did he like the tortoiseshell look.

The thing lunged at your neck again, this time taking you underside the jaw and forced your head back into the pillow while it fucked you deeper on three fingers.

You wanted to make a sound; a moan, a scream, a torturous whimper or pleasure for the way your body was rocked on the bed, creaking with the weight of a pair combined and not just how it appeared. Your nostrils flared, heart rate at an uneasy high, breaths stuck in the column of your throat behind the hand holding it.

The pressure continued to stack higher and higher, building to such a point where you knew you were about to lose it, unravel, praying that this thing would grant you the kindness of fucking you out of your orgasm.

Your abdomen was wound tight, your groin ached terribly, and your thighs started to shake. Behind your eyes, the kaleidoscopic wheels of color intermingled with the darkness and it all slowly burned to white.

And then—

“Good morning!” you were being shaken awake by one of the technologists, a middle-aged woman with blue eyeliner. she didn't expect for you to jolt upright, stick straight, and launch the covers off of your body. “Oh—hey, honey, you alright? We’re done until tonight. How do you feel?”

You were slow to respond to her, occupied by the morning light filtering in through the window across the bedroom. She gave you some time to gather your bearings and took her time removing the stickers and wires from your skin, suggesting you spend some time really scrubbing in the shower later to get off all the adhesive.

“How about now, honey?” she pulled the last sticker and wire combination off of your shoulder. “You with us?”

You didn't know how to answer that, especially not with how damp you felt inside your thighs.

a/n; thank you for reading and choosing to help me shape the story further!! this is all inspired by the fact that I have frequent bouts of sleep paralysis myself and on three consecutive occasions, after taking some questionable drops from an ex-friend, I saw something. I want to make this very clear that this story is intended to be pretty extreme psychological horror. anyway, here are the questions

sujay will be a major supporting character in the story, so what would you be interested in seeing more: 1) sujay and mc further blurring that boundary and possibly becoming a pair, but their "relationship" becomes thwarted by SPD 2) sujay, possibly, ends up with more yandere tendencies as the story progresses and with the development of the plot, could result in a terrible ending for him—but interesting 3) sujay and mc are inherently a toxic duo, but he tries his best to support mc (platonically or one-sided romantically) as they spiral out of control?

in terms of SPD's appearance, what idea do you like better: 1) him, eventually, having a definitive, solid form and features across the span of the story 2) he remains like a "black silhouette" with the invisible hands, but he has the sort of voice that's lulls and lures and manipulates 3) he takes on features that mc (you) find attractive, but they're all wrong and progressively becomes more monstrous 4) he has a physical appearance that's "all wrong", but you can never figure why or what he actually looks like despite SEEING him. if you want to choose multiple, you need to get VERY specific.

I intend for this story to be incredibly dark in terms of sexual content bc SPD is a demon/monster. he is not good. he is not loving. when you think of "dark" for smut, what would you want to see??

[sizzlingchaosprince]

The Toy's favorite Child

Notes: This is the first time I'm doing such thing so I'm really nervous XD I didn't know what to put into the background of the drawing so I didn't put any. Maybe I'll edit it soon. Do forgive me for my shading, I'm still learning(trying to)

Synopsis: After starting to live in PlayCare, one creature you became friends with grew a liking to you...

Warning: PLATONIC, headcanon + little story, reader is 12-14 years old, reader is a chill teenager

It's been a year since you got into the PlayCare, passing through the security with laid-back face and leaving the staff confused. They kept you because you seemed useful for them...

You were quite chilly and relaxed, reserved and smart. Also, because of your personality you were almost the same with Cat Nap from cartoons. Maybe that's why you became quick friends with Smiling Critters. With most of them, at least...

The big purple cat was almost never appearing like others from his party. And this interested you.

After a week or so you finally met him face-to-face. You were as calm as always, but your heart was pounding from excitement. You said 'hi' for politeness and introduced yourself, waiting for him to do the same.

Guess what? His face didn't even shift. He continued staring at you with his dead eyes.

After understanding that you won't get an answer from him, you tried to talk about something else.

But he disappeared in blink of an eye.

You were quite disappointed, but you still had the same urge to get to know the living toy better. You knew it'll be a long while...

It was worth 3 months to make him sit and listen to your rambling for 10 minutes. It was worth more months to make him spend at least an hour with you. It took even longer for him to let you stay near him and sleep, leaning onto the puppet. But it was worth the pleasure you get from his warmth and company.

Even though you never heard him talk, it's enough for you to be near him. It's good to talk about any nonsense which randomly comes to your mind and have a listener who won't judge you. It's also good to take a great nap in his fur or stay in complete silence, thinking of your own thing.

The staff, of course, sooner found out the relationship between you and the purple cat puppet.

They tried to use you to their own benefits and new information, but instead you composed some lies which sounded like truth to tell them(Cat Nap helped you a little sometimes, nodding or shaking his head if the lie sounds truthful or not).

When the scientists were starting thinking about taking you for the test next, Cat Nap started to monitor you to make sure you won't end up in the Game Station.

It definitely wasn't him who knocked out the staff members right behind your back. It definitely wasn't him who let out some scratching noises in Home-Sweet-Home. Also, of course, it definitely wasn't his sharp gaze you felt on your gut 24/7.

You liked to use the hair brush on the purple furball. It doesn't move away so you can say that he's at least neutral to your activity(we don't talk about his really quiet purring).

[Now. The small story]

It was a normal day like any other one. More specifically, night. However, this week was quiet strange: the staff members of Playtime Co. except the workers from the PlayCare appeared more often in front of you. When they started talking about 'test', they randomly passed out because of the red smoke. You knew it was one of the Smiling Critters you were hanging out with for a while, but you didn't know why was he doing it.

You were currently sitting with your back leaning against the living cat plush, brushing your companion's tail you gently patted with your free second hand. The only thing that bothered you in that peaceful time was the fact that the purple cat wasn't purring at all. It was staring at you with its dark eyes. Sooner after, you finally asked him about this:

— Is something wrong, Cat Nap?

It didn't answer. Instead, the living toy just stared at you with expressionless eyes, not moving an inch. You weren't intimidated by the stare at all, so you just continued brushing the long tail. You weren't hoping for an answer anyway, but still a small, almost impossible dream was remaining in your heart.

The silence was broken by the raspy, low voice coming out from Cat Nap's voice box.

— The Prototype... Will Save Us.

You flinched.

Wow...

This is the first time he ever said something to you. It was surely a progress for your friendship.

You stared at him with wide eyes for a moment before shifting your attention back to the tail. You shrugged with your shoulders, your face had a relaxed smile.

— I don't know who the Prototype is, but if they helped you somehow, I think they're my saviour too. You're like a home to me.. I can't even imagine what would it be like living without you here!

You chuckled, patting the fluffy tail while Cat Nap looked at you with the same stare. However, something in his eyes changed... Maybe his gaze gained a little more... softness?

He stared at you until you fell asleep on him again. A few minutes of him sinking into his thoughts have passed, the toy putted his head on his paws, wrapping his tail around you like a blanket and soon enough closing his eyes. You would call it the same night-time scenario with Cat Nap in the next morning, because you didn't know that he was comfortably purring, nuzzling himself into your warmth last night...

Notes: OH MY GOD I DID IT :D I'll maybe do part 2, but without promises

Anyways, thank you for wasting your time reading my first-ever-made English fanfic. Do write me some comments about my errors if you find any, I will appreciate it since it'll improve my writing skills.

Have a nice day/evening/night!😘

[ddejavvu]

pairing: anakin skywalker x reader

summary: you think anakin's scar is sexy // based on this post and the line, "during heated moments of course, when you dig your nails into his face as he prompts you to 'give me another one, baby. cut me open, make me bleed.'"

cw: smut, minors dni. blood/gore (she scratches him and draws blood), don't like don't read.

Sex with Anakin is a bloody thing; the rush of it through your ears and the tang of it on your tongue as your spit runs hot. Though it mainly stays beneath your skin, rising to the surface to splotch you purple here and there, it occasionally surfaces due to the harsh bite of Anakin's teeth.

He's latched onto your shoulder now, some base instinct he doesn't bother to combat. He grunts against your skin as he ruts into you, teeth digging sharply into your skin. He hasn't broken it, but he will if he clamps down harder, and there's no telling what he'll do.

"Fuck, Anakin," You wince at the pain that's boiling your blood, sending shockwaves of its heat to your core, "Be- be careful, you're gonna leave a- mm! - a scar."

He exhales through his nose; you feel the breath against your shoulder.

His pace doesn't slow, but his teeth unlatch from your shoulder, leaving strings of spit behind, and his lips press there lazily.

"You and scars," He hums thoughtfully, almost amusedly, "You fuckin' love 'em, don't you?"

"Hm?" Is all you can manage as Anakin latches to your jaw now, his lip a tight, sucking ring.

"You love my fucking scar," He accuses, licking a hot stripe of saliva up your jawline and over your cheek. It puts the aforementioned scar in your view, and you admire the way it cuts jaggedly close to his eye.

He's right; it's hot.

"I do," You breathe, really more of a moan as Anakin's dick prods deep into your sensitive cunt, "I- It's so pretty, Ani."

"Yeah?" He asks, breath hitting your face, "Give me another one, then."

"What?"

"Give me another one," He repeats, breaking the bruising seal that his hand has had over your hip since he'd first laid over you. He lifts his hand to take your own, bringing it up to his face and setting it over his eye. Your nails rest gently against his tan skin, and his breath shudders when he exhales over your mouth.

"Dig your fucking nails into me, baby. Give me another scar- cut me open and make me fucking bleed."

"Anakin!" You protest, momentarily horrified, "I- I can't do that! I can't hurt you!"

"You can," He urges- no, begs, his hips snapping faster and faster into yours as he smashes your hand to his face, feeling the bite of your nails, "Do it, baby, fucking- fucking do it, give me another scar!"

"Anakin-"

"Do it!"

You let the heat of the moment seize you, and, though all five of your nails dig into his skin, one breaks through. You scrape your middle finger so harshly against his eyebrow that it draws blood, a crimson streak that lays lopsided and not quite parallel against his now-healed scar.

The burning pain that accompanies your nail's sharp edge is enough to push Anakin over the edge, and you feel yourself succumbing to your own orgasm as he begins to fuck his way through his inside of your spasming cunt. When the height of it takes him he nudges your hand out of the way and rubs his face against yours, leaving you with a gory smear of blood against your own eyebrow.

Something about it makes you sob; not sadness or anger, but perhaps sheer viscerality. Anakin's blood on your face feels cosmically binding, wrought from the edge of your nail at his heated insistence. He feels the shake of your chest as he collapses above you, his dick still inside of you though it softens now that he's spent.

"Shit," Is all he can offer, and you agree.

"Does it hurt?" You ask curiously, knowing that an apology will be dismissed; he'd begged for it, after all.

"A bit," He shrugs, eyes shut despite the crimson stain just left of them, "I've had worse."

"It'll scar," You note, perhaps stating the obvious but acknowledging it now for the first time.

"Yeah. Now I've got double the sex appeal," Anakin nods absentmindedly against your chest, more focused on regaining his breath, "And every time you see it you'll think of how you gave it to me."

[donaweasley]

Promises to Keep

Pairing: Geralt x Fem!Reader

Plot:

Geralt is tasked with protecting a princess but his feelings keep poking at him, urging him to shed his tough armour and give in to his heart. But the witcher is a righteous man. He won’t succumb to his feelings so easily. Will he?

Some pining, some fluff that will lead to a “part 2” of this story.

Warnings: A bit of m.at.ure stuff. K.i.d.s better stay away!

Read time: ~15 mins

Note: This story has been based in a timeline before the fall of Cintra, and so, Geralt has not yet started his quest for Ciri. Oh, and he doesn’t fall in love with Yennefer. 😉

Prologue:

Geralt of Rivia has been tasked with many a difficult missions but the hardest of them all was probably not killing but protecting a person. That person was a princess whose parents had specifically called for Geralt to take their daughter under his wing as Nilfgaard marched towards their doorstep.

The princess could fight; she had been in battles but Nilfgaard had morphed into something entirely different from what the Continent had previously seen. It was as though Hell itself had poured into their army, leaving a trail of ash and blood wherever it went.

And so, turning all cries and protests from the said princess to deaf ears, her parents sent her away, in return of an assurance from her that, should their kingdom fall, she would come back and restore it to its glory, flying their banners from every nook and corner.

They knew she could, they had said.

The journey with Geralt had not been easy, moving from camp to camp, from inn to inn, not to mention the complications of his profession. But time gradually made things easier for them both, eventually bringing them to a point where they could comfortably pose as husband and wife so as to protect her identity, and avail a temporary shelter in a village.

And even though they were living a lie of being a married pair, their hearts often wished to forget reality, and enjoy the bliss of domestic life with one another. To be with each other unconditionally, forgetting all rules and boundaries.

But Geralt was a man of ethics, and she did not want him to bear the burden of guilt just because her stupid heart could not stop fluttering for this kind, brave gentleman with a heart of gold!

And thus, neither, for fear of straining what they already had, could ever utter their feelings to each other. After all, they had promises to keep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few months ago:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She hurt herself on the thick leather armour as she flung her arms around his neck. But she did not care. That was a pain she would happily endure if it meant seeing Geralt at her doorstep safe and sound.

He smelled of sweat and blood and the swamp. He probably tasted like it, too. Alright, so what? The man returned after three weeks from the edge of the Continent. And perhaps from the edge of life. She couldn't care less about what he smelled or tasted like. But did he really…? She was very close to confirming her assumption - almost there - when Geralt suddenly remembered his place: the protector of the princess, a mere witcher.

“Princess,” the rich baritone vibrating in her ear woke her up from her purple dream. She could not help but lean back when she found her “husband” doing the same.

Geralt spread his arms slightly, and smiled with that usual softness in his eyes that came to the forefront only when she was around. “Safe and sound. Just like I had promised.”

“I am honoured!” She jested, and stepped inside, making room for Geralt to do the same.

“Give me a minute. I'll draw a bath for you. And once you have cleaned that mess off you, you'll have a warm dinner waiting,” she smiled and turned to make her way to the bath when Geralt gently but firmly held her wrist.

Neither could deny the spark that coursed through their veins at the contact. But neither would confess. Involuntarily, the witcher’s thumb made faint circles over her veins. Once he realised what he was doing, he slowly released her but their fingers lingered over the other’s before finally making some room between them.

Geralt pleaded with her to stop fussing over it all but the woman was ecstatic! Who could stop her from doing everything she could for the man she was falling in love with! Not even the strongest witcher.

And so, she hopped away to prepare a warm bath for him while he busied himself with the relieving task of removing his armour and weapons.

Geralt lay in the bath, pondering over the unsaid things that have been passing between the princess and him. Especially the ones that happened that evening. They had never been this close before, and it only made his breath shallower every time he thought about it. His mind wandered away unleashed every time his drunken heart slipped into fantasies of what could have happened had he not pulled away from her embrace…or what might happen if he allowed himself a bit more liberty with his feelings…

A gentle knock on the door startled him, bringing him back to the reality of the small room lit by two candles, back to the fact that the woman living under the same roof with him was his mission, not his real wife, as the villagers knew her to be. There was no way a witcher could dream of having a wife and a family, let alone with a princess!

“Need anything?” The voice was gentle, happy…it was caring. It made Geralt smile to think that someone cared so deeply for him, that he was actually having a domestic life, even though a fake one.

“Your company would be nice,” he quipped.

Geralt grinned wickedly. He did not need to see her to know the blush creeping up her ears and cheek.

Over the months their relationship - real or fake, whatever that was - had built into a strong bond, one that was made of cares, banters, challenges, huffs (and not just from the witcher), puns of all kinds and fluttering heartbeats. And though neither backed down during the banters or the puns, either one of them definitely ended up with blood rushing up their cheeks.

(Y/N) bit her lip and rolled her eyes. Two could play this game. Taking a deep breath, she cracked the door open. It startled Geralt, and she could tell it without seeing his wide eyes and parted lips.

“I believe you have a lot to talk about from your adventure?” She slowly walked in, eyes straining to look anywhere but at him.

She did not receive an immediate response. How could she! Geralt was spellbound by the boldness of this woman! It was inspired by his own recent boldness, perhaps, he wondered.

He cleared his throat, “Indeed.”

She picked up a small wooden stool, and sat with her back to him. “You were saying?”

“I would detail everything but are you sure you can stomach all that? And before dinner?”

Glimpses from his previous tales crept back, and she gulped at the gory imaginations that his words had painted in her head. Perhaps she could not. But would she confess? No!

“I’m tougher than you think, witcher.”

This was their usual way of addressing each other: “Witcher”, with a sarcastic stress in the middle of the word, and “Princess”, with a vanity enveloping the word.

When they had set out for their journey, she had requested him not to call her “princess”. “I have a name, and I would like to be addressed by it,” she had insisted. But Geralt had decided on maintaining his propriety.

When asked whether he would like to be addressed as Geralt or Witcher, he had simply mumbled, “Whatever you like, Princess.”

“Witcher it is then.”

And that has ever been going on, until recently when some rare moments witnessed them addressing each other by their names, and not what they were to the world.

In the small bathroom now, she heard a slosh behind her, signalling the rise of the large man from his bath. She tried her best to stop her shameless mind from picturing his wet body, dripping with water as he stood and stepped out of the tub, as he reached for the towel nearby and dried himself with it before wrapping it low around his waist. But the quiet of the night made sure that every little sound and movement reached her ears, leaving her a slave to her unabashed imagination.

Geralt grunted, the sound coming from right above her head.

“I know you can’t take it…Princess,” the last word was practically breathed on the shell of her ear.

Leaving her a total mess, Geralt sauntered out of the bathroom with a promise to indulge her in his stories after dinner.

That night, in the faint light of the moon, nimble fingers traced the contours of the witcher’s face as he slept - brows slightly arched, lips parted, face as serene as a dawn in Spring. She watched him breathe peacefully, devoid of the cares of the world, until a small smile cracked at a corner of his mouth. With eyes still closed, he placed a hand on hers and brought it to his lips. A chaste kiss was all it was, and yet it had her heart thundering. He had never - ever - shown any affection other than soft looks and gentle smiles.

“Sleep princess,” he rasped in a sleepy voice.

He opened his eyes once, to watch her smile at him, before holding her hand snuggly and drifting back to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Present day:

The sound of the door cracking open brought her back to the present. Quickly slipping a little more below the soapy water, she gripped the hilt of her sword.

It was Geralt. The moment he set one foot inside, his eyes went wide. It took him hardly a second to swing on his heels, to look away, but the sinful image had planted itself in his head. Probably for eternity.

“Pardon me. I…I did not know… I thought you were done. I just returned from outside; I did not notice that you were not anywhere else. I…”

“Geralt!” His name. She spoke his name! That, along with her soothing tone put an abrupt end to his string of stammering apologies. “It’s alright. I know you had no ill intentions.”

Shifting uncomfortably on his feet for a couple of seconds, he asked, “Do you need anything?”

Her lips stretched into a smirk as she recalled an old conversation that had occurred under very similar circumstances.

“Your company would be nice,” she quipped, just like Geralt had a few months ago.

The witcher recognised the joke immediately. A small smile escaped his usual serious features.

“I believe you have a lot to talk about your first kill,” he jested just like she had back then.

The sigh that filled the room made Geralt wonder if he had said something uncalled for. She was shaken by the incident but if she was making jokes now, she must be recovering. Right?

“(Y/N),” Geralt called without looking at her, “are you alright?”

“No, if truth be told,” came the confession.

He understood. Keeping his gaze focused on the floor, he took a few large steps until he was standing near the foot of the tub. In one smooth move, he was sitting on the floor with his back to her.

There was something about Geralt that made her feel protected all the time. Even in her most exposed and vulnerable state, she felt safe and comfortable with him around. And it was not just the love she felt for him. It was something else. It was something…very “Geralt”.

“The monsters we kill haunt our minds till long after. You never get used to it no matter how many kills you have made,” he sighed.

(Y/N) listened quietly. He was a man of few words, and at most times it seemed as though he was not even listening. But he always understood every single unexpressed emotion, every single unsaid word that she carried within her.

“Every time I close my eyes or every time I hear something, fear grips me,” she shivered at the thought. “You are right. I'm haunted by its memory, and … I cannot seem to shake the thoughts off. No matter how hard I try! I cannot even be courageous enough to convince myself that it is all in my head!” She slapped the water in frustration.

Unlike the witcher, killing monsters was not her profession nor did she volunteer for it. But what she did volunteer for was accompanying Geralt to a trip to the river caves for some herbs. Despite the witcher’s efforts to shield her inside the safety of their home, she managed to argue her way out of the proverbial safety net. Which is what led to the unforeseen event of her first close encounter with one of the many monsters that had become part of Geralt’s life. It also led her to, for the first time, being at the receiving end of Geralt’s fury for risking her life .

‘You were very courageous back there,” Geralt smiled at the memory of her driving her sword through the neck of the drowner, thus saving his own neck in the process.

“I had to be! Couldn’t just stand there and watch my favourite grumpy fellow die!” She jested about it but a shiver ran up her spine as she spoke. “It was disgusting, you know? I can still feel all the blood and slime on my skin.”

“It was also very brave. You saved my life!”

He had thought that his statement would make her proud but he was met with silence.

She spoke after a while. “You do know that I shall not be able to live anymore if something happens to you, don’t you? I shall only survive.”

Geralt’s heart suddenly felt very heavy in his chest. What she said was known information to him. Somewhere in his soul, he knew that she loved him. But to hear it aloud was totally unexpected.

“I shall be fine, princess,” he used his most assuring voice. “Do not worry about me.”

Unseen by him, a smile formed on her countenance. “I know, witcher.”

“Maybe we could talk about something else?” He suggested. “Take your mind off the monster?”

“Hmm… How is Jaskier?” She suddenly asked.

Geralt almost turned his head towards her in surprise. Almost. She was naked, having a bath, and the first “something else” that came to her mind was the bard??

“Jaskier?” He asked. “You wish to talk about Jaskier now?”

“Well, you wanted to talk about something else!”

Was that jealousy that she was sensing in his huffs? She hoped it was.

“He must be fine. I do not know.” He ended the topic as quickly as it had begun.

“Hmm.”

The princess laid her head back on the tub and closed her eyes. There was a comfortable silence. So comfortable that she did want to leave, did not want to do anything that might disturb the moment. Even though it was getting late. Even though Geralt still had to wash himself.

Geralt still has to wash himself! Shit! He must be hungry!

Her eyes shot open. “I’m sorry, I forgot you have to wash up, too! I shall be quick.”

The sudden splash of water pulled Geralt out of his own reverie, inadvertently causing him to turn around so as to ask her not to hurry. But the sight before him left him speechless. It was fortunate that she was too busy to see him else he would never have been able to face her in shame. Geralt turned back and shut his eyes as soon as he snapped out of his trance. But that did nothing to erase the image imprinted in his mind. Not that he wanted to.

She had pulled herself up slightly, as she tried to reach for the towel on the nearby stool. In the light of the candles, her body glowed golden as water cascaded off every curve of her body… down the side of her neck, her shoulders, two perfect globes that highlighted particularly well in the candlelight, perky nipples that had hardened in the water, the beginning of a lustful waist…

He did not hear her step out of the tub, did not hear the rustle of clothes as she got dressed, no. His mind was replaying the same thing over and over again. There was an evident twitch somewhere down his body. He faintly heard something about dinner and changing the water. The creak of the door pulled him back.

“I shall…” His voice was hoarse. “I shall change the water. You may leave.”

The change in his mannerism surprised her but then both his voice and attitude were gravelly most of the time. With a small “alright”, she exited, leaving him to his thoughts.

Dinner was quiet as Geralt tried to suppress the feelings bubbling inside him. He wanted to look at her and lose himself in her eyes. He wanted to tell her how he felt. Wanted to show her what it meant to unleash months of bridled love that he had been carrying within his entire being. He wanted to…

Gods! There were so many things that he wanted to do. But every time he talked himself into taking one step forward, his reality made him take two steps back.

And so, once again, he retired to bed without telling her anything at all about the whirlwind in his heart.

Geralt woke up sometime in the middle of the night, sensing some movements near him. Once sleep stopped fogging his senses, he realised that it was (Y/N) tossing and turning beside him in her sleep. Not only was she being restless, she was mumbling something incoherent that only got louder with her movements. It hardly took him a couple of seconds to realise that she was having a nightmare!

Geralt tried to wake her up: called her name, shook her. But she was trapped deep in her own head. He thought he heard something like his name but could not be sure. Seeing his efforts go in vain, he took her face in both hands and shouted her name while shaking her once more. He wasn’t sure if it would work but luckily, it did. With wild eyes she stared at him, as if trying to figure out where she was, trying to put up a wall between her horrid imagination and sweet reality. When she finally came around, she threw her arms around Geralt’s neck, causing him to tumble to the mattress with her below. Once again, he fought with himself as a wave of relief washed over him, eventually crashing into a strong desire to keep her encased in his arms and caress her for the remainder of the night.

“I dreamt that you were…” she almost sobbed. “That I had…” She couldn’t bring those bitter words to her tongue.

Geralt understood.

“You will never lose me. I shall always be by your side. I promise.”

In the dark veil of the night, in those weak moments, he made her a promise that even he did not know how he would keep, for she would be married to some royalty some day; she would have to go away, leaving him with his solitude and monsters. He could not keep her to himself nor could he watch her be with somebody else.

But that was a worry for another day. Right then, she was in his arms, and no one else’s. Even if for a moment, she was his. He lay on his side and pulled her to his chest. A hand cradled her head, drawing soothing lines through her hair, until her warm breath on his skin had become stable.

Geralt never seeked help or answers from the gods; he did not believe in them. But as he kissed the crown of her head that night, his lips prayed for her safety and happiness, and if possible, for her to be bound to him for eternity.

He knew he was being selfish. He did not know who heard his prayers or even if there was someone who might hear them. But he whispered them anyway, believing that it was the only way to make his wishes come true.

***

[vitalverstappen]

To Be Your Muse - G. Russell

summary: as you and George navigate your relationship, you do the one thing you know how to: write a song.

pairing: George Russell x singer!reader

warnings: none

word count: 5.5k

masterlist

smau

The lights dimmed. The crowd’s energy swelled, a crescendo of anticipation, and you could feel it in your chest - the electric hum that ran through Wembley Stadium. It was the last night of the European leg of your world tour. The opener had just wrapped up, and now, with every second that ticked by, the air was charged with an almost unbearable energy. 

You took a moment backstage, standing in the silence before the storm. It was always like that right before you stepped on stage - the strange, almost sacred pause between worlds. The rehearsals, the travel, the soundchecks, the fans, all of it building to your performances. You knew you’d be leaving Europe behind for a while, but that night? That night it felt like the whole continent was there, in that moment, ready to explode. 

The intro started, the low hum of the synth, the heartbeat of the drum pulled you forward, drawing the crowd closer to the edge. The lights flashed - blue, purple, white - and then, just like that, you stepped out onto the stage. The roar of the crowd hit you like a wave, the sea of faces illuminated by the lights, their arms raised, their voices joined together in that one collective sound. It was overwhelming in the best way. 

The second George saw you step onto stage, he felt it - the shift. The crowd exploded, and even though he wasn't entirely sure what to expect, there was an undeniable pull to the moment. It was all so big, so charged, like the buildup before the lights go out on the racetrack, and the engines start revving. He couldn’t help but be caught up in it. 

Lando and Alex, along with their girlfriends, had dragged him out to the concert. He wasn’t too familiar with your discography - only the songs that were played on loop on the garage playlist. Sure they were good. Really good. But here? In the stadium, with thousands of fans around him, George started to understand what all the fuss was about. It was something different. There was something real about it, about you. 

There was something about the way you moved, the way you owned the stage. Your presence was effortless, but you had this force about you, this intensity that pulled everyone in, making it impossible not to watch. 

As the night went on, he found himself not just lost in the music, but lost in you. There was a moment during one of the slower tracks, you were sat on a stool facing in George’s direction. The entire stadium was so quiet, so still, and all he could think about was how, for a moment, it felt like you weren’t just singing to the audience. It felt like you were singing to him - like there was something connecting the two of you in the darkness. 

Stop it he told himself You don’t even know her. 

But no matter how hard he tried to focus on anything else, he couldn’t pull his eyes away. His mind wandered to thoughts of the next time you’d be in town, or if there was any chance you might ever meet backstage, or what it would be like to talk to you for just five minutes, to really talk - not just about music, but about life, about anything. His heart skipped a beat at the thought. 

At the end of the night, you disappeared under the stage, along with any hope George had that he’d see you again. Wembley Stadium was still buzzing with energy, the echo of your last song reverberated in George’s chest like a memory he couldn’t shake. 

Lando was already tugging at George’s sleeve, urging him towards the exit. “Come on, mate, let’s go grab a drink. We’re all heading out to the after-party.” 

But George wasn’t listening. His thoughts were elsewhere. He stood still, rooted to the spot, surrounded by people filing out, but all he could see in his mind was you. How you commanded the room without ever seeming to try, how your eyes locked with his for just a brief, electric moment. The way you sang, like you meant every word. Like you were telling a story that only the crowd could understand. And George, somehow, felt like you were telling it to him.

Stop it. 

He tried to shake the thought from his head. You were just another performer. He was a racecar driver. There was no world where those two things overlapped. But as he moved toward the backstage area with the others, a strange sense of yearning crept over him. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t let go of the image of you on that stool, looking out at the crowd, as if searching for something. 

“George, you okay?” Lando’s voice broke through his thoughts. George looked up, blinking as if he’d just woken up. 

“Yea, just - just thinking” 

Lando raised an eyebrow, but before he could say anything more, Alex chimed in. “Mate, you were loving it. We all were. Don’t tell me you’re getting all soft on us”

George managed a weak smile and nodded. They made their way through the backstage area, the sound of laughter and chatter filled the hallway, but George barely heard it. His eyes scanned the shadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of you - anything, really. It felt ridiculous. What was he even hoping for? That you’d be just standing there, waiting to talk to him? He wasn’t that naive. But still, he couldn’t help himself. 

He caught a few of the crew members milling around, but no sign of you. 

Lando shot him a look, as if sensing something was off. “You sure you’re good?” 

“Yeah, just-” George stopped. He was about to say something, but the words felt hollow. How could he explain that a moment of music, a few glances exchanged in the middle of a stadium, had left him feeling like he was on the verge of something that he couldn’t quite touch?

But then, just as he was about to leave, it happened.

The door at the end of the hall opened, and out you walked - head down, talking to one of the crew members, your expression still glowing with the afterglow of the performance. You donned an oversized hoodie now, but George still recognized the spark in your eyes. You looked tired, but content. The kind of tiredness only a performance like that could bring. 

George froze. His heart did that weird skip thing again. His mind blanked, the rush of adrenaline from the concert still flooding his veins. He felt completely out of place, like an imposter in a world he didn’t belong to. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. 

It wasn’t until you looked up and your eyes met his that everything stopped. For a moment, everything else in the room faded away. Your gaze lingered on him for a beat too long, and for that split second, he swore he saw a flicker of recognition, maybe even something warmer in your expression. 

He had to say something, but the usual charm and confidence he had behind the wheel, the jokes he’d throw around with Lando, had all vanished. All that remained was a sense of awkwardness that made him want to disappear. 

“Hey” he managed to say, his voice a little breathier than he intended. You stopped walking, your brow raising slightly as if surprised, but not displeased. 

“Hey” you said, your voice soft, but warm. “You’re uh, George, right? George Russell?” 

She knows who I am? George’s heart hammered in his chest. He nodded, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah, that’s me.” He let out a nervous laugh.

“It’s so nice to meet you. I’m a big fan” you said with a genuine smile, stepping a little closer

George felt his heart race, a mix of disbelief and excitement running through him. A big fan? Of him? The thought barely had time to register before he found himself stumbling over his words, trying to find a way to sound cool, relaxed - anything but the nervous mess he was. 

“Oh, uh, thank you! That’s… I mean, wow, I’m flattered,” he chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck as if it might help him gather his thoughts. His mind was still reeling from the fact that you knew who he was. And you weren’t just being polite; you seemed genuinely pleased to meet him. 

“Of course, I’ve been watching for years” you continued, your voice light and friendly “I’ll actually be at Silverstone next week. Mercedes invited me.” 

George’s mind nearly short-circuited. Silverstone? He tried to play it cool, but the news hit him like a bolt of lightning. The last place he expected to run into someone like you was in the pit lane at one of the biggest events on the racing calendar. 

“Really?” he asked, his voice coming out a little higher than usual “That’s awesome. I’ll be there too” 

You chuckled, “I would sure hope so. But it’ll be fun, I think. I’ve been to a few races before in a few different garages, but this is my first time at Silverstone. The energy there is insane.” 

George nodded, his mind racing. You were already deep into motorsport culture, and for some reason, that made George feel a little more grounded in this bizarre situation. There was a connection, however small, that had nothing to do with the stage lights, or the cheering fans. It was shared experiences - racing, the adrenaline, the crowds, the atmosphere. 

“Yeah” George said, his tone settling as he found his rhythm again “It’s one of the best tracks in the world. It’s… home for us. The crowd there, the history, it’s electric.” 

“Sounds incredible.” you said, nodding. “I can’t wait to see it all in person. Your eyes sparkled. 

The crew member you had been walking with approached you, muttering something to you. Your eyes glanced down the hall, then to George, and back down the hall as you talked. When the crew member disappeared again, you turned to face him. 

“I am so sorry to cut this short, but I have to go.” you said 

George’s heart sank for a moment, the sudden realization that the conversation was ending hit him harder than expected. He’d only just found his footing, and now you were about to leave. But he quickly forced a smile, not wanting to let any awkwardness creep in. 

“No, no, of course. I get it” he said “You’ve got your hands full with everything. I didn’t want to keep you” 

You smiled, the warmth of your eyes lingering as you met his gaze. “Thanks for understanding, George. It’s been nice talking to you” The genuine sincerity made a reappearance in your voice, making George feel a little lighter. 

“Yeah, same here.” he replied, his lips curving into a grin “And hey, I’ll see you at Silverstone, yeah?” 

“Definitely,” you said, your smile widening just as much “Take care, George.”

You stepped back, turning toward the backstage exit, but not before giving him one last look - your eyes locking for just a minute longer, as though there was something unspoken between the two of you. Then, you disappeared down the hall, leaving George standing there, still a little stunned. 

Lando, having been watching the entire exchange from a distance, couldn’t help but nudge George with an amused grin. “Well, well, well. I didn’t know you had it in you” 

George blinked, coming out of his daze, and shot Lando a half-hearted glare. “Shut up.” 

Alex, who had been casually scrolling through his phone, finally looked up. “Mate, you’re definitely gonna need to find a way to talk to her again. That was smooth.” 

George rolled his eyes “Stop it. It was nothing.” 

Lando grinned wider. “That was definitely something, dude. You’re telling me you’re not gonna try to catch up with her at Silverstone? You know, maybe grab a coffee or something?” he teased, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

George sighed, already feeling his face heat up. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out. Not like I’ve got anything planned, right?” He tried to sound casual, but the excitement was bubbling under the surface. His mind was racing, replaying every word you’d just said, every glance, every moment of the conversation. 

“You two were practically flirting. “Alex said with a smirk, glancing at George from the corner of his eye

“Alex” George groaned, but he couldn’t stop the grin that crept onto his face “Just - let it go” 

Lando clapped George on the back “Nah, mate. It’s all good. You know you’re gonna be walking around Silverstone looking for her now.” 

======

The next week crept by, but before you knew it, you had just arrived at Silverstone. There was a palatable energy in the air, something that only equaled the moments before you stepped on stage. 

You walked through the narrow corridor between team garages, your eyes caught the branded uniforms of mechanics and engineers as they hustled to make final adjustments. The smell of fresh tire rubber mixed with the sharp scent of fuel made your pulse quicken. It was a whole new world, one you could only ever dream of getting a glimpse into. 

As you made your way to the Mercedes garage, you passed some familiar faces, including Lando and Alex, who waved at you with smiles. You smiled  and waved back, feeling a little less like an outsider there, a little more at home. You had spent time in the McLaren’s and Williams’ garages before, but today, you were headed to Mercedes. 

Lando caught up with you as you slowed your pace. “I was wondering if you were actually gonna show up” he joked with a grin 

“Yeah, I’ve just been getting my bearings. It’s always a little overwhelming first coming in” you admitted, taking in the busy paddock around you.

Alex, who had been with Lando, nodded in agreement. “It’s a lot to take in at first. You’ll get used to it.” His gaze flickered over your shoulder, a mischievous gleam in your eye “But you’re in for a treat. Wait until you see the cars on track” 

The chatter around you died down as you bid the drivers goodbye and good luck before stepping into the Mercedes garage. You immediately recognized some of the team members, their sharp focus evident as they worked. The garage itself felt like a well-oiled machine - every mechanic, every engineer, every piece of equipment working in perfect harmony toward one goal. It was like watching a live performance of a different kind. No stage, but the stakes are just as high. 

Your heart raced as you moved deeper into the space, finally spotting George near one of the cars. He was talking to an engineer, his hands gesturing as he made a point, his focus unwavering. Even in the middle of all the technical chaos, he seemed entirely calm, as if this was where he belonged. His helmet was resting on the table in front of him, and he was clad in his Mercedes team gear - sweat beading on his forehead from the heat of the garage, but there was a kind of coolness about him. 

He glanced up, his eyes immediately locking with yours. A brief flash of recognition passed over his features before his face broke into a smile, making your heart skip a few more beats than it should’ve. 

“Hey” he said, walking towards you, his steps purposeful but easy. “Glad you could make it. How’s everything going so far?” 

Your lips parted into a smile as you spoke “It’s been unreal. You said last week that Silverstone was on another level, it’s insane.” 

George nodded, his hands slipping into his pockets “I know exactly what you mean. It’s all part of the thrill though. The preparation, the team effort, the moments before you get in the car and the moment you step out of it. That's why I do this.” 

You couldn’t help but admire how passionate he was about it. It was the same kind of passion you felt for your own craft, but this was on a whole different scale. His eyes shined with an unmistaken fire, that made him seem so much more than just a racecar driver. 

For a moment, it felt like the madness of the paddock had paused. There was just you and George, sharing a quiet understanding. Then, the moment was broken by the sound of an engine firing up, the roar of a nearby car cutting through the air, and George’s eyes flickered to the noise. 

“Looks like that’s my cue,” he said, a little regret in his voice, though he smiled “I’ve got to head out for the last few checks before practice. But I’ll catch you later, yeah?” 

You nodded, your heart unexpectedly heavy. “Yeah, I’ll be around. Good luck out there George. I’m sure you’ll do great.” 

He gave you a quick wink and a thumbs up before heading toward the wall of computers on the side of the garage, and as you watched him go, you felt a rush of something - maybe admiration, maybe curiosity. 

======

 The day had been a whirlwind - so much to take in, so many new faces, and so much buzzing energy in the paddock. Most of your time was spent in Mercedes, watching the drivers as they sped on track, but took some time to wander the area, meeting with fans as you did so. It had been everything you hoped for, but there was one thing that had stuck in your head throughout the day. One person. 

George. 

You hadn’t expected to feel this drawn to him. Maybe it was the way he spoke to you like a normal person, or how passionate he was about racing, or the way his smile seemed to cut through the chaos. He was a racer, yes - but there was a depth to him that made you think there was so much more than what the cameras saw. 

As the day drew to a close, and the buzz of the paddock began to quiet, you found yourself in Mercedes hospitality. Your mind was still in awe of everything that you’ve seen. And then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted him. 

George was walking toward you, having traded his race suit for team gear. He looked tired, but there was something about the way he moved that told you he was never truly off the clock. 

He approached, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. There was a pause, as if the noise had all faded away, leaving just the two of you in the quiet. 

“Hey” he said, offering a smile that made your stomach flip. “I was looking for you earlier. Hope the practices were fun.” 

You smiled back, trying to ignore how your heart was suddenly beating a little bit faster. “It’s been incredible. Honestly exceeded all of my expectations.” 

“That’s good to hear,” he said, his eyes wandering out to the track below. Then, after a beat, he turned to face you again. His eyes locked with yours, a slight hesitation in his movements before he spoke again, as if he was weighing his words carefully. 

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask you…” his voice softened, and you could hear the slight edge of nerves creeping in - something you weren’t expecting from him. 

Your heart gave a little jolt at his words, that nervous edge in his voice making everything feel a little more real. He hesitated for a moment, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes flicking between you and the track as if he was gathering his thoughts. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you…” he repeated, drawing out the words as if they were a weight he had to work up to. He ran a hand through his hair, taking a half-step closer to you. “Since you’re sticking around for a few days, and, you know, it’s not often I get to ask… I was wondering if maybe… you’d want to grab dinner?” 

Your pulse quickened. You hadn’t expected him to ask you out - certainly not like this. Not so casually, with that slight edge of hesitation. But there it was, clear as day. 

You found yourself smiling before you even realized it. “I’d like that” you said, your voice feeling steady despite the rush of excitement. 

His face lit up with a grin you’d seen earlier - a little crooked, but so full of warmth. “Yeah? I wasn’t sure if I was being too forward…”

“Not at all” you reassured “I’m kind of relieved, to be honest.” You let out a small laugh, feeling a little less nervous now that he seemed equally uncertain. 

“Relieved?” he raised an eyebrow, a playful note returning to his voice

“Yeah, I didn’t know if you were just being polite or if you really wanted to spend time together” you admitted, suddenly a little shy under his gaze “But it sounds like you really meant it.” 

“I did” he said, his voice soft again, his expression more sincere now ‘I’ve wanted to ask you out since the first time I saw you at the concert. I just didn’t know if you’d be into it. I just didn’t want to make a fool of myself” 

You couldn’t help but to feel a swell of warmth at his honesty. There was something about the way he was laying it all out - no masks, no guard up - that made you like him even more.

“Well,” you said, taking a step closer and giving him a teasing smile, “you’re not a fool, George. I’m definitely interested” 

His grin widened, and there was a twinkle in his eyes that made your heart flutter just a little. “I’ll take that as a win then” he replied, his tone light but with an underlying sincerity “Alright, so… dinner after all this? I’ll be finished by eight?” 

“Perfect, I’ll be there” you replied, your stomach fluttering as you spoke, the anticipation filling the air. 

======

The relationship had blossomed into something you hadn’t expected, a mix of racing circuits and late-night songwriting sessions. With every date, every stolen moment, you felt a connection that went deeper than you could have imagined. George was everything you’d hoped for and more - kind, thoughtful, and passionate. You two balanced each other out, like two pieces of a puzzle. 

You’d always used music as an outlet, a way to process your emotions, your thoughts, your life. Fans always said your music was like a peek into your diary, so it wasn’t long until George found his way into your songs, though you were sure not to make it too obvious. You’d learned to weave little details into your lyrics - the way his eyes lit up, his passions, his love for the quiet moments with you.

George was sprawled on the couch, his legs hanging off the edge as he absently flipped through a magazine. The soft strum of your guitar filled the space between you two, the notes gentle but steady, like a heartbeat. You weren’t playing anything in particular - just letting your fingers wander across the strings as your mind drifted. 

You looked up at him, your fingers pausing on the strings as you met his gaze. His eyes were warm, those quiet depths that always seemed to be watching you with such focus, like he was trying to understand every part of you, even parts you hadn’t figured out yet. 

“You know” you began, your voice soft, but with that undercurrent of thoughtfulness you had come to expect from these late-night moments, “I wrote a song today”

“About me?” he raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued 

“Maybe…” you trailed off, biting your lip as you returned your gaze to the guitar, strumming a few notes absentmindedly 

“Yeah?” his voice had that playful edge, but there was something deeper in there too, like he knew what you meant. “Let me hear it” 

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you wanted to share it just yet, but then you’d remembered how he’d always support your music, how he’d never made you feel like you had to explain yourself. Slowly, you played the opening chords, the melody coming together easily, flowing out like it had been waiting for the right moment.

The lyrics were simple, but meaningful. You’d written about finding someone who felt like home, even in the midst of a fast-paced, unpredictable world. About how, amongst the chaos and drama that both of your lives brought, you found someone who made it all fade into the background. 

When you finished, the room was still. George didn’t say anything and for a long moment, his expression thoughtful as he let the words settle between you two. 

“That’s… that’s really beautiful.” he finally said, his voice low, and for a second, you weren’t sure if he was talking about the song or about what it represented “Are you planning on releasing it?” 

“I mean, if that’s okay with you?” you asked

George’s eyes softened, and for a second, he just watched you, taking in the vulnerability in your question. The way you hesitated, as if unsure how much of yourself you were willing to share. It wasn’t lost on him. He knew how personal your music was to you, how every song was like a little piece of your soul, laid bare for the world to hear. 

He didn’t hesitate long before answering, his voice steady but filled with that quiet sincerity you’d come to adore. 

“Of course,” he said, his gaze never leaving yours “If that’s what you want. I trust you.” 

A wave of relief washed over you, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The idea of sharing something so intimate, especially something that felt so much like him, was scary. But George was different. 

You smiled, a soft, genuine smile that reached to your eyes “Thanks” you murmured, feeling the weight of his trust settle between you two. 

“Do you ever think of going public?” 

The question caught you off guard. You had been lost in the quiet, comforting silence of his trust, and now, just like that, he was pulling you back into a reality you hadn’t fully faced. The thought of going public - of letting everyone know about the two of you - was daunting. You had always been protective of your private life, and this felt like a whole new level of vulnerability. 

The question hung in the air, but there was no pressure in George’s gaze. It was clear he was leaving the decision up to you, giving you the space to think it through. 

“I don’t know.” You shook your head slightly, the uncertainty creeping in. “I guess I’ve always been protective of the things that matter most. When I have let the world in, they’ve torn it to shreds” 

George’s expression softened. He nodded, a small, understanding smile forming on his lips “I get that. I do.” His voice was steady, and there was an honesty in the way he spoke, as if he had been thinking about this too. “I guess what I’m asking is do we want to go public? Not just the world, but us?” 

“I guess that’s the question, isn’t it?” you said “Is it worth the risk?” 

“I think it is” George said without hesitation. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Because whatever happens, we have something real. I’d rather go public with you than keep pretending that we don’t exist. But only if you’re ready, and if you want that too.” 

You felt a lump form in your throat at his words. He was right. What you had was real. It wasn’t a fleeting romance or something built on a facade. It was a connection you both had worked for, nurtured, and built in a world that often didn’t leave space for things like that. 

“I think we should do it when the moment feels right.” you finally answered “We shouldn’t plan anything. Almost a spur of the moment, when you know you know instance.” 

That moment came a few weeks later. The song had been released the weekend prior, and the buzz around it hit hard, like a wave, sweeping through social media and radio stations. Fans were left decoding the lyrics, trying to find who the muse was. The lyrics weren’t directly about George, but anyone who listened closely could see the thread of a connection, a quiet love that couldn’t be ignored. 

But amidst all the attention, you and George remained under the radar. You both carried on, your lives unfolding between race tracks, concerts, late night phone calls, and stolen moments that felt both intensely private and fiercely treasured. 

You were a guest on a radio show when you were finally confronted about the song. Most of the conversation was focused on your upcoming album, sharing tidbits behind the new songs and how your sound had changed over the years. But you knew deep down that the question was coming. It was only a matter of time. 

“So, there’s been a lot of buzz around your new song, ‘Call It What You Want’. Fans are already digging into the lyrics, trying to figure out who the song is really about. Care to share any insight?” 

There was a slight shift in the air, the pressure rising slightly. You glanced at the host, trying to maintain a calm demeanor. “Honestly, the song is more about a feeling than it is a specific person. It’s about finding someone who feels like home, someone who makes everything else fade into the background when you’re with them” You let the words linger, hoping they were vague enough to redirect the conversation. 

But the host wasn’t satisfied. She leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Right, but you’ve been pretty open about your private life in your music before. And let’s be honest, we’ve all heard rumors. Is there anyone in particular?” 

The moment arrived. You could keep dancing around it, stay guarded, and continue to play the game, but something inside you pushed back against that instinct. 

You thought about George. About your relationship. A relationship formed in the shadows, not because you were ashamed, but because you both needed space to grow. You had needed time to see if what you had was something that could withstand the outside world. And now, it felt right. It was now about embracing what you had, regardless of the consequences. 

“I guess it's no secret that the song is inspired by someone in my life. I’ve been seeing him for a while now, and he’s definitely had an impact on the way I’ve been feeling lately.” 

The host’s smile widened, sensing the shift in the room. “Anyone we might know?” 

Your gaze softened, and you gave the slightest nod. “Yeah” you said quietly, your voice carrying the weight of the truth “It’s George Russell.” 

The host’s eyes widened, but she quickly masked her excitement with a professional grin. “Well, that’s a big revelation! George Russell, Formula 1 driver and now your muse. I think the world will have a lot to say about this.”

You chuckled softly, “Yeah, probably” 

Little did you know, across the world, George had the exact same pressure. It was media day in Singapore, and he was stuck in the media pen, surrounded by microphones and cameras. All of them were focused on him as he answered questions about his performance, the race ahead, and of course, the usual speculations about his personal life. But today felt different. There was a certain tension in the air that George couldn’t quite shake off. His mind kept drifting back to the interview you had done a few hours ago, and the confession you had made to the world.

“So George,” the reporter began, leaning in a little “We’ve heard there’s a new song out that’s got some pretty… intimate lyrics. Any comment?” 

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck “Yeah, that’s true. I’m very proud of her. She’s an amazing artist. It’s funny, because when she writes, it’s like she captures all the things I didn’t know how to say. The song… Call It What You Want… it’s definitely got me in it, but I think she’s explained how she feels about it.” 

“So it’s about you?” 

George shrugged, his grin a little shy, but playful “I think it’s more about us, the journey. We’re both in fast paced worlds, but managed to slow down and figure things out.” 

The reporter raised an eyebrow, “And you’re okay with that? Your relationship being a part of her music?” 

The grin broke into a full smile. “I think it’s beautiful, actually. I mean, it’s her art, her expression. And if I get to be a part of it, well, I think I’m lucky” 

You watched his interview the morning after, as you had long gone to bed when it was posted. But hearing him speak about your music like that made your heart swell with pride. It was one thing to write the songs, to pour your heart into them, but hearing George - your George - speak so openly about them, and about you, made it feel like it was all worth it.

[cherryheairt]

Dragon Dreamer pt. XV

previous chapter- fourteen

masterlist

tags: @beebeechaos @r-3dlips @emery-aka-emmy @watermel0nsugarhigh @delaynew @moonymoo1 @purple-1995 @littleblackcatinwonderland @fall-winter-heart97 @mandeepandee1997 @pedro-pascal-love @thelastemzy @reyndaisy @saintkittykat @theadharablack @thatkindofgurl @alexandra-001 @itsaslaminak @iv7867

gosh this one took forever. I was scared I got into a rut for inspiration but I think I'm just burnt out from life, not from writing. On a positive note, since this took so long and I had so much time to think about the story, I have gained A LOT of ideas for future chaps.

In the early hours of the morning, while Franny dressed Daenys in her protective riding gear, the Princess was given time to think over the choice at hand. Bring Cregan along to Rook's Rest for him to lead the royal siblings through the keep as protection, or leave him here to sit and await her return.

They had decided to delay the flight to Duskendale and Rook's rest another day due to Morningstar sleeping heavily in her nest. Rhaenyra had allowed it, secretly relieved to have her children safe within the castle walls another night. Daenys slept a few hours in a dreamless sleep, discomforted by the thought of Cregan being in his guest chambers halls away.

Part of her was rational, weighing pros and cons of the situations.

Another part of her, nagging at the back of her mind, thought herself to be swayed by her wants. Had she grown too dependent on the Northern Lord over the past weeks? Perhaps she was. Whether it was a good or a bad thing was still to be decided.

Daenys glanced longingly at the notebooks left neatly on her desk. She had not used them since before she departed for Winterfell. Perhaps the need to write and draw out every dream she had dwindled down like a neglected hearth. Or, perhaps it was the positive outside influence that kept her from such maddening behaviors. Those notebooks consumed her day and night. There hadn't been a day where she missed an entry, whether it lasted one word or one thousand. Black tendrils of flame or a simple budding rose.

She felt an almost urging call to continue them, to build off from where she had left. It might be good for her to document such things, like the accuracies of Lucerys' and Jaehaerys' deaths.

There was no time now, anyway.

Daenys thanked Franny as the young girl left the chambers, allowing Cregan to enter now that she was decent.

At her belt, which had been black steel molded into two intertwining dragons, Daenys fiddled with the gifted knife fretfully. Cregan's entrance had not shifted her thoughts away from the dilemma at hand, though his warmth filled the room like a breath of dragonflame. He curiously scanned the room, taking in all the personality it had collected through the years. His eyes caught the brown pelts lying on her bed, turning a curious and playful look to the Princess.

Blushing, Daenys didn't meet his eye, still turning the dagger in her nimble hands. "It got cold."

He huffed a laugh, "I'm sure it did. Weeks spent in tents in the snow, and you are felled by your own familar quarters."

She quickly changed topics, feeling embarrassed, though Cregan was more prideful than judging. "This is for you." She shealthed her own dagger again, admiring the cold black handle against the white of her armor. Shuffling through a drawer, Daenys found exactly what she was searching for. Revealing her grand find like a dragon showing off its glinting hoard of treasure, she presented a dragonglass dagger to Cregan. "To replace the one you gave away." The dragonglass had originally been a nameday present from Daemon years ago, something that she appreciated greatly but never found a use for in her peaceful days on dragonstone. It would carry a greater purpose in Cregan's hands, anyway. The tip of the handle was formed like a dragon's head, as was Daenys' dagger, a silver direwolf. Switching sigils, the two were marked by each other in all ways but physical.

Cregan took it from her hands tentatively, turning and admiring it in his hold. With the faintest prick to his fingertip, an angry red dot shot up. "Damn," he whispered, unexpecting the precise sharpness of the blade. Daenys stifled a giggle, turning to grab a cloth to clot up the small wound.

"Silly Stark." She murmured between them, smiling when he lifted his other hand to tilt her chin up.

"I suppose I need my smart Velayron to make sure I don't do silly things like that, hm?" He pondered, looking between her light eyes in wonder.

She met his grey eyes with a similarly affectionate gaze. Lifting the cloth from his finger, she placed a lingering kiss on where the wound was now no more than a darkened prick. "I should be inclined to agree. I have no clue how you have lived so long without my wise council." She said seriously, then broke into laughter as he took her by the waist and slightly lifted her off the floor to move her in front of the vanity.

Thoughtlessly, Cregan began to tie her hair up into tight braids that would stay out of her face for the duration of the flight and fight that would be expected at Rook's Rest. "I can not say, either, Princess." He said lightly, a small smile brightening his stern features.

Daenys took a moment to clear her mind, a few deep breaths while she was able to sit idly in her cushioned seat. "I want you to come with me." She spoke.

Cregan met her eyes through the reflection. "You're sure?" He asked hopefully.

Daenys nodded firmly, confirming her final decision. Glancing at her own reflection a final time, she felt tension stiffen her body. Her armor was a pristine white, not yet touched by blood or scratched by weapons. Fire would not burn her armor, for it was made from Morningstar's own shedded dragonscales. She would not burn, either, though the thought of keeping her clothes untouched if she did encounter flames was comforting. Sword wouldn't easily breach the scales, nor would arrows, though she still had to be careful to protect her face and hands.

Daenys began fitting the white gloves on to her hands, grimacing at the reminder of Lucerys. Though the gloves were a quality white leather, the backs of them were protected by small groups of more dragonscales. Though, these ones belonged to Arrax. His first big shed had come when the boy and dragon were both nine namedays of age, and Luke's first thought had been to create fine gifts for his family.

Jacaerys received a white leather dagger sheathe with scales lining it. The same sheathe he always keeps at his belt opposite of his sword.

Rhaenyra received a charming satin choker with scales studding along it, though she only wears it on Luke's nameday celebrations in fear of ruining it.

Daenys received the gloves, which she wears mostly when out riding with her family. The palms were well-worn but still upkept regularly by her. Luke always seemed to gleam with pride whenever she dorned her hands with them, so she made a point to do that often even though she hated to see the gift get so worn. She supposed that was the price of love. It wouldn't be fair to not use them out of fear.

Cregan took her hand to guide her out of the chair and to her feet, which were covered by firm and quite uncomfortable boots.

"This suits you well, Princess." He murmured softly, admiring his bethrothed in the warm light shining through her windows. "Like Queen Visenya reborn."

"Visenya was a battle-worn diplomat, I'm afraid there's a lot to live up to in terms of my ancestors." She sighed, though not ill-naturedly. She saw more of herself in Queen Rhaenys, the gentle ruler who was seen as generous and kind by the people and had a love for the arts and spent more time with her dragon than even her siblings did.

He smiled knowingly, eyes slightly crinkling at the sides. "I haven't seen these before, either." He mentioned, running a finger over the protruding scales of her gloves.

"A gift, from Lucerys, a long time ago." She told him, squeezing her hand and hearing that satisfying 'crrk' of leather crushing together. A habit she often did to stimulate her mind and keep it on the texture and sound of the gloves rather than her quickly-moving thoughts.

"A fine gift."

They exited the room once deeming themselves ready, both armed and prepared to leave the castle though their stay had been so short.

She sighed, looking to the doors that now covered only empty rooms. Four, in a perfect line with plentiful space between. It was not long ago that all six children's rooms had been lived in and filled with ruckus. Daenys held her chamber rooms at the end, enjoying her space as the eldest who got to choose the rooms first. Luke had opted to stay in the chambers right next to hers, with Jace conceding to his brother's whims and taking the next in line. Little Joff, Viserys, and Aegon were now gone, leaving even more silence and stillness in the castle. She could hardly bear to look at the rooms, for they reminded her so much of what had been lost.

"I wish you could have met my youngest brothers before their departure. You would like them." Daenys smiled sadly, thinking of how Joffrey would immediately ask to see Ice up close and how Aegon and Viserys would hide behind her skirts until Cregan knelt to their level, showing them he was a friend, not foe.

"They will return soon," he comforted, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. "This is but a temporary change. I'll meet them after we reclaim the Iron Throne for your mother." He promised.

Stiffly, she nodded. It was hard to believe that it was only herself and Jacaerys left. Even if it was only temporary, who knows how long this war would last? In the history books, some wars went years without any signs of peace. Would her brothers be grown before they came back? Would they even remember her? Remember Luke?

Turning away from the scene, Daenys and Cregan made their way to the dragonpit. There, Jacaerys and Baela were whispering together in hushed voices. They both donned similar armor to Daenys', though in the colors of their dragons and Houses alike. They looked a fine pair, already matching as if they'd been wed for years. Upon spotting the Princess and Lord approaching, Baela cleared her throat.

"Lord Stark, it is a pleasure to formally meet you. I'm glad to hear of your bethrothal to my cousin. I'm sure a fruitful partnership will be upon us soon." She smiled diplomatically, as if she had practiced the words in her head before saying them. Daenys stifled a laugh as her eyes met Baela's warm, dark purple eyes, the knowing look shared between them always making her cave into girlish whims.

The Lady was a stark contrast to her own bethrothed beside her, who scowled and pouted like a boy left out of a game to attend his studies. "Lord Cregan." He stiffly bowed his head in greeted and said no more.

"Lady Baela, it pleases me to meet any kin of Princess Daenys. I wish you a safe journey to you and a swift victory at Duskendale." Cregan said smoothly, dipping his head in respect to the woman.

Daenys reached Baela, pulling her in for a hug and whispering, "see you soon, sister. We will both bring back good news." Baela nodded her confident agreement, saying her 'goodbyes' to Jace before mounting her striped dragon and beginning her short flight.

Jacaerys seemed to flounder in the absence of his bethrothed, now able to speak more freely without any scolding looks from Baela (she and Daemon shared a fierce stern face that always shut Jace up swiftly, much to Daenys' amusement). "I was not expecting him to come along." He said, looking directly at Cregan but speaking past him.

"Of course he's coming, brother. I need a skilled swordsman at my side." She said lightly, approaching the perch just past him to scritch at Vermax's chin, who had climbed slightly up to meet the one who had not visited for quite some time. The yellow eyes of the dragon seemed to follow Cregan closely, a dangerous mirror of his rider.

"Am I not a skilled swordsman?" He asked, turning to face her with a hand resting on his sword's pommel.

You're a swordsman.

She refrained herself from quipping so meanly in front of Cregan, knowing Jacaerys would be embarrassing and offended rather than play along with her teasings as he usually did. "Of course you are." She soothed. "But who knows how many men will be stationed in the keep? I want to ensure there are no slip-ups or chances for a sneak attack."

Reluctantly, he backed down. With a brief touch to her arm, Jacaerys bid Daenys a safe flight. "Do not land until it is clear." He advised, earning an annoyed glare from his sister.

"I fear that I am now the more experienced fighter here, Jace." She said, raising a light brow. He rolled his dark eyes, stepping off the platform and situating himself on Vermax's dark red saddle. With a shout, the green dragon was out of sight past the mouth of the cave.

Cregan took a gloved hand in his, squeezing twice in a supporting reminder. "Best we don't let him get too far ahead. Or else the whole keep might just be burned down."

"Vermax and Jace have quite the fiery temperments." Daenys stated. "Morningstar, are you awake?" She called into the darkness.

Hearing a clicking response from the dragoness, Daenys felt her shoulders relax from the tension they had carried all night. The white dragon appeared from the depths, showing her bright violet gaze set straight on the two as she swaggered towards them. Glancing to her shoulders, Daenys gingerly reached out to glide a hand near the wound. It looked significantly better now that a balm had been applied and the wound properly cleaned. Instead of the angry red that it had been, the claw marks were now a dark pink color that mostly showed irritation rather than blood. The wounds were not as deep as she originally feared. "My brave girl. Are you ready to fly again?"

Morningstar trilled as if to wholeheartedly agree. Her wings fluttered as she met Daenys' hand with her large muzzle, a purr escaping her throat. "Let us go, then." She told Cregan, whose storm-grey eyes had never quite left her.

Together, they mounted the dragoness and left the cave with a joyful roar from Morningstar.

It was not long before they caught up with Vermax, who trilled when he saw his kin flying next to him. It had been many weeks since their last joint flight. Jace smiled warmly at his older sister, and they both almost forgot that their destination was to fight a battle in the war for their family's throne.

They crossed the sea within minutes, Daenys forcing herself to have a clear mind as they approached the stone walls. The once-green fields were now brown and charred, still filled with the hundreds of dead men who lost their lives, either fighting or to Meleys' and Morningstar's dragonfire. It was all too easy to be in the air and kill men by the multitudes, too easy to take lives. It didn't even quite feel like murder due to the disconnection provided by the catalyst that Morningstar was. That didn't make the swelling guilt disappear, however.

Morningstar swopped down from the cloudline quickly, taking the command Daenys shouted to her and not allowing the men in the fields to escape indoors. Her grip on the saddle's handlebars was tight and blistering, but she could not waver now. The men who were dragging their dead fellow soldiers had now joined them, black and unrecognizable. The unmistakable smell of burning human flesh had filled her senses, making her dizzy and unfocused once again. Cregan's deep voice filled her ears, placing a hand over hers on the handle to gather her attention. "You must stay focused, Daenys." He said as gently as he could over the raging roars and flames of the two dragons. She nodded quickly, forcing the bile down her throat. There was no room for weakness now.

It was over as quickly as it started, with Vermax and Morningstar circling the keep before landing in front of it.

Directly under the shade of the keep's entrance was Sunfyre. Worn and tired, the dragon still managed a ferocious and warning roar to scare his kin away.

It was not effective, though Daenys felt a pang of sympathy for the abandoned dragon. He was left behind while Aegon and Aemond went back to King's Landing, as if he were a mere guard dog posted to a station. Daenys dismounted, earning a concerned shout from Jacaerys atop of Vermax.

She slowly approached The Golden, allowing her hands to rest low and away from her body, the white scales glimmering in the sunlight the same way his did. He rose his neck high, though his wings were lifting up and down from the floor as if it hurt to put too much weight on them. She grimaced, knowing that was her own fault. The dragons suffered, too, in the battles they had fought, and they didn't even know why. Dragons didn't care for a throne or crown, but solely for their riders and kin.

"Daenys!" Jace shouted again, jumping from Vermax's saddle and following Cregan who had immediately trailed after Daenys. Cregan had stopped yards away, standing tensely and with calculating eyes but not trying to stop her. He had seen what she had done previously, and trusted her judgement. She would not approach a hostile dragon mindlessly.

"My Prince," he stopped Jacaerys with a firm hand to his chest, earning a furious glare from the Velayron.

She took a few steps closer, holding a hand out for Sunfyre for sniff. If she lost it, so be it. If he tried to burn her, no harm would be done. Daenys held back a flinch as he did just what she hoped, pressed his sharp snout into her palm.

A sudden vision filled her mind, painful like a sharp and drilling migraine. Aegon, unburnt or harmed, dressed in his finest drapes and wearing Aegon the Conquerer's grey crown. He held a goblet high in the air, surrounded by many peasent and knighted men and servant girls. "To my brother, who has slain the whore of Dragonstone's bastard son!"

Cheers erupted from all corners of the large and echoing hall. Goblets raised and wine and ale alike spilled all over men and tables. Aegon chugged down his bittersweet wine, presenting an empty goblet for the hall to see and a young maid to refill. "To Aemond! The true Blood of the Dragon!"

Next to 'The King' sat the very brother in question. Aemond Targaryen did not hold any glasses of wine or even a grin atop his sharp features. He simply leaned back into his chair, stiff as a flagpole and face blank and unreadable.

Daenys was drawn out as quickly as she was drawn in. What was that? A vision in broad daylight had never happened before. Could she see the past as well as the future? She could not dwell on it now, but upon her return home, such matters could be explored in the privacy and safety of her room.

Glancing up briefly, Daenys' sharp gaze caught sight of a man ducking behind the castle's wall on the tower's roof. Though they had not made their entrance discreet, Daenys had still hoped to catch a few more by surprise than she did. There was no way of knowing just how many soldiers lay in the safety of the keep.

Sunfyre almost whined at the touch, yearning for attention in the past few days. Daenys knew that Aegon rarely visited the dragonpit even when Sunfyre was readily available, too deep in his whores and cups. The poor thing was so deeply loyal, but so lonely despite his devotion. "There's a good boy, Sunfyre." She spoke softly in the same voice she used for her youngest brothers. He hung his head, allowing his exhaustion to finally show in the face of trust. Glancing back at the two men behind her, she sucked in a harsh breath to prepare herself for what was inside. "Go along, to Morningstar." She whispered to the dragon, watching him painfully carry himself towards the others. He submissively lowered his neck to Morningstar as the larger dragon sniffed cautiously at him, and after some time of reunion she allowed Sunfyre to lie at her side, curling up and finally letting himself rest. He'd been guarding Rook's Rest for days. Daenys would not consider herself too far off in assuming that he'd been given no food or water. What fool would approach a fire-breathing dragon, anyway?

Cregan smiled proudly, nodding to Daenys and striding towards her to meet her while Jace gaped at the sight and glanced between the dragons and his sister. "You made Sunfyre listen to you?" He asked, approaching them too.

"He's not an enemy." She vaguely said. "But, we could use him."

"Use Sunfyre? He would take no other rider? And...I doubt he'd fly again." Cregan said awkwardly, gesturing towards the torn wings.

"If we keep him on Dragonstone, Aegon cannot say he has three grown dragons any longer." Daenys said, lifting her chin. "The realm would not know how incompacitated he is—but they will know that Sunfyre turned sides against his own bonded rider. If that's not a sign from the 'Gods', what is?"

Jacaerys hummed thoughtfully, though he seemed to agree. "And what of Tessarion, the Blue Queen? And Jaehaera and Jaehaerys must have dragons—had dragons." He whispered after.

"The children's dragons are no older than seven, brother." Daenys said. Though, she was unclear on where Jaehaerys' dragon would be now that the boy was dead. Perhaps in the dragonpits still, forced to wait for a new Targaryen to bond with. Morghul and Glaeson, two black dragons with strong Valyrion names.

"And as for Daeron—" Daenys started, rolling her eyes at Jacaerys' sour look. "The boy is only ten years of age. What does that say about the Greens if they force him to war? Though, I would not be surprised given their desperation for dragons. I do hope the young ones do not have to grow up living in a time of war." She sighed, thinking of her youngest brothers, Jaehaera, and even Daeron, whom she had only known as the smallest of babes before he left to ward in Old Town.

Jace was stunned to silence for a few moments before laughing brightly. "When did you get so cunning?" He asked, looking to Cregan as if the man could answer his rhetorical question for her.

"It is a good plan, Princess." Cregan nodded, ignoring Jacaerys' look. "How do you plan on getting him across the sea?"

"Boat." She shrugged, "I will arrange for one to be sent from Dragonstone as soon as we reclaim the castle."

The Stark nodded his agreement with her idea, unsheathing Ice from his shoulder as Jace followed his actions, wielding Sea Tamer in his hands. "At your command, Princess." Cregan said. Jacaerys opened his mouth to make a remark at his sister's previous words about her experience, but shut it as he decided against any smart words.

"Sister," he nodded.

Daenys, only wielding her direwolf dagger in hand, slowly crept open the massive wooden doors. No one had stayed to guard the very front of the halls, knowing that a dragon could still reach its ire in the shallow depths. Instead of creeping through the halls like invaders attempting their luck at a sneak attack, the trio of three barged into the castle, rearing to fight. This was their claim, and they would not let it go again.

Jacaerys and Cregan led the way in front of Daenys with their swords in front of them, brows set and eyes sharp. A split in the hall came quickly, to the annoyance of them all. "It will take forever to flush them all out." Jacaerys commented.

"I need to find Kalla and Kallus. They will be held at knifepoint first to make us surrender." Daenys said seriously, glancing down each hall and mapping doors in her mind. One must lead to the kitchens and dining hall, and the other must lead to important chamber rooms and studies. Which would the Green men hold their hostages in?

Cregan looked down at her, seeing the wheels turning in her mind. "Which hall, Daenys?"

She stilled her heart and breath, closing her eyes to focus. Even as she focused, she could not summon the same visions as before. Trying not to let frustration well up in her, Daenys instead chose the most instinctive choice. "I should think the dining hall. Hard to be cornered with so many exits."

They toed down the hallway towards the open archway to the dining hall. It was a spacious room, good for balls or feasts or celebrations of the Lord's choosing. Instead of a grand feast being presented to them, the Velayrons and Stark were instead faced with the young Lord and Lady Saunton held by the necks. Three Green soliders held them still, long swords awkwardly at their throats and ready to move.

The young Kalla was nothing like her Lord Father, who was executed the day Daenys fought over his castle. In her early 20's, with bright red hair and deep blue eyes, the Lady clearly trembled in the hold of the older soldier's arms but held a steely and defiant look in her eyes.

Her younger brother, no older than six or seven, could not hold back his whimpers of fear. With black hair like his father, Kallus was next in line to be Lord, though that would not happen for many years. Or, if he died today. The siblings looked scruffed up and dirtied by the events that held them trapped in their own home. Hair messy and face smeared with blood from the soldier's hands and dirt from the floor, eyes red and puffy from their loss, and worried lines of stress on their foreheads. Daenys did not know if they would recover emotionally from this—even after years of peace.

"Surrender now and put down your weapons!" A scrawny young soldier yelled at them. "Or we'll kill them."

"If a single hair on their heads is out of place, we have two dragons standing outside on the ready to sear you to ash." Jacaerys bit sharply, unyielding.

"Three." Daenys added, glancing around the room between Cregan and Jacaerys. There was a single door behind the soldiers, possibly leading to the kitchens. Another much larger door stood parallel to all of them, the barricaded exit to the courtyard of Rook's Rest's castle. The sunlight poured in warmly from the windows in the room, leaving the room in a golden glow. If she moved the wooden panels holding the door, perhaps Vermax could fit through the opening and finish the job for them. Though, it would put the bystanders at too much of a risk.

"Yes, I saw that." The older soldier who held Kalla sniffed harshly. "The Witch of Dragonstone has enchanted the King's own dragon. Dragons can't help you in here." He sneered.

"And what will you do when we are all surrendered?" Cregan spoke up. "Take us out of the castle to the capitol? The dragons can wait for years. This Keep's food supply can not."

The two soldiers shared knowing glances. They were not stupid. They knew they had little options in Rook's Rest now that they were surrounded by dragons indoors and outside.

The younger man shouted something that Daenys did not quite catch in her surprise. Following his command, a few more soldiers flooded into the room from the archway that they entered from. Daenys shared a glance with Cregan, cursing herself for not deciding to clear the halls before going for Kalla and Kallus. She had figured to grab the hostages and rush outside to draw them out with promise of mercy, but now that idea was drifting further from the forefront of her mind. She shuffled closer to her bethrothed, clutching the dagger tight by her side.

Four behind, two in front. The numbers were not too far against them, she supposed, considering Cregan and Jacaerys' experience and skill most likely outdid that of these greener hedge knights. Jace may not have real battle experience like Cregan did against wildlings, but he did gain his knowledge of fighting during his time as a squire for Ser Steffon Darklyn. Daenys was quite unsure of her own capabilities in a fight against swords, seeing as she had none of her own and never cared to learn the art.

This had to be all of them. Daenys hoped that thought ran through her companion's minds, too. The rest were dead and burned out in the black fields.

"Would the dragons be so willing to burn us if we had their riders in hand?" The elder scowled again. The younger straightened up, nodding proudly like he had won.

"Want to find out?" Daenys asked, looking him straight in the eye unflinching.

This seemed to give them pause, hesitant glances between the men. One spoke up from behind, clearly itching to fight. "Just kill the little bastards and get it over with. There's no use in keeping them alive, Oskar."

This seemed to have been a recurring argument amongst the stationed soldiers. "What did Cole say, remind me of it, Bennard?" The eldest asked, exasperated at the eager soldier's impaitience.

"What does it matter what that Dornishman said? The king is dead, and we have this castle all to ourselves!"

"The King is not dead, you treasonous fool!" The younger yelled back to him, shifting and loosening his hold on Kallus.

Noting the loose grip, Daenys glanced briefly towards the boy before taking a chance to look over her shoulder. None of the soldiers had prepared for this raid, apparently. All still in regular tunics and breeches, no armor was dorned at all.

"The Usurper is not dead." Daenys said, though she was still unsure of that herself. "But he did abandon your little troupe here, did he not? To gain no glory in battle or seize any land. Old and sick dogs protecting a worn and empty home." She shared an amused glance with Jacaerys for show.

"I'd imagine no one would bother to reclaim Rook's Rest a second time, given all the trouble it took to get it in the first place." Jace added. "Criston Cole wouldn't bother giving this place a second glance."

Oskar and the younger shared a look of grievance. They shared those thoughts before, too.

"They would not know if you died for this place or simply abandoned it." She concluded, gentler this time. "We will allow you to live the rest of your traitorous lives in peace, for the return of Lord Staunton's children. Or, you can share the fate of those men outside. I'm sure you heard what their end sounded like." A grim sentiment, but necessary.

Cregan eyed her from her side, though he did not speak. Wielding Ice at waist level, towering above all the men in the room, the Northerner almost made the Southern-blooded men seem dwarved. He was not here to negotiate, but carry out his Princess and Prince's command. Daenys proudly noted the glances they had all been warily giving Cregan since he walked into the hall.

Oskar, standing straight and boring dark eyes down at Daenys, spoke up first. "It would be treason." He said darkly.

"Treason to your pretender?" She snarked. "They are much too busy holing up in their Holdfast to chase after and execute every man who deserted their cause."

"I think we should take the chance while we've got it, Oskar." The younger whispered, not very quietly. His gaze grew worried as he shifted on his feet. "I want to go home. It's been moons. Me mum must be thinking I'm dead by now."

Daenys felt pity for the group. Especially the youngest, who had his whole life left to live. The elder, who might be around Daemon's age, must have a wife and children back at his home, wherever that might be.

With a sigh, Oskar nodded. Preparing to speak a truce, but was interrupted by a frustrated yell from behind. "I'm sick of this talk! The Witch will not cast any more spells on you soft lot!" A man from behind shouted, charging immediately for Daenys. She could only turn on her heel in time to catch his arm, bringing them both down to the floor in a tumble. Though she saw Cregan and Jace swiftly move to defend her, the other men that once flanked him moved in to attack them, too.

Wearing a distasteful yellow that could only be the house colors of the Baratheons, the older man grunted as he struggled to pin Daenys to the stone floor and grab the sword that fell from his grip at the same time. With her steel dagger in hand, she writhed to get the arm out from under his heavy form.

Gasping at the wind being taken from her chest at the sudden fall and weight, it was not an easy task. "Bastard witch..." he grunted out, finally grasping his sword by the sharp sides. Uncaring that it cut through the thin skin of his fingers, he pulled it closer and sat up, finally allowing her to breathe and clutch her dagger to her bossum. Both of them heaved with effort, but the wild look in his eyes frightened her to no end. The look reminded her of Seamus, who sought revenge through the wrong person. "You and your whore mother will never lead the realm, lest it be brought to ruin." He snarled out, spit wetting his thin lips. The sounds of steel clashing rung like bells around the room, impossible to keep track of as movement and shouts sounded from all sides.

As he raised the sword over his head, the yellow-dressed soldier was bumped to the ground, groaning at the impact. On his side, the companion soldier who brought him down in the first place lie died and unmoving, like he had been thrown. Daenys did not waste time to allow him to think, twisting to her front to sit on her knees as if in prayer. With a swift movement, Daenys jabbed the dagger downwards into the side of Bennard's neck. As she tore it out just as fast, hot blood shot out immediately in response to the wound, even while the man was gasping and grabbing at his neck, covering the empty slit. Blood pooled around him as he eventually gave in to the Stranger, life leaving his fury-filled eyes.

Daenys wildly sprung to her feet, taking ragged steps back from the two corpses. She tripped backward over a third, though was caught by the waist and forearm by Cregan. Panting, she clutched at his arms with bloody hands. "Cregan?" She asked, disbelieving the situation. Yes, she had entered Rook's Rest knowing she'd most likely have to kill a man, but physically doing it was a whole different feeling. Seamus burned on top of her for what felt like days, and hundreds were felled to her Dragon's blue fire weeks later. But she had never dug her steel into a breathing man's skin, never watched the light leave his eyes of the last breath leave his lungs.

"I'm here." He said steadily, showing no signs of panic or change like she did. Behind Cregan's broad shoulders, she could see Jacaerys push the final man from his sword's shaft by kicking him off of it. Turning to face the remaining two men, who had stayed with the fallen Lord's children, Daenys saw the hopelessness in both of their eyes. She righted herself quickly, nodding her thanks to Cregan before stepping over the other bodies. In front of the four remaining people, Daenys saw a comforted knowledge in both Kallus and Kalla, knowing that they were safe now as they were released from the holds.

Oskar and the younger held their hands up in surrender. "I did not wish for that to happen, Princess." He swore solemnly. "Please, spare us still. We swear to leave Rook's Rest and return home, we will never speak of this to anyone."

Daenys glanced at Jace, who had a hardened look in his eyes. He, too, had killed his first man by his own hands. Her younger brother, who she had wished to keep his innocence for as long as possible, was a boy no longer. She swallowed harshly. "Let this be a lesson of mercy from Queen Rhaenyra." Were her final words to the two, who gratefully bowed and scurried out from the room.

Free now, the two siblings released heavy sobs from deep in their chests and hugged each other tightly. Daenys smiled faintly at the sight, relieved to see both unharmed. Kalla looked up from her kneeling position, tearfully grinning. "Thank you, Princess." She said through her sobs. Kallus shook in her hold, the built-up tension from the past days finally showing itself. He could be a boy again, not a hostage doomed for death.

Daenys approached carefully, kneeling to each of their levels. "Are you two unharmed?" She asked, glancing over them.

Kalla took a moment to hold Kallus back at an arms' length while she inspected him. With a courageous sniffle, the boy nodded and mumbled something Daenys could not hear.

"We are fine." Kalla said, weakly smiling as she stood straight and brushed off her dirty skirts. "May we...freshen ourselves up? We have not been able to since our father was taken."

"Taken?" Daenys sniffed.

Kalla nodded discreetly towards Kallus, who busied himself in looking entranced by Daenys' dragonscale armor. Daenys made an 'o' shape with her mouth, forgetting the implication that the two had not personally seen the execution of their father. "Yes. Go on, we will wait for you." Daenys said. She was glad that at least they were not forced to witness the murder, but instead, Cole allowed the young boy to keep his innocence and believe his father was simply taken away.

Perhaps the one favor he did the realm.

Turning to Jace and Cregan, after the brother and sister left to their chamber rooms, she sighed. "Are you two okay?" She asked, quieter now. The room was filled with empty silence now that everyone else had either died or left. The bodies at their feet were still and growing cold, though would soon start to stink if they did not get removed. Daenys wanted no part in that process.

"Are you?" Cregan asked instead, stepping forward to hold her hand in his. His grey eyes held a slight apprehension from the way he had been unable to fully protect her—again. Daenys could not and would not fault him, for two men had attacked him. Behind, Jace shuffled uncomfortably. He had been deathly still, too, a pale look on his face.

"I'm fine, just got winded." She said shortly, nodding affirmingly. Looking to Jace, she asked again. "Do you want to step out?"

Nodding quickly and covering his mouth, Jacaerys quietly excused himself from the room to rush out the way that they had come. Daenys knew the feeling. Even now, it was hard not to spill her guts after the heavy guilt pressed on her conscience.

"I should go check on him." She offered, looking up through her lashes to Cregan, who had been staring at her the entire time. "If you can—"

"I will take care of them." He hummed, gesturing towards the door. "Go see if your brother is well."

"Thank you." She said gratefully, squeezing his hand before making her way after her brother.

Outside, barely having made it to the grass instead of the cobble, Jacaerys was hunched over and heaving. Daenys sympathized greatly, slowly rubbing her hand up and down his back in the same way their mother had often done for them. "Let it all out, Jace." She said.

"I'm not a child." He said, defensively as he stood to full height.

"I know that." She whispered, squinting against the sunlight. "But you just killed a man—no one is prepared for that."

"Lord Stark was." He scoffed, wiping at his mouth and groaning in disgust but not shoving away her comforting hand.

"Cregan has experienced battle more than we have. He fights against the Wildlings in the North—he's no stranger to death."

He groaned again, this time not so much in disgust as it was simply petulance. Daenys bit her cheek, keeping herself from smiling at the childish behavior. "He's just perfect at everything, isn't he?"

"He's three years your elder, Jace." She reminded him. "And had to be Warden of the entire North at only eight and ten. Of course he's more experienced."

"I am a Prince." Jacaerys said, defeated.

"You are." She responded, questioning his sudden statement.

"I should be like that—not throwing up my breakfast at the first sight of blood. What kind of Prince can't defend his people?" He asked, slumping down against the wall.

She sat with him. "You are young, Jace. No one expects you to be perfect right away. We've only just now been thrust into a war when there's been none since before our grandsire's time."

"They do expect it." He mumbled, looking to the three dragons in the field. "Mother has set our expectations quite high."

"She's not so perfect." Daenys said. Once, only a few weeks ago, she would have agreed. That Rhaenyra was a being of perfect grace and poise, not to be touched by the bad of the world. Now, she wasn't so inclined. Rhaenyra was her mother, and she loved her dearly, but she was still a liar. Daenys had once dreaded to leave Dragonstone, but these days, she felt more eager to move on to her martial home with Cregan and be free of the people who allowed her to feel insane. Being able to come and go as she pleased to visit seemed like a distant dream.

🗡

Jacaerys whipped his head to her, dark brows knitted together as he huffed a short laugh. "You always say that, Dae. That mother is near perfect." His words were confused, almost disbelieving.

Daenys pursed her lips, nodding. Should she tell him the truth? If she allowed him to believe Laenor was still dead, she was no better than the three of them. But the cluelessness brought him peace. He was able to mourn their father in a healthy way over time, in every way she could not. He did not blame himself like she did. "I don't think anyone is." She said finally. Now was not the correct time, anyway, when he was so lost in his conflicted mind too.

Laenor, Rhaenyra, Ser Harwin. Those who she idolized for years. She felt a deep betrayal when the two men who raised her left—a hole not able to be filled. Rhaenyra was not perfect, though her children all thought her to be. Their eyes were bright and hoping, and of course, their mother was the guiding beacon that brought the light. Adults don't share the same sentiments as their child selves did. It was inevitable to change. Daenys was at least grateful to be able to trust her mind again. Though, she was unsure if it was due to her own independent growth in the North or because of her mother sharing the truth.

She hoped it was because of herself. Just one thing, attributed to her.

Jacaerys eyed her a moment longer before giving in and nodding. Clearly, he could tell there was more to it but would not pry. Perhaps he suspected Daenys was resentful for Rhaenyra discreetly suggesting to offer herself for the Northmen. "Well..." He started, standing and offering her a hand.

"Let's check on the children." Daenys finished, standing too with his aid.

He snorted, leading the way inside. "The girl is older than you."

She narrowed her eyes playfully, shaking her head. "I am taller."

"Does that make me your elder?"

"Never."

They shared a warm and amused smile.

In the dining hall, the bodies were gone. The board covering the courtyard exit was removed, too, and the doors were wide open. The fresh air was pleasant to feel in the stuffy room. At the table, Cregan sat in front of an unmannered sibling duo. The two were working on their simple plates of food, scarfing it all down like rabid animals. She couldn't blame them, the poor things were likely starved.

They met eyes quickly, Cregan standing to guide her to a seat at the bench next to him. Jace rolled his eyes again at the effort, grossed out by the affection. He slumped down next to Daenys, folding his hands in front of them and sipping at a wine poured in front of him. The staff were floundering about, looking in good spirits. She guessed they were used as personal servents to the soldiers—none of the hedge knights having been used to such grand luxury. Daenys briefly thanked the young man pouring her wine, but gently refused an offer for bread or stew.

"Lady Kalla. Is the Maester still around?" She asked tentatively, politely sipping at her wine instead of staring at the young lady.

She nodded, swallowing a chunk of rabbit. "Yes, your highness. He is still here, only confined to his rooms."

"Still? Has he not been let out?" Jacaerys asked.

Kalla smiled girlishly, bashful at the handsome princes' attention on her. "No, he simply always stays in there. Bad knees." She giggled softly, to ease the slight tension.

They nodded in turn. "So there are still ravens in the tower then, yes?" She asked.

Kalla hesitated before slowly nodding. "There should be. I think the soldiers used them to communicate with the King."

Daenys raised a brow, nonverbally waiting for her to correct herself.

She blushed again, apologizing quickly. "My mistake, Princess. They said 'My King' so many times that the words have ingrained themselves. To the Pretender." She fixed. "If you wish, I could send a raven to wherever you wish."

"Thank you, Lady Kalla." She smiled. "I can do that myself. Though, you should get to Lord Staunton's solar and begin familiarizing yourself."

She straightened, looking confused. "Familiarize?"

"You are the head of House Staunton, now. You will be expected to host any Black forces on your land as well as our naval forces. I hope this is not too overwhelming, but there really is not other choice."

"But—Kallus is the heir." She said in a hushed tone.

Glancing at Kallus, the young boy now done with his food and swishing the sauce in the bowl back and forth with his fork, and tensely sighed. "He may be the heir when Lord Staunton was here, but it will be over a decade before he is ready for the role. You must lead, as Lady." She said firmly. "The Queen will make the change in leadership official."

Lady Kalla froze, uneasily fiddling with her sleeve. "I have not been prepared for this."

Neither was the Queen herself. The men of the realm never seem to prepare their daughters for the world, even when they are grown and alone.

"I know." Daenys said, reaching for her hand. "But you must. For your father. And him." She nodded towards Kallus, who curiously met her eyes. Kalla looked down at her brother before turning back to Daenys, firmly nodded.

"I will try, Princess." She spoke.

"That is all I ask." Daenys said, standing from her seat. "I will begin my letter to The Queen. Jace?" She asked, gesturing for him to follow.

He did, hot on her heels as they went down a winding hall to an old hallway that led to the raven tower. In it, the birds squaked endlessly at the intrusion. "What is it?" Jacaerys asked, leaning on the table that Daenys sat herself at.

"Will you join me on the boat back to Dragonstone?" She asked.

He tensed, folding his arms over each other. "I was hoping to fly out to the Twins, while mother allows me to be out. I will not have another chance under her guard."

"I know." Daenys said, scribbling away. "I think you should—the Twins are vital for Cregan's men to travel to the Riverlands."

Jacaerys nodded severely. "What if they ask for a dragon?" He pondered. "Lady Jeyne already has, no doubt other houses bending their knees to us will get greedy."

"We cannot spare the adults." Daenys said flatly. "The babes were a means to placate Jeyne's worries. The Freys are too far North to need such protection, I think."

"Not too far for Vhagar." Jace reminded her.

"She will not be willing to fly so far. She's old, and injured. Her balance will be horrible, only good for short and predictable flights. Tell them that." She nodded to herself, mumbling the words she wrote out slightly to focus.

"Right." He trailed, taking the words in. Leaning over her shoulder, he read the words aloud to affirm.

"Dear Queen Rhaenyra, Rook's Rest has been reclaimed. Lady Kalla and young Kallus are alive and well, and I have named Kalla Lady of House Staunton. Please send a spacious barge to to docks here, with a small crew of trusted men. Perhaps Lord Corlys could make the journey personally, and I believe that Eveningstar would be well-suited for the trip. She has not seen open waters since father last sailed out.

Sunfyre will be making the journey on this ship. Do not send any men who are easily panicked. The dragon is injured, but I believe keeping him on Dragonstone's fields is a good defense and show of our strength. Well wishes, Daenys Velayron."

He sat back, humming in thought. "You really think Sunfyre will take a boat back to Dragonstone?"

"It is a short trip." She shrugged. "If I can make him obey out there, I can convince him to get on a boat."

Jacaerys smiled nostalgically. "I don't understand how you did that. Even Vermax wouldn't heed your command, and he adores you."

Daenys looked out the window, past the sleek black head of a raven. "I couldn't say, brother. But I do know that it is my fault that he will never fly again, so it's my responsibility to take care of him now."

Jacaerys nodded. Looking out at the three dragons cuddled up together (though Vermax was on Morningstar's flank opposite of Sunfyre, eyeing the golden one mistrustfully), he held his hand heavily on his pommel. "I will leave now. With luck, I think I'll make it back home before you do."

"Not luck, Jace." She chuckled. "Mother will tear open a new one for you—and I won't be there to mediate."

He paled, groaning in realization. "I'll take the boat back with you, then."

"Too late." She stood, rolling up the scroll and sending it off with no wax stamped onto it. "You should go before those old Freys take their afternoon nap."

Jacaerys scoffed, kissing his sister's temple 'goodbye' before leaving the room with a swish of his half-cape.

Daenys looked out of the empty windowsil, watching Jace mount the emerald dragon before leaving as fast as he came. They had been lucky today, perhaps too lucky for her ease of mind. Something was surelt brewing on the horizon. Shaking the thought from her mind, she found Cregan at the bottom of the steps.

"Daenys." He greeted with a soft smile. "Lady Kalla and her brother have retreated to their rooms."

"Good." She rolled her shoulder slightly, wishing to get out of this dusty place and stretch her legs. "Would you join me?"

"Anywhere, Princess."

"I wish to hunt for Sunfyre. He's probably starved after all these days out here."

Cregan nodded, taking her hand into the crook of his arms. "Like old times, then."

She laughed, "that was hardly in the past. I expect it will become tradition for us in Winterfell."

His eyes lit up at the thought. "You wish to continue camping around the wilderness, even after your residence in Winterfell?"

"A dragon gets restless easily."

It was his turn to laugh lightly. "Indeed, she does."

The Jacegon onesided beef continues (like Aegon and Daenys)

Thinking of dragon parentage again-how Morningstar is Silverwing's egg for sure but unsure about the father and if there even is one for dragons. But continuing off that—Sunfyre. He is theoried to be either Dreamfyre's or Silverwing's egg, with Vermithor as a possible sire. I for one think his show face shape is kind of similar to Silverwing's show face shape.

Morningstar and Sunfyre from the same clutch? Though hatching in different years as some eggs do. They both have tremendous and unique bonds with their riders, and are around the same age.

aging Daeron down because i dont know his full lore and have no interest in adding him to the Dance at all. Technically he does have Tessarion still but she's about the size of Tyraxes.

wanted to name a sword and Sea Tamer just sounded badass so

Aemond sending children and their dragons off to war core. Those memes always send me, he'd do it too if he could

[hwajin]

★༉‧₊˚✧ — 𝖇𝖎𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖗

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 003. — 𝐒𝐄𝐎 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐁𝐈𝐍 | 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: smut

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: monster!changbin x fem!implied chubby!reader

𝖘𝖞𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖘𝖎𝖘: dangerous maybe, though you liked the adrenaline. his body fearsome, far too much for a human like you — and yet irresistible, enticing.

𝖜𝖈: 2.6k

𝖈𝖜: mature themes that could disturb some readers, huge cock changbin 😔, massive bulge kink, size kink, breeding kink if you squint??, oral (m receiving), messy sex, semi rough sex, unprotected sex, cumming inside, creampie, mentions of a LOT of sperm (inside reader), slight manhandling, idk if you can call it "cocktraining" but themes of struggling to fit a dick, sex that irl would kill a person probably but it's hot in this fic

— series masterlist

You hadn’t expected to encounter him during your walk in the woods. You hadn’t expected for him to talk to you, at that. It’s not like he didn’t look human – and yet not entirely worldly, either, somehow different. You hadn’t quite expected him to be nice. He was cocky and witty, yet nice. Didn’t bare danger. You hadn’t expected seeing him in the woods anew and anew and anew, your walks soon turning into meetings, purposefully seeking him – because there was something about him you needed.

He didn’t look like a monster. Not like you’d imagine a monster to look like, anyways. He was big, much bigger than you, and buff, far too much to be simply human. His skin wasn’t quite green, nor grey – he simply carried a hint of colour beneath one you’d call human, purple maybe, or sage; you weren’t quite sure. His hands were big, one of his fitting more than two of yours, easily. His eyes had been the first thing you’d noticed – they were no colour you’d ever encountered a person to have. Deepest purple, turning into sage closer to the pupil. He didn’t have claws or a tail or ears – he was big, simply, with canines, and eyes unnatural.

And you kept coming back to the woods for him. He was big, his strength uncanny – he had once picked you up when you twisted your ankle, and the easiness he did it with sent you into orbit; no other man much picked you up, let alone with such ease.

You enjoyed the way he looked at you – curious, hungrily. A predator watching his prey, though you knew yourself in safety with him, trusted enough that if he ate humans, he would have had killed you by now already. And yet his eyes carried hunger, lingered on you longer than you deemed it fit.

His size kept bringing you back to the woods, the way his body looked, so different from what you were familiar with, so new. His size was the reason you kept seeing him, and it was his size you gasped at now – sitting in between his thighs, knees against green softened grass, his cock free from it’s confines, hard and wet before you. The same colour as the rest of his body, tip a deep purple, leaking white precum – you salivated at the sight.

His tip alone was too much for you to take. Your hands on his legs as your mouth explored him slowly, curiously, tongue swirling around his slit, drawing lines down his base, following the thick veins along his shaft. Your lips wrapped around his balls, licking and sucking to your liking, a hand of yours fondling the other one – you watched his breath quicken steadily, though he yet sat composed and unbothered; he must be used to rougher sex, with partners his species, his size and level.

Your tongue wandered up his length again, seductively, dragging out his pleasure, taking your time – getting used to him. Lips wrapping around his tip, head bobbing softly, keeping steady rhythm, not letting him out of your gaze. His eyes lay on you, dark and hooded, waiting for more yet not urging you on, not even going as much as laying a hand on you – he wanted you to take him by yourself, without his support entirely. Wanted to see you struggle around his cock, wanted your mouth stuffed full of him without his helping hand, urged on simply by your neediness. He wanted to see you wanting him, be desperate for him, struggle around him. So you continued, hands on his thighs and nails clawing into him, mouth wrapped around him snugly. You went further inch by inch, getting used to his length and then adding some, mouth already full of him yet having barely taken half of him – you were struggling, surely.

Five minutes and another five, ten more and your knees started growing sore, your jaw hanging slack at this point. You were a mess, if anything – spit covering your mouth and chin, drool spilling where your lips and Changbin’s cock connected, dripping down your chest in thick spurts, in white and translucent liquids. You’d grown impatient, hadn’t been able to take him fully after all – you were gagging around him, barely half of his length filling your mouth, your hands making work on the rest unable to fit. You had grown wetter when your hands had wrapped around the base of his cock – two of your palms could barely reach around his girth, both his length and thickness eliciting sounds of desire from you, whines and whimpers that sent vibrations down his cock; he inched closer and closer to lose himself, eventually. Your head bobbing him up and down feverishly, your hands keeping the same rhythm, your hips grinding against nothing, pussy dripping and aching to be filled. The forest was filled with sounds of utter sin – Changbin started groaning, sounds emitting from deep inside his throat, sending shivers along your arched spine. Your movements quickened with every of his grunt, your hands squeezing him raw, your reddened lips sucking in to grant him pleasure. He would buck his hips occasionally, losing control, getting lost in the pleasure you gifted him – his tip down your throat, bruising you from within making you gag around his leaking cock, wettened by your spit, his precum. His hands finally thirsted to touch you, after all – couldn’t not, when you looked at him with eyes so contradicting to your ministrations, big and doe-like, pleading. Your hair was a mess around you and he bunched it up into his fist, guiding your head along him – not forcefully, yet only giving you the illusion to be in control.

You were spent, knees digging into softened soil, your cunt urging for some contact, anything – you were sensitive, worked up enough to finish at most minimal attention, yet you weren’t granted such. Kept bucking into nothingness, kept moaning and mewling in hopes of making Changbin understand; understand that you needed him to fuck you, that you wanted to take him all, feel him within your tummy. Understand that you didn’t care if it was humanly possible or not – you needed him, needed his cock buried inside you, bruising your cervix, needed his thick fingers against your clit, stimulating until you were a brainless mess, until he needed to take you out of the woods and home himself.

And maybe he could read minds. With a grunt Changbin leaned down and pulled you up – with so much ease you mewled out, finally siting on his lap, erect cock between your torsos. Now that your stomach was lined up with his full length you doubted it was possible to take him fully, after all – his tip reached just above your naval, no matter your desire, no matter your urge to be stuffed full of him you had second thoughts now; maybe you’ve overestimated yourself.

Changbin’s hand wrapped around his erection, collecting the wetness your mouth had left and jerking himself a couple times – his eyes lay on your figure, watching you watch him with lips parted, drool and spit and precum all over you, and eyes doubled in size. The hunger within them drove the creature to insanity – you were corrupted, utterly twisted to be wanting him, to be needing and pleading for him. And he loved every bit of it.

“Want me to fuck you that bad, huh? I can see the way you’re looking at my cock, need it right here, yeah?”

He pointed his tip to your tummy, nudging himself against your skin, eliciting sloppy sounds – your back arched into him, eager, greedy. You nodded frantically, and he loved it, humiliation oozing past his throat – no more than a bitch in heat, and Changbin relished in the sight.

He leaned back, hand detaching from his girth, elbows against the armrest behind him. His smirk cocky, his eyes glistening – he had an idea, and your hips bucked against him at the sheer thought of it.

“Make yourself take me. If you manage, I’ll fuck you the way you want me to… real nice and good. How’s that sound?”

His voice sultry, lulling you into him, into the temptation. A look at him, meeting his eye, gaze lowering to inspect his tip, his shaft, his base – you barely deemed it possible, though you were too desperate to care, too pathetic not to try.

You shifted in his lap, inching closer to his torso, palms finding the steadiness of his shoulders. He didn’t even buck, didn’t move in his place whatsoever – as if there wasn’t a person sitting on him at all, as if he didn’t feel you on him altogether. You shifted and struggled, lifted yourself up a bit to align your slit with his tip, struggled some more – and he merely watched, hands backed away, smug grin sitting on his face; he nothing but enjoyed the show, fed his ego with your trying, with your need.

Your entrance was aligned with him now, your thighs hovering above his, your legs already straining – you ignored the pain, had to if you wanted your reward. You were dripping, wetting his erection as you gave a few experimental swipes against his tip, back and forth and back again – your eyes shooting him a quick glance which he returned, and you sunk down on him eventually. His tip wasn’t fully in, and the stretch was burning already, prodding at your walls, filling up your insides. You whimpered – the burn carried pain, though you enjoyed it, wanted more of it. You went slowly, similar to when you used your mouth on him – you took time to get used to an inch, took another a minute later. Though you grew impatient. The way he was looking at you throughout the process, eyes hunger-filled and lust-grazed, not reassuring nor helping – simply watching as though inspecting a meal served to him on a silver platter. Eyes darting into yours, or lingering where your bodies met, collided; you grew impatient and sunk down too hastily, whining out in pain, grinding against him in pleasure. You were greedy, always wanting more. Bouncing shortly on the part of his cock you could take, fucking yourself on him with shut eyes and nails digging into his skin, watch him enjoy the stimulation as well, momentarily trying to take more of him, to get fuller of him, to sink onto him entirely. And you did inch by inch, and your wetness made it easy for you. You were gushing, practically, waters around him, trickling down your thighs, towards his base. It pooled at his core, wettened his skin, messed up his pubes – Changbin was as much a mess as you, though he contained it far better.

He was about half-way into you now – you were panting, begging in a mantra, for what you were unsure. Changbin’s chest was sheeted in sweat, beads glistening against his deep skin, pooling in the creases his muscles created, dripped down his body for you to watch, mesmerized. Everything about him, everything about current circumstances made you thirst for him further – your legs were burning though you never halted, bouncing up and down, taking another inch, bouncing again. Even half his length was more than what you normally were used to, mind already fogged up, body fucked out. And you were close. Fingers circling against your clit frantically, unable to contain the urge, the desire for more pleasure overwhelming, simply. You cried and begged his name, fucking yourself onto him, hips bucking in a rhythm messy and uncoordinated – you had lost all control of your body by now, the feeling of his cock and your pending orgasm having taken over your senses entirely. You thought only him, felt only his body, saw and scented nothing but sex, in its very form.

And you came around him in spasms, muscles contracting and body trembling, legs daring to give out – and then Changbin held you up, two big hands around your waist, and his hips bucked into you. He made you take him entirely, all at once – you cried out, eyes closing hard enough to draw stars behind your lids, your fingers clinging onto his body, your own overstimulated to a maximum. He didn’t give you time to calm down after your orgasm, nor did he grant you a minute to adjust; he had taken control now, having teetered at the edge of carnal desire, of animalistic hunger for the past hour now. He needed you, entirely.

Your moans of pleasure echoed through the forest, any possible hitchhiker or wanderer easily hearing you – and Changbin with you. He didn’t necessarily try to hide his own sounds, grunts and groans of satisfaction. They sounded deep in your ear, sent vibrations through the entirety of your body, making the small hairs in your nape stand up straight. You arched into him, into the pleasure, into the pain – his touch was rough on you, yet you knew he was still holding back a certain amount, to not cause serious damage.

And still he was cocky. Maybe his very caution, the very fact he needed to control himself to a content, the fact you looked so utterly filthy in his hold without him fucking you to the extent he knew he could ��� it caused his hips to fasten, his body to sweat, his palms to warm up against the sensitivity of your skin. You were so fragile in his hold, so weak in comparison to him; he pistoled into you, skin slapping against skin, slick trickling down your bodies, out of your abused hole. And his eyes were fixated on your stomach – with every of his thrusts his tip was visible inside of you, protruding beneath the stretch of your skin. Delicious if anything, your body welcoming his so gladly, so unquestionably. You wrapped around him snuggly, your walls clamping down on him whenever he moved, eager, despite having cum not a minute ago. You kept wanting more, kept begging, kept pleading – Changbin grew light-headed.

His hips quicker, his cock within you further; his hand made it’s way to the bulge he created, palming your tummy, forcing himself even deeper inside you.

“Taking me so well, look at that- fuckk.”

The additional stimulation from outside got Changbin’s hips stuttering, bucking into you in lost rhythm, his sounds now in a higher pitch. His hand pressed further onto you, making you feel tighter around him, his thumb wandering down to stay at your clit – he needn’t to move his finger much, the way you grinded against him, pathetic body atop greedy one made it work, even if messily. You were close now, not having calmed down after the first orgasm yet nearing the second one. Your hips frantic, your throat spilling sounds you would be embarrassed about under different circumstances – yet you let them materialize freely now, with no hesitation, with absence of any shame. Changbin’s hips quickened further, struggling to keep steadiness, losing his rhythm entirely – and then you clenched around him, your nails dragging along his skin, daring to draw blood, your lips called out his name; and he spilled into you. The pit of your stomach snapping, cumming with a chocked sob, feeling his seed within you, thick, warm; a lot. You looked down your middle; his cock was yet buried inside you, releasing last drops of his orgasm – it was spilling out of you already, pearly white cum making a mess of your bodies, and he wasn’t yet finished, filling and filling you with more of his load. Your belly rounded, your tummy growing with every ounce of his cum – your hips bucked against him at the sight, a whiny moan leaving the pits of your throat. The sound ripped through Changbin’s ears, and only then he pulled out – white semen oozing out of you, gushing past your lips and pooling at his thighs. A chuckle from him, another whimper from you; two of his fingers scooped up his release trickling out of you, pushing his digits in, trapping his orgasm within you, not letting your belly shrink back.

“Be a good girl, keep it all inside for me.”

@reianagarcia @mixtape-racha @bbyboychanyeol @jenshinee @artisticbirb @fire-08 @lxverss @unlikelysublimekryptonite @aiko0invalid @laughatdanger @salfetkablog @saintriots @boi-bi-ahaha @summer3sworld @bangchans-angel @jenos-eye-smiles @alnex05 @imwithurmother @yangjeonginswifee @hydroyaksha @starlit-rin @channiesgoodgirl @lizzetmv @poody1608 @fandems @stanskzsstuff @cypher-girlx @kayleigh-28 @jetblackbelle @agnes-king @seoseoya @lipstickandloveletters @viviixlyy @hanjisungsgirl @having-an-internal-crisis-rn

[lacroixqueen]

your opal eyes are all i wish to see (sevika x reader, undercover fake dating)

Summary: Silco sent you and Sevika on a covert intelligence mission to a ball on the topside. You have to disguise as a couple to blend in.

Pairing: Sevika x fem reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Tags: slow burn, unrequited love, crush, fake dating, undercover

Silco ordered you and Sevika to partake on an intel mission on the topside that evening. You were obviously over the moon. It wasn’t often he assigned you a job out in the field, but since you have been working extra hard recently, he decided to give you a chance.

“It’s a cocktail party,” he explained casually as he was explaining the operation to you both. He swished around the whiskey in his glass as he spoke. “In the Council headquarters.”

“Who’s our target?” Sevika asked, crossing her arms over her chest. She always wanted to get to the point of every conversation, and fast. 

Silco pushed a file holding a couple photographs across the table. “These two. They are both famous inventors in Piltover. I want you both to get the latest information on Hextech development and report back to me after the event.”

You stood on your tiptoes, peering over Sevika’s shoulder. One of the men in the photos was a stocky-looking broad, and the other was much skinnier. Seemed like an easy enough job. And besides, it was an excuse to doll up and spend more time with your crush. 

You two decided to get ready at the office later that day. Sevika was already changed into a gorgeous black split thigh dress. You walked in shyly with a red off-the-shoulder gown. She glanced at you, grimacing slightly at your amateurish makeup.

“Your eyeliner is uneven,” she commented, sighing as she stood up. “Let me fix it.” You noticed Sevika’s tasteful smokey eyeshadow and glimmery cheek highlights as she walked toward you. Why did she have to look so good but with seemingly such little effort. It simply wasn’t fair.

“I-it’s okay, really!” you assured, stepping back a little. “I just whipped something together last minute, I’m sure no one will notice.”

“I said, let me fix it,” she repeated, sitting you down in a nearby armchair and kneeling before you. She lightly rested the base of her thumb against your cheekbone, taking her makeup pencil and gently drawing out your liner. “These are topsiders. They care about how you look.”

You swallowed that lump in your throat as you noticed how intensely focused her gray eyes were on your face. You hoped she wouldn’t feel how hot your cheeks were burning against her wrist. If she did, she didn’t say anything. 

“There,” she said, capping her eyeliner pencil and then flicking the edges of her work with the side of her fingertip. 

“Thanks, Sevika..” you murmured softly, looking down at the folded hands in your lap.

“Just help me zip up,” she said, standing up and turning her back towards you. 

You gulped apprehensively, stopping to admire her beautiful skin. It was heavily scarred, probably from all the fighting she had to do everyday. You also noticed some faint, blue-purple lines. Most likely aftereffects from her Shimmer-infused mechanical arm. 

Slowly but surely, you slid the zipper up and closed the clasp of her dress. There was a brief pause. And for some reason, you felt this overwhelming urge to just kiss her.

So you did. Very gently, you planted your lips along the curve of her neck. 

She immediately turned around. “What are you doing?”

“I-I just, I’m sorry. I wanted to um.. show you that..” Words failed. You were struggling to figure out a way to express to her that in this moment, she was just about the most beautiful person you have ever seen. That she looked so drop-dead gorgeous in her dress that it was criminal. And that you have had feelings for her for months, and that it was getting hard to even talk to her without wanting to burst into a million little pieces. That you wanted to kiss her so badly at times it was hard to even breathe. 

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“Okay.. I’m sorry, Sevika.” 

The cable car ride up was so silent you swore you could hear a pin drop. You tried to distract yourself from how your heart was effectively shattered by staring mindlessly out the window. 

Stupid stupid stupid. How could you just go and kiss her like that without even asking? It was so obvious from the very beginning she never saw you as anything more than just a colleague. And now it’s like you’ve ruined whatever semblance of a friendship you two had together. You wished you could just take it all back. Rewind the clock and fight that dumb urge you had, or whatever that was. She probably hates you now. And that was just about the worst part. 

Sevika led you two into a back entrance in the Council headquarters to avoid being noticed. The party was tasteful, if a little loud. It seemed like just about anyone who was anyone in Piltover was in attendance. 

“Hold my hand,” she would instruct icily. “We need to look like a couple, not coworkers.”

“O-okay,” you agreed reluctantly, still overthinking the awkward moment you shared not too long ago. 

Her hand felt warm, sturdy, safe. You wondered what it would be like to actually hold it, and not just pretend to. 

“Follow my lead,” she would say as she took your hand and grabbed your waist when the music swelled. You felt protected whenever you were with her. Like nothing bad could ever happen to you. Even though she wasn’t entirely focused on the dance, you could feel her powerful presence. 

But her eyes were surveilling around the entire room. She somehow never lost sight of the mission’s goal. Even amidst the glistening chandeliers, sparkling champagne. The kaleidoscopic ball gowns and the shallow conversation. She never cared for the superficial bullshit.

Almost immediately, she noticed the targets across the ballroom, conversing quietly next to the table of hor d’oeuvres. She proceeded to glide gently over in their direction, guiding you along in the process. She expertly waltzed her way behind large swaths of people, weaving her way through the venue with such quietude and ease.

“Sevika,” you whispered through gritted teeth. “What are you doing? What if they notice us?”

“They won’t,” she shushed you softly. “Just follow my lead, and nothing bad will ever happen.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Even her tone of voice was able to calm you down into a level of zen you have never experienced before.

Deftly, she plucked a glass of bubbling champagne off a wandering waiter’s tray and passed it into your hand, quickly grabbing another one for herself. 

With a level of grace you have never seen before, she naturally clinked her glass against your own and took a generous sip. 

The pair of Hextech researchers were a mere few feet away, whispering about something fervently. 

You placed your hand on a side table, subtly tilting your ear in their direction. 

“I said,” the leaner man repeated. “I made a new breakthrough. The Hextech, it’s.. evolving. As if it has a mind of its own.”

“What do you mean?” the more muscular of the pair muttered. 

“It’s like.. it can learn. It’s making mistakes, and it’s adapting,” the skinnier one elaborated. “If it keeps going like this, I think I can make it–”

“Be quiet!” the other man shushed. “You’re being too loud.”

Without even a moment of hesitation, Sevika took you by the waist and pulled you into a deep kiss. 

At that point, you weren’t even thinking about the crucial piece of information that was just mentioned casually within earshot. 

All you could focus on was her soft lips. And how sturdy and perfect her large hand felt in the delicate curve of your figure. 

How her warm tongue tasted like wine and red lipstick. How you wanted to push her into the wall and return her kiss tenfold. But people were watching. 

“No one is even paying attention,” the thin man continued, running his hand through his hair after scouring the room. “We are fine.”

Sevika smirked into the kiss. They didn’t suspect a thing. 

The inventor pair quickly scurried off, however, much to your dismay. But the deed was done. Besides, you knew you both had to report back to Silco right away. 

Your heart sank when Sevika interrupted your kiss to peer over her shoulder. Once she noticed the targets have left, she grabbed you by the hand and started to lead you out of the ballroom. 

“Sevika, wait!” you plead. “Why can’t we just stay a little while longer?”

“The mission is complete,” she replied. “Our intelligence became aware of the new development. Besides, we should head back before we are caught.” 

You sighed, knowing that you were fighting a losing battle. You would be lying to yourself if you said you weren’t even slightly looking forward to one more dance, one more drink, one more kiss with her. But you knew you were just setting yourself up for more heartbreak. 

Like clockwork, you both disappeared into the night, as quickly as you came. 

On the cable car ride home, there was an eerie air of silence that cloaked the space between you. 

Sevika was looking intently out the window, searching for any potential stragglers who might be on her tail. 

You desperately wished to bring up your misstep from earlier. You wanted to spill out your heart and soul to her, and apologize for overstepping her boundary. 

“S-Sevika,” you managed to stammer out. 

“What is it,” she murmured without taking her eyes off of the road as the lights and signs whooshed by. 

“I-I just wanted to apologize again,” you stuttered. “About what I did when we were getting ready. I should have just asked you first, or not even thought about it at all. I’m sorry.”

She sighed, gently placing her hand on your exposed thigh, rubbing it ever so softly. 

You immediately felt a jolt of electricity rush through your spine. 

“You know..” she started. “I really, really don’t know what to do with you sometimes.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, unable to even meet her gaze. You wanted to object, ask her to clarify, or tell her about how much you really did enjoy the kiss, or how you couldn’t take your eyes off of her when she was wearing that goddamn dress the entire night. But you bit your tongue. 

Something in you told you to hold back. At least for now. 

Now wasn’t the right time, a part of your conscience would remind you. 

You relentlessly wondered when exactly that time would be. 

[sasheemo]

When we collide

Chapter 7

Read on AO3

Fic masterlist

Chapter Summary: Drawn by the memory of a fleeting figure in the forest, you find yourself seeking answers amid the trees. In a powerful exchange, you instinctively reach out, offering a quiet comfort that might change everything.

Word Count: 3k

TW: abusive parent, magic used as a mean of violence

A/N: see end of chapter

You sprint through the dense forest, heart pounding as branches brush against your shoulders and leaves scrape across your skin. The whole forest feels alive, pulsing, as if it’s leading you somewhere, drawing you closer. You’re not even sure where you’re headed, but your instincts seem to know better, pulling you toward that one spot. A wry smile tugs at your lips as the realization settles, a strange, almost absurd irony.

You can’t help but scoff at yourself. “Of course.”, you think “Back here, again.”. And yet, even as the thought echoes, you can’t bring yourself to turn back or change direction. Something deeper urges you on, bracing you for what lies ahead.

When you reach the clearing a pang of unwanted disappointment settles in your chest. It’s empty. Only ashes remain from the pile, the last remnants of Agatha’s rage and her attempt at repair. Your eyes linger there, thoughts drifting back to the way she’d sat across from you, her face guarded, her words clipped. 

The memory of the figure you’d seen running from the gathering hall suddenly surges. She must be here, somewhere.

An abrupt, strange noise interrupts your thoughts, a sound you don’t immediately recognize. It’s almost like… water? It’s very faint at first, you frown, instincts sharpening as you start moving toward it. Your movements are quiet, cautious but resolute, as the noise grows gradually clearer.

And then you hear it. A scream. A raw, guttural, sound you feel all the way to your bones, filled with a pain that cuts through the quiet, making every muscle in your body seize. You freeze, heart hammering, listening. But silence falls again, broken only by the same splashing sounds you’d heard just a few moments before. 

Driven by a mix of curiosity and apprehension, you move closer. Footsteps light as you follow the noise, each step quieter than the last as you approach its source. The sound grows louder, filling the air with a rhythm that carries weight, anger, hurt. 

Then, the forest opens to reveal a small, hidden, lake. It’s shrouded in thick, tangled vegetation, the water dark and undisturbed except where stones hit the surface, sending ripples outward.

And there, standing at the water’s edge, you see Agatha. 

She doesn’t see you, her back turned, her entire presence charged with fury. Her cloak lies discarded on the ground, as if it had been flung aside in fury. Her hair is wild, a dark, tangled mess, and her dress is torn, jagged edges where branches must have ripped at it, as if she’d run recklessly through the trees. 

She picks up stone after stone from the shore, hurling each one into the lake with all her strength. Each throw, each movement, is a violent release, a silent scream, as if she’s trying to cast away everything inside her. Her shoulders shake with every swing of her arm, and her voice, strained, cracks in sounds that barely resemble words, more like cries that carry her emotions into the water, as if she could drown them there.

Agatha picks up a larger stone, and her hand trembles as a deep, pulsing, violet glow blooms from her palm. The stone levitates, her magic holding it suspended, her fingers twitching with the weight of her rage.  And then, with a single, heart-wrenching movement, she clenches her fist. The stone shatters, fragments scattering in every direction, casting streaks of purple light through the air. Some of the pieces rain down into the water, and for a moment, the lake itself seems to ripple with the force of her magic. 

But, when every remnant of her purples fades, so does she.

Agatha’s stance breaks, her hands fly to her face, and her shoulders collapse inward as she breaks down completely. Her fingers press hard against her eyes, her breath hitching, each sob rough and desperate, as if they’re tearing her apart. Her shoulders shake as her cries echo off the water. But she remains standing.

Something in you aches at the sight. You shift your weight unconsciously, and a twig snaps underfoot.

Her head jerks up instantly, her tear-streaked face twisting into a mask of fury when she sees you. Her eyes, bloodshot and glistening with tears, narrow with a hatred so fierce it almost feels like another wave of magic.

“Leave.” Her voice is cold, dead, yet fractured, her throat raw from the remnants of her sobs. Her hands tremble as she curls them into fists at her sides, her whole body tense as if holding herself back.

You do the last thing she expects you to do. You take a slow, hesitant, step forward. 

“Agatha I-“ but the words die on your lips. You simply don’t know what to say. 

In that deafening silence, Agatha’s expression shifts, anger sharpening further, her frustration flaring like a storm. “I said LEAVE!”.

Her voice cracks with the force of her command, and before you can react, she grabs a stone from the ground and hurls it straight at you. You sidestep just in time, but instead of backing away, as if pushed by some invisible force, you take another step forward.

That’s when she snaps. 

Her arms lift wide, slowly, and an aura of purple magic crackles to life around her. Her fingers curl, each hand a pulsing center of power, and her eyes burn with violet fire as they lock into yours. A glare blazing with rage and magic. All around her stones lift from the ground and emerge from beneath the lake, hovering in the air. 

She stands there, the very image of destruction, her magic coiling, vibrating, ready to strike, ready to hurt. 

And yet, something in you doesn’t flinch. You look at her as the words slip from your lips. Unexpected. Unplanned. 

“Agatha… you don’t have to fight. Not me. Not this time.”

They hang in the air, bridging the distance between you, carving through all of her defenses.

The magic in her eyes flickers, something fragile lingering there. Her hands tremble, her fingers loosening, and in that single moment, the walls she’s so carefully built around herself crumble. Her power fades, purple light dissolving around her. The stones fall, dropping onto the earth and water with a finality that echoes through the air. Her knees give out, and she sinks to the ground, hands pressed to her face as sobs wrack her body anew, even more broken and desperate than before.

You don’t hesitate, not even taking the time to think about what you’re doing, your body moving of its own will as you rush over. You’re there beside her, kneeling on the cold, damp earth, reaching out instinctively but hesitantly, until your arms find their way around her shoulders.

You pull her close, it’s a cautious embrace, but it’s real, solid, grounding.

And, to your surprise, Agatha lets herself lean into it.

She surrenders to the touch, her whole weight pressing into your side. Her hands grip your cloak like it’s her lifeline, holding on with trembling fingers, as if you’re the only thing keeping her anchored. And you can feel every tremor that runs through her, every shuddering breath.

Her head falls against your shoulder, and the weight of her trust, her pain, settles heavily against you. She cries, her sobs muffled against you, her breaths catching in a way that makes your chest tighten painfully. You don’t speak. Instead, you hold her a little tighter, letting your hand trace slow, soothing circles on her back, grounding her, comforting her in the only way you can.

You are completely immersed in the moment, the weight of Agatha’s pain pressing down on you like a force of nature, every sense heightened. You feel the soft, chaotic brush of Agatha’s hair against your face, tickling the edge of your cheek. Her grip on you is fierce as her nails press through your cloak, through the fabric of your dress, and into your skin, in desperate need of something solid to hold to. You breathe in, focusing on the feeling of her body against yours, each tremor a silent cry that you feel in the tightness of her muscles. Her back rises and falls with every breath, and each beat of her pulse, each shallow breath, brings you closer to her pain. 

It’s in this state, fully absorbed, that something catches your eye. Your gaze drifts to where Agatha’s right hand is clawing at your cloak, and there, beneath the frayed cuff of her sleeve, you see it. Her wrist is red, vivid burn marks against her pale skin. The sight is like a knife to the chest and an ache forms in your throat, a wordless sorrow.

Without thinking, your hand moves. Your fingers wrap gently around the back of her hand, your touch careful, steady. Slowly, you move her arm, bringing it closer to examine the burns. The contrast is startling. Raw, red welts against the porcelain smoothness of her skin. Your thumb hovers over the angry, red marks, lightly grazing the edges of the burns. You feel your insides twisting. 

And then, her name comes out in a whisper. “Agatha…”.

She stiffens, pulling her wrist slightly as if trying to hide it, her face tense. For a moment it seems as though she won’t say anything at all. But a few seconds is all it takes for the words to spill out.

“It was after the meeting…” her voice nothing but an ephemeral murmur, frayed and hollow, as if each word takes something from her she’s not sure she can give. There’s a bitterness in it, a resentment that carries like an undercurrent. “My mo- Evanora… she… she held me back, made me stay after everyone else was gone. She…” Her breath hitches, and she clenches her hands, trying to steady herself.

“She told me… she told me I am weak, a disappointment…”. Her voice wavers, and she clenches her fists tighter. “And then she grabbed my wrist…” she whispers, almost as if she’s reliving it. “She… she used fire magic. I… I could feel the heat, the pain.”

The words spill out of her, each one pulling her deeper, further into the memory until it consumes her entirely. Her voice drifts, quieter, almost detached, as if she’s no longer in the present. She’s back there, in that room, and the scene unfolds vividly.

“Explain yourself!” Evanora’s voice is like a whip, each word a crack against the stone walls, echoing with a sharp, venomous edge. Agatha stands tense, bracing herself, knowing she’s about to face her mother’s wrath, though she doesn’t understand why. Her mind is racing, searching for what she could have possibly done to provoke such reaction.

But nothing could truly prepare her for the anger burning in Evanora’s eyes, the kind of fury that comes from betrayal. Because that’s what Evanora sees in Agatha’s silence, a betrayal of the image, the expectations, she’d molded her daughter to fulfill.

“Do you have any idea what this looks like?” Evanora spits, her words laced with contempt. “My own daughter, the heir to everything I’ve built, standing there silent when we speak of facing the hunters. You didn’t step forward, you didn’t volunteer—”. She practically snarls the words, her hands curling into fists. “You should have been the first to offer! To prove that you are strong, that you are ready to lead!”

Agatha swallows, her face blank, hiding the quiet resentment that grows sharper with each accusation. “The hunters aren’t a real threat, and if you wanted me to join the reconnaissance group, you could have spoken to me beforehand” she replies, her voice as steady as she can manage. But even as she says it, she knows this answer will only fuel her mother’s rage.

Evanora’s eyes flash with fury. “You think this is about fear? About what you want?”. She steps forward, her voice a menacing hiss. “This is about respect, about showing our people who you are and what you stand for. My daughter, my heir, is supposed to show strength, to prove herself every chance she gets, especially in front of the coven! But you—” Her gaze narrows, her voice dropping to an icy whisper. “You made me look weak.”

The words land like blows, but Agatha stands her ground, every instinct urging her not to show a single crack. She knows her mother’s expectations too well, knows how Evanora has always held her to standards that feel suffocating, unyielding. A leader, a force of power and control, loyal to whatever is demander of her. That’s who Evanora wants her to be. But to Agatha, it’s a role that feels more like a cage, every demand pushing her further from herself, from any chance of her own identity.

“Perhaps I’ve been wasting my time on you.” Evanora sneers, her voice dripping with scorn. And before Agatha can react, Evanora’s hand clamps onto her right wrist with an iron grip, crimson tendrils of magic coiling around them. 

And then Agatha feels it. A fierce, burning heat blooming against her skin, a flame that bites, scorches, that she can feel sinking into her flesh.

The pain is blistering, relentless, but Agatha won’t let herself react. She won’t give her mother the satisfaction of seeing her wince. She forces herself to stay silent, to let the agony wash over her as she holds her expression steady, unyielding. It’s a look she’s worn countless times, a mask of defiance that she knows will drive her mother even further into fury. And still, she clings to it.

“Weak.” Evanora hisses, her voice a deadly whisper. “And unworthy.” The words burn as much as the magic itself, tearing deeper, lacerating her already wounded pride.

Finally, with a cold indifference, Evanora releases her grip, her hand falling away from Agatha’s wrist as if she was nothing more than an annoyance. “You may go now.” she says, her voice dismissive, empty. The finality of those words cuts through Agatha as sharply as any blade.

Agatha turns without a word, each step away from her mother a struggle as her wrist throbs, pulsing in pain, her hand trembling. She walks as steadily as she can, but the moment she’s out of sight, the mask cracks. 

And then she is running. 

Fleeing from her mother’s cruelty, her mother’s fire, until the world around her is nothing but trees and silence. She doesn’t even know where she is going, but she has to get away, as far as her legs will take her, to some place where the weight of her mother’s voice can’t reach her. Her feet moving on their own, driven by a desperate, instinctive need to escape. 

All she can do is run, her body carrying her forward, searching blindly for safety amidst the thick, sheltering trees. She can feel her magic rising, pulsing at the edges of her control, a storm desperate to break free. It claws at her insides, wild and unrestrained, begging to burst forth, to be unleashed. But she fights it, clenching her fists, gritting her teeth, holding it back with every ounce of strength she has left, afraid of what might happen if she lets it go.

You don’t have to reach far to picture it. The image is almost too clear: Agatha, face held in a stoic mask, enduring the agony with a hardened gaze, determined not to flinch. Even as her skin sears under the heat, you can see her standing rigid, jaw set, refusing to give Evanora the satisfaction of her pain. It’s a look you know well, one that chills you every time you see it. But here, in this moment, you feel the weight of what that look costs her. That ability to hide, to bury her pain beneath a cold mask, it’s a kind of strength, but it’s also a cage, one she’s been trapped in too long. And you realize, with a pang, that this is her default, her instinct. To endure in silence, to bury her own suffering where no one can see it.

Suddenly, her words pull you back into the present. 

“She looked at me like I was… nothing.” her voice choked, strained.

You lean forward slightly, willing her to meet your eyes, searching for her gaze to no avail. Your hand is still cradling her wounded wrist, grounding her. 

“I’m here, Agatha. You don’t have to face this alone.” you say softly, your voice steady. “And you’re not ‘nothing’. No matter what she made you believe.” a quiet resolve underlying your words.

For a moment, she stays frozen, as if weighing the depth of your words, and you think she might pull away.  

Then, her wrist turns in your grasp, her palm coming to rest softly against yours. Her fingertips graze your palm, feather-light, and a shiver runs through you. They slide across your skin, tracing a slow, tentative path. Her touch is subtle, careful, as though she’s testing this fragile connection, as if she’s not yet sure it will hold. Slowly, her fingers drift further, sliding along the lengths of yours until they reach the tips. She pauses there, a touch so delicate it almost feels like a shadow. Smoothly, her fingers curl around your hand, creating a quiet, steady hold that feels both new and somehow familiar.

For a few suspended seconds, you simply exist together in the stillness. Until her grip tightens, and in that gentle pressure, you feel a silent plea. A wordless need for something solid, something true. You respond with a soft squeeze, gently stroking the back of her hand with your thumb, warmth seeping through you, spreading like a quiet spark.

It’s a simple kind of touch, and yet, it feels like a spell.

“I got you. I promise.” you whisper, the words faint yet unwavering.

At last, Agatha slowly lifts her gaze. Her eyes meet yours, raw and unguarded, emotions laid bare in a way that takes your breath away.

A single tear slips down her cheek, but she doesn’t wipe it away. Instead, her gaze stays locked with yours as she lets out a shuddering breath, as if finally allowing herself to believe in the words you just spoke.

-------

A/N: Writing this chapter was a real emotional journey for me. Honestly, I never thought I'd cry writing a fic ... WRONG lol. I really tried my best to capture the vulnerability and rawness between the characters in a way that felt authentic and true to their evolving relationship, but also to Agatha as a character. I wanted each line and moment in this chapter to be charged, a challenge for me to dig into the quiet intensity of their bond. I hope you feel the same connection and tension that I felt while crafting it. Thank you for coming along on this journey, it truly means the world! 💜💙

[aarontaylorjohnsonsdivorcelawyer]

library card ➵ valgrace university au

FINALE - part 10 [masterlist]

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Leo slid his phone down his back pocket and viewed the landscape of New Rome University. He can see that the sun, although ithadn't set yet, is a burst of brilliant light, scattering orange, purple, and pink hues in the sky. He really hates driving at night, and he really could just return to the architecture building tomorrow, but the curiousity is killing him. He had to go back. Now.

"Hey, are you in a hurry? I need to go somewhere," he called to Piper, who was walking by him on the way to the parking lot.

"Where are you going?" Piper asked, abruptly stopping to see that Leo had fallen behind.

"I think I left something. Can you wait for me? Or you can go on without me if you want," he said.

Piper shrugged. "It's fine. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Great!" he replied. "Be safe."

"You too," Piper said before turning to walk away.

Leo tried to walk the first few yards, but his feet took over and then he's sprinting. There was a loud pounding in his chest; whether it was from the sprinting or the nerves, he's not sure. At last, he arrived at the building, and the pounding just banged even more.

He paved cautiously, scared and excited about what he's gonna find. He's been searching for it everywhere he go, turning his head at every drawing tube yielding individual he sees, hoping his eyes lands on the right one. Perhaps it did, but now he will have a name. And now, Leo is certain.

His feet lead him to the bulletin board, his Docs squeaking at every step he takes against the tiled floor. The building is empty except the few students hanging out the tables just outside the archway, close to the vestibule in which Leo is at. He let out a shaky breath, steadying his chest as he approached.

He knew the piece very well. He admits that the reason it slipped his mind to look at the name was because the illustration captivated him first and his gaze simply brushed over the title block in the corner. Then he went back to admiring it.

It's some sort of summer camp. It has multiple buildings that carried different architectural styles but unified with classical elements, which he never imagined would work this well. At the frontage stood a big blue house white trim and wrap-around porch, and close to it stood a big pine tree. The pine tree seems huge and daunting, like some magical entity that protects the land.

There were cabins. It was surrounding a firepit in the middle, in a horseshoe shape. There might've been 20, but he's not sure. He took note of the little shabby chic cabin and got the sudden urge to tell Piper about it.

And then there's the red one. His eyes lingered at the little brick building. It's a mixture of industrial and steampunk, seemingly out of place to the bright gold and the wooden cabins on either side of it. He remembered pressing his palm against the sheet of glass that protects the board, brushing his index finger at the tiny drawing. He had never been in a summer camp before, but the tall columns and the bronze statues and the waves of the ocean are singing that he had been here before. He's even so sure that there's a hidden bunker in the woods somewhere.

Somehow, he is certain, that in another life, he is a camper in this camp, and he is with his best friend Piper McLean, and Jason Grace.

Jason Grace.

His gaze catapulted to the bottom right corner. And then he saw it. Right next to the student number he's been typing at the library for months, was Jason Grace's name. It was a name he memorized so well, so well that he didn't even struggle to read it even with dyslexia. It's as if his mind is trained to look for Jason Grace.

He fished his phone from his pocket, hands shaking. Then he dialed the number.

"Hello?" the speaker on the other end replied. It was Jason's voice.

"Hey. . . I'm at the archi building right now," Leo said, trying to disguise his nervous voice.

"I know, I'm looking at you right now."

He turned to the courtyard, and saw Jason amongst the students in the table. He smiled at him when he caught his eyes, phone pressed against his ear.

"See, I told you, it's easy to figure out," Jason chuckled on the phone. The Jason he's looking at rose, and approached.

Leo dropped the phone. "Hi," he said, to the Jason in front of him.

"Hi." He said it better than Leo. The word glides smoothly out of his mouth, with the smile never leaving from his face. There was a trace of a scar on the top corner of his lips, forming a crescent shape guided by his smile.

Leo bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to think about Jason's stupid lips, and the stupid scar on his lips, and the stupid smile on his lips.

"I'm sorry, this is so embarrassing," Leo said, shifting his gaze away from Jason. "This is so weird."

"What do you mean it's weird?"

"This! I've made it weird! I said some weird things now this is weird!"

"What? No, you didn't do anything weird at all!"

Leo avoided his gaze. "This is like a pattern for me, I fall in love so easily, and I do something embarassing, and then I drive them away. I — I just. . ."

"Hey." Jason put a hand on Leo's arm, sending thousans volts of electricity down his body. "None of this is embarrassing, it's just me."

Leo sighed. "Well, it will soon! I don't know how to act, I've never made it past the daydreaming phase! I've never had anyone know I like them, I just keep it to myself."

"You think this is embarassing? You should ask Malcolm how I acted when I saw you at the bleachers," Jason chuckled, his hand dropping grip Leo's wrist. "Good thing the helmet hid my face well, and you're far enough to not see it."

"W-what do you mean?" Leo stammered.

"You know what I mean! Now I'm the one who's embarassed."

"I didn't know you know me!"

"Of course I know you! You brought amazing flan to Mrs. Jackson's Christmas party!"

"I—" Leo dropped his head to hide his face, chuckling in disbelief. "So what now?"

"I say dinner?" Jason tilted his head, waiting for Leo's response.

"Your treat? Since you're the rich one?"

"Hey, you still owe me 30 dollars!"

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

When he went home that night, a huge smile plastered across his face, Leo took out his phone and changed the contact on his phone. The mystery man he's been texting now has a name, and it is Jason Grace.

He was typing his thank you to Jason for the amazing night when the phone vibrated on his hand, along with it was a text from Piper. He smiled to himself. He has a lot of things to tell his best friend.