#he is so gentle.. and he bears so much on his own

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: eldest daughter of otto hightower, ser harwin strong is your sworn shield — but what happens when talk of betrothals evokes longstanding sentiments from your protector?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: harwin strong x fem!hightower!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 12.1K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), canon-typical misogyny, threats of violence, loss of virginity, inexperienced reader, religious guilt, forbidden romance / relationship, ungodly levels of pining, a hint of dirty talk, praise kink, hair pulling, size kink / size difference, making out, begging, fingering (fem!rec), excessive use of princess as a title, unprotected p in v sex, missionary position, breeding kink if you squint, soft ending + aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: first time writing for harwin so please be gentle 🫶 I tried to give him more of his own personality since we don’t get to see much of it but BOY did I have so much fun writing this !! I hope you all love it too!

𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐳𝐞, 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐆𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐰, 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞.

Within the blossoming, emerald grove of the Kingswood, the celebratory nature of the encampment seemed alight with glee. Having traveled at the first light of dawn to make it here, your bones still groaned with the breath of slumber.

It was Prince Aegon II’s second name day, the noble caravan buzzing with delight in regards to your pale-headed nephew. Excitement permeated the air, but it was your concern for Alicent that triumphed above all else.

The unorthodox union between your younger sister and King Viserys was something that had torn a rift through your family, sowing seeds of bitter resentment towards your father, Otto Hightower. His continuous grasp at power at the expense of your kin had made you full of a constant anguish.

With little desire to engage with your father on any political matter, you had distanced yourself from the current feast, sitting soundly along the fringes of the forest. A whistling wind blanketed your tepid features, undeniably stuffy within the confines of your olive-hued gown.

A twinge of campfire smoke fell upon the breeze, accompanied by a delectable myriad of foodstuffs — cooked venison, seared elk, a variety of spices. A gurgle lurched within your stomach, the stirring of hunger biting at you.

As your gaze fell upon Alicent, belly swollen with her second child, Aegon squirming within her grasp, you knew that your time was running short. There were whispers, rumors that you were condemned to the life of a spinster if you were to continue to remain unmarried.

The sister of a Queen, of the Queen, a princess — proposals had made their way to Otto Hightower’s desk, scion of the Hand of the King. Advantageous matches were sure to follow, and you grew despondent at the thought of being shackled to some pompous nobleman.

Marrying for love was always something you sought, the desire to have such affections blossom, to be courted — not thrust into something unwanted. Nevertheless, you resigned yourself to such a miserable existence, counting down the days until your father would break the news to you.

“Sullenness does not suit you, Princess.”

The bemused cadence of Harwin Strong shattered your forlorn contemplation, his timbre disarmingly gentle as he stood a few feet away. One palm rests atop the pommel of his shortsword, clad in lighter armor, tabard bearing the sigil of House Strong.

Becoming your sworn shield was a great honor for his House — his father served as Master of Laws for King Viserys, and he was assigned to safeguard the Hand’s eldest daughter. Harwin had proved a spot of light within the dull, cloudy haze of your life, something that you were grateful for.

Only four name-days your senior, Harwin had become something of a friend, if such bonds were even considered appropriate. Nearly a year had passed since this assignment, and you couldn’t have been any more grateful.

Harwin was incredibly resilient, a man of honor and a Knight of the realm with a sensible streak of humor. He also proved to be a talented listener; you were lucky in that regard. It wasn’t often that one could confide in their protection.

He lacked his usual coat of arms, dressed for the tepid weather, broad shoulders concealed with an azure cloak. The Knight’s mane of brunette curls had been pulled into a half-bun, visage shrouded by a rugged beard.

His gaze followed yours, drawn to the woodlands, a sea of trees with pale bark and lush leaves, stricken by the first lick of autumn. Despondency weighed heavy within your shoulders, a position indicative of self-imposed loneliness.

“It does not,” In agreement, you canted your head, squinting at the angle of sunlight that pooled upon your visage. “Do you intend to join the hunt, Ser Harwin?” You inquired, cupping one hand around your brow.

“Aye, Princess. My father requested my presence, I should do well to heed his wishes,” Harwin stepped closer, coming to stand beside you, staring into the forest you seemed so enamored with. “I should not be gone for very long.”

With a lazy shrug of your shoulders, you idly twisted at a stray thread that hung from your sleeve, tresses roused by the passing gale. “The thought of slaying a helpless animal does not exactly fill me with joy,” You sighed. “Ladies are not permitted to join, as it stands.”

Harwin bristled, jaw tensing for a fraction of a second. It was your heart that had beguiled him so, one of tenderness, innocence; a penchant for kindness to all things, even lowly creatures. With your station, you were often bound to duty, to the whims of those greater than yourself.

As your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, you envisioned laying within sun-warmed meadows, cushioned by verdant grass, surrounded by wildflowers. One could smell the petrichor, the thick scent of a waning midsummer.

“It is tradition, Princess — I take no pleasure in claiming a life, I assure you,” Harwin reassured, broad shoulders heaving with a steady exhale. Breakbones; aptly named for a man of his herculean stature. “Do you not wish to join your Father?”

Mere mention of your callous patriarch had set your nerves ablaze with a flurry of anger, brows furrowing together as you shook your head. “I do not,” Mustering up a threadbare smile, your gaze drifted to your stalwart protector. “He has Alicent and his grandchild to keep him company.”

Otto Hightower was a complicated man — calculating, cunning, and enigmatic. Some time ago, your relationship hadn’t been so horribly frayed; now, it seemed lost forever.

The ruthless desire for power he often exuded had never sat well with you, especially as you blossomed into womanhood. His manipulation of Alicent, constant scheming, the cold shroud he wrapped himself in after your mother’s passing.

Harwin was privy to some of the more intimate details between yourself and Otto — it made him fester with some lingering distaste for the elder Hightower. Nevertheless, it was not his place to interfere in such business, but he knew enough.

“You’ve yet to eat,” A chiding lilt permeated his soothing baritone, palm rolling over the pommel, blade snug within its scabbard. “Must I forcibly escort you to the feast?” His question was indiscernible, dancing between humor and stoicism.

“I am not hungry,” Your protest was noticeably weak, betraying your true nature. Harwin’s gaze narrowed as he jerked his head back in the direction of the numerous tables, piled with heapings of foodstuffs. “Must we?”

“I will shield you from your Father if it means you sate your hunger, my Lady.” Humor tugged at his voice as he extended one hand to you, politely helping you from the stone you perched upon. As you stood, he had allowed his touch to linger, longer than propriety permitted.

Something stirred within your heart; calloused, sword-worn palms handled you with a disarming tenderness. For a moment, you nearly envisioned yourself with Harwin, beyond mere bond of a sworn protector and their charge.

It was abhorrently sinful, you knew this — and yet, you could not help but allow the fantasy to gallop within your mind’s eye, even for a second. Harwin was one of the few constants within your existence, one that did not seek to bring you misery.

Once you stood upright, you nearly tore your hand away as if you’d been kissed by fire. Harwin pretended not to notice your sharp recoil, dark brows furrowing together as he moved to follow at your side, keeping a comfortable distance.

Part of him detested this arrangement for one single-minded reason — he was unable to be with you.

If he were not sworn to your side, perhaps he would be one of the eligible courtiers stacked upon Otto Hightower’s desk. Honor demanded that he keep his head about him, treat you with a stoic amicability, but you made it so difficult.

The more he grew to know you, your heart, the harder it became to execute such restraint, to become an observer to the inevitable match your father would find. Harwin prayed to the merciful Gods that this affection would fade with the passage of time.

So far, he was exceedingly unlucky.

Touched by a forlornly disposition that betrayed your jubilant nature, Harwin loathed seeing you this way, your wings clipped. As you walked beside him toward the nearest table, he could feel the hawkish glower of Otto Hightower from across the way.

Lord Lucan Mullendore had attended the nameday festivities with the intention to propose a marriage pact between his House and yours, and if you were not careful, he would get his wish.

Harwin found the elder Lord to be somewhat reprehensible — withered and dull. He was not a foul man, but what young maiden desired a marriage with someone nearly thrice their age? He could not think of one.

It was the opposite of what you deserved, and he knew that he had no say in the matter. Lowering yourself onto the wooden bench, back turned to your Father, Harwin sat across from you, keeping a vigilant watch of your surroundings.

Retrieving a silver platter, you ensured to heap it full with basted chicken and helpings of fruit, plucking a grape into your mouth. “You needn’t spend all of your time with me, Ser Harwin. Your family is in attendance, too.”

A scoff escaped him, lips flashing with a brief grin as he took a swig of frothy ale. “My brother is as grim as he is odd,” He uttered, shoulders rolling in a brief shrug. “Trust me, I would rather remain by your side. You are cheerful company.”

“You called me sullen some time ago,” Unable to withhold a smile, the remark brought a brief laugh to your lips, and Harwin appeared triumphant. “You’ve changed your mind rather swiftly on the matter.”

Tucking one hand beneath your chin, you seemed far more relaxed than you had when he found you ruminating. “I changed yours.” He countered, earning a laugh from the both of you as you continued to eat.

The gnaw of hunger began to dissipate, warmed beneath the midsummer’s sun. It was not a horribly hot day, temperate enough to allow for some reprieve from the heat. The rich, juniper velvet of your gown did little to ease the weather’s sting, however.

“How fares your father, Ser Harwin? I’ve heard that he has excelled as Master of Laws,” Ser Lyonel was a good man, one that seemed to curry favor amongst the Small Council. “My Father speaks highly of his integrity.”

Harwin chortled, halfway through a hearty helping of chicken, eyes shimmering with amusement. “I did not know your Father spoke highly of anyone at all,” He mused, and decided to correct himself. “My apologies, Princess — that was untoward.”

Dismissive of his jab, you seemed to find some humor in it, a smile tugging at either corner of your mouth. “It is exceedingly rare that he does,” You admitted, twirling your fork betwixt your fingers. “Do not apologize, Ser Harwin.”

With a mere nod, the Knight continued, allowing a bout of silence to linger. Hues of aegean fluttered toward your lips, in the midst of biting into a grape, a droplet of juice tumbling down your chin.

It was wildly crass of him to be watching you this way, in all of your resplendence; besmirching your honor through gaze alone. Harwin was often vexed by your beauty and subdued charm, fixated upon you as you continued to feast, his ogling going blissfully unnoticed.

If it weren’t for the locale, he might’ve permitted himself to admire your features for a moment longer. Prying his eyes away, he cleared his throat, a grunt stirring within his chest.

“What will you do while we hunt?” It was an innocuous question, meant to distract himself from the maelstrom of thoughts that raged within his head. He suspected that you would remain by your sister’s side, if allowed.

From over your shoulder, Harwin’s gaze fell across the misshapen form of Lord Mullendore and the taller shape of Lord Wylde, brows creasing together. Both of them were whispering in your father’s ear, conspiring — it was easy to discern what exactly they spoke about.

“Entertain my nephew, if my sister is agreeable to it,” Handling children amidst this setting was likely grueling, especially if handmaidens weren’t available. “If not that, I would like to walk — I so adore nature, and this is an ample opportunity to be amongst it.”

Between your sweet cadence and the conniving Lords, Harwin’s attention centered itself upon you once more. The irritation, however, was not as easy to conceal as he thought. “I can escort you once the hunt has concluded.” He did not fully enjoy the thought of you alone in a forest.

A polite giggle slipped from your mouth, nose beginning to wrinkle with wry amusement. “I do not need your assistance to pick wildflowers, Ser Harwin.” You mused, gaze picking apart his dour countenance, wondering what had angered him.

Adjusting his position, the wood of the bench groaned beneath his weight. The Knight remained eerily quiet for a few beats, allowing himself a threadbare smile to placate your curiosity. “You do not, but the woods are not safe alone.”

“You look agitated,” The soft hush of your voice had barely registered with Harwin, who had busied himself with picking apart the pair of older men from afar. “Whatever is the matter?” As the inquiry fell from your lips, your head began to crane, chasing after his stare.

The sight of Lord Mullendore and Lord Wylde hovering around your father made your stomach plunge, exhale trembling as you turned back around. Harwin took note of your glaring discontent, seemingly sympathetic of your predicament.

A sigh of dismay tore past your parted lips, and you attempted to focus on cleaning your plate, belly screaming with anxiousness. “I prayed to the Seven that he would let this matter rest for today.” Your utterance seemed wrought with discouragement.

Before he could interject with a kind, comforting word, a guard bearing the Targaryen crest approached your table. “The Lord-Hand requests your presence, Princess.” He huffed, shrinking beneath the pointed stare of Ser Strong.

“Of course, Ser — thank you.” Swallowing the bile that began to stir within your throat, you gathered your skirts, skittering from the bench. Your gaze shifted towards Harwin, silently pleading for him to come with you.

As Breakbones began to rise from his seat, wiping his hands against a dirtied handkerchief, the guard abruptly cleared his throat. “Just the Princess, Ser.” He uttered, somewhat fearful of upsetting the hulking Knight.

“Your Lord-Hand can tell me himself.” Harwin grunted, moving to push past the courier with a brief scowl. Caring little for whatever consequences it wrought, he made sure to escort you the few feet it took to make it to the royal table.

Ensuring that his disdainful visage remained hidden, he straightened up, more concerned for you and how you would fare amongst the vultures. Any intelligent man might’ve not gotten so attached to their charge — Harwin did not always consider himself sharp.

The pace of both yourself and Harwin were intentionally sluggish, crawling at a snail’s pace as the two of you made your way toward the King’s table. He stole a glance at you, and he wished to steal you away at that moment.

“Ser Harwin, you needn’t draw the ire of my father,” Beneath your breath, your utterance felt light, somewhat conspiratorial. “Do not get yourself into trouble on my behalf.”

“Isn’t that what I’m best at, Princess?” Harwin remarked, suppressing the urge to grin, lips quirking into the ghost of a smirk. “You cannot dissuade me now — we are nearly there.” He murmured, shifting to stand a pace behind you, casting you in the shadow of his silhouette.

As you stopped before the sprawling table, adorned in a pale cloth and surrounded by members of the Small Council, your eyes found your Father’s staunch expression. “Father.” You greeted, dipping into a curtsy.

The Hand appeared perplexed by Harwin’s presence, lofting a brow at the unexpected intrusion. “You may leave us, Ser Harwin.” Otto uttered, preferring this conversation occur without the additional ears of your sworn shield.

Harwin’s feet felt like weighty stone, anchored to his place beside you, grip upon his pommel becoming unnaturally snug. He did not like leaving you this way, but it was his own Father’s sharp cough that drew him away.

“As you wish, Lord-Hand.”

As Harwin took his leave, you nearly wanted to crawl away with him, flesh yielding to the hawkish glares of Lord Mullendore and Lord Wylde. Both men were twice your age, Lord Mullendore nearly thrice, making your stomach turn with contempt.

“This is my daughter.” Otto presented you with a wave of his hand, and you forced yourself to look elsewhere — at Alicent. The shrewd gaze of your younger sister seemed to hold a sliver of pity, of understanding.

Lord Wylde surged forth first, taking ahold of your hand as he pressed a kiss upon your knuckles. The gesture might’ve been amiable if it weren’t for the lecherous stare he gave you. “Lord Jasper Wylde, Lord of the Rain House.”

“An honor, my Lord.” Unwilling to forget your manners, you decided to placate your Father with pleasantries, bowing before him. You did not say much else, save for one crucial inquiry. “Will you be joining the King’s Hunt this afternoon?”

From a nearby table, Harwin observed with a thinly-veiled agitation, jaw tense as he attempted to bottle his anguish. It would’ve been questionable to many had he allowed himself to be temperamental regarding your situation.

“Of course. It will be a thrilling hunt, that much is for certain,” Lord Wylde mused, straightening his overcoat with a huff. “May the King’s aim be true — slaying a stag isn’t easy work.”

“I am deeply sorry to hear of your third wife’s passing, Lord Wylde — please accept my condolences. I understand she meant a great deal to you.” Made to be some subtle stab towards the Stormlander, you gained some satisfaction in watching him become rather flustered.

Three wives and twenty-five children — Lord Wylde was full of a darkened lust, one that chafed at you the more you glanced at him. It was pitiful, and you did not make an attempt to speak again, hands briefly fisting themselves into your velveteen skirts.

Lord Mullendore stepped forth into the fray, seizing the opportunity to bow before you, attempting to grab your hand. You nimbly evaded the gesture by sidestepping to make way for a servant, carrying hearty pitchers of Arbor Red.

“Lord Lucan Mullendore — a pleasure, Princess.” Amusingly enough, you would’ve rather taken Lord Mullendore over Lord Wylde. The elder man seemed more akin to a kindly grandsire than true a deviant — but the competition was horrid.

“Likewise, my Lord.” With another courteous curtsy, you felt the penetrating glower of your Father pierce through you, brows furrowed together. It was difficult to discern if he was angry or simply indifferent to all of this frivolity.

“The hunt is soon to begin — we should prepare to caravan with the King,” Otto intercepted, knowing that you had played nice for him — for now. Disdain often shimmered within your eyes whenever you looked at him. Perhaps one day, you would shed your naivety. “Daughter.”

As the men rallied the horses and their tracking hounds, you felt your Father’s hand brush over your shoulder in a brief pat. It was rare, the gesture — and you thought little of it.

Lord Wylde and Lord Mullendore reconvened with their respective houses, mounting up to join the King’s hunting party. A semblance of relief rippled through you, knowing that you’d be free of those men for the foreseeable future.

In the midst of the clamor and excitement, Harwin had found you, saddling his horse, a gelding that was of a black coat, dappled with flecks of gray along his muzzle. He had made himself scarce once the Lords departed.

He loathed the scene of Jasper Wylde’s lips against your flesh — unworthy, uncouth. Harwin envisioned knocking the man’s teeth in, not wanting to imagine what he thought of, being in such close proximity to you. His blood ran hot in the aftermath, and this proved to be a worthy distraction.

“Ser Harwin,” Akin to a bird’s song, your soft cadence derailed his current string of thoughts. He turned, a semblance of relief flooding through him, knowing that you didn’t seem too put-off by your former company. “Must you go?”

If it weren’t for the demand of his Father and the upkeep of appearances, he would’ve gladly stayed by your side, content to stroll with you through the wilderness. “I shall return soon enough, Princess. You’ll have to thank me later — you might not see Lord Wylde again.”

A gasp escaped your parted lips, one of obvious shock. “You wouldn’t dare,” You nearly thought he was serious, the way his gaze had narrowed when the word Wylde left his mouth. Harwin chuckled, a grin spreading across his grizzled features. “You should not jest about such things!”

“A man of his inexperience might tumble from his horse, or trip over the undergrowth,” Continuing to tease with thinly-veiled threats, Harwin had half a mind to act; men stumbled often, all he needed to do was push. “I apologize, Princess.”

As a soft huff rippled through your diaphragm, you couldn’t help but let your amusement show. Harwin was notorious for his strength — indomitable, a fury that put others to shame. You did not want to imagine what it would be like if he chose to act upon such urges.

“If those are my choices, I might be better suited for Lord Mullendore.” Despite the lilt of humor that sank into your words, your tone still carried a sense of despondency, of frustration. A disparaging sigh unfurled from you, then.

Harwin bristled, brows drawing together as he sensed your melancholy. He wished that he could rip it all away if he could. The Knight turned fully to you, visibly empathetic towards your plight. “If I may speak plainly, Princess, neither are deserving of you. You deserve someone better.”

Some strange stirring gripped your heart, a surge of elation that you hadn’t quite experienced before. It made your nerves burn, belly churning with a tumultuous fire. Gooseflesh began to crawl along your spine like creeping ivy.

It was the way he looked at you — protective, reassuring, as if you were the sun itself.

No man had gazed upon you with such fierce intensity, and Harwin exuded overprotection, as if he were a stone wall, made to safeguard you from the outside world. As he spoke of you deserving someone better, your mind had leapt to him — Ser Harwin Strong, your sworn protector.

Inklings of sin blossomed within your heart, knowing how wrong it was of you to want him, to desire his company in a way that transcended dignified honor. A peculiar heat slithered over your body like a tepid haze, threatening to smother you from within.

“You have my gratitude, Ser Harwin. I should hope that such a man exists for me — though I fear if he does, it may be too late,” With a wisp of a smile, you folded your hands together. “I am resigned to this fate — it seems futile to flee.”

Gods, he burned for you — the air within his lungs stung, his body incinerated by a fever beset by you, tender hues drawing themselves toward the ground. Harwin dared not touch you, grip ironclad upon his pommel to keep from cupping your chin.

“It is not yet set in stone, Princess.” Despite his insistence and reassurance, you had started to lose faith in it, but you appreciated his attempts, nonetheless. Silence drifted between you both, your countenance one of a subdued sadness.

As the horns of the hunting party began to split the skies, he sighed, a heavy noise that carried more than just concern. Averting your gaze, you peered toward the royal tent, unable to find your sister amongst the group seeing the men off.

“Do not let me keep you, Ser Harwin. I should hope that the hunt proves fruitful for you and the King.” Stepping aside, you kept a comfortable berth as he walked his horse from the makeshift stables, wishing that you could come with him.

With a kindly smile, Harwin nodded, wondering if there was more he could’ve done to comfort you. “You have my thanks,” His chest heaved with a hearty sigh, brows drawing together. “Once I return, we can take a turn about the Kingswood.”

That seemed to make you happy, the promise of a woodland stroll. With a jubilant nod, you watched as he mounted his horse, giving the steed a swift nudge to its flank. As Harwin joined the hunting party, you couldn’t help but grin at the sight of him riding alongside Lord Wylde.

At the conclusion of the hunt, the caravan had at-last found their prey — at the expense of the day, however. It had taken them some time to track down their pale stag, a beast of fur as white as winter’s snow that seemed to evade them at every turn. Instead, they settled for a fawn-colored buck.

Much of your late afternoon was spent alongside your sister and nephew, a welcome respite from the peacocking lords you’d met earlier in the day. It simultaneously kept you from the ire of your father, even moreso.

The woodland promenade that Harwin had offered was no longer a viable option. Upon their return, a bleeding sun painted the horizon in rays of a vibrant orange with twilight encroaching, signaling an end to the festivities.

Returning to King’s Landing alongside your father had proven a strenuous task, with much of your carriage ride spent in a heated spat in regards to being wed. In the end, you resigned yourself to embittered silence.

“You must perform your duty to our House, as your sister has. I will expect your answer in a sennight — should you refuse, the choice will be made for you.”

Otto’s words continued to worm their way into your mind, with a scathing cadence and scornful glare that had made you feel so incredibly small. You should’ve been thankful, with the option of Lord Wylde or Lord Mullendore available to you.

Instead, you were left anguished and bitter by the end of the evening, storming to your chambers without so much as a single utterance. Harwin had been with his Father — he hadn’t seen you since the hunt’s conclusion, save for a brief smile in-passing.

As dusk blanketed the skies above King’s Landing, the glow of the heavens concealed beneath wisps of veiled cloud, you stood beside your window, curtains drawn apart. Anger rippled through you in hot waves, as if you’d been kissed by the fire of some inexhaustible wrath.

Harwin dutifully returned to his station, posted in the corridor that stretched toward the chambers of other nobles, including some of the Small Council. Tucked within the chainmail beneath his breastplate, a clutch of wildflowers resided there, ones he’d picked for you.

Oftentimes, you would greet him each morning and bid him farewell with the approach of dusk, but not this time. It was unusual for him not to see you, and concern began to blister through him. He wondered if it had anything to do with the predicament from earlier in the day.

It would’ve been inappropriate for him to intrude upon your business, but the longer he waited within the eerie silence of the corridor, the more his heart began to lurch. Braziers flickered throughout ornate hallways, dancing shadows falling across his armored frame.

The Knight nearly leaped when the door had opened, accompanied by an unsightly groan that reverberated throughout the corridor. There you stood, fresh-faced and clad in a nightgown of a rich, violet velvet. Your eyes swam with crimson, as if you’d spent ample time sobbing.

Harwin steeled himself, grizzled jaw beginning to tighten at the sight of you, the very picture of such breathtaking beauty. He was reduced to boyish nerves in your presence. His grip upon the pommel of his shortsword became snug, leather grinding against the hilt.

“Princess,” He greeted, baritone smooth and disarmingly gentle, tone betraying his intimidating appearance. “Is something the matter?” From a mere glimpse, Harwin could detect that you were distraught, dismay scrawled into your features.

Words turned to ash upon your tongue, like some weight that prevented you from speaking. Tears began to glitter within your gaze, disdainful and forlorn as you shook your head.

“Nothing is the matter, Ser Harwin. I only wished to bid you goodnight before retiring.” With a trembling exhale, you swiftly rid yourself of the tears that lingered upon the fringes of your eyes. As you attempted to compose yourself, Harwin remained unconvinced.

“You’re a rather poor liar, my Lady.” Harwin rumbled, brows furrowing together as you let out a mirthless laugh. His thick mane of curls tumbled toward his shoulders, unbound from the bun he’d had it in earlier that afternoon, armor glinting through the brazier’s haze.

“I do not wish to spill my woes onto you,” Admittedly, you wanted to forget about it all for the time being, if you could. “Though I do wish for company, at the very least.” It was an invitation you posed, for Harwin to speak with you in the sanctity of your chambers.

A sliver of him felt it wrong, untoward to join you in your quarters, even if it was merely conversation. He knew what burned within his heart, what arduous flame had seared his bones. His sentiments for you were overwhelmingly powerful, like a maelstrom coming to swallow him whole.

It was the hour of the bat, well into the night; stealing a glance, he found his surroundings to be devoid of any onlookers.

“As you wish, Princess.” Maintaining a courtly demeanor, you stepped aside, allowing him to cross the threshold into your chambers. It all felt so vastly daunting, his feelings suffocating him the closer he was to you, the proximity growing slim.

Harwin had been inside numerous times before, but never to this degree, harboring such a strong adoration for you. The Knight appeared somewhat rigid, gaze trailing after you as you moved to sit atop a velvet-laden settee.

“I have one week to deliver my choice of husband to my Father,” Speaking plainly, your sudden confession seemed to ensnare his attention, and yet he masked his anger well. “Lord Wylde or Lord Mullendore — at least he offered me a choice instead of stripping it from me.”

The thought of you wed to some lecherous slime or a boring elder made Harwin’s blood boil for reasons both wretched and divine. Jealousy gnawed at him with such ugliness, and yet he wondered if this was for the best — not having you.

It would cause a scandal, if he were to act upon his feelings — a besmirch upon your honor. That was something that Harwin couldn’t bear, as you had been defiled enough already, being offered to two men completely unworthy of you.

Gritting his teeth together, he bit his tongue, electing to merely move the conversation along. “I apologize, Princess — you have my sympathies.” It was all he could muster without becoming unhinged, or worse, letting his confession spill from his lips.

It was uncharacteristic of Harwin to be so aloof, standing with such rigidity before your door, hand clenched at his side. A wave of discontent gripped you then, as if something was amiss.

Harwin’s cadence held an unexpected bite, as if each syllable was uttered through gritted teeth. His countenance bristled with a thinly-veiled frustration, as if he did very little to mask his true demeanor. A steady exhale escaped him as he attempted to stave his fury away.

“You seem angry,” A part of you assumed that it was merely concern, born from that of a stalwart Knight; the other sliver detected disdain from that of a trusted friend. “This is the hand that I was dealt — I suppose my only choice is to bend to it.”

Knowing that even you could see through his threadbare facade, Harwin’s head hung, thick curls framing his visage. He didn’t want you to pry or ask questions, but he wasn’t exactly making this easy on himself whatsoever.

As you spoke of simply bending to the whims of your father, the Knight nearly protested, but instead, he remained trapped within a reluctant silence. Harwin grappled with his feelings for you, wrestling with them in all his ferocity, wishing to bury them as deep as he could.

It simply wasn’t possible.

In a valiant attempt to change the subject, he reached into his tabard, removing the now-disheveled bouquet of wildflowers he had smuggled away for you. “I wanted to ensure that you still obtained a fragment of nature from the day.”

Presenting you with a handful of vibrant blossoms, your heart violently lurched at the kind gesture. If it weren’t for his station, you would’ve nearly considered it an action taken in courtship — and then, your gaze flickered to his.

Smoldering, intimate, wanting; something lingered there, a tension that had grown into a flickering fire, soon to rage. Harwin gazed at you as if you had moved mountains, pulled the stars from the heavens, and then you came to the sudden realization.

It was an anger born of jealousy.

As your fingers closed around the stems, you were barely able to express your gratitude, involuntarily stepping closer to him of your own accord. The Knight’s breath hitched, praying to whatever Gods that would listen for you to move away.

“Ser Harwin …” With his name rolling from your tongue with such reverence, such exhilaration, Harwin felt his barrier begin to crumble away. Doe-eyed hues shifted to hold his gaze, one that made your belly swirl with a tide of molten heat.

“I do not want you to marry some old Lord,” A husky rasp clung to his tone, as if he said it through sealed lips. Once the confession floated into the slim space between you, he knew that he had reached the point of no return. “The thought alone fills me with such immeasurable fury.”

Breakbones spoke through him, the avatar of his wrath, his ire, his strength — he imagined knocking in Lord Wylde’s teeth numerous times throughout the afternoon. Yet, he clung to honor, even still.

Bewilderment consumed you, accompanied with that of yearning, a want so brazenly powerful that it threatened to swallow you whole. All bonds of propriety were on the precipice of destruction, and yet you openly entertained it with a subdued enthusiasm.

You wanted Harwin Strong.

Desire seemed so unorthodox, a sin that tarnished anyone who dared seek it for themselves, and yet, it was not only desire you sought. His heart was the greatest thing of all, and you realized that you wanted him in all ways — love, above all.

Silence festered between you, and Harwin immediately realized the gravity of his words, the grave error he’d made. His eyes fluttered shut, accompanied by a heavy sigh. “Forgive me, Princess — I should return to my post.”

Before he could flee from his place, he felt your hand seize his forearm, as if quietly demanding that he stay. “What do you mean?” The heaviness of your inquiry could not be mistaken — you wished to know the true meaning of his words, why it filled him with such contempt.

Slightly pained, Harwin feared making his sentiments known, afraid to startle you or worse, turn you away from him. “It is untoward for me to discuss these things with you, my Lady. I should not have spoken of it.” He murmured, but his answer proved to be unsatisfactory.

“What if I told you that I did not want to marry some old Lord either, and that …” A brief pause; gooseflesh flourished along your spine. “That I wanted you?” As the breathy confession slipped from your mouth, Harwin felt the ground beneath him shift.

“Princess …” He began, knowing that all of this seemed completely wrong. If anyone were to know of this, he would be put to the executioner’s block, and you would be disavowed from your House. “I wouldn’t dare besmirch your honor, that I promise.” Harwin murmured.

“I wish for transparency — I wish to know how you truly feel, damn honor. I beg of you, Ser Harwin.” Gods, the temptation — Harwin could no longer resist, his resilience thin in the wake of your words, turning him to nothing more than ash. As you inched closer, the distance between bodies became dangerously slim.

Steeling himself, Harwin felt what resolve he had disappear entirely, nonexistent as he peered down at you, doe-eyed and wanting. The Knight tentatively reached to cup your cheek, brows furrowing together as he spoke with such conviction.

“What I truly feel is not enough,” He murmured, thumb gently tracing circles near your jaw. “I’ve burned for you, wanted you — everything you are captivates me, Princess. Were I not sworn to you, I would’ve asked for your hand.” Harwin uttered, able to hear the hitch in your breath.

Keening into his embrace, your delicate fingers folded over his armored wrist, drawing him closer, closer still until your lips met his own. The kiss was a tentative one, more exploratory in-nature given your own inexperience.

Harwin dared not coerce you into anything, allowing you to withdraw whenever you pleased. The sweetness of your mouth was something he’d unknowingly craved, heat simmering beneath his flesh as he fought against baser instincts. He would not lose himself — not with you.

“I would ask for your hand, even still.” He uttered, watching in silent rapture as you moved to press against him, bosom brushing against his chest. If it weren’t for the layers of armor, he might’ve been driven to the brink of madness.

“I am yours,” You were toying with fire, letting such a declaration out into the open, but you were entirely genuine. “You’ve no idea how much you mean to me, how long I’ve toiled in fantasy, imagining what this might be like, to belong to you.”

Through a tensed jaw, he wanted nothing more than to kiss you again until your lips were swollen, but he ensured restraint, allowing himself to drape an arm around your hips. The leather of his gauntlet gently caressed into your waist, sweeping over the thin fabric of your shift.

At last, you permitted yourself to touch him, palms tentatively coming to perch atop his chest, fingertips tracing idle circles into his tabard. Harwin inhaled your scent, freshened and crisp like that of jasmine and honey, a sweetness that he had grown accustomed to.

The Knight planted a kiss against your crown, cupping your cheek as he sought your gaze. “You are safe with me, I promise you that. Do not feel as if we must act on our desires.” He assured, though your longing stare said otherwise.

“Have you laid with someone before?” The innocuous tone of your question came across as naive, but you knew enough of what went into consummation. You still retained your maidenhead, willing to relinquish it to Harwin, if he chose.

Harwin did not want to lie to you, though the inquiry itself had surprised him. “I have,” Hoping that it wouldn’t ruin things, you seemed perplexed, features warming from embarrassment. “It is not as daunting as it seems.”

Without hesitation, you replied, “I want to try — with you,” As you spoke, his countenance appeared more bewildered and concerned than anything else. He did not want you to feel obligated; your virtue was in his hands, and it was something precious to him. “Is that alright?”

“Princess,” For a moment, you feared you’d offended him, his tone seemingly one of uncertainty. “Are you certain?” For his own sake, he desired your consent thrice over, if necessary. Harwin did not want to seem like some lecher.

A pang of anxiousness settled into your stomach, evoking butterflies from within as you nodded. It was intimidating, the idea of the act itself — yet, you knew that he would take care of you. “More certain than I’ve ever been before.” With a hushed whisper, you gazed at him, stars in your eyes.

Despite your piety, Harwin found himself crumbling in the wake of your stare, as if he’d been scorched by the heat of a thousand suns. His lips parted briefly, gingerly caressing your cheek before he bent to kiss you, ensuring that he was gentle with you.

Mouths tangled in a tender dance, your sheepishness bleeding through, an initial hesitation blossoming into enthusiasm. He cradled you as if you were forged of precious jewels, armored physique pressed snug to yours.

Finding your purchase against his chest, your digits lightly curled into his tabard, stomach churning with a volatile heat. Harwin’s palm idly caressed circles against the small of your back, sending shockwaves throughout your spine. He was endlessly warm, lips coming to claim yours with a disarming gentleness.

The hearth provided a soothing ambiance, crackling in the background, accompanied by the hum of dusk. Moonlight poured in through your scaling window, curtains drawn to reveal pooling silver, gathering across your chamber floor.

As Harwin withdrew, he allowed himself to abandon his guilt, even if it continued to gnaw away at him. “Should you wish to stop, merely tell me.” He murmured, watching as your head bobbed in agreement. Your hands fluttered to his gauntlets, preparing to assist in their removal.

Leather buckles and fastened straps proved to be something of an obstacle as you went about removing it all with his assistance. Slipping his tabard off, you happened to let your gaze linger, flustered when he’d caught you ogling him.

“You are wonderfully handsome, Ser Harwin,” The sweetness of your cadence was unmatched, earning you a genuine smile as the Knight chuckled. “What is it?”

“We do not need to use formalities here — no more ‘Ser’,” It dissolved a bit of your nervousness, tendrils of anxiousness unfurling from your frame. Lifting his breastplate off, he placed the growing pile of armor atop a spacious table. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes upon, as is your heart.”

The warm husk of his voice made you shiver with delight, feeling his calloused palm slip beneath your jaw once more, splayed aside your throat. Harwin kissed you with a fervent passion this time, still clad in his chainmail as he let his arms cage you in against him.

A breathy exhale tore past your lips, blinded by the heated kiss, allowing your entanglement to grow in intensity. Clamoring hands found his broad shoulders, able to feel the muscle that rest beneath, nearly rocking up upon your toes to reach him.

It was then that he picked you up, your dress proving to be more of a hindrance than he thought possible. Nevertheless, he used one arm to support you, the other pressed into the small of your back as he traversed your chambers, making for your bed.

The structure itself was grandeur, four columns of rich mahogany, draped in tapestries of gossamer and thick, verdant velvet. Harwin stopped at the mattress’s edge, your back kissing the sheet-clad feathers as he let you stand.

Mouths continued to dance, deepening your entanglement, heat festering like a sweltering wave between bodies. With haste, your palms had relocated from his shoulders to the nape of his neck, fingers threading within the curls there.

His stature engulfed you — large, imposing, and endlessly warm. Harwin’s presence blanketed you, able to feel the sharp cracks of desire as they wafted from him. Calloused hands kneaded into your curves, molding themselves to your form.

Lips parted, a shaky sigh tumbling from your mouth as you attempted to regain even a shred of your composure. Harwin pressed a kiss to your jaw, still hovering around you, a salacious inquiry dancing upon the tip of his tongue.

“Have you touched yourself before, Princess?” His husky, coarse lull made your belly surge with butterflies, thighs absentmindedly shifting together. A coil of tension slowly began to form within you, pulled taut with a deep-seated repression.

Embarrassed, you gave a shrug of your shoulders, smitten beneath his incendiary gaze. “Somewhat,” You always thought it to be sinful, as if the eyes of the Seven were boring down upon you. “Gods, you must think me to be some prude.”

With a gentle shake of his head, Harwin cupped your chin, thumb stroking along your jaw. “I do not,” He replied, reassuring as ever as he pressed a kiss against your brow. “May I remove this?” He questioned, giving your gown a gentle tug.

A brief hitch inhabited your throat, lips parting enough to make way for a subtle gasp. Instead of answering verbally, you nodded, hands untangling themselves from his nape. Sluggishly, you turned around, facing the bed as his deft, calloused digits found the numerous laces along your spine.

Unraveling you from such tight fabric, a brief exhale tore past your lips, gown beginning to loosen. The velvet-and-silk sagged upon your form, leaving you in naught but a simple shift, tantalizingly transparent. Stepping from your nightgown, you shivered as Harwin’s palm graced your hip.

Slowly, he planted a kiss atop your shoulder, the scratch of his beard a most pleasant sensation. A charged silence loomed between you both, the only ambience that of the smoldering hearth, a wisp of wind passing by your window.

Each breath he took seemed taut with heaviness, an exhilaration that you shared in. Showering your flesh in kisses, he continued along the hollow between throat and shoulder, fingers flexing against the ties of your silken shift.

“Harwin,” A tremulous exhale slipped past your lips, reveling in the feeling of his mouth peppering against you. His other arm slipped around you, his large palm coming to cup one of your breasts, kneading into the soft, pliant mount. “Gods.” You gasped.

It was a sound that he had dreamt of for so long — your voice, charmed and wanton beneath his kiss, within his grasp. Harwin felt you lean against his sturdy musculature, even if the chainmail happened to chafe against your back. As his name fell from your tongue, he was beguiled.

Desiring to see him fully, you sluggishly turned within his embrace, digits toying with the remnants of his armor. Wordlessly, your hands drifted to the remaining straps and buckles, wishing to peel it from him, see him completely.

As his chainmail loosened, vambraces and leather tunic following suit, he deposited all somewhere by the wayside.

Bare above his waist, you marveled at the sight of him — taut muscle, as thick as tree trunks, chest covered in a light layer of brunette hair. His flesh was sunkissed, a scar or two embedded into his skin.

Bluish hues bored into you, gentle yet instilled with the flame of ardor, large hands moving to smooth over your hips. Silent, he bent to kiss you, able to hear the brief tremble of your exhale, your hands clamoring to grasp at his biceps, muscle firm beneath your palms.

Flesh to flesh, heart to heart, you felt the stirring of something wicked between your legs, arousal beginning to coalesce as his kisses deepened. Mouths clamored for one another, each kiss charged with a longing, nearly stealing every wisp of air from your lungs.

Harwin’s throat reverberated with a low growl, beard scratching against your silken flesh with every fervent clash of lips. One hand dared to explore, caressing over your hip and derrière, until he gathered the hem of your shift within his fist.

An excitable shiver slithered over your spine, able to feel the slight draft dance across your thighs, fabric being eased up; further, and further still. It was then that you felt his hand beneath the silk, traveling further until he found the warmth lingering between your legs.

Nails dug crescents into his thick biceps, a stutter forming as you parted, foreheads still flush together, hot sighs passing through. Harwin’s calloused digits sluggishly glided over your slick petals, searching for any signs of discomfort that might’ve appeared.

“H—Harwin …” A stifled whimper tore past your mouth, now parted completely as you pressed yourself against him. Perched atop the mattress’s edge, it allowed him to stand between, spreading your legs apart with his physique.

“Hm,” He rumbled, pressing kisses along the side of your face, over the curve of your jaw. “Is that pleasurable, Princess?” Gods, his voice — it was deliciously husky, his timbre akin to the gentle shaking of thunder before an encroaching tempest.

His usage of your title made your stomach contort, that coil of heat now pulled as tight as a bowstring. With a soft moan, your hips lurched forward, seeking the friction of his practiced digits. With a twinge of vigor, he began to let his fingers stroke along your cunt.

“Yes — Gods, yes,” A wanton sigh fluttered into the air, a breathy incantation that filled your mind with some lovestruck haze. “Do not stop.” His lips continued to press a trail of kisses along your throat and what flesh of your collar was exposed.

Reverence seeped into each ministration, each touch echoing with devotion. Harwin’s gaze glittered with a thinly-veiled adoration, covetousness stirring within his heart. As his fingers found a rather pleasing rhythm, he shuddered at the sound of your numerous moans.

With gentle coaxing, you clamored for his mouth once more, lips melding together in a furious passion. Moans escaped you, dancing between heated kisses and wanton sighs, your countenance contorting into an expression of bliss.

Hips surged forward with incessant want, rocking into his hand to gain any scrap of friction. He provided it to you freely, his willingness to please a trait that you were wholly unaccustomed to. His name emerged as an affectionate sigh from your mouth.

“I wish — I wish to touch you,” The hushed cadence of your plea had made Harwin shudder, bones screaming for you in every way imaginable. He had little desire to seek his own pleasure in this matter, preferring his concentration to rest on you. “Please, Harwin.”

Lips ghosted above one another, connecting once more in a fusion of heat, a passion so blistering that it consumed him just as it did you. Harwin grunted into your mouth, clashing again and again, your mouth parting to make way for a thinly-veiled moan.

A sliver of hesitance passed through him, teeth briefly grazing your lower lip, the gesture sudden enough to make you whine. His kiss had evoked such yearning from within, sentiments long suppressed in the wake of your faith, freed from the shackles of sin.

Thick digits continued to warm you, prodding against your entrance as he introduced his thumb, allowing it to circle the pearl of your cunt. A sharp moan ripped through your throat, visage displaying complete and utter bliss as a shockwave of pleasure stabbed at your nethers.

Harwin’s husked voice echoed your name, hot breath fanning beside your ear as he kissed the flesh beneath it. “Where do you need me, Princess?” He murmured, low and lascivious, cadence alone enough to make your thighs shift together to alleviate some tension.

“There,” Accompanied by another flick of his thumb over your pearl, your head jostled in a hasty nod, teeth briefly sinking into your bottom lip. “Gods, Harwin, please!” Desperate pleas escaped into the tenuous heat between you, foreheads nestled together as he toyed with your clit.

The sound of his name upon your tongue was a maddening noise, each syllable drawn-out with ardor. Harwin felt his cock throb incessantly within his trousers, straining with desperation against the leather, begging to be inside of you.

As your countenance unfurled with a carnal delight, he nearly thought of tasting you — throwing himself onto his knees and pleasuring you upon his tongue. As much as he craved it, he did not want to overwhelm you with it all this evening, intending to propose a future opportunity.

A grunt stirred from his chest, noses grazing over one another, kisses of heat peppering flesh as he held you flush against him. Lips clawed for one another, an entanglement charged with a vein of desperation. Hands clasped against his nape, silken fingers carding through thick curls.

It was then that his digits gingerly prodded against your entrance, feeling your breath halt, hips stuttering in surprise. Through a prurient gaze, enraptured, Harwin carefully surveyed your visage for any inkling of discomfort, pressing a kiss against your jaw.

“Ha—Harwin.” With a startled croak, a churning of anxiety swarmed your belly, and yet he soothed you, mouth smoothing over your temples. Wordlessly, he did not continue further until you did, rutting your hips against his hand as if to cement your answer.

“I have you, Princess.” Through a tender baritone, you allowed yourself to relax, trusting in his proficiency. At a snail’s pace, two digits sank forward, invading your cunt with a disarming gentleness, allowing you to grow accustomed to the foreign sensation.

Gripping him with an ironclad hold, you gasped, nails digging crescents into the flesh of his neck, teeth piercing your bottom lip. It was unusual, but certainly not unwelcome — instead, he began a rather lackadaisical rhythm, accompanied by the roll of his thumb over your pearl.

If it weren’t for his arm keeping you aloft, you might’ve collapsed beneath his touch, melting away into wisps of ash. Each sigh was rapturous, wanton moans inhabiting the space between bodies, a feverish warmth crawling over your spine.

This all felt like some distant dream, a mere fantasy that had dug its talons into his mind, now made into blissful reality; he could scarcely believe it. Harwin did not want to forget this moment, lamenting over your flesh, silk and satin beneath his calloused palms.

Halcyon hues surveyed your countenance, enthralled by the delight that had washed over your features, contorted into an expression of ecstasy. Arousal gnawed at his bones, visceral and raw as he urged his digits into your cunt, easing them backward in rhythmic strokes.

His name spilled from your lips with such glee, doing little to veil your pleasure, wanting to sob from it all. You had not yet experienced a release in all of its blistering ferocity, somewhat unfamiliar with your own body; Harwin desired to study it as he would a map, committing all of you to memory.

Mouths seamlessly mold together, as if intended to fit, destined; his frame serves as a warm pillar, as if shielding you from the rest of the world, his alone. Each kiss is instilled with a fierce vigor, a brand scorched upon your swollen lips, and yet, you starve even still.

Through tortuous strokes of his fingers, heat unfurls from within your belly, a sudden and volatile thing, enough for you to nearly pierce his lip with your teeth. Harwin huffs; a low, triumphant sound, tinged with a silent elation as he brings about your undoing, thumb circling your pearl.

A shudder passes through you, tangling like ivy as it creeps up your spine before bliss pools forth, a slick nectar coalescing between your legs. Stifled moans are consumed by his mouth, kisses crawling to lingering bouts of passion, careworn palm soothingly tracing over your thigh.

Again, his name flutters from your maw, an enchanting sound that bewitches Harwin like that of a siren’s lull, coaxing him into deep waters. For you, he would’ve drowned a thousand times over — filled his lungs with saltwater to merely glimpse upon your visage.

Clawing for him as if you were being torn asunder, your muscles twitch and spasm in the aftermath, ecstasy oozing from every pore. Shallow breaths burn with wanton desire, hoarse yet exhilarated, gazes interlocking as he inspects you carefully.

“Are you well?” Innocuous, Harwin finds the sheen of perspiration that clings to your flesh to be tantalizing, irises akin to that of a doe’s. Warm and composing yourself, limbs begin to fall slack, head bobbing in a sluggish nod.

“I am,” Your answer is marked by a girlish giddiness, basking within a blissful afterglow as you trace your fingertips across his rugged jaw. The Knight smiles; summertime awakens within your bones, and you feel his grin as you would a kiss. “I am perfectly happy.”

Breakbones, they whisper; and yet, your beloved shield is as gentle as the first breath of spring, as tender as a consoling hand. An ebullient giggle tumbles from your lips, as if incredulity is beginning to truly sink in — Harwin cradles your heart within his palm.

It is the first inkling of joy you’ve felt in some time, misery’s dour haze beginning to dissipate, pierced by this spear of ardor that he wields so passionately. Mouths gingerly press against one another, feeling a low rumble stir within his diaphragm, a noise of elation.

“I’ve dreamt of this, against my better judgment,” Harwin’s softened baritone ushers against your lips in a warm wisp, beard causing ripe friction against satiny flesh. “My heart calls your name.”

A dazzling awe paints your features, blossoming with a girlish glee as you continue to brush your fingertips over his visage, dipping toward his throat. Dying embers blanket Harwin in their resplendence, his breath catching within his throat as your digits card through his curls.

“Where is your judgment presently, Harwin?” The inquiry is genuine, steeped in a dreamlike lament as you cradle his visage within one palm. It is a hunger revealing itself within you, one you thought incapable of feeling; you wonder if he feels it too, in all of its rawness.

Regret does not tarry within his heart as it should’ve — instead, he feels joy, bones resolute with protectiveness, the desire to tether himself to your ribs. “That I belong to you, Princess,” No other would dare tempt his heart in the way that you had. “I would refuse to know another.”

Your throat, thick with a swell of vivification, words melting upon your tongue; you feel the very same. “As I am yours.” It is a hushed sigh, pluming over his shoulder as you plant a kiss over corded muscle.

Burly arms cage you against his chest, the plane of a warm musculature that blankets you with a sense of comfort, gently depositing you onto your mattress fully. Reluctant to slip from his hold, you do not expect to abandon it for long.

With your weight redistributed atop cushions of sheet-swathed feathers and silken duvets, your fingers thread through the laces that hold your shift together. Harwin stands with bated breath, gaze incendiary as his silhouette swallows you whole, eyes ardently drinking you in.

In hasty tugs of his digits, the Knight unburdens himself of his tassets, freeing himself from the tedious confines of armor. He prefers it, but not now, not while you lay atop emerald satin, bare flesh akin to a diamond amongst the rubble.

Sheepishness becomes you, feathering over your features as you shyly sink into the pillows, gaze roving over Harwin as he continues to disrobe. To your carnal delight, his body is the very same, muscle upon muscle, sunkissed and labored, effortlessly handsome.

Stepping forth, the Knight joins you within your bed, an act that, if unraveled, would cost him his head — he cares very little for it. Even when stripped from his garb, he is impressively statuesque, dwarfing you in stature as he makes residence between your legs, the strain slight.

His cock intimidates you instantaneously, a tide of anxiety surging within your belly as it strains against your thigh. Swallowing fear, palms grace taut forearms, dancing upward until you trace his biceps, searching his gaze for any inkling of uncertainty; and there is none, save for devotion.

Careworn fingers languidly drag over your leg, from the crook of your knee to your thigh, thumb rubbing circles against your flesh. It is soothing, intended to alleviate the constant ache of nerves that bloom within your stomach, but it does little to ease your racing thoughts.

“I wouldn’t dare hurt you,” Lips seal themselves to your temples, an oath whispered from the Knight’s own mouth, warm breath billowing over your countenance. Leather and steel cling to him, an amalgamation of scents that burn themselves into your senses. “I promise.”

Pain is to be expected from salacious acts, you know this; and yet it doesn’t sting any less. His indomitable physique settles betwixt your thighs, keeping you spread apart without an ounce of force, knees brushing across his hips.

Embers quiet, glow dimming throughout your chambers, guided only by moonlight which pools through drawn curtains. Holding himself aloft, his hands root themselves by either side of your head, shoulders furled with a tension that screams for some sliver of relief.

Harwin’s head descends, mouth planting several kisses along your throat, gliding over satiny flesh beneath, as saccharine as a honeyed stout. He is deliberate, passion oozing forth as he attempts to quell the nervousness that still dances within your eyes, kneading into your haunch.

“I trust you, Harwin,” Words flutter forth with such tenderness, a solemn vow from you, knowing that he would not impose upon your comfort. A low hum emerges, body rumbling beneath your palms as you hold him close, moaning as he kisses the pulse point of your jaw. “Completely.”

Afforded an honor that few possessed, he took your words to heart, cherishing them with such sacredness, lips stilling along your cheek. Foreheads ghosted against the other, tepid sighs inhabiting the thin space between bodies, soul bared to soul; your fingertips traced his jaw.

Adjusting his body against yours, limbs tangled and muscles taut with excitement. A gasp ripped through your diaphragm, his cock gingerly pressing flush to slick petals, teeth daring to pierce the inside of your cheek.

Eyes seek another, his own pupils eclipsed by desire, a loyalty shown through lips. He envelopes you entirely, so large, so perfect; you tremble beneath him, an involuntary tick marked by your own mounting arousal.

Wordlessly, your Knight begins to shift, ensuring that you are equally as comfortable, length incessantly nudging against your nethers, eliciting a wanton whine from your mouth. Hearts beat in-tandem, a furious pace that looses a grunt from him, gazing down upon you.

“Gently then, Princess.” Harwin rumbles, his own restraint rather threadbare, but he maintains propriety for your sake, intending to take your maidenhead with gentleness. He does just that, hips sluggishly urging forward, cock beginning to sheathe inside of you, inch by inch.

Gooseflesh ices your spine, coupled with a feverish heat that turns your bones to ash, nails digging crescents into his biceps. The stretch is bewildering, and you wonder how this all intends to fit, and yet it does.

Flickers of pain furrow over brow, visage contorting with intermingled bliss and discomfort.

Hips still, allowing you ample time to acclimate yourself to him, and yet you seem eager to continue, back arching into his embrace. His name unfurls from your tongue, a kiss of warmth murmured against his countenance as he caresses along your thigh.

His concern for you is thinly-veiled, worn upon his features through a creased brow, and yet you coax him to continue. “Do not stop, Harwin.” Breathy pleas tumble from your parted lips and he is lost, succumbing to a shred of baser instincts, continuing to urge forward once more.

A choked whimper erupts from your throat, clinging to him as if you were swept away in some tidal surge, visage pressed near his shoulder. A low, thunderous grunt shakes his frame, reveling in the sensation of your cunt tightening around him, taking him so very well.

As your maidenhead breaks upon his cock, he is exceedingly tender, handling you with such fidelity, ensuring that he does not cause you agony. Bliss blossoms over your countenance, flesh screaming with an arduous heat, belly nothing more than molten liquid.

Ceaseless, Harwin heeds your command, cock continuing to sink into you, a blade within its scabbard, sheathing himself until there is nowhere left for him to go. A delighted moan plumes from your mouth, babbling his praises, hitching one leg around his hips.

Furthering the friction, this newfound angle evokes a yearning from him, cock twitching within you. With a brief huff, Harwin knows he treads on unsteady ground, wanting to move with such force, yet he continues to walk the line of restraint.

“Gods, look at you,” Harwin’s voice clouds your mind, like warm tendrils entangling themselves into every thought. The rougher cadence of his tone sends shockwaves through your belly, heat pooling between your thighs. “You are doing well, Princess.”

Such heady praise looses a moan from your lips, bristling with warmth beneath his incendiary words, a fire igniting within you. A shiver courses through your spine, a tremor that snakes over your body, prompting you to clutch him closer.

Bodies urge against one another, friction a delicious feeling, one that yielded to the fervor of the moment. The pebbled peaks of your breasts brush over his muscled chest, hand tangled at his nape, the other digging into his shoulder as his thrusts begin to truly take shape.

Maintaining this element of gallantry, he is gentle still, actions that of lovemaking over entertaining any rougher pursuits. Pleasure unfurls from within you, consuming every fiber of your being, simmering within your blood.

Mouths clamor for one another, lips colliding in a fervent kiss, passion unbridled as he rolls his hips forward, creating a steady rhythm that does not seek to overwhelm you. Harwin savors every shred of heat, every whimper and moan that besmirches your lips, each look of ardor.

Love is unmistakable, the sentiment as crystalline as a midsummer’s sky, hanging heavy within your doe-like stare, hearts grasping; intertwined.

Each thrust is born of urgency as you begin to feel yourself stretched further, his cock gently burying itself into the warmth of your cunt. His muscle becomes your anchor, a hardened plane to sink your fingers into, hold vicelike.

Whimpers emerge, choked from your throat as tongues and teeth dance, cock gently battering away at your nethers, belly pulled taut like a bowstring. Perspiration glitters upon his brow, even if this exertion is fleeting, nonexistent for him.

“Harwin,” Laced with the rasp of desire, his name falls ardently from your lips, body succumbing to ecstasy, arched against him. “Pl—Please, do not stop!” It is nothing more than a mewl, wantonly echoing within his ear as his ministrations become a touch invigorated.

Surrounded by him on all sides, all-encapsulating, your legs begin to squeeze and tighten around his hips, rough hand kneading into your thigh. He fists at the sheets beside your crown, held aloft by an arm furled with rippling muscle.

Beneath you, the bedframe groaned in protest, ancient wood becoming malleable, rattled by the weight of joined bodies. Harwin’s rumbling grunts resonated beside your ear, groans akin to the deep lull of thunder, beard ghosting across silken flesh as you clung to him.

Arousal mounted within him like an encroaching tide, preparing to shatter upon the rock, cock throbbing within you. Ripples of bliss flooded your insides in a rabid heat, the tip of his length kissing your womb, frame shuddering within your grasp.

Pearlescent teeth scraped over the flesh beneath your ear, hot huffs of wanton breaths pluming over your features, prompting you to crane forward. Flush, flesh upon flesh, your body took him well, intended for another, nails crawling past his shoulder.

Even still, his pace did not waver, melding into something vigorous, maintaining every shred of adoration he had for you, poured into each thrust. Friction continued to smolder, a fire growing to immeasurable heights, causing you to let out a strangled moan.

He met every brush of your hips with a bruising thrust, urging forward, allowing you to feel it all, everything; Harwin’s mouth fell into the hollow between throat and collar, kisses warped with lascivious intent. “My Lady.” A low, baritone purr lavished your skin.

With restraint dissolving to naught but ash, the Knight grunted once more, hips rolling forward as he sought to spill his seed, weight bearing down upon you. Greedily, you welcomed it with unrestrained need, encouraging him with babbled pleas of desire.

Harwin’s fantasy had floated through then and there, envisioning his seed taking root within you, giving you every ounce of him. Perhaps then, you would be wed, hands bound, hearts rooted together like ancient trees within a forest.

“Stay,” A whimper tore past your throat, beseeching him to remain sheathed within you, and that was enough for Harwin Strong to crumble. Caging him in against you with vicelike legs, the Knight’s groan sent shivers through you. “Gods, Harwin.”

Gazes interlocked fleetingly, and he succumbed to you, cock battering away within your cunt a moment longer, spilling himself within you. With a spasmodic shudder, his hips urged forward with a sense of finality, warm spent painted your insides, evoking a soft gasp from your lips.

A stickiness clung to your nethers, a foreign sensation that had made you flush, a peculiar heat permeating your features. Harwin’s chest reverberated with a soft huff, stilling within you as he soothingly stroked your thigh.

Muscles burned with the sting of exertion, ragged breathing climbing down from such a pinnacle, heartbeat beginning to steady. A gentle hush filled your chambers, limbs intertwined, his weight no longer blanketing you as it had before.

The pad of his thumb traced your temples, where disheveled tresses kissed warm flesh, caressing over your cheekbone. He dipped forward, planting a disarmingly tender kiss to your mouth, beard prickling your lips as your palm kneaded into his shoulder.

It was then that he pulled himself from you, calmly retreating from your bed to clamor about your chambers, retrieving a cloth from your vanity. Dying embers painted him in such beauty, appearing as some mesomorphic god, tousled curls framing his handsome visage.

Adjusting yourself, you knew that he could not stay — not in the way you wanted him to. Despite this ungodly hour, prying eyes would be waiting in the shadows, knowing that the Knight could not leave your chambers unguarded until dawn.

Returning to you, Harwin did not hesitate to draw you close, desiring to hold you, even if it would not be for very long. “You are so beautiful,” He murmured, brows knitting together as he regarded you with such amity, caressing along your ribcage. “I wish that I could stay.”

“I understand,” A singular digit danced across his collar, neatly smoothing toward his chest. “I … I hope that this is not the end for us, Harwin.” Worry festered within your belly, a growing ache that he would let things die hereafter.

A glint of amusement settled within halcyon hues, his large hand cupping your chin, cradling your countenance within a calloused palm. “Did you think I would act on such desires if I only wanted one night with you, Princess?” His thumb traced your lower lip.

No longer did you feel shackled to sin, but you knew what path you now tread would be fraught with danger, a slope of secrecy. “I do not want you to be my secret,” If it were of your own choosing, you would’ve chosen Harwin. “I want you here, always.” Careening into his embrace, you planted a kiss to his thumb.

Harwin found your sentiment to be heartwarming, and he knew your intentions were entirely pious. As much as he desired to be with you freely, he had already trudged upon innumerable boundaries, propriety withered away to nothing.

“I will never be very far,” Solemn, the Knight nearly shivered as silken digits encircled his wrist, gliding along his forearm. Bodies became flush, distance dissolved, allowing a saccharine heat to blossom forth. “I meant what I said — I belong to you.” For an eternity, if that was what you wanted.

“My heart is yours.” It always would be — from this day, until your last day. “Stay a moment longer.” Through a whispered plea, you beseeched Harwin to linger beside you, desiring his warmth, his heart. With a kiss, you felt him smile against your mouth, drawing you to his chest as he reclined into your pillows.

“As you wish, Princess.”

[bunji-enthusiast]

Sʟᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ Oɴ Tʜᴇ Bʟᴀᴄᴋᴛᴏᴘ ⵊⵊ

Summary || Finally, you could do the one thing you’d be waiting for. But it certainly brought new developments, something you never expected. Especially with the same guy you could seemingly never get rid of.

WC: 5k

A/N: finally! Got this out, this is actually the last part but it didn’t seem to take as long to divide up. Apologies if you were waiting for this. Domestic fluff… save me, save me.

Part 1 | part 2 (here)

It had been days since the fight with the Lizard League, and two days since your own visit to Rex’s room, and though the hospital stay wasn’t long enough to drive you completely insane, the lingering ache in your body kept you awake some nights. You still couldn’t shake the way you’d watched Rex in battle, reckless yet... almost fearless. Maybe it was his usual bravado, but there was a part of you that worried about him more than you cared to admit.

That was pretty damn evident, especially with all that's been happening. Even within the quiet humming of the hospital. 

And then there was the prosthetic.

You hadn’t meant to pry during his visits. It’s just... you’d heard the faint clinking of metal, an odd sound that didn’t seem to fit with Rex's usual swagger. So when he’d come by to check on you, a small part of you couldn’t ignore it.

“Hey,” you said, propped up in bed, the sound of your voice unexpectedly hoarse. “Your hand...”

Rex froze. You’d caught him mid-laugh—he’d been making some ridiculous joke about how Monster Girl was going to tear into Invincible for looking too soft in the next fight. But at your words, his smile faltered, and his gaze slid downward toward the hand resting against his knee.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We can talk about that if you want. But seriously, you’re looking a lot better. That Lizard League fight—shit was crazy.”

“Right,” You frown, lips pursed in thought. “I still don’t understand what happened, I’m sure I passed out, like halfway through the fight.” Rex just nods in confirmation, keeping his flesh hand at the back of his neck. Eyes seemingly still on you, or somewhere where you had been most injured. 

“S’normal to pass out,” He grins, letting his shoulders deflate. His gait was incredibly gaunt. 

You then ignored his attempt to shift the focus away from him. "What happened?" you asked, your voice gentle now. “You didn’t exactly look... fine when I last saw you.”

Rex hesitated, looking at you for a moment. There was a flicker of something behind his eyes, like he was considering whether to lie or not. You knew Rex wasn’t one to sugarcoat things, but his pride always seemed to come first.

“It’s... It’s fine,” he said, his tone light but not entirely convincing. “Just got some upgrades. Helps me do what I do. And now, I’ve got a new hand to mess things up with. Feels almost... right.”

You raised an eyebrow. "Upgrades, huh? Not the kind of thing you usually talk about. This one looks... different."

He shot you a sideways grin, but there was a quiet wariness in his eyes. "Guess you could say I got a little too... close to the action this time. Lost a hand in the process, but I’m still here, right?" His attempt at humor didn’t quite mask the weariness that came with it.

Something about the way he said it, the way he still tried to act like he was fine, made your chest tighten. You couldn't help but imagine what it would have been like, him on the floor, fighting for his life while you were still passed out during the fight. 

“I know you’re tough, Rex,” you said quietly. “But you don’t have to pretend you’re invincible all the time. You can be... you know, human, too.”

Invincibility be damned. 

It was the same, but important. You wanted him to know you were here for him, not just in the fights, but also mentally. Trying to bear the weight of it all was hard to do, and you felt for him, too much perhaps. One part of you had considered just leaving things as is, but another part of you had persisted against the thought. 

The words hung between you both for a moment. Rex’s jaw clenched, and for a second, he looked like he was about to argue, but then he sighed and leaned back in the chair. "Everybody fucks up," he said, almost like a mantra, one of his famous phrases. His green eyes met yours, but there was something vulnerable behind them, a crack in his usual bravado. "Even me."

You could feel your heart stutter at that admission, something about it resonating deeper than you expected. Maybe it was the way his voice softened just slightly, or the faint hint of pain that lurked beneath his words. It was rare to see Rex let down his walls like this, and you almost didn’t know how to handle it.

You shifted in your bed, wincing a little as you propped yourself up. “Hey,” you started again, the words coming out more carefully this time, “I—I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just... I guess I was just thinking about you, y’know?”

Rex’s expression softened at your words. "Yeah," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "I get it."

And for a moment, there was silence. Not the usual awkward kind that Rex’s sarcastic remarks often filled, but something other—something that left you both sitting there, just... existing in the same space. He wasn’t looking at you like he normally did, with that teasing, cocky smirk. This time, he was just... there. Real.

God, that was happening way more often. 

You almost couldn’t believe it.

He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. "I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You know, with all the shit we just went through." His voice had a trace of his usual cocky edge, but it was softened, more grounded. “If you need anything... don’t hesitate to ask, really.”

You offered him a small smile, the flicker of something warm running through you at the sincerity in his tone. It was the same way he’d acted before, back when he had that rough-around-the-edges, unfiltered charm. But now... it was a little different. You could see more behind the mask of sarcasm.

“Thanks, Rex,” you said, voice low. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

But as you watched him, a part of you wondered if there was more to the way he’d said it. You wanted to say something, to ask him if he really meant it, or if it was just another one of his careless remarks.

But then, as if on cue, Rex stood up, the weight of his cybernetic hand shifting as he gave you a mock salute. “Well, I’ve gotta go. Some hero shit to do. Don’t get into too much trouble without me, alright?”

And just like that, the moment passed.

The hum of the hospital room had become oddly comforting, the sterile scent of antiseptic mingling with the faint smell of fresh flowers that someone—probably Amanda—had left near the windowsill. You were still recovering, but not as severely as before. The worst of it was behind you, the ache in your side a dull throb now rather than the searing pain it had been a few days ago.

Rex had been sticking around more than you expected. Maybe it was because you were both still reeling from the aftermath of the mission, or maybe it was just you, because he really didn’t know what else to do. You didn’t mind it. In fact, you kind of liked having him there. His sarcastic jokes, the way he lazily lounged on the edge of your bed, always pushing back against whatever sense of normal you tried to establish.

Today, though, it felt a little different. Rex seemed to be in one of those moods where he wasn’t trying to provoke you or get under your skin. His usual banter was there, of course, but it had a different tone, a quieter one. He was leaning against the wall across from you, his arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, but there was something almost thoughtful in his expression.

“How’s the pain today?” he asked, his voice less sharp than usual. His eyes lingered on you, scanning your body like he was checking for any signs of new injuries. It was rare for Rex to show much concern—at least not in a way that didn’t come with an edge of snark—but now, his concern was clear.

You shook your head, ‘I should be asking you that.’ you think, but you humor his concern. The warmth of it eases your weary heart. “It’s better,” you replied with a small smile. “Just a little sore. I can probably move around more soon.”

“Good,” he nodded, shifting on his feet. “I’m getting tired of watching you lay there looking all… delicate.” 

You had questioned how Rex was moving around better than you did—considering your struggles with just even walking simple enough during your visits to his room—but then again, most of the damage was done to your legs. Near the midsection of your torso and pelvis floor. 

You couldn’t help but laugh, even if the joke wasn’t all that funny. “I’m not delicate, Rex. You should’ve seen me a few days ago. You’d be calling me ‘fragile’ by now.”

Rex snorted, pushing himself off the wall with a lazy roll of his shoulders. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a reputation to uphold. I can’t have people thinking I’m into fragile little heroes.” He winked at you, and there was that mischievous glint in his eyes again.

You couldn’t quite stop yourself from smiling at his teasing, despite the slight warmth spreading across your cheeks. But when you caught yourself, you quickly shifted the conversation, wanting to get back to something more grounded. Something safe.

“So, what’ve you been up to?” You shifted in the bed, propping yourself up a little with the pillow. “Besides glaring at doctors who tell you to leave when visiting hours are over.”

Rex winced, clearly remembering the incident. “Oh, yeah. That was fun.” He grinned, rolling his eyes. “I don’t get why they can’t just let me stay, y’know? I’m fine. I’m like a walking human grenade. Just… let me stay. No harm in it.”

You smirked, shaking your head. “Yeah, I’m sure that went over great.”

“Eh, not really,” he said with a shrug, flopping back down into the chair beside your bed. “But anyway, I’ve been trying to keep my mind off things. You know, getting some rest and… thinking about stuff.”

You raised an eyebrow, unsure of where he was going with this, but you let him continue.

“Stuff like…” He hesitated for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Like maybe figuring out what to do next. I mean, you’re out of action for a bit, right?”

“Yeah, doc said a few more days of bed rest, then I can probably start training again. Hopefully.”

“Good. But after that?” He shot you a side glance, his usual cocky demeanor back in full swing. “You and I gotta get back to kicking ass together, yeah? I mean, what’s next? Maybe take on a few low-level baddies, start working on those big plans we’ve been talking about.”

You laughed lightly. “Big plans, huh? What, like the ones where you throw a building at someone because they looked at you wrong?”

“Exactly. But—” He paused, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest of the chair, his gaze a little distant now. “You know, I was thinking more about, I dunno, bigger changes. Like... how things have been kinda different lately. Between us. You know?”

Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes narrowing in curiosity. “Different, how?”

Rex shifted uncomfortably, but you could tell he wasn’t just stalling for time. This wasn’t just Rex splashing around in his usual bravado. This was something… else.

“Like, uh, how I’ve been, you know, spending more time here.” He ran a hand through his hair, clearly unsure of how to approach the conversation. “Not that I mind. Just… I don’t know, maybe it’s time for some changes. Maybe… we could make things easier.”

You tilted your head, sensing the shift in his words. “Changes? What kind of changes?”

Rex seemed to hesitate, like he was tip-toeing around the subject, but you had to admit—you were feeling the same pull, the same weird longing that you had been trying to ignore. Maybe it was the aftermath of the mission, or maybe it was the quiet, shared moments between the two of you, but something had shifted. The walls between you felt thinner, and Rex wasn’t exactly making it any easier to pretend like nothing was happening.

“Well, y’know, with me… and you… here,” he trailed off, and then he shot you a quick look, like he was trying to gauge your reaction. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if we, like, got a place together. Y’know, after everything. The whole heroes living together vibe.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you had to blink a couple of times to process what he just said. “Wait, what? You mean like... moving in together?” Your voice was quieter now, almost a little nervous.

Rex leaned back in his chair, giving you a sidelong glance, his usual bravado fading just a bit. “Yeah, I mean… why not? I’m around here all the time anyway. And let’s be honest, you can’t get rid of me at this point. You’ve been putting up with me for, what, a few months now?”

The few months in question being more than a few years. Though, you had only started not long after he debuted as a hero himself. 

Your heart was racing now. The way he said it was casual, like it was just a simple thing, but you could hear the weight behind it. The potential. The idea of you both taking that step—of being more than just teammates, more than just friends.

You swallowed, the words getting caught in your throat. “I… hadn’t really thought about it. But I guess that could work. We’re kind of already inseparable anyway, huh?”

Rex smirked, but this time it was different, softer. “Yeah, you know it. And it’s not like you’re going to find anyone who can put up with your weirdness better than me.”

You laughed, but the feeling that had settled between you both was undeniable now. There was something in the air, something that lingered like a spark waiting to catch fire. It wasn’t a declaration, not yet—but it was something, and it felt right in a way you hadn’t expected. You thumbed the fabric of the blanket you’ve become so assimilated with, feeling the weightlessness and texture. Then you decided. 

“Okay, fine,” you said, a smile creeping onto your face. “We can look into it. But don’t think I’m going to let you take over the whole place with your stupid video games.”

Rex shot you a playful wink. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. You’ll have your own space. Promise.”

For a moment, the room was filled with a quiet kind of anticipation, the two of you sitting there, silently contemplating what this could mean. But no matter what happened next, you knew one thing for sure.

“Right,” You laughed, shaking your head at his mischievousness. “I’m holding you to that hero.” 

“Hero!” he questions with a laugh of his own, slinking back into the chair. “That's your nickname for me?” He asks, his tone surprisingly gentle. 

Nicknames, he strangely really liked those. They were a sort of personal intimacy that could not usually be shared with just the average person. Usually you rarely shared a nickname with him, for him, one of your very own. You were pretty famous within your group of guardians for your nicknames, insults in an instant that Rex may be good at, but your ability to come up with nicknames was something else. 

Even if it was just a nickname like the one you had just uttered. 

“What, don't like it?” You retort, arching a brow. Rex’s brows shoot up, and you just giggle, shaking your head; indicative of you messing with him. He grunts, shaking his head at your roguish words. He leans forward, resting his arms in his lap. 

“S’fine, but i kinda—” He pauses, almost as if he truly was searching for words. “Expected something more.” Rex finishes, smiling at you. Nicknames were something personal, connecting to something on a deeper level. You knew Rex didn’t realize that yet, as you were more than flat with the term as a nickname, you couldn’t blame him for that aspect. Though that same boisterous energy held true, and you were more than glad for it. Maybe you could talk more about the moving in part later, but this was the usual you were content with. 

Scratch that actually. 

You sigh, scratching the side of your head, letting your hand drag down to the nape of your neck: “Maybe I'll let you know if I got something better, hm?” 

Honest to god—you thought you saw stars in his eyes. Even just for a brief moment, and it was beautiful. “Yeah… okay.” He said, tilting his head. 

“Anyway,” You groan, shifting your position to something more comfortable. You opted for laying more on your side, “Moving in together, huh?”

Something akin to a grin creeps onto his face, “Didn’t hear ya say no.” Rex says, leaning even further, using your bed as an armrest. You shake your head, knowing full well what you said. But this was such a perfect chance to jump on the thought, especially since he was the one who brought it up.  

"You know," you started, trying to sound casual but failing to hide the butterflies in your stomach, "that doesn't sound like something you'd suggest unless you were... well, serious."

Rex’s usual deflecting grin was back now, but it looked a little forced. "Well, I’m not always just a walking disaster, you know." His voice dropped to something a little softer, quieter. "I don’t want to be alone anymore, especially after all the crap with the League. It made me realize stuff... made me realize you matter to me."

Your breath caught in your throat. That rare vulnerability in his voice sent an electric current through you, igniting a warmth in your chest. The old Rex, the one who’d never take anything seriously, would have never said something like that. And here he was, standing in front of you, asking for something more than a casual arrangement.

You leaned forward, a small smile tugging at your lips. "You're serious, huh?" you teased, your voice a little softer than you'd intended.

His eyes flit over to yours, “Totally.”

Today was the day. You could feel the flutter of excitement, even if it was mostly muted beneath the layers of fatigue from the scars you bore, all thanks to the Lizard League. The healing was complete. You could finally train again. It wasn’t what you were most excited about, though—no, that honor belonged to something much more domestic. You were finally moving in with Rex.

There had always been a quiet, undeniable tension between the two of you—an electric pull that started as something simple, like friendly sparring, and slowly shifted into something else. You weren’t sure when the change happened, but now here you are, standing at the brink of taking the next step with him.

You had expected Rex to be... well, Rex. A little bit too much of everything—sarcastic, playful, brash—but there was something soft underneath it all, something more than just the angry edge. Moving in together seemed like a natural next step. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. And yet, when you met up with him to start the move, what you didn’t expect was to see him standing there in civilian clothes.

A tight-fitting white shirt, grey sweatpants, and those velcro black shoes he always made fun of.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms.

“Well, this is a new look.” Your voice was light, but inside, you couldn’t deny the surprise.

Rex glanced up from his phone, eyes meeting yours with that cocky, sideways grin you were all too familiar with. He looked more casual than he ever had in front of you. Not a uniform in sight, no explosion-packed gear, no hint of Rex Splode. Just... him.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, stuffing his phone into his pocket and giving you a once-over with exaggerated scrutiny. “I figured if we're doing the whole 'living together' thing, I’d at least try to act normal for once.”

You almost didn’t catch the edge in his words, the way they dropped, the weight behind them. Rex was rarely serious, and when he was, he had this way of hiding it—disguising it with humor, or in this case, an attempt at nonchalance.

You took a step forward, your heart giving a small thump in your chest. The banter was there, but you couldn't ignore the deeper pull. "You know," you began, your voice a little softer now, "you don't need to act normal for me. But I guess it’s too late to take that back now."

Rex’s grin faltered, just slightly, before he stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked away. "Right," he muttered, clearing his throat. "Anyway, enough of that. Where do you want to start? I got the truck and—"

You cut him off, walking closer now, stopping just a few feet away from him. "Rex... we don’t have to rush this, you know?" You watched as his expression shifted, the humor fading just a little bit. "I’m just... I’m just happy we’re doing this. Together."

Rex’s gaze flickered over to you, the grin fully dropping now. His eyes softened, just for a second—before that signature edge slipped back into place. “Yeah, well... I guess I can’t get rid of you now, huh?” He rubbed the back of his neck, his posture shifting awkwardly.

There it was again. That pull. You could almost feel it vibrating in the air between you two, a subtle tension that never really went away, no matter how many sarcastic comments Rex made, or how many times you brushed it off.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound almost embarrassed. “You know, Rex, for someone who’s so used to blowing things up... you sure do get nervous easily.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise. "I don’t get nervous," he protested, immediately turning away to hide whatever flicker of vulnerability had just crossed his face. “I’m fine. Let’s just get moving.”

You tilted your head, taking another step toward him, the distance between you slowly shrinking. “Okay. Sure, fine. But we can take it slow, you know? No rush.”

Rex looked at you again, and this time there was no hiding the way his gaze softened—just for a second—before he looked down at his feet. “Yeah, no rush. We’ve got time.”

And in that moment, you both knew it was true. You’d always had time, always had a chance to figure things out. There was something undeniable about the way Rex was with you now—something that felt like it was edging toward something real, something more than the teasing or the sarcasm.

He cleared his throat, attempting to regain some of his usual cocky composure. “Alright, alright. So, do we start with the kitchen stuff or—”

But before he could finish, you took a step closer, unable to resist the pull any longer. You gently nudged his shoulder, smirking at him. "Let’s start with something simpler. Like... making sure I don’t have to carry everything myself."

Rex rolled his eyes dramatically, but there was a softness to the motion. “Oh, right. Because you’re the one who got your ass beat by the Lizard League, huh?” He looked at you, his eyes searching for something.

You didn’t answer, instead just holding his gaze, feeling the weight of everything unspoken between you. The years of friendship, the way it slowly twisted into something more. The way he was changing before your eyes, even if he refused to admit it.

"Yeah, I guess," you muttered, a small smile tugging at your lips. "But I’ve got you now. So no need to worry.”

Rex’s lips twitched upwards, and for a second, you could see that familiar spark in his eyes—the same one that made you think maybe this was something more than just the idea of moving in together.

His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “Guess you do.”

As the two of you moved into the flat, the air between you and Rex was lighter than before, the kind of easy camaraderie that came from shared history and the strange connection you had. Boxes and bags were being shuffled in, and the initial awkwardness faded as you fell into a comfortable rhythm, neither of you needing to say much as you worked.

You were unloading the last of the boxes when Rex dropped a heavy duffel bag near the couch. He wiped his hands on his sweatpants, taking a moment to stretch his shoulders.

"Not bad," he said, his voice casual, but there was a hint of satisfaction in it, like he'd just crossed something off a list. "Guess we’re almost done."

You gave him a teasing smile, shaking your head. "You’re such a workhorse," you said, rolling your eyes. "Don’t get used to it. I’ll let you slack off when the time comes."

Rex snorted, a grin spreading across his face. "Oh, really? You’re gonna be the one bossing me around now? I’m not sure I can handle that."

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe, watching him. "Oh, I think you’ll manage." The grin on your face softened, and for a moment, you just stood there, looking at him. The thought of being here with him, the two of you, moving in together, felt right. So much has changed in the last few months—his recovery, his growth, and your growing feelings for him.

It was all so... overwhelming. But in the best way.

As Rex stepped past you to grab a couple more boxes, you moved closer, almost instinctively. The thought of it crossed your mind, but before you had time to second-guess it, you gently caught his arm.

He paused, looking down at you, his brow furrowing slightly in curiosity. "What’s up?"

"Hold still," you said softly. Before he could say anything, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, the faintest brush of your lips against his skin.

It was a simple gesture. A quiet moment. But in it, you felt the rush of something more—the warmth that spread through you both as you pulled away.

Rex froze, eyes wide as he stared at you, mouth slightly agape. For a moment, it was as if the world stopped spinning around the two of you.

"Did you—" He swallowed hard, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. "Did you just...?"

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, a little embarrassed at how your heart raced. "Yeah, I did."

His gaze softened for a moment, his usual smirk faltering, replaced by something else—something you couldn’t quite place. "Huh." His voice was quieter now, and he shifted, running a hand through his hair, trying to cover the slight flush rising in his cheeks. "Well, that was... unexpected. But I guess I’m not complaining."

You smiled, stepping back slightly, trying to hide the warmth that was spreading through your own cheeks. “Guess you’ll just have to get used to it, then.”

Rex blinked at you for a beat, his expression unreadable. He took a half-step forward, then another, like he was trying to figure out how to bridge the space between you. "Yeah?" His voice dropped lower, teasing again, but with a tenderness that hadn’t been there before. "Guess that means I’ll have to do something about it."

You quirked an eyebrow, half-joking, half-serious. "Oh? What are you planning on doing?"

He smirked, leaning in slightly, his eyes gleaming with that familiar cocky edge. "I’ll think of something. You’ll see." Rex noticed, oh did he notice. You were the nervous one now. But he wasn’t about to let you get away with it. 

You sighed, lowering your head for a brief moment as you thought to yourself. Then you snapped right back up. 

"Hey," you called to him, your voice soft yet steady, the kind that invited him to pause and look. His gaze shifted to you, eyebrow raised as if he hadn’t quite expected it.

"Yeah?" He was always a little unpredictable like that—loud and brash one second, then quieter when you least expected it.

You took a few steps toward him, the weight of the boxes in your mind lifting with every step. The air between you had always been a mix of playfulness, banter, and unspoken yearning, but this moment—this was different. The boundaries you had both carefully tiptoed around for so long, now slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Thank you,” you said simply, the words heavy with meaning that couldn’t quite fit inside their simplicity.

Rex chuckled, a soft sound, almost like a reflex. "You know me, I’m just here for the free pizza and the ability to leave when it gets boring." He lifted one hand, the nonchalance a little too practiced, but you could see the exhaustion underneath.

A genuine laugh left you, a warmth blooming in your chest as you watched him. “Uh-huh. Sure, Rex. It’s definitely not like you just moved all the boxes in here just to leave, right?”

His eyes softened for just a moment, the edges of his usual cocky grin melting into something more vulnerable, though he quickly covered it up. “Guess I’m not that bad, huh?” he teased, but there was something different in his tone—something you hadn’t heard before.

You didn’t respond with words. Instead, you took the final step that closed the distance between you, wrapping your arms around him in a hug. His body tensed for half a second, clearly caught off guard, but then his arms were around you, pulling you in close. He exhaled, a long sigh against the side of your neck, his breath warm and steady, like he had been holding it all in for far too long.

Yeah, it was one hell of a relief.

[radiantinvocation]

may I request a PLATONIC hurt/comfort elder faerie x little child! reader who is an outsider and not a faerie? Like as a baby, reader was found abandoned and injured alone in Beast-Yeast near the faerie kingdom, and was taken in by the faeries Reader would grow to be a cute little kid, an absolute kind-hearted sweetheart and at that time the events of beast-yeast chapter 1 and 2 occur with the beasts being released and Elder faerie being attacked by SMC... and since reader is so young and just a little kid, they dont understand what is going on and they are scared and traumatized- too young to have to see all of this Could elder faerie comfort reader through all of this? We all need fatherly hugs from him sigh...

Elder Faerie + Child! Reader

Tags: platonic dynamics (found family)!!! angst with comfort sprinkled in (whoops), no beta we die like yk who

“O, mighty silver tree.

Watch over us from above

And protect the peace and chaos from the world…?”

“No no- that's not right.” You let out a frustrated sigh.

“And protect the peace and balance of this world of chaos.” Elder Faerie corrects you with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Recognizing his voice, you spun around to face him. He gently ruffled your hair as he seemed to reminisce about something.

It felt like yesterday that you were just an infant small enough to fit in his arms. Out of everyone in the faerie kingdom, he was the one closest to you.

When Silverbell found you, an ordinary cookie infant abandoned in the outskirts of the faerie kingdom, he immediately took you to Elder Faerie. His majesty being the gentle soul he is, took you in without much of a question. He’d raise and protect you as if you were his own child.

He was abruptly snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of your voice.

“Elder Faerie sir! What are you doing here? You should be resting right now shouldn’t you?” You asked worryingly. You were aware something was up for the last couple of days, but you were shielded away from the truth. You’re just a child and Elder Faerie just couldn’t bear to tell you of a possible impending disaster.

“My dear child, you shouldn’t be near the silver tree right now. It’s for your safety.” He states gently.

He took your hand into his own as he glanced at the rift in the silver tree. The rift is progressively getting wider… At this rate it’ll only be about time before the beasts escape and spew havoc if he doesn’t act soon. As much as he is the ruler of the faerie kingdom and guardian of the silver tree, he was also your caretaker. He simply couldn't fathom failing to protect you and the kingdom.

Before you could question why Elder Faerie wanted you away from the tree, Mercurial Knight and Silverbell made their way to where both you and Elder Faerie are.

“Your majesty, you called?” Silverbell started before quickly being distracted by your presence. For a moment he smiled and waved at you and naturally you waved back at the adorable looking faerie.

Elder Faerie smiled at the exchange while Mercurial Knight only nodded at you and Silverbell’s antics before giving his majesty his undivided attention.

“Yes I have. Silverbell, I trust that you can look after the young one while I handle some affairs.” Elder Faerie asked while giving Silverbell a knowing look.

“Oh…! Yes! Yes I can, your majesty.” Silverbell replied as he went to pick you up. Since you weren’t a faerie you obviously lacked wings like the rest of the citizens in the faerie kingdom so Silverbell preferred picking you up for easier travel.

Silverbell gave his majesty a nod before departing with you in his arms. Elder Faerie watched as you two left and waited for you and Silverbell to be a good distance away before resuming his talk with Mercurial Knight.

“As for you Mercurial Knight, let us go find the others. We only have limited time left before things can get worse.” Elder Faerie continued.

“Understood your majesty.”

-

“Ah..! That scroll is a little tough for you to read, is it not?” Silverbell asked alarmingly. Most if not all scrolls in the library were written in music notes, so he questioned if his majesty taught you how to understand the notes. Thinking about it, he probably did.

You continued on attempting to decipher the scrolls even asking Silverbell for help when you got stuck. Looking up every once in a while, you noticed that there weren't as many faeries around as there usually are. It was eerily quiet.

Getting up from your spot on the floor you turned to a shelf to put back the scroll to pick up a new one. Spotting one on a high shelf you stood on your tiptoes, only to lose your balance and fall to the ground at the sound of a shriek.

“THE SEAL…!”

As if on queue the ground shook as more screams seemed to come from the direction of the silver tree. Silverbell immediately was at your side trying to haul you up quickly.

“The rift in the silver tree must've opened…!” The faerie next to you said in a distressed tone.

The rift? Is that what that was the entire time? Your mind was trying to process what was going on yet your mind kept going back to one specific thing. Or should you say a specific cookie.

“Elder Faerie…!” Finding your balance you immediately tried to find the exit of the library. You had to find your caretaker–Make sure he's ok!

Not wasting any time, you ran out of the library. You could hear Silverbell attempting to get you to stop but it was futile. Kids surprisingly get quite far in such a short time apparently. Your little legs can only get you so far in such time but you'll make it!

Every corner you turned there was mass destruction. Deceit was spreading all over the kingdom and you watched as many faeries turned to embrace the chaos–turning into mere puppets of deceit.

Silverbell was hot on your trail desperately trying to catch up. He knew exactly where you were headed and he was worried. A child like you shouldn't be experiencing any of this. You can't see the state his majesty is in you just can't.

The silver tree was finally in your view. Looking frantically you looked around for a certain cookie. He had to be ok, he just had to.

Just as you set your eyes on who you were looking for, you could only look in fear as your view was obstructed by a beast.

“Ahhh fresh air! Feels nice to be out of that place!” The beast said as it seemed to stretch its arms.

You were frozen in place out of fear and were about to stumble backwards. Silverbell now at the scene as well was able to catch you before you fell. He also watched in fear as the beast took a look around the area.

“I see I have QUITE the audience today!”

“Let's see here who do we haveee…!”

“I already said hello to Pure Vanilla, that's one. Some… annoying looking cookies that makes five. Ah, two faeries! Seven! Oh and I CAN'T forget about Elder Faerie! Oh? A rather young cookie too..? Oh well, the more the merrier!”

Tensing up at the last part of the beast’s sentence, Elder Faerie looked back and spotted you–with Silverbell trying his best to comfort you.

Weighing his decisions, Elder Faerie turned his back on the beast and rushed to be by your side. He failed halfway to get to you as half of his energy was depleted to revive another's life.

“Your majesty!”

Seeing him fall to his knees horrified you and you ran to his side. Tears started to well up in your eyes as you took in the gravity of the situation. Seeing your caretaker struggle to keep himself up scared you.

As for Elder Faerie he was sorry. Sorry for you. Sorry that he couldn't do more in time to prevent the situation altogether.

Using what little strength he had in him he gathered you in his arms and let his wings wrap around you. It was his best attempt at trying to get you to look away from the sight of the beast.

“It'll all be alright dear. Don’t look at him. Look at me.” Elder Faerie said as he checked around your face and arms for any scratches.

Shadow Milk only grumbled at the sight. “Uh HELLOOO, main character still HERE. Cmon! No need to be so toothrottingly sweet right now.”

Elder Faerie grimaced at the shrill sound of the jester's voice. He had to get you away from the area. For what he was about to do, would send your mind spiraling. He’s sorry, but there is no other way. Not in his current state anyway.

He glanced at Shadow Milk then at you. Standing up with you in his arms, Elder Faerie approached Silverbell once more and passed you to him– not without leaving you with some words of comfort and farewell.

His last words to you? “It’ll be over before you know it, young one. Do not worry about me.” His voice faltered as he noticed a blue hyacinth flower on the ground. Plucking it off the ground he inspected it before handing it over to you.

“Rest up child, tomorrow is another day.” He smiled at you. Without even letting you make a sound of protest and he brought his hand over to cover your eyes. Silverbell watched curiously as his majesty put you to sleep.

“Your majesty! We cannot hold back the beast much longer!” Elder Faerie and Silverbell regarded Mercurial Knights' warning before facing each other again.

“Your majesty...” Silverbell started to tear up knowing the fate of his majesty.

Giving one final command to Silverbell, he instructed for you to be taken away to your chambers to rest. Silverbell obliged his command and promised to be back to help if time allowed it.

Elder Faerie thanked Silverbell before turning back to face Shadow Milk. The jester in question grinning from ear to ear ready to put on a show.

His majesty has no regrets but one. His only regret being he could not spend more time with you and watch you grow and walk the path you choose.

Note: Guhhh sorry for the wait anon! Had to brainstorm how to keep some canon story elements like him biting the dust while also trying to provide comfort. I'm a sucker for found family and Elder Faerie.

I hope I could bring justice to your request.

[pseudoquiddity]

DID YOU KNOW? The Stamatins share a candle in the theater of death - implication being they share a soul, a heart, a life. But did you ALSO KNOW that the Saburovs do too? I've been thinking about how similar the Stamatins and the Saburovs are and how P2 is actively comparing them, and I think P3 will make that comparison very important to their characters. A long thing that only I care about under the cut:

For a game that's all about love, the Stamatins and Saburovs are the only characters who conventionally "share" love as a couple and have a relationship (The Kains are all disparate, so are the Olgimskys. Everyone's wives are dead and siblings are opposed. Maria and Khan are like Vlad Jr. and Capella - that's another conversation entirely).

Alexander and Andrey are both made gentle when taking care of their addict-other-half. Andrey is focused on masculine posturing and masculinity in general, as is Alexander through his role as a town leader (mister ruler of the Rod, the spine of the town). Peter, who is archetypically more sensitive and artistic leans toward the feminine (not to strip him of his masculinity, but this is in comparison to Andrey. Because this game talks about binaries, Peter is everything Andrey isn't because two of anything implies a binary). He has almost supernatural visions that don't always pan out that he can't always communicate - the same can be said of Katerina.

Both families care for their daughter - Clara and the Polyhedron ("Have you ever lost a child? Well, mine was just murdered! My brother's, too!") But when Clara leaves the Saburovs and the Polyhedron is near-collapse, both the Saburovs and Stamatins agree to take care of Grace. Essentially, all parties are willing to think of themselves as parents - the Saburovs want so badly to be mother and father, though the Stamatins don't concretely say whether they see themselves as two parent-brothers sharing joint ownership of an idea or if, instead, they exist in a nebulous, undefined marriage that produced a biological miracle.

And, naturally, because they're so similar, the two families hate each other...

And yet, I think it's clear the game stresses that the Saburovs' relationship, for all of its faults and miscommunications, is healthy while there is something miserably wrong with the Stamatins. It's created parallels so that they can be easily compared and becomes obvious when they don't line up.

In the Diurnal ending, Katerina and Alexander's dialogue changes depending on who dies. Katerina and Alexander mourn for each other in their own way, or if neither is dead, they renew their wedding vows underneath a Cathedral bell. What's also sweet is that, on an earlier day, they'll both ask you to help their other half (Katerina wants Artemy to doctor Alexander's stress because Alexander is too proud not to bear everything himself. Alexander wants Artemy to doctor Katerina's delusions because Alexander can't decide whether they're real or not).

On the ALTERNATE side, in the Diurnal ending, Peter's dialogue never changes, no matter if Andrey lives or dies. But Andrey's does - and pretty radically. Andrey only mourns the Polyhedron when Peter's alive, but if he's dead, Andrey's conversation is much less explosive. In what might have been a mirror of the Saburovs' situation, when you go to give Andrey prophylaxis, like Alexander of Katerina - he says that he doesn't need help but his brother does. When you talk to Peter, he doesn't mention his brother and tells you to check on Anna. He even says that he "should have left this god-forsaken place two years ago. Get clean and move away for good," with no mention of Andrey.

It seems like, at every moment, Andrey is attempting to connect with Peter in the same way the Saburovs do - but he's certainly more of a zealout about it. Katerina and Alexander deny that there's anything wrong with them and tell you to check on their partner, but they don't say what Andrey does, and what Artemy points out as abnormal: "Take good care of my brother, doctor. If I kick the bucket, so be it." And at every opportunity, Peter turns away from Andrey. By his own admittance, the only thing keeping him here is his addiction (isn't that suspect) and the Polyhedron.

So, to me... It seems like the Stamatins and the Saburovs have a similar, if not the same, relationship, but what sets them apart is that the Stamatins are an extreme - and quite possibly self-serving in their love (twins, naturally). In P1, the Stamatins were mutually destructive. Andrey fed Peter alcohol, Peter never sought to break free of it despite his resentment, which meant that Andrey would never break the cycle either and would continue grinding himself down for his brother. (If you've ever read a single book that uses incest as a symptom of deeper issues, then the P1 Stamatins are rife with the same kind of themes incest is often used as shorthand for, so just imagine all of those themes for me so I won't re-account all of the P1 Stamatins) But here, the duel-destruction is different. Andrey is smothering Peter, through alcohol or other means (to ensure he stays), and this is killing Peter. Peter wants to separate, and this is killing Andrey. Neither wants to kill the other, but if they don't, they'll kill themselves.

The Saburovs are on either side of their candle, facing a wall, placed side-by-side with the light at their backs. But Andrey is on his knees in front of Peter and their candle, in service to their shared heart. I think the Stamatins are as miserable as they are because their love isn't mutual - which isn't to say they don't mutually love each other, but it's not being given equally. They can't maintain the balance that the Saburovs can.

The P3 Bachelor will have to deal with both the Saburovs and the Stamatins. In a demo mindmap bubble, he can kill Katerina if he doesn't treat her correctly. Likewise, if he doesn't interfere properly, Peter will also die. The Bachelor is forced to maintain a balance in his own mind, but I wonder if he'll have to walk lines elsewhere. Would it be better to keep the manic[Andrey]-depressive[Peter] Stamatins in sustained conflict, or would the death of either twin be more beneficial... How important is it to keep the Saburovs happy, and for them to not end up like the Stamatins...

[notablenotions]

Mask's of Nobility-Chapter 10

It had been five months since Hans married, and somehow, they’d settled into a comfortable routine. Henry spent most nights in Hans’ chamber, slipping away at dawn before anyone noticed. Surprisingly, Henry had begun to enjoy Jikta’s company—he might even call her a friend. Still, a quiet guilt lingered. Jealousy too. He supported Hans, of course, but it didn’t mean he was unfeeling. He never told Hans—why add more weight to his already burdened heart?

Hans had once offered him a room in the castle, but Henry refused. Hans saw him as steady, strong—a rock in a storm. It anchored Hans, gave him comfort. But if he knew Henry had his own demons? That he struggled to breathe some days? Henry didn’t know how Hans would react. He could be unpredictable, impulsive. Dangerous even, if pushed. Since settling in Rattay, Henry had been haunted by fear. His chest would tighten, breath short, hands trembling—panic attacks that left him shaking. His cabin gave him privacy to manage it, to hide it. He couldn’t let Hans see. Not when Hans was drowning in duty, barely holding himself together.

Still, as Henry tried to slow his breath, grounded by Hans’ voice, memories came unbidden—memories of when Hans first came crashing into his life like some absurd, pompous whirlwind. Back then, Henry had been broken, wandering aimlessly in the ashes of Skalitz, nursing pain, grief, and a hollow emptiness that no sword or duty could fill.

And then there was Hans—loud, ridiculous, infuriating. And fun. Gods, he’d brought fun back into Henry’s life, whether it was chasing after thieves, gambling away coin, or getting thrown into jail together over some foolish bet. Hans’ antics forced Henry to laugh again, to live again. Brick by brick, without even meaning to, Hans had helped rebuild him.

At first, it had felt like brotherhood—what else could it be? A bond forged in misadventure and shared burdens. But then… that night, during the siege, when the world felt like it was ending—Hans had kissed him. Fierce, desperate, as if he couldn’t bear another moment without doing so.

It wasn’t brotherly.

It had never been.

Henry had wanted to run. He had tried to run—from the intensity of it, from the sheer truth of it. It was too much. Too soon. But he couldn’t—not from Hans. Not ever. Hans had given him back a life worth living. And more than that, he’d given Henry himself. How could he walk away from that?

Henry had been coping—just. Until a crate crashed in the courtyard one morning, the sound snapping something inside him. His chest seized, breath shallow, the world narrowing. He staggered, unable to hide it.

Jikta was at his side in moments, steadying him, guiding him somewhere quiet. Her touch was gentle but firm. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t judge. She simply murmured calming words, grounding him. Then, without a word to Henry, she sent Katherine to fetch Hans.

Hans, out on rounds, returned in a frenzy. He burst into the chamber, eyes wild with worry, spotting Henry slumped against the wall, pale and shaking, Jikta at his side.

“Henry—!” Hans rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside him, hands hovering, unsure where to touch. “What happened?”

Jikta met his eyes, calm but firm. “He needs you. Help him breathe.”

Hans swallowed hard, his hands finally finding Henry’s. “Henry, look at me. I’m here. Just breathe with me, alright?”

Henry’s eyes fluttered open, glassy but focused on Hans. The panic still gripped him, but Hans’ voice, steady and soft, anchored him.

“I’m here,” Hans repeated. “You’re safe.”

And slowly, breath by breath, Henry began to come back.

-

[evilproxxy]

Guilty

pairing: leland coyle x alice avellanos

rating: nsfw (18+)

summary: Coyle has a score to settle after an embarrassment in the courtroom, and Avellanos is all too willing to reengage her adversary.

tags: hatefuck, blowjob, fingering, squirting, piv sex, degradation, semi-public sex, under-negotiated sexual activity, crack pairing, hc!avellanos

based on Vindicate The Guilty, except Alice isn't just a mannequin - this is just for fun cus I'm addicted to crack shipping, if you're not then that's coooool babyyyy~

"Where d'ya think yer goin'?"

The clacking of high heels on polished stone is replaced by a satisfied laugh.

"Back to work, Sergeant," Alice says smugly as she turns to face the enraged officer, a spiteful smile spreading across rouged lips. "Just like always."

This is all so humiliating. Regardless of Coyle's tireless efforts, no matter how desperately he fights for some kind of justice against this guilty fuckin' bitch, she always manages to escape unscathed. He's had her in this court more times than he can count, and there's always some complication or technicality - usually manufactured and highly questionable - that gets her off the hook. It's infuriating.

"Oh come on now, don't look so sour, Coyle," she croons, pouting with sickeningly sweet mockery. "I'm sure you'll find something you're good at - baking, or maybe cross-stitch - 'cus God knows you're a shit cop."

That hits a nerve. He clenches his jaw, fists balling up at the blatant disrespect. He's dedicated his life to serving his country, trying his damnest to protect it from all the commies and miscreants - and as one of the latter, she has the gall to call him bad at his job?

"Least I ain't gotta rely on anybody to keep me outta the shit," he scowls as he takes a few purposeful strides closer to her. "Musta sucked the skin off the Doc's dick the way he's been pullin' all these strings for you - tamperin' with my evidence, fuckin' over my prosecutor."

She bites, still energised from her latest acquittal and all too willing to take on another fight.

"And what evidence would that be? Because all I saw was a scandalous and baseless accusation that was rightfully dismissed." She's thoroughly amused, relishing the way his jaw flexes indignantly each time she speaks. "I know what it is - you just hate to see a woman win."

He steps a closer again, only a foot or so of thick air still separating them now.

"So self-aggrandising, you can't bear to be bested by someone you consider inferior to you," she purrs, squaring up to him in response. She takes a step of her own, their bodies just shy of touching as she continues to twist the proverbial knife. "I bet it makes your blood boil, being humbled so shamefully in front of all those people."

"You connivin' bitch."

"You're so cute when you're furious."

She reaches a gentle hand up to stroke the rippled flesh of his cheek, and he tries to keep his composure as he stares daggers into her. If looks could kill, he'd be digging her grave already.

"Such an angry little man," she says softly, sweetly, poking the bear with a sadistic delight. "So desperate to prove yourself, aren't you? You're a slave to that recognition you always fall short of receiving."

His pulse quickens, his cheeks growing warmer as she berates him so flippantly. It frustrates him to no end, tying his stomach in knots. "World's full o' corrupted fucks like you. Only so much one man can do."

"Hmm, always lashing out... it's pretty pathetic," she smirks, manicured nails barely grazing down the side of his neck. "You just can't bring yourself to look your own shortcomings in the eye, can you sweetie? I suppose that's why you're always so dramatic and loud, too - must be compensating for something."

"Wouldn't you like ta fuckin' know?"

"Maybe I would," she hums softly, poison in her voice. "But you couldn't handle a woman like me, Leland. You're simply not man enough."

Disgust bubbles in his chest as he seethes at the insult. What's so special about her anyway? Being a sadistic crooked cunt is hardly an achievement in his eyes.

"You ain't got half a clue, honey," he growls, a low rumble in his chest. He reaches up to wrap his hand around her wrist, encircling it firmly. Her expression is unchanged, but he notices the way her eyes darken a shade.

"That so?" She retorts, making no effort to resist his grip. Goosebumps raise on her skin, tingling with anticipation as she continues to push him further. "Because a little birdie tells me you wouldn't even know what to do around a woman with a pulse - you'd rather sit and play with your dolls all day."

He tightens his grip just a touch, but it's enough to draw a soft gasp from between her cherry red lips. There's a flash of excitement in her eyes, and it makes his skin prickle.

"It's true, isn't it?" She says with a small, mocking laugh. "All of your down time's spent with your cock in one hand and a mannequin's tit in the other."

"Yer doin' an awful lotta talkin'," he says with a grunt, displeased at the heat that creeps into his cheeks. "Oughta shut you up once and fer all."

"I'd love to see you try."

She blinks slowly, face only inches from his, eyes hooded with a peculiar kind of lust. She isn't sure what it is that attracts her to the man - whether it's his own undeniable charisma, or the endless entertainment she gets from riling him up - but she'd be lying if she pretended the tension of their adversarial relationship isn't addictive.

He always takes her bait with so little provocation and it draws her in relentlessly, all too eager to watch every reaction - the way his jaw clenches, how his eyes burn through his glasses, the quickening of each enraged breath. It's intriguing and alluring in equal measures.

As far as Coyle is concerned, he hates Avellanos. She's a slippery fucker, always able to evade the long arm of the law he holds so dear, but that only makes the chase all the more enticing. Every time she berates him, insulting his integrity and emasculating him ad nauseum, he finds himself simply aching to prove to her wrong.

And given how she's biting her lip, chest rising and falling a little faster as she bats curled lashes at him, he has a feeling he might just get to.

"Only one way we're gonna settle this, honey."

She flexes her fingers as he keeps a hold on her wrist, feeling a warmth growing low in her belly. "Oh? And what would you propose, Sergeant? Gonna put me over your knee, tell me what a bad girl I've been?"

He slips his unoccupied hand around the curve of her waist, pulling her flush against him. She doesn't resist, only too pleased with the direction he's taking them in. "Somethin' like that."

Lust aside, she still hates the man. He's a pig - a misogynistic chauvinist prick who would never be worth her time under any other circumstances - however that very fact makes the prospect of getting what she wants all the more enticing. To have such a man beg for her, to hear him whine in desperation as she teases him into despair, is a deliriously exciting prospect.

He looks over his shoulder, eyeing the door to an unoccupied office nearby. She follows his gaze, and before he can speak she's pressing her free hand against his chest and pushing in its direction. A knowing, wicked smirk spreads across his lips as he pulls her by her captive wrist, and she wastes no time in following him inside.

Slamming the door closed behind them, their lips meet harshly, almost frantic in their fervour. He releases her wrist and wraps both arms around her body, sliding them roughly over the gentle curve of her back as he presses his hips firmly against hers. Her hands frame his face as she kisses him hard, noses bumping as their tongues wrestle sloppily, lipstick smearing in the process. His hands slide down to grasp at the plush of her ass, bucking his hips against her as she moans into his mouth.

"Never thought... I'd manage to work you up... this much," she whispers breathily between kisses, and Coyle whines in response, pawing at her ass more firmly. The pathetic little sound makes her pulse quicken, and she slides one hand down between their bodies to palm at his clothed crotch, humming in delight as she strokes her fingers against his hardening length. "Need it so bad, don't you?"

"S'all I wanna do..." he grunts, breaking away to start kissing down her neck. "...just fuck the stuck up bitch outta you..."

"Oh yeah?" She gasps, tipping her head back as she blindly fumbles for his belt, dainty fingers tugging at the worn leather as he assaults her neck. "Think you're gonna put me in my place? Think you've actually got a hope in hell?"

He bites and sucks just above the collar of her blouse, leaving a deep bruise on the pristine skin. It'll surely raise some eyebrows in the office, and the thought of her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as she shamefully explains it away makes his cock throb painfully. The whimpering sound she lets slip only makes it worse, causing his breath to catch as he licks a stripe over his beautiful mark.

"Gonna fuck you to tears, honey."

Her heart skips a beat as she slips her hand into his pants, wrapping her fingers around his length as it strains against his underwear. "Big boy," she hums, more than a little surprised. Her fingertips can barely meet around his girth, and she relishes in the way his hips jerk against her. "I just hope you know how to use it."

He exhales shakily against her neck as she gives him a firm stroke, sighing in his ear as he continues to grope at her. He brings one hand away from her ass to reach for her chest, digging into the soft fat of her breast through her crumpled blouse. She moans softly but scolds herself for indulging a little too much in his touch, instead trying to focus back on maintaining control.

One hand still wrapped around his cock, she uses the other to press against his chest, pushing him back towards the desk in the middle of the small office. His ass bumps against the edge and he rests back onto it, eyes widening when she drops to her knees. She pulls him completely out of his pants, now able to pump the full unrestrained length of it before slipping him between her lips without a word.

The strangled sound that escapes his throat is electrifying for her, spurring her on as his hands tangle in her hair, loosening the neat updo. She continues to stroke him as her tongue swipes across the underside of his thick shaft - it's a strange sensation, the texture of burn scars feeling foreign on her tongue as she hollows her cheeks around him. He's a little too big to take comfortably but she steels herself, breathing shakily through her nose as she pushes deeper with each enthusiastic bob of her head.

"Now that's fuckin' beautiful," he groans, taking off his sunglasses to get an unobstructed view of the spectacle between his legs. "Shoulda known that mouth could do more than jus' talk shit."

She cups her free hand around his balls and applies a little pressure with the heel of her palm as the other continues to stroke the lower half of his cock, enjoying the obscene sloppy sounds of her work. She's relishing every desperate little whine and grunt that leaves his lips, each strained gasp, the way he bucks his hips up against her - she knows he's enjoying himself, and pleasuring him in such a shameless way keeps her pulse firmly between her legs.

"Dunno why we waited so- fuck... so long for this, honey" he hums lazily, meeting her gaze as she looks up through teary lashes. "Been wantin' to fuck you since the first time you rolled in here."

She pulls him out of her mouth with a slick pop, grinning as she spreads saliva and little streaks of lipstick along his length with each long stroke of her hand. "Never had the balls," she purrs, giving them a squeeze to punctuate the insult. "Needed me to piss you off enough to finally do something about it."

He scowls, tightening his grip in her hair. "Preferred you with yer mouth full, Alice."

She smirks, flicking her tongue against the underside of his leaking head before speaking again. "And I prefer you when you're moaning, Leland. Much better than all that senseless barking you usually do, dumb fucking dog."

She raises to her feet, bending slightly at the hip to continue stroking him as she leans in to press a kiss against his parted lips, tugging at his tie to pull him against her. He kisses back roughly, fingers still tangled in her golden locks as more silky strands fall free from her hair tie. She gasps when his knuckles tighten against her scalp, firmly grasping one handful and moving the other down to tug the hem of her pencil skirt higher up her thighs.

"You gon' let this dog have a lil' fun too, or what?"

She nods, a little too needily to preserve her own dignity, and she parts her legs slightly to allow him access. Still stroking him dutifully, she feels the cool leather of his glove graze against her inner thigh, reaching under her bunched up skirt and tracing a line up to her panties. The breath catches in her throat when he pulls them aside, sliding a finger between her folds.

"Good God, even through the leather I can feel how fuckin' slick you are," he purrs, relishing the way her eyes flutter shut when he brushes his finger past the slick entrance, teasingly stroking around it and enjoying the way it makes her thighs tremble. "Only a whore'd get this wet from havin' a dick in their mouth, Missy."

Her hand slows on his cock as he brushes his fingertip over her sensitive clit, and when she parts her lips in a choked gasp he pushes it inside without warning.

"Fuck, Coyle," she whimpers, and he pulls her head back, latching onto her neck once again to sucking another cranberry bruise into her skin. He curls his finger inside her as he pushes in to the last knuckle, and she bites her lip to stifle a cry. "Jesus, gonna make my legs give out you bastard."

He pushes another finger inside, and she grips his cock hard as her other arm braces against his shoulder. "Thought I weren't man enough fer you, Miss Avellanos?"

"Fuck you."

"Why, I intend to."

He sucks at her neck again, and when a third gloved finger slips inside she tenses up. "Fuck, too much," she pants, stroking his cock once again as she winces at the stretch, the leather thickening each digit noticeably. "Shit, slow down a bit."

"Yer a big girl," he says with a smirk, forcing her head to meet his eyes as her legs buckle slightly. "You can take it."

She strokes her thumb over the tip of his cock and attempts to steady her breathing, trying to focus on his pleasure to distract herself from the way her body is coiling up already - but as he fucks the leather-clad fingers into her at just the right angle, it's not long before she's screaming out.

"Oh, you filthy bitch!"

She comes hard, with a wet rush of heat between her legs. She squirts unceremoniously on his hand, body curling forward as he keeps thrusting up into her, grinning as her thighs tremble uselessly around his hand.

She straightens up just enough to kiss him roughly, drawing in shaky breaths through her nose as he kisses her back just as hard. He pulls his fingers out from inside of her, breaking away from the kiss to lick the leather in an obscene performance. She watches in awe, cheeks flushed with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment as he lets out a satisfied laugh.

"You were up there battin' yer lashes on the stand, lookin' like butter wouldn't melt," he says with a wolfish grin. "If only they could see ya now, if only they knew what a lil' whore you really are."

"Takes one to know one," she retorts breathily, kissing him again and tasting herself on his tongue as she presses her palm into his chest once again. "Now shut up and move back."

He slides further onto the desk and she climbs onto his lap, skirt gathered around her waist as she straddles his thighs. She continues to kiss him messily, the last of her lipstick all but wiped away in the heat of their spiteful passion. He grips her ass again as she removes the tie from her hair and unbuttons her blouse, exposing the blush across her heaving chest as the last of her once-neat hair falls down her back. She raises herself up on her knees and positions herself just above his cock, bracing herself against his broad shoulder with one hand and guiding him into her with the other.

"Good dogs get treats," she whispers, barely teasing the tip in and out as he tries to push himself up into her. "Gonna be a good boy for me?"

He nods almost frantically and she sinks down onto it, causing him to hiss at the tight squeeze. She lets out a wanton moan, throwing her head back as his lips meet her flushed chest, trailing sloppy kisses over the new unmarked skin. The stretch of his cock is a greater than his fingers, and it makes her breaths ragged as she takes a moment to adjust to his size. As he sucks and bites another possessive mark into the skin just below her collarbone, she takes his cap from his head and places it on her own.

"Suits you," he says with a grunt. "Been needin' a badge to go with all that corruption after all."

She laughs, breathy and a little dazed as she bounces in his lap. "Like the thought of a woman in uniform, huh?"

"Like the way you're cunt's grippin' me even better."

As she continues to ride him, hips rolling with each stroke as she clings to him for support, he reaches up to grasp firmly at her breasts. He pulls the lace brassiere down over the curves, leaning in to suck at one of her nipples, and she lets out a desperate cry when he bites a little too hard. It only spurs him on, the sound of pleasure with a little pain all too arousing for him. She watches through lust-clouded eyes as he licks at the sensitive nub, steel grey looking back up at her as he grins unabashedly. He moves to the other nipple, repeating the gesture as he paws at the plush of her other tender breast.

"Looks like we've found a better use for your mouth too," she pants, a sweat breaking over her body as she fucks herself down onto him. He sucks hard in response, and it pulls a broken gasp from her lips as she mewls at the sensation.

"Had yer fun?" He growls, and it feels more like a threat that a genuine question. She hums a kind of acknowledgment, but she's too focused on the way her walls are clenching around him to verbalise any thoughts. Without warning, he grasps her by the thighs and stands, turning to lay her down on the desk. It's rough and a little clumsy, his cap falling to the floor and a little grunt escaping her lips as her back hits the desk. It's quickly replaced by a loud moan when he begins to forcefully thrust into her, able to set his own pace now.

"Jesus, Leland, fuck!" She cries as he throws her legs over his shoulders, hands clamped to her hips as he pistons in and out of her mercilessly.

"Not man enough, huh?" He growls, leaning forward to press her thighs into her chest. "But yer the one squeezin' my dick like yer life depends on it. You go on and come fer me again, honey. I know you need it."

And she does, a violent shuddering orgasm that has her clawing at his shoulders as she cries out his name. He fucks her through it, his rhythm never faltering as she arches her back off of the desk.

She babbles, not allowed a moment to recover from her climax as he greedily seeks out another. "Fuck, God, feels so-"

"Don't have ta tell me, sweetheart," he laughs breathily, leaning in to kiss her roughly once again. "I know."

He leans back to look down at his cock as it slides in and out of her, one hand around her ankle to keep her knee pushed firmly into her chest as he strokes his gloved hand over her clit. She brings her hands up to tangle in her hair desperately, groaning loudly as she squeezes around his cock.

"Fuckin' fiendin' for it, needy bitch."

"Shhhhut up!"

She comes with an almost pained cry, eyes watering from the overstimulation as her chest heaves, fingers tightening in her hair as she tries to ground herself. His strokes start to grow ragged as he nears his own release, grunting with each stroke as he leans in to press their foreheads together. She wraps her hands around the back of his neck, mesmerised by the intense heat of his skin as a sheen of sweat builds below her fingertips. They lock eyes, and as a tear rolls down her cheek, he flashes her a wicked grin.

"Hope yer on the pill."

"Don't you fucking dare!"

She slaps his shoulder angrily as he comes hard, shamelessly draining his balls inside her while she curses him.

"You shit-eating little bastard! You're lucky I am, else I'd be fucking suing you!"

He barely hears a word of it as he stutters to a finish, chest heaving as he rests on his elbows and keeps her caged in between him and the desk.

"Ugh, you're so gross. Get off of me."

"Aw, c'mon - can't have one more lil' kiss before ya send me on my way?" He sing-songs, thoroughly amused at the appalled expression on her flushed face.

"Get it out of me or so help me God, I'll rip it off."

With a victorious grin, he pulls out, stepping back to allow her some space to begin correcting herself. He tucks his cock back into his pants as he watches her redress, shakily perching on the desk as trembling fingers button up her blouse. He sighs as she avoids his gaze, a blush still lingering on the apples of her cheeks.

"Ya want a smoke or what?"

She hesitates for a moment, chewing on her lip before looking up at him. "I'd kill for one, actually... thanks."

Now in a more suitable state of presentation, she takes the cigarette he holds out to her. With his own hanging from his lips, he leans in close to light both from the same flame. He reaches out to brush a finger down the side of her neck, letting out a little laugh as they both take respective drags.

"Have fun explaining that."

Her hand immediately reaches up to cover the marks he's left there, and she scoffs. "Yeah, thanks for that. Gonna be stuck in turtlenecks for the next week, you dick."

"Didn't hear you complaining."

She takes another thoughtful drag, watching him for a moment before speaking. "Don't think any of this changes what I think about you. You might be a good lay, but I still think you're an insufferable prick."

"Feelin's mutual, honey."

He picks up his sunglasses, putting them on before turning back to her. He reaches out a hand to brush her hair behind her ear, giving her a sly smile.

"I don't wanna be seein' ya back in court too soon. You go on and be a good girl now."

She clicks her tongue, giving him a wink for good measure.

"Not a chance."

[inexorablyinsecure]

An exhale leaves his breath, and Sinclair winces, as he leans, as he shifts to the left, and lets the Halberd of his other self graze his arm. If he had taken it head on, it may have taken his arm. But he had fought himself enough in the Railway to know his own tells. That had been one blessing of the Peccatulum.

His hands tightened around the shaft of the axe, and he swung it upwards vertically; rending himself in two this time, as the axe cleaved through flesh, bone, and cloth all the same, leaving trails of bloody splinters in its wake... And yet as he spun it around, unable to block the nail that had embedded itself in his stomach, from the advancing One Who Grips...

He noticed the weapon beginning to splinter in his hands. It had been out too long. Waves of feelings were embedding themselves in his hands, in his heart, as he narrowed his eyes. Fear. Betrayal. He had trusted someone so much, he had given them everything. He was willing to bare his soul for those he loved, and yet he knew, every time, that it would come back to hurt him. That it would splinter, that it would infect every piece of him, and it would hurt. That when those wounds were tread upon, they would reopen, and the splinters would stab into him time and time again.

But that didn't stop him from getting close to others. Quite the opposite, it almost seemed as if that was what drove him to make friends. To form bonds, for as painful as the splinters were, they were a reminder. A reminder of those who tried to be his friend. Who betrayed him, and yet, those who also had made their mark on him. And yet...

The longer the splints remained, the longer the Branch remained, the more the memories flickered, and turned sour. The more he was made to reconcile those that had yet to betray him. Those branches, those seeds of friendship that had soured, yes, but had been yet to be acted upon.

The color blue.

A soft scarf.

A gentle voice.

A guiding hand. A warning barely given. A mold, he was being shaped to fit into.

His stomach turned, and nausea set in, as the betrayal that was yet to fully come was the worst to imagine. His grip on the axe almost splintered the shaft, and he couldn't bear to say anything more, as he spun the axe in his hands, and... With a tortured scream, threw it forwards, with force enough to split not only the shoddy copy of the One Who Grips, but the axe itself in two.

welcome to the n corp kill list. glad to have you here

H.... Huh??

[Kromer's voice is quiet yet shaky. As if it is trying to make sure that it won't wake Sinclair. However, that consideration quickly vanishes given the following series of events.]

[Kromer's free arm is suddenly attached to another person. Guido. They both sit in silence for a moment, seeming to take a moment for their minds to catch up to the baffling situation.]

...

[Kromer oddly... Doesn't even feel fear at first. Kromer doesn't feel anything. Even as Kromer is roughly thrown off Sinclair, a nail going through its head, there is barely a flicker of emotions.]

[And then comes the resurrection. One much more painful than what is typically done for resurrecting a Sinner. Kromer can feel every fibre of its matter sew back together slowly, only to be interrupted by another stab. The machine's arms violently twitch, as if Kromer is trying to get a moment of reprieve between murders. Eventually, the android manages to redirect the nail to hit the floor beside it. Kromer squirms and catches a hand on its PDA. Kromer needs to open it. Kromer needs to message someone: Yuzu, Dongbaek-- anyone!]

[But... There's a message waiting for Kromer as the android powers on its device.]

[Those words are what strikes that cold stake of fear through Kromer's chest. (though, it takes Kromer a moment to realize that the machine actually DOES have a nail also staked through its chest) Desperation starts to leak through the android's movements. Kromer can't escape. Kromer kicks, claws, tries to get its feet under it to run... Yet nothing works. There's two more people over Kromer, the robot's arms quickly get nailed to the floor and pinned like a moth on display.]

[The people above Kromer are geering the prosthetic. They repeatedly drive nails into Kromer, they tear at Kromer's prosthetic body-- yet Kromer's body keeps being brought back from the brink of death. If something vital is removed, Kromer's body quickly reattaches it. Yet Kromer is very quickly learning what its like to be on the other side of this torture. The prosthetic's ability to talk has already been removed, Kromer's left leg has been discarded off to the side, and as a nail is driven through Kromer's head for what seems to be the hundredth time, Kromer is finally realizing something.]

[All of those people Kromer hurt. They felt this. Their last remaining cries for help weren't just 'survival instincts'. They weren't 'scared of shutting down'...]

[Kromer hurt actual innocent people.]

[Kromer knows the people above it are talking, likely trying to communicate to Kromer. But the realization of the culmination of Kromer's life seems to have made it impossible to pay attention.]

[This... This is what Kromer gets. Kromer... Deserves this.]

[Another stake is driven through Kromer's head. At this point there is a halo of oil, blood, and other liquids around Kromer. The robot keeps being dragged back to life just as it's ended.]

[mintjeru]

ue ue ue...

open for better quality | no reposts

[multific]

Love Beyond History

Emperor Geta x Reader

Summary: All husbands must love their wives. The Emperor was no exception.

In the magnificence of Ancient Rome, there existed a love story that defied expectations. 

It revolved around Emperor Geta, a notorious figure known for his insatiable thirst for blood in the gladiator games, and his beloved wife, a gentle soul who despised violence. 

As the sun cast its golden glow upon the Colosseum, Geta and his wife, you, found yourselves surrounded by a roaring crowd, eagerly awaiting the sensation that unfolded before you. 

Gladiator games.

The air was thick with anticipation and the scent of sweat mixed with the metallic smell of blood. 

While Geta enjoyed the brutality of the games, you struggled to moderate your own emotions with the darkness of said games.

Amidst the clamour and the rising heat, you felt a wave of sickness washing over you. You were sitting beside Geta, his brother watching from his own chair.

The sight of blood and the overbearing atmosphere became too much for your heart to bear. 

Your face paled, and your breathing grew shallow. 

As if sensing your distress, Geta turned to you.

With a concerned look, Geta gently took your shaking hand in his own. 

He led you away from the frenzy, finding comfort in a secluded corner where the noise of the Colosseum was muted and it was a bit colder. 

His voice, soft and soothing, whispered words of comfort and love into her ear. 

"My Darling. It is probably way too hot for you, and also the blood. I know how much you dislike it."

"Geta. I'm sorry." you whispered as you finally felt like you could breathe.

"No need for it. I only wished for you to share the same love for the games as I do. But I see it now, this really is not for you." 

"I'm truly sorry." Moved by his tenderness, you looked into his eyes, realizing the depth of his affection. 

At that moment, Geta sealed his devotion with a tender kiss on your forehead.

It was a gesture that spoke volumes, an affirmation of his love for you.

As the night arrived in Rome, Geta and you retired to your chambers after dinner. 

The flickering candlelight danced upon your faces, illuminating the room with a warm glow. 

It all filled your heart with such happiness.

You believed, that in this room, you were only a wife and a husband, nothing less, nothing more.

No Rome, no power, no titles.

Just a man and a woman.

Geta, captivated by the beauty and kindness in you, watched you as you peacefully slept. 

The Emperor rolled onto his side watched your face in the candlelight as you faced him.

Overwhelmed by the depth of his emotions, he was awestruck by the fortunate turn of fate that had brought you together. 

Even if it wasn't fate. It was all him.

His selfish nature declared you as his wife the moment your eyes met his.

But in that moment, he realized that his love for you had transformed him. Softening the edges of his bloodthirsty nature and revealing a gentler side.

With a heart full of appreciation, Geta whispered silent words of adoration into the night. 

He vowed to cherish you, to protect you from the darkness that lurked beyond the chambers. 

And so, your love story continued to unfold, defying the expectations of a bloodthirsty emperor and his gentle wife. 

It was the kind of love that exceeded history.

People the upcoming centuries learned about the brutal Emperor Geta and his beloved wife.

Truly a love story worth learning about.

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou 

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen 

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[shotmrmiller]

Simon who works for UPS. He delivers packages as per usual and ends up at your house. He picks up the massive box with ease from the back of his work truck, barely a grunt in effort, and places it down at your front door.

He knocks because goddamn fucking company demanding signatures for packages people buy is just absurd.

Then you open the door.

Maybe it's just him, who's a burly man with shoulders that're too broad and height that in some entrances he has to duck lest he smacks his forehead on the door frame but you...

are small.

Soft looking thing, too. Hands look smooth and delicate; probably never lifted anything heavier than a grocery bag. Fragile, like the contents inside the box you've ordered.

"Sir?" your voice is soft, gentle; just like what you look like.

"Need your signature for this, apologies for the bother, ma'am."

The signature machine is already small on its own, but in his bear-like hand, it's dwarfed. It lets him hold it in its entirety, so that your fingers are forced to brush against his to sign.

Skin is like the finest silk, and so very warm against his leathery flesh.

Polar opposites.

He thickly swallows the pooling saliva in his mouth.

"It wouldn't be too much trouble to, uhm, help me bring that in, just right here by the couch."

A shame the living room is right by the entrance.

"I can do tha'."

He bends his strong legs, curling his fingers under the bottom of the box and lifts on an inhale.

Simon doesn't miss the way your pretty eyes widen a fraction at his strength, either.

As you take numerous strides, it takes only three of his to reach the couch and stand before it.

Bitty.

"Right here is perfect, thank you."

The box thuds on your white tile floor when he places it down, and quickly turns to leave, but bumps into you instead. You yelp and stumble backwards as if he'd pushed you back with two hands.

Puny.

"Apologies," he murmurs while steadying you by gripping your forearm firmly.

Apologies, because sorry implies regret, which he doesn't have. Certainly not when he's got a tiny feel of your soft body against his sturdy one.

He reluctantly lets go, and heads for the door, not wanting to make you any more uncomfortable. (or scare you off so soon- he's only just laid eyes on you)

"Thank you for the help! Have a good day!"

Simon gives you a small wave and hops into the drivers seat.

His day is already that much better, especially since his sharp eyes noticed a lack of jewelry on your left hand.

He's already memorized your address, too.

Simon tells himself to wait at least a week before 'mistakenly' dropping off a package at your house.

[pathologicalreid]

shelter from the storm | s.r.

in which your son comes to your room in the middle of the night seeking the safety of his father's arms.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: fear of storms, spencer reid dilf agenda, boy dad!spencer word count: 1.07k a/n: need to give this man a baby immediately oh my god it's so bad the voices

Spencer woke up first; the very first hint of a rumble caused his eyes to flutter open before he even heard the patting of the rain on the window. He glanced at the clock, only for it to read just past two in the morning, grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, and tried to nudge you awake.

He was a much lighter sleeper than you; years of being conditioned to wake up to the slightest vibration of a phone had caused that. While he’d gotten over his own fear of storms, Spencer always kept an eye out for them, knowing it was a trait that your toddler had acquired.

“Hmm?” You responded to his nudge, stuck between being asleep and being awake. With your eyes open only slightly, you saw the flash of lightning peek in through the blinds and immediately sat up. “Jamie?” You whispered your son’s name while Spencer flicked on the lamp on his bedside table.

The two of you shared a knowing look when you heard the pattering of bare feet on the hardwood floor. You left your bedroom door open just a crack, so all he needed to do was push the door open and peek his head inside. “Mama?” He whimpered just as softly as you’d whispered his name.

Jamie’s glasses were crooked on his face, thick black frames that surrounded his brown eyes. Sometimes, when Spencer looked at his son, it felt like he was looking at a reflection of his past—something he’d never experienced until he was born. Jamie clutched a stuffed teddy bear in his hand, wearing matching glasses you’d affixed to the animal so the two of them could match.

As soon as your three-year-old saw his parents sitting up in bed, his little face crumpled in relief. “Daddy,” he called this time, and before he knew it himself, Spencer was getting out of bed to gather his son in his arms.

“Hey, lovey,” Spencer cooed, crouching so he could pick Jamie up, adjusting the way the stuffed bear—named Garcia, after his godmother, and affectionately nicknamed Bearcia—rested so no one was being crushed. “It’s raining really hard out there, huh?”

Wrapping his arms tightly around his father’s neck, Jamie held on while he was brought over to the bed. Once he was within reach, you rested a gentle hand on his back but made no move to take him into your arms. Knowing that he could comfort his son when he was scared reassured Spencer; it told him he was a good dad. He never would have gone to his own father for protection, and that’s all he’d ever wanted to be as a dad—dependable, protective.

You hushed Jamie when thunder cracked again, “Oh, my poor baby.” Moving over on the mattress to rest your head on your husband, giving you the range to press a soft kiss on your son’s forehead.

The feeling of tears as they seeped through Spencer’s t-shirt broke his heart; it almost made him wish he could control the weather to his benefit. Instead of forbidding the storm, he craned his head back to meet Jamie’s red-rimmed eyes, “’s okay to be scared,” he assured him.

Jamie squeezed his teddy bear for comfort and looked at your bedroom window; the blinds were still closed to prevent the eventual morning light from getting in. The toddler mumbled something unintelligible about the rain before sniffling. He used the sleeve of his dinosaur footie pajamas to wipe his face before resting his head against his father.

Getting up from the bed, Spencer walked Jamie over to the window and opened the blinds so he could see the rain, hoping that taking the mystery of the storm away would take away some of the fear. “When the lightning goes again, if we count the seconds until the thunder goes, we’ll know how far away the storm is,” he explained to Jamie, smoothing the toddler’s hair from his forehead and swaying gently while they waited for the flash of light.

“Woah,” Jamie breathed when the lightning struck, childlike wonder lighting up his features while Spencer started counting. “Two,” Jamie joined softly, “Three, four, five, oh!”

Thunder rumbled, and Spencer couldn’t help but smile to himself when Jamie curled into his side for safety. “We counted five, and if we divide by five, that means the storm is one whole mile away.” He didn’t expect the three-year-old to understand the mathematics, but he knew Jamie liked to have things explained to him.

At some point, you’d crept out of the room, and Spencer didn’t notice until you were tiptoeing back in, holding Jamie’s blankie and setting it in the middle of your shared bed. “One,” Jamie started counting on his own at the next flash of lightning, “two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine!” This time, he smiled proudly up at his father when he finished counting, “More!”

Spencer nodded before closing the blinds once more. "That’s right; it means the storm is moving further away from the house.” He brought Jamie back to the bed, laying him down on his blankie with Bearcia in his tiny clutches. “Now we have to go back to sleep, and the storm will be all gone by the time we wake up.”

“Promise?” Jamie asked, big, brown eyes stared up at his dad as he sought reassurance.

He knew he might’ve been putting too much faith in the meteorologists, but nonetheless, Spencer nodded, “I promise.” He carefully took Jamie’s glasses off, setting them on his bedside table and turning on the nightlight you kept in there for nights like these.

Jamie settled into the big bed and cuddled his bear close. “Love you, daddy.”

A two in the morning wakeup call didn’t seem so bad when it ended like this. He finally found his way back to bed, pulling the covers over you and your baby, and once he took off his glasses and turned off the big lamp, Jamie curled into his side, resting his head on Spencer’s shoulder.

You poked your head up from your pillow, your smile glowing under the soft nightlight. Spencer could almost hear what you were thinking, imagining your voice as you cooed My boys.

Silently, so as not to disturb Jamie, Spencer mouthed I love you.

In response, you leaned over to press a goodnight kiss to his lips, and to Spencer, it was the same thing.

[nebulaafterdark]

The Rats

Aegon ii Targaryen x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

Summary: Aegon attempts to make peace with Rhaenyra after being forced to usurp her throne. Lucerys’ death complicates things.

18+ ONLY, MDNI. Targcest, smut, angst, violence. S2 SPOILERS

“I can’t be ‘Aegon the Magnanimous.’ No one knows what Magnanimous means.” Aegon drawls, slumped over in his throne. The hour is late and there are many places he’d rather be. Namely with his beloved wife, who he’s scarcely seen, since taking on his duties. Their children will already be asleep, but if they wrap things up here soon, he may have a few moments with Y/N before bed.

“Aegon the dragon cock.” One of the piss drunk men raises his cup to the king.

“That’s more like it,” Aegon claps his hands together.

The men hoot and holler at the name. Dissolving into laughter.

“Speaking of,” Aegon rises to his feet, “I must get back to my wife. I did not wed her to admire from afar.” Aegon tosses back the remainder of his wine, throwing his gauntlet down beside the throne. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

He wastes no time, taking the stairs two at a time up to his chambers. His queen is already abed, waiting up for him with a bit of light reading. “What story is that now, my dearest love?” Aegon asks, pulling off his boots.

“It’s a book about the plague.” Y/N bends it open at the spine, setting the bound pages on the bedside table.

“Seems a bit morbid.” Aegon frowns, “especially in these times, wouldn’t you say?”

“Do you have something better in mind, your grace?”

Aegon doesn’t miss the bitterness in her voice. “You are my equal, here of all places. Don’t do this to me, please. Do not ice me out, I cannot bear it.”

Y/N sighs, crossing both arms over her chest. “Helaena is frightened of the rats. I’ve been looking into their behaviors and customs.”

Aegon flops onto the mattress, unceremoniously. “The rats?”

Y/N nods, “to be honest, I’m not particularly fond of them either. Although, they are interesting.”

“No vermin shall touch you so long as I live, darling girl. The only thing nibbling your toes will be me.” He wiggles his foot against hers for emphasis.

Y/N huffs a laugh. Allowing the silence between them to hang heavy.

“I am sorry about your brother.” Aegon says, despite ordering his own brother, Aemond, away at the news and holding her through sobs, he’s yet to say the words. “I cannot stand your suffering. It’s made it nearly impossible to be away from you to perform my duties.”

Y/N brings his hand to her lips, kissing the knuckles.

“I want you to attend the petitions,” he decides. “At my side, in my lap, seated directly on my cock; whatever suits you.”

“Directly on your cock?” Y/N chortles, “your mother would have my head.”

“She will do no such thing, you are queen. You may do as you wish.”

“You spoil me,” that’s what everyone says anyway.

“You’re mine to spoil. They’re jealous is all.”

“Shall we practice then? For the hearings?”

“If you wish.” Aegon rolls onto his back, sliding both arms behind his head.

Y/N grins, devilishly as she slides off his clothes, allowing his cock to spring free. Her own nightgown and small clothes follow before she swings a leg over his hips and slides down his length.

“Seven hells,” Aegon groans.

His wife leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

“A tenth of my flock has been taken, your grace.” Aegon tells her, repeating one of the smallfolk’s concerns.

“Your what?” Y/N blinks at him.

“Sheep,” he continues, “a tenth of them gone, taken by your guard, just before winter. What say you, my queen?”

“Give them back.” Y/N sighs as his hands finally land on her hips, guiding her movements.

“That’s what I said,” Aegon hums, thrusting up to meet her.

“Did they listen?”

“No.” Aegon purses his lips, “they might need them to feed the dragons.”

“It’s much harder to concentrate this way, my king.”

“I know,” he coos, “but you’re doing so well.”

“The dragons,” Y/N pants, “have never required sheep from the smallfolk before.”

“We have never been to war.” Aegon says, through gritted teeth as she clenches around him.

“My mother will want revenge for Lucerys.”

“And I want this matter resolved peacefully.” Aegon assures her, “still I cannot give my brother up for the slaughter.”

“I don’t see how this can end peacefully now,” Y/N laments, feeling the coil in her belly tighten. “It will end in fire and blood.”

“What would you have me do?”

Y/N shakes her head, “We must stop Aemond from claiming Harrenhal at the least.”

“Consider it done.” Aegon beckons her down for a kiss.

The clatter of metal against the floor breaks them apart, “what was that?” Y/N’s eyes search the room.

“Twas only the wind, my dearest love.” Aegon smiles up at his wife.

The hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. “No. Something is wrong.”

“I agree,” Aegon takes her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it to a taut peak. “You stopped moving.”

“Aegon,” she warns, “please.”

“Shhh,” he gentles her back to a steady grind. “I’m here. You are safe.”

Y/N offers a shaky smile. Still something seems amiss, though she can’t think much more about it with Aegon’s free hand toying with her pearl.

“Cum on my cock, then we will look into it, if you feel so inclined.”

Y/N nods, bouncing faster, harder. Trying to ignore the worry twisting at her gut.

Aegon’s bottom lip is caught between his teeth. “Fuck, I love you.”

“I love you.”

“More than anyone or anything, save for our children. I want you to remember that…always.”

Y/N nods, feeling herself teetering on the precipice. “I-” she wants to say it back, only her brain doesn’t seem to be working.

“Hush, sweetheart.” Aegon groans, because he knows. Rubbing his fingers harshly against her pearl to push her over the edge. Shaking and crying her release as she milks his cock. “Good girl.” Aegon fills her pulsing cunt with his spend.

She leans toward her husband, capturing his lips as they ride out their high. Once she has caught her breath Y/N rolls away, off of the bed, shuffling back into her nightgown.

Aegon follows her lead, redressing in his tunic and trousers. “Head to the children’s room, wait for me there. I’ll have the guards help me search the floor for any sign of…rats.”

Y/N wrings her hands, knowing how silly it sounds. “Thank you, Aegon.”

He closes the distance between them, pressing his lips to her forehead and cheek. “You’re more than welcome.” He watches her leave the room before heading in the opposite direction. Where is everyone? The keep is never so quiet, even at night.

Y/N scampers down the hallway to the nursery, it takes a moment for her mind to make sense of the scene before her. Helaena with a knife held to her throat by a strange man. His counterpart hovering over the children’s beds with a blade at the ready.

“What are you doing?” Y/N breathes, clutching a hand to her chest.

The man holding Helaena shoves her aside.

Y/N catches the woman in her arms, smoothing down her white tresses. Helaena clings to her. “It’s ok.”

The children sleep better together, they always have. Besides the maids prefer Aegon and Y/N’s children close to Aemond and Helaena’s for practical reasons, until they are older.

“Which of them are yours?” The first man demands.

“All of them,” Y/N lies. “All of them are mine.”

“You have but four children,” Cheese insists. “Here lie six, tell me which are yours and I will spare them.”

“If I don’t tell you and you’re wrong, my mother will have your head.” Y/N clenches her jaw. “For all I know of our true queen, this was not her request. So who’s was it?”

“A son for a son, that’s what’s fair.” Blood insists.

“What did they offer you? Gold?” Y/N wonders, “I’ll double it if you leave now.”

The men look to each other, undecided.

“Or you could take me instead. I’m worth more to my mother than any bounty.” Rhaenyra’s eldest child offers.

————————————————————————-

Aegon completes his sweep of their chambers, along with the rest of the royal floor. Nothing is amiss. He moves to the children’s quarters and finds Helaena, curled up on the floor. “What’s happened?”

Helaena takes her brother’s outstretched hand. “They wanted to kill the boy.”

The boy? “My boy?”

Helaena shakes her head, “mine.”

Aegon looks to his nephew, still sleeping soundly. “Where is Y/N?”

“They took her instead.”

“Where the hell is Cole?” Aegon demands. “Where in the seven hells is anyone?”

“I don’t know,” Helaena sobs.

Part 2

[persicipen-archive]

𑑛 “PROMISE TO TAKE IT” ﾉ BLADE, DAN HENG, JING YUAN, LUOCHA. HONKAI STAR RAIL

fem reader ﾉ words 2.1k ᯽ rough scenarios, separately. blade — prone bone. doing it raw. creampie ﾉ dan heng is in his dragon form, but not entirely. missionary. implied mating season lol ﾉ jing yuan — size kink. riding him but he’s still in control and a menace ﾉ luocha — “little thing” petname, oddly comforting situationship or one night stand ﾉ rewritten ᯽ ADULT CONTENT ﾉ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ᯽

BLADE ﾉ

While the bedroom itself remains an oasis of solace and a delicate space where you can be yourself, never judged by his ruby eyes despite his low huffs and puffs at any of your antics, it is now also a jail for your sobs. Cries disappearing in the supple cotton of the pillow as Blade pounds into you, rough hands gripping your wrists like a rope. Oh no, he will not allow you to push his hips away.

Not after you begged for this just moments ago with that adorable whine of yours.

The dripping slickness saving you from the punishment that is him rutting into you with abandon. His cock stretches your pussy wide, filling you to the brim with every thrust, and you arch your back against him, letting him impale you over and over again on his heavy girth.

He growls, his fingers digging into your soft sides, leaving reddened imprints, as he pulls you towards him. He slams into you roughly, his balls slapping against your overly sensitive clit as he fucks you without mercy.

You squirm in his grasp, trying to break free, but no, his grip on you is firm. He doesn’t want you to move. You’re here just to take care of his needs.

The man above you breathes out, his long black hair falling over his arms and tickling your shoulders. Using your body as he pleases, relentlessly pushing until only his base can’t settle into your cunt. You whimper, your legs shaking as you feel his tip brush against your deepest spot, and he chuckles. He likes how you clench around him, unsure if you want him to leave you or to welcome him deeper — this is how he knows you’re getting close.

And so, Blade leans forward, his breath burning your neck, and bites on your irritated skin. You cry out, your soppy walls throbbing to lure him into your heat, and he grunts as he hears your juices plapping down his thighs. The way you cream all over his cock — awfully erotic — your wetness coating his length, and he picks up his pace, pounding into you with renewed vigour. He wants to cum inside you. To fill you up.

A high-pitched squeal escapes your lips, your silhouette shivering with uncontrollable intensity. The overwhelming sensation becomes too much to bear, and you find yourself unable to endure it any longer; still played with like a pretty doll, pressed to the mattress with all of his weight. Blade groans, his girth pulsing, and he snugs himself deep into you, cumming in thick, hot spurts, your pussy milking him until the very last drop.

You mewl at his treatment, your wrists aching from his bruising grip, and he smirks, his red eyes gleaming. The way you look right now, his favourite image of contained desires. His dear beloved.

He will make it up to you later with sweet kisses and gentle caresses, but for now, he enjoys the sight of his cum oozing out of your well-fucked cunt, dripping onto the bedsheets.

DAN HENG ﾉ

This position isn’t something new, however, and even though the fact is pleasant to think about, you do wonder what caused him to get so bold. Maybe at the sight of you admiring his partially changed form, eyes drinking in the beautiful shimmer of his scales, he understood that you find him so attractive — as always, but now also intrigued by other parts of him that might be different.

His hand traces the lines of your ribs as you inhale at the feeling of him entering deeper — the unfamiliar shape of his cock nesting comfortably against your soft insides — and then he puts some weight on top of you, pressing you further into the pillows, his lips barely touching your own, unsure if he already wants to kiss you.

“Tell me if it hurts you.”

“It’s alright, really. You can… you know, continue…”

“Now I’m more concerned that you seem to like it more than when we’re doing it… gentler.” Surprised at his own talkativeness, there’s a red splash of colour on his cheeks as he bites his lips at the end of the sentence and buries his face in the crook of your neck. You giggle at his comment, but it turns into a needy moan as he moves his hips to rest snugly between your legs.

With your tongue, you slide across his upper lip, capturing it softly and biting on its tenderness, tasting a faint trace of his salty sweat and humming as he shivers, your fingers tangled in his hair, brushing through the ebony black locks, before whispering, “I know you’re holding back. No need to, I trust you.”

“Mmh,” Dan Heng mutters with a shaky breath as his shaft hardens and thickens at your reactions. Your reassuring words have such an impact on him; they're teasing him with this pleading tone of yours, allowing him to mate with you during the times when he gets so incredibly hot in your presence, unable to keep his hands off of you.

His thrusts start slow and measured; however, with each minute passing, he finds himself succumbing more and more to the instinct calling upon him; it is so much different now that you’re within his reach — how you react, how you look at him — everything makes him lose his cool. Soon his lips find your nipple again, teeth grazing sensitive skin until you hiss, yet push yourself towards him, arching your back. The sting of his bite stimulates you to the point where your inner walls spasm, clamping down on him tightly as you almost cry out.

Even the shallowest strokes produce audible squelching noises whenever he loses his rhythm. He’s just as intoxicated by the new sensation. The little details that change in his build now make you two melt in each other’s arms; his cock glides with fervour and carelessness against the spots that usually required precision.

The pleasure is overwhelming, even a bit eerie how accurate at bringing the sweetest of your sobs out. His instincts still force him to grip at your shoulders — you let him do this — to slam harder inside of your pussy. And you can barely take it, but he quickly looks at the side on the clock, and it’s been barely minutes since he started…

JING YUAN ﾉ

He embraces you tightly, wide arms with ease, groping your entire body as you shudder, and let him bring you closer, your back pressed to his soft yet firm chest — allowing his cock to reach deeper, spearing your entrance until your essence seeps out in abundance between your bodies.

Usually, you would expect Jing Yuan to prefer being face to face with you, but also knowing what a menace he can be, there must’ve been something more on his mind. Which catches you by surprise when you notice his fingers circle your clit from the front, sort of caging you between one pleasure and another as you helplessly try to wriggle out of his iron grip.

At that, what you hear is a chuckle — deep like the ocean, sweet like honey, dripping with both love and lust, and making you all fuzzy from within. The waves of immense enjoyment lap at your limbs from all sides, and you gasp out when his palm rubs you so skillfully, with care and adoration.

“No matter which part of you I touch… It’s a pleasure to watch you shake in my arms.” He purrs with a small smile, nibbling at your earlobe and inhaling the sweet scent of your hair. You wish to nod but can't, in fear that it’ll only spur him further on to bounce you on his cock and enjoy how you struggle with each thrust. “Does my beloved bird feel good?”

Before you can answer — which you would love to, gathering the strength and courage to wail and sob into his lips as your head falls back on his shoulder — his palm moves up from your bundle of nerves to your tummy, pressing on the soft flesh there. Intently. He knows exactly what to do to get a specific reaction out of you, to make himself moan as you clench abruptly on his girth despite your walls sobbing at the stretch. You feel so full in that moment, choking on your breath at the additional pressure, too occupied with his cock filling your body so wholly.

As he starts to fuck you relentlessly — you cry out, the pitch of your voice higher and higher as you slowly become incapable of maintaining any volume at all — the tiniest sounds, broken huffs of air leaving your mouth; your eyes are glassy with tears, and all you want to do is bury yourself in the pillows and blankets, somehow escape from this prison of bliss. But he holds you close, one hand fondling your breast and the other playing around your lower abdomen, always there where you don’t want him at the moment, just to tease and make you more and more desperate.

A little flick of his thumb against your pearl, a press on your belly, maybe even fingers parting your folds as he drags his fat tip in and out at the perfect angle. It’s enough to throw you over the edge again.

As if your body belonged to him — and he, being the ever caring lover, already knows everything about you, that you enjoy it too much when he manhandles you like this.

LUOCHA ﾉ

The immense pleasure causes your mouth to whine and moan out his name. “Luocha, Luocha…” Is all that can be heard in the room besides muffled gasps and melted noises of naked bodies colliding with each other.

Certainly unpredictable was meeting someone who’s but a travelling merchant, skilled enough to render you putty beyond measure with just a verse of his saccharine voice and touches. You don’t believe him anymore. Though you cannot find an answer to it at the moment whilst your brain just refuses to think of anything else except how well you’re currently getting fucked by that gentleman.

The beauty above you lowers his face close to your own, his treacly lips catching your own with a delicate bite, trailing down your jawline and neck with slow kisses. Lukewarm and wet, like the summer mizzle. Just merely too fast for you to appreciate his features before the golden curtain of his bangs falls across his cheekbones.

“Are you doing well, little thing?” He asks quietly into your collarbone, immediately switching your focus from his words to his cock. With a tender push, he stays still for a moment, pulsing flesh pressing constantly on all your sensitive spots.

“Too well…” you utter with a weak, genuine smile.

He smiles back. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

Luocha continues thrusting in and out at a suave pace, pounding into you with a special sense of skill and gentleness. Hauling into your cunt with each drag of his lean hips, his pace is unbothered, almost lenient with the offputting care. As if this meeting is sensible somehow, way above than what it truly is — a transient exchange of lecherousness, nothing more.

With his hands clamped around your waist, lifting you up slightly up from the bed, his swollen length reaches far inside of your aching core at that perfect angle, the tip gliding repeatedly against the sweetest patch of your walls. Drizzles of pre mingle with your essence and souse your puffy petals whenever he retreats from the confines of your insides, a proof of enjoyment that none of you is able to say out loud.

To keep him close — merge into the comfort of feeling someone’s warmth — you wrap yourself around his willowy silhouette, a ribbon made of entangled limbs.

“I wish we could meet again before we part ways.”

“You’re still here with me.” He hums into your ear, once again leaning in to smooch the side of your head, tickling your sweat-sodden hairline. “You should focus on that for now.”

All the overstimulation is taking your breath away, specs of drool sprinkled in the corner of your lips. His palm pets you softly between your legs, extracting another weep from your throat and a wobble of your tense thighs. The sudden impact of his digits rubbing on your clit draws you nearer to your orgasm; and he wishes to see it soon, so he concentrates on your reactions, tongue slightly peeking out from behind his teeth in concentration.

Your whimpers and cries — pure eroticism that makes him consider if it’s even worth to waste the softness of your fevered skin for a meaningless exchange. If one night can turn so satisfying, a pity it would be to say goodbye instead of promising another and another meeting after that. Perhaps…

AUTHOR’S NOTE — most of those are old thirsts that i put into one post with slightly edited past typos. but the hilarious thing is that luocha’s part had to be almost entirely rewritten today — and maybe it’s not visible to others, but i giggled comparing my writing. it’s like a rollercoaster from my perspective hehe

[klausysworld]

A Second Chance

A thousand years ago, when the Mikaelson's were still human, Niklaus had a secret lover.

She was soft and sweet, gentle and kind. Y/N would wash the blood away from the wounds that colour his skin as a result of his father's rage. Her soft humming would lull him to sleep, his head against her breast comfortably as they lay out in the forest where he felt most at home.

His siblings knew of Y/N, they had seen her around and met her once or twice but Esther and Mikael weren't in the know. Niklaus was too afraid they'd forbid him from seeing her and he could handle being without her.

Each of his siblings had sworn not to tell but Finn was so awful at keeping things from their mother.

Niklaus hadn't known that he brother has tattled until it was too late.

Henrik had been killed and Esther and Mikael in turn made the rest of their children undead forever.

However it was only when Klaus's true identity came to light that Y/N was punished too. In addition to Mikael locking away Niklaus's wolf side and swearing hatred on him, he sought to punish him further by shoving a dagger deep into her chest.

Niklaus's scream shook the trees, Elijah held him as his sobs dragged the grass back into the ground and buried the life that was lost.

As centuries past, his grief was hidden behind more death and agony of which Klaus inflicted across the world. Her face was painted a million times over, a thousand different styles until Klaus could not bear to look at her anymore, it was like tearing his heart out over and over.

When the daggers came into his possession, they reminded him of her. He could still see her fearful eyes begging him for help as the blood seeped through her dress. And yet the weapon made him feel close to her each time he used them.

Her memory began to fade as the years went by, she drifted within his mind as other things came and went. But she could never be forgotton.

Esther knew that, and she used that to her advantage. She knew from the first time she stumbled across her son bathing in the lake late at night with his arms hanging loosely around a girls naked hips, their foreheads touching as they gazed lovingly at each other. When mikael killed her, she kept the girl preserved and buried safely.

A thousand years later she finally had use for the girl.

So when her children stood threateningly at the doorway, Klaus's rage on full display, Y/N's frightened whisper would break his attention.

His eyes found her. She was in that same dress she died in, still stained by her own blood but now coated head to toe in mud. He stepped forward but Esther's hand grabbed Y/N's wrist tight in a warning and he froze. So did Elijah and Rebekah.

"She's human, Niklaus." His mother reminded. "You could be human with her, have a family, a real life together like you were supposed to." She offered, watching the glimmer in her sons eyes.

Elijah stepped forward, hold hand resting on Klaus's shoulder as he too stared straight at the confused, petrified girl they had all loved.

"She's not real." Elijah whispered, assuming it was a trick and Esther's expression darkened as a blade was swiped quickly across Y/N's wrist, not hard enough to be fatal but enough to draw blood and panic Klaus.

He was in front of her in a second, trying to pull her to him but Esther threw him to the wall before he could reach and just like that Elijah and Rebekah were moving too.

Y/N was shaking silently in the corner by the time that Esther had been torn apart.

Her body flinched and trembled even once she resided in Niklaus's arms. She whimpered weakly, confused words recited in the same language they had used all that time ago. Niklaus didn't remember much but he had played the memories of their words over and over so many times that he was still able to comfort her in his mother tongue.

They got her home quickly, hiding her away in Klaus's room and muttering amongst themselves as to what to do.

"There must be a way to at least let her understand english-" Rebekah questioned and Elijah sighed, glancing over to how Y/N's fingers touched Klaus's curls and she whispered in their old language about how short it had become.

"We'll ask Davina... we should let Niklaus get her washed...she appears as though she'd been dug up." He murmured, a furrow to is brow.

Rebekahs gaze drifted to her dirtied finger nails. "She wasn't dug up...mother wouldn't be so kind. She dug her own way out." She uttered and Elijah grimaced.

"Come, we should get her some tea..." Elijah swallowed thickly, guiding Rebekah out of the room and leaving his brother alone with his old love.

His hands tried to pick the clumps of dirt from her hair whilst also trying to understand the fast words she threw at him. He tried to give her the word for bathing and eventually she nodded, holding onto his hands as he lead her into the bathroom.

The bath was small, not like the lake and the water was hot, it startled her. Klaus steadied her, helping her down and climbing in behind her when she cried out for him not to leave her alone. Not again.

The feel of her skin back against his was a feeling Klaus had been so sure he had forgotten forever. She tried to turn to face him, ending up completely pressed on top of him as his hands washed the soap and water down her back only start panicking when the expensive body wash made her soft skin scatter with red rash.

"Oh-" He muttered and wrapped his arm round her waist and lifted her up with him. She muttered out in confusion but didn't struggle, too happy to be in his hold as he drained the water and started again, laying back down with her. "Come here, my sweet." He guided her onto her back so he could reach and see her hair as he washed it enough until it was back to the silkiness he remembered so fondly.

He heard her little sniffles first, before her shoulder shook slightly with a sob. Klaus's heart sunk slightly and he nudged his nose into the side of her neck, placing gentle kissed like she had loved so much but they made her cry harder.

Her words were lost on him, he couldn't recall the language well enough after so long and it made his guilt swirl so much it hurt. Klaus tried to make sense of something but all he could make out was "Darkness" and "loneliness".

He tried to comfort her with the few words still in memory but she wouldn't stop, not even once she was dressed in one of his shirts and tucked to his chest under the covers, a cup of tea in Klaus's hands that he'd insisted she sip on from time to time.

Eventually she sunk into sleep but it only lasted for so long before she was clawing at her throat with her already broken nails, as though she were suffocating.

Klaus grabbed at her hands, immediately being sucked into her mind. The image of her waking beneath the ground, unable to breathe or see as her hands tried to find the light above.

Only a few seconds passed before Elijah was bursting through the door, awakened by the screams. Rebekah and Marcel a few seconds later.

"I'm calling Davina." Marcel muttered to Rebekah after actually seeing the girls condition and hearing her foreign cries.

The lights were back on which calmed her partly, finally being able to see. Her hands clung onto Klaus's shirt, clutching the fabric against her palm for any sort of security.

Elijah and Rebekah were sat on the edge of Klaus's bed, watching the once full of life girl from their village full of fear and confusion.

Ages went by before Marcel returned with a half asleep Davina and a couple candles. Klaus rocked his love calmly, hand stroking her arm to prove he was still there as Davina set up around them. Her chant echoed through the room, flames standing tall and proud as she reluctantly held her hand out for Klaus to take and then gently held Y/N's in the other.

"I'm sorry...this is the only way I can think of." She whispered before a thousand years worth of Klaus's memories were thrust upon Y/N.

A loud sound of pain emitted from her and she held her head. Klaus frowned in concern, trying to cup her face to see what was happening but when she looked back at him it was like she had seen a ghost.

A thousand variants of each emotion painted her expression before she crawled back against him and breathed in his scent with each hiccuped cry.

After a while the others left and Klaus rest his chin on top her head.

She didn't utter a word for days, not in any language. Klaus would dress her and feed her each day, hold her to him as he showed her the television which only seemed to hurt her head.

He had left her downstairs on the couch when she had fallen into for once a stable sleep without the traumatic nightmare of being buried alive.

He was just in the other room, trying to think of any way to make things better for her and for them.

Y/N being alive had never once been a possibility in his mind, especially her being alive with no knowledge of any time passing to all of a sudden knowing every shameful act he'd committed.

Klaus was too lost in thought to hear Camille making her way into the abattoir, calling out for him and stumbling across Y/N who had just woken.

"Oh...uh hi." She blinked at the girl. She was clearly in Klaus's clothes. The sweatpants were barely holding onto her hips and the shirt was easily recognisable. Y/N stared back, she recognised her, from Klaus's memories. Camille, Cami.

He liked her, they'd danced together. He'd thought about her, a lot. It made her stomach twist uneasily and her knees pull to her chest self-consciously.

"Camille." Klaus's voice echoed over her head before he was kneeling down beside her and stroking her head, checking she hadn't woken in terror again. "I'm afraid this isn't a good time." He informed her, sitting down on the sofa and noting how Y/N withdrew, instantly making the mental connection.

"You haven't been answering, I worried something had happened." She explained warily as she watched Klaus watch Y/N.

"This is Y/N." He introduced faintly, his attention not lifting to her. "She died a thousand years ago but my mother brought her back, she's struggling to adjust for the moment. I'd appreciate if you left, I don't think new people is helping right now." He tried to tell her to leave as politely as possible.

Cami only nodded, the information hitting like a wave as she apologised under her breath and retreated.

Klaus stroked Y/N's cheek as he sighed softly, "Please understand that I love you Y/N." He murmured. "I would have chosen you over any woman I have ever come across without a doubt. I would have taken my mother's deal, I would be human beside you." He told her, eyes sincere. "I only wish we could go back all those years, I should have married you then." He uttered, a kiss pressed to her cheek.

"Why didn't you?" She whispered, speaking in english for the first time.

"I was afraid. Not of us, of-"

"Mikael." She mumbled, “I remember now, sorry." She sniffed and he sighed.

"You shouldn't have been given all my memories like that, it's too much for anyone to handle all at once." He sighed, his hands cupping her face and stroking her soft cheeks. "I won't ever leave you alone again. Never in the dark, never in the cold, never anywhere."

"I don't understand why she would bring me back." Y/N whispered and Klaus frowned.

"I'm happy you're here, my heart." He murmured, his brows furrowed. "I've lived to long without you, and you have not lived long enough. Things will be better now."

"You hurt and kill..." She whispered, a soft sniff to her words and he looked down.

"I know." He nodded. He hated all the evil she had seen him do through his memories. He was nothing like he used to be. "But I'd never hurt you, and I'd keep you safe."

"I don't want to be here." She whimpered and he held her onto his lap.

"It's just hard at the moment, we've only just started adjusting. It'll get easier and you'll start to like it. I know you've seen things through me but it'll be so much better when you actually experience them." He persuaded, stroking her hair but she didn't look overly convinced.

"I don't want to push my way into your new life." She mumbled and sighed softly to himself in slight annoyance, not being annoyed with her but annoyed with the idea that he could ever not want her with him in his life. She would never be an inconvenience for him, a long time ago she was every thing for him and now she was that again. It had been clear that Klaus's attention had remained on her since the second his eyes found hers again, it was very possible that Klaus wouldn't be so infatuated with power so much now.

She held the innocence of his past that he had lost. She gave him something that no thing or other person could ever supply.

She was old life and she would be his new life, he could finally have a second chance worth taking.

His body was curled around hers, protecting her frame like a shield as he nuzzled her hair. "You're not pushing in, my love. If anything, I'm pulling you in. I don't think I can ever lose you again." Klaus uttered, his eyes closing as his mind conjured a hundred different possibilities for their future. "You are the life in my death, even when I was human...you were the light.

[misswynters]

His most prized possession

featuring. viktor x fem!reader

warnings. smut (18+), standing up sex on a vanity, p in v, size kink?, soft sex, viktor being sweet :)

requested. by anon

Moonlight spilled through the grand windows, painting your bedroom in a soft silver hue, illuminating the sexual dance unfolding within. The gentle breeze swayed the sheer curtains, but all else was still. The quietness of the world beyond, very different to the heated filling the room.

Every thrust of Viktor's hips created a rhythm, the wet, lewd sounds of your connection blending seamlessly with the faint creak of the vanity beneath you. Your moans were delicate but unrestrained. Compared to the soft, breathless groans that spilled from Viktor's lips, his voice shaking with the effort to maintain control.

His long, chestnut hair, slightly damp from sweat, framed his sharp features as it fell forward over his face. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened on his forehead, catching the moonlight. Viktor looked almost ethereal, his honeyed eyes locked on your reflection in the mirror before you. His lips, slightly parted, trembled as soft whimpers escaped with each thrust. The sight of him: disheveled, breathless, and utterly lost in you, only made the heat pooling in your stomach burn brighter.

He leaned over you slightly, his chest brushing your back as he let his soft fingers slide down to press gently against the small of your spine. The weight of his palm grounded you, and his other hand gripped your hip firmly, keeping you steady against the vanity. “You’re doing so well for me, my love” he murmured, his voice low and warm, yet laced with restraint. “Just like that. Don’t look away, watch us in the mirror.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his gaze in the mirror. The sight of him behind you, his toned, wiry frame moving steadily. His hips slapping against yours forward with such precision, sent shivers cascading down your spine. You couldn’t look away even if you wanted to. The way he focused on you—as though you were his entire world—was intoxicating. Well you were his entire world. His most prized possession.

The wet squelching noises grew louder as his cock pushed between your folds again, his thrusts unrelenting. Each thrust was accompanied by a soft slap of skin as his hips met yours, and the vanity groaned in protest beneath the weight of your desire. Viktor’s breathing quickened, and a shaky whimper escaped his lips as he felt you tighten around him.

“Good goddess…” he whispered, his accent thick, the words catching on a moan. His grip on your hips tightened, his fingertips pressing into your skin that would definitely leave faint bruises afterwards. “You feel so… tight and sweet. I—” He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, his brow furrowing as though the pleasure coursing through him was too much to bear.

You could barely form words in response, your own voice caught in a series of soft cries and broken gasps. “Fuck. Viktor… please—” you managed, though you weren’t sure what you were begging for. More? Faster? To never stop? He seemed to understand, though, his rhythm shifting slightly, each thrust hitting deeper.

“I know,” he said, his tone gentle yet commanding. “I know what you need.” He leaned down further, his long hair brushing against your bare shoulder as he pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck. The contrast of his soft lips against your heated skin sent a wave of pleasure through you, making your legs tremble beneath you.

As his pace continued, you could feel him hit the deepest part of your womb. His hand slid from your hip to your stomach, his fingers splaying wide as he pressed lightly against your abdomen. “Feel that?” he murmured, his voice like silk. “That’s me, so deep inside you. All of me.” His words sent a shiver straight to your core as you couldn’t stop yourself from arching back against him. Your body seeking more of his warmth, his touch, his everything. All the words he said and the actions he did excited you more.

You truly couldn't believe how good it felt when he pressed his hand on your stomach as he poked through you slightly. Shakingly he took your hand, lacing your fingers together to place them on your stomach. With that you could feel him poking through, as he pressed harder, the better it felt.

The mirror in front of you reflected the way your bodies moved together in perfect sync. The slight shine of sweat on your skin, the way his hand on your back and stomach kept you steady, the blush that spread across his pale cheeks—it was all so vivid. His hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, and his lips were slightly swollen from where he’d been biting down. Trying to suppress his own sounds. But all he could do was left out whiny moans, which you absolutely loved. He knew how much you loved it.

"Keep your eyes on me," he urged softly, his hand trailing up to tilt your chin, ensuring you didn't look away from the mirror. "I want you to see how perfect you are." The words, spoken in that low, reverent tone, made your heart ache with a tenderness that contrasted the heat of the moment. You nodded, unable to tear your gaze away from his, even as your vision blurred with tears of overwhelming sensation.

The sounds of skin slapping only grew louder as he continued, the wetness between you making each thrust more pronounced. The vanity beneath you creaked with every thrust, and you could feel the vibrations of it in your palms where they rested against the surface. Viktor's movements became slightly erratic, his control slipping as he chased his release, though he still held onto the tenderness that defined every touch.

"You feel so good," he breathed, his voice trembling as he let out another soft whimper. "I can't... I don't want to stop." His fingers dug into your hips as he pulled you back against him with each thrust, his pace quickening just enough to make your breath hitch.

Viktor's movements slowed, his pace deliberate as though he wanted to memorize every second, every sensation. His grip on your waist tightened as his long fingers pressing into your soft flesh as he adjusted his angle. Trying to draw out every ounce of pleasure for both of you. His breaths were shallow yet measured, his body trembling slightly as he kept his control.

One of his legs shifted, his knee now perched on the vanity chair behind you. The new angle allowed him to push deeper, each thrust measured and purposeful. The motion made you press further against the vanity, your hips tilting slightly, granting him an even better angle. The cool surface of the wood beneath your palms was a different than the heat that radiated between the two of you. You braced yourself, letting out a soft gasp as he slid into you fully again.

"Does this feel good, my love?" Viktor asked, his voice a breathless whisper, breaking slightly on the question. His eyes flicked between your reflection in the mirror and the way your bodies moved together, his gaze heavy with adoration and desire. He pressed his cheek against yours, as he went down to your level. Eyes locking to another as he waited for your response.

"Yes," you murmured, your voice trembling as you nodded. "So good, Viktor. Don't stop..."

A low groan escaped his lips at your words, his grip on your waist shifting as he let one hand slide upward to the curve of your back, guiding your body into the perfect position. He paused for a moment, his hips pressed flush against yours, savoring the way you clenched around him before pulling back again, just enough to feel the emptiness before pushing in with a slow, steady thrust. The wet, soft sounds of your connection filled the room. Each time he pulled out and pushed back in, the noise became more louder, the sensation drawing soft moans from your lips. Viktor let out a quiet whimper of his own as he watched you, the sound raw and unrestrained, slipping through his control.

"You're so perfect," he whispered, his accent thick as he leaned forward slightly, his breath warm against the back of your neck. "Every part of you. I want to remember this, you just like this. Forever."

His words sent a wave of warmth through you, your body responding instinctively as your hips pressed back against him. Viktor groaned at the motion, his hand moving back down to your waist, his grip tightening as he thrusts into you again, slow and deep. By now his cock has a white ring at the base due to how much the two of you have been going at it. The vanity beneath you creaked faintly each time he thrusted into you, the sound mingling with the soft whimpers and moans that escaped the both of you.

"Shit," he murmured, his voice filled with tenderness. "Do you feel that? The way we fit... the way you take me in so perfectly?" His lips brushed against the curve of your ear as he spoke, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "It's as though you were made for me."

The pace he set left you trembling, each thrust igniting a fire that built slowly but surely. Viktor pressed his forehead to your shoulder, his hair damp and sticking to his skin, his breaths ragged. He let out another soft whimper as he felt your walls tighten around him again, his control slipping just slightly.

The coil in your stomach tightened, the heat building to a point where you felt like you might break apart entirely. "Oh my..." you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper. "I-"

"I know," he interrupted, his voice strained but full of love. "Let go, my love." His hand slid lower, his fingers brushing against your sensitive clit, and that was all it took.

Your orgasm washed over you in waves. Your body trembling as you cried out, your hands gripping the edges of the vanity for support. Viktor groaned deeply as he felt you clench around him, his own body shuddering as he followed you over the edge. He remained inside you, his breaths ragged as he pressed his forehead against your shoulder, his long hair tickling your skin. The room was filled with the sound of your heavy breathing, the echoes of your passion lingering in the air. Viktor's arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you upright and against his chest. "I love you, my love," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. His voice was soft, as though he couldn't quite believe you were really his.

taglist: @luneariaa @minagrayson @aliives @mammonsleftring @gxrextxgaidk @anna1-1 @bl-0-ndi-3

[troublesomesnitch]

Meeting Vhagar - Drabble

Aemond x Wife!Reader

Much to your dismay, Prince Aemond insists on bringing your little son to Vhagar. Set sometime during the Dance.

Contents: Just a little practice thing... Dad!Aemond, Targaryen parenting, subtle fluff. Little bit of subtle angst too. No filth this time..

Words: 3000, and very sloppily proof read.

The carriage can only take you so far as to the Iron Gate. 

Beyond its massive doors, the Rosby Road winds North, poorly maintained and full of potholes, as it is the shortest of the main roads, and thus the least important. It is not as busy as others, and the gate is not guarded as well - clearly, as the men who should be protecting it are presently engaged in a game of cards, laid out on top of a large, flat rock.

That is where the driver will wait, but it is not your destination. 

There is another little trail. One that runs in the opposite direction, scarcely used and partially hidden, visible only to those who know it. No horse or wagon can make the journey, and there is no option but to walk - first along a narrow, trodden path, and then further still, down treacherous steps, carved into the very rock the city rests upon. Past the watchtower, and across the Northern beach, to the vast caves of Maegor the Cruel, where Vhagar has made her nest.

You walk alone, just the two of you. The prince in his coat and boots, and yourself in attire much less suited for the occasion. Fine shoes, fine skirts, and with your little son cradled in your arms. 

The gentle rocking of the carriage has lulled him to sleep. Four months old, he is, and a source of such joy that your poor heart can scarcely contain it. From his first high-pitched cry when you brought him into the world - oh, the pains of labour were all but forgotten, as was the threat of the raging war. And when the prince came to see his son, you could hardly even bear to let him hold him. 

He wanted to bring the boy much sooner, but both you and the dowager queen staunchly put your foot down against that. Children should not be brought outside the home until they have at least lived through the first perilous weeks, and possibly even their first fever. And even then, most would argue, they have no business being around ferocious animals. 

“I don’t like it,” you say, for the umpteenth time, taking the hand offered to you by the prince to help you cross a treacherous stretch. “It is mad, bringing an infant to such a beast - ” 

“Vhagar should know him,” he says, steadfast and determined. As he has done whenever you voiced your concern. 

It does nothing at all to calm your nerves. But it is his most compelling argument, and the only reason you have allowed this lunacy in the first place. So the dragon would recognise the boy as his, and as one of her own. So she would know to protect him, if - something should happen. 

You make it halfway across the pebbled beach before the prince pauses. And you do too, lifting your gaze to follow his line of sight; see what he is looking at. 

An enormous, greyish mass, some yards away, that at first you thought was a moss-grown rock, or years of washed up seaweed. But the mass makes a rumbling noise and begins to shift and lift itself, slowly and carefully, as though with much effort. Part of it becomes a leg, another part unfurls into a great wing, and the rock nearest to you becomes a head, with a mouth full of jagged teeth, and two eyes opening slowly. Amber in colour, and with slitted pupils staring straight at you. 

“She can sense me,” the prince declares, with no small amount of pride, lifting his chin and straightening his back. 

You, however, are paralysed, utterly shocked by her vastness. You have never seen Vhagar this close before, and though you knew of her impressive size, it is one thing to see her soaring across the sky, and quite another to be right next to her, unprotected and vulnerable.

It seems to you that the span of her wings could cover half the city, that entire buildings could fit in her mouth. And certainly, she could end all three of you with her fiery breath, or with a single swipe of her claw or her massive tail. One wrong move, even if accidental, even if she did not mean to - you would all be dead. 

“Come,” the prince says, pushing at the small of your back. But you stall, digging in your heels, frozen in place at the sight of her. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” you stammer. “We should go back - it is not safe…”

The prince gives an overbearing, if somewhat irritated sigh. 

“Dragons are loyal beasts,” he reassures. “Vhagar is loyal to me, she obeys me - ”

“She is a beast,” you hiss, hugging your drowsy son closer to your chest. “She cannot be trusted. It is too dangerous - I won’t let you bring him any closer - ”

Prince Aemond does not like to be challenged. He turns around to look at you coolly, his voice low and scornful as he speaks. 

“Is your opinion of me so unfavourable, wife, that you think I would risk harm to my own son?”

“No,” you respond, quietly, but truthfully. Since you were married, your opinion of the prince has only risen, slowly but surely. And it continues to do so, still - though perhaps not right now. “I don’t like it - ”

“Mhm - so you said,” your husband says dryly, all but wrenching the swaddled boy from your arms. 

He does not complain, the boy. Prince Aemond comes to visit often, at least once a day, and sometimes more. He sits with the child, reads to him, lets him fall asleep in his arms - not for very long each time, but it is at least enough for the little boy to recognise his father’s low voice and stern face as something safe and comfortable. As is evident from the way he now settles against the prince’s leather-clad chest, tangling his little fist into a lock of his hair. 

The beast remains still, pensive as her rider approaches, her serpent’s eyes fixed on the thing in his arms, on what he is bringing her. Your most precious treasure, your life’s very purpose, completely at the mercy of the greatest dragon in the world. 

You might have felt more at ease if the soft, sparse hair on his head had been silver like his father’s, but alas, it is not. It is exactly like yours, and only the bright violet of his eyes gives away his true inheritance. 

And that seems like too little a thing for such a large creature to notice. 

Prince Aemond calls out in that strange language of his, with the open vowels and the rolling R’s. It is beautiful, especially in his mouth, and the dragon responds at once, contorting herself to let him touch her wrinkled neck with affection. Which is a strange sight, but what is even stranger is the way she grumbles - as though she likes it. He speaks to her as if she was another person, in long, full sentences that are much too complicated for you to even attempt to understand. There is only one word you can make out, for the sole reason that he says it twice - yoreliatzeh, or yorelatzya, or something akin to that. You haven’t a clue as to what it means. 

Vhagar snorts once, and the prince steps back to give her room to move, to rise up onto her legs and bring her head closer, her nose almost touching his hip. While you stand at a distance, staring at the utterly bizarre scene playing out in front of you. A fearsome, vicious beast, sniffing the child like a dog would. Gently and carefully, only she is so big that each of her cautious breaths is like a small gust of wind, making your husband’s hair billow about his face. When she makes a grunting noise, he carefully unwraps some of the swaddlings, holding the child up to let her see him better, smell him better. 

He is bright, your darling boy, and curious, like all babes and children. His eyes are wide as they take in Vhagar’s scaly form, and he gives a soft squeal of surprise or wonder, kicking his little feet under the blankets. Reaching his arm towards the beast's massive head, her massive teeth -

“Aemond, please - ” you gasp, clutching your hands to your throat. 

The prince turns his head to give you a stern look, one that clearly shows he is running out of patience. And maybe this time it is justified, because your fearful outburst startles the boy, who begins to squirm unhappily in his father’s arms. Fussing and whimpering; a sound that is as painful to you as salt to an open wound. 

“Bring him to me,” you plead, “can’t you see that he is frightened - ” 

“He is frightened because you are frightened,” the prince says, as soft spoken as always, but with a hint of something sharp underneath.

He cradles the boy closer to his chest, bouncing him gently, holding his head and murmuring soothing words. Exactly as you would do, and to the same effect. It calms him down, and his big, round eyes start darting around again, taking in his surroundings. The dragon, the grey sea, the fine silver clasps on his father’s clothes. It does seem that the latter intrigues him the most. 

Vhagar lifts her neck and tilts her head just slightly, seemingly very interested in the child, in this tiny little creature; the way he moves his little limbs, and his soft coos and noises. There is an almost… thoughtful look in her eyes, or at the very least a curious one. 

It makes you wonder about the extent of her perception. Whether she truly knows that this is Aemond’s child, that it came from him, from his body, his flesh. If she can sense it somehow, through the bond they purportedly share, or if she understood it when he spoke to her. 

How intelligent is a dragon? Are they like dogs or horses, able to learn the meaning of certain words, but not the full breadth of language? Or do they think as people, with nuance and emotion, and a mind as vivid as your own. 

You do not know. You suppose no one really does. 

“Come,” the prince calls, reaching his arm towards you, beckoning you closer. However, a single glance at Vhagar, whose mighty gaze is now focused on you, is enough to inspire disobedience in even the most well-behaved wife.

“I would really rather not - ”

“She must know the both of you,” he insists. 

“Is that - necessary?” you squirm, wringing your hands, very much aware that you are not a dragon rider, that you haven’t a drop of Valyrian blood. “Vhagar has no reason to think fondly of me…”

The prince scoffs. 

“Are you not the mother of my child?” he says. “Now, come.” 

You must go to him. He is your lord husband, and he is a prince, and such is the way of things. But you are not at all glad to, and you walk with shaky, reluctant steps, gripping onto his elbow and cowering behind him like a frightened child. 

You close your eyes when the dragon lowers her head once more, bringing it towards you. A sudden, low-pitched growl makes your heart tremble, but the prince speaks a soft command. Lykirī, Vhagar. Lykirī.

It has a calming effect on you too. As does the arm he keeps outstretched in front of you - solely for your comfort, you assume, as it would make no difference whatsoever, should Vhagar decide that she does not like you. But you appreciate the gesture nonetheless.

The air is warm, this close to her, and your skirts move around your legs when she breathes, slowly and deeply, while the prince speaks to her in soft tones. That word again, the one from before, and many others. You know the words for wife, for king, for father, brother, sister, even for dragon, but he says none of those now, so you have no guess as to what he is telling her. Or if she understands. Or what he would call you, if not his wife. 

This woman is my - spouse? lady? lover?

You do have a kind of love for him, and sometimes you think he does for you, too. Sometimes. One can never be sure of anything with the prince, who keeps himself so closely guarded. Even after more than a year of marriage. Even now that you have given him a child. 

The birth went mercifully well, but your recovery was long, and he has only recently begun to come to your bed again. And so far, only a handful of times. The first time, it was so painful for you that the act could not be completed, and the second time, he finished so quickly that it barely even counts. The third was better. Pleasurable for both of you, but still strange after going so long without it - at least for you. It is both likely and possible that the prince satisfied his urges elsewhere while your body was indisposed. You do not know. Nor do you wish to. 

The ground shifts beneath your feet, and the heat around you lessens, as does the heavy smell of burned flesh and brimstone, the very same one that so often clings to your husband’s clothes. When you open your eyes it is to the sight of Vhagar, settled onto her belly, her head laid atop her claws. Calm and docile, and with a deep rumble coming from her chest - one that is probably a sign of contentment, even if it sounds utterly terrifying. 

“Touch her,” the prince commands, giving a gentle push to your back. “You have nothing to fear, touch her.” 

It is quite clear that Vhagar is unruffled by your presence, that she is resting. But with her eyes heavy and half-closed, it makes her look so menacing, so evil - even though you know that evil does not exist inherently in any beast. Only in those who train it. 

You draw in a steadying breath, gathering up your courage, reaching your hand out - only to then think better of it and let it fall. 

“I am afraid to,” you whisper.

The prince sighs. But his hand closes gently around yours, bringing it to rest on the side of her nose, first the tips of your fingers, and then your whole palm. 

It is like nothing else you have ever felt, her scales. You always imagined that a dragon’s skin would feel like leather, but Vhagar’s skin is so much tougher, so much rougher, like running your hand over little rocks. And she is warm - so warm, as though a fire is always burning somewhere in her throat. 

She does not object at all to your touch, even when the prince withdraws his own hand, leaving only yours. Only you and Vhagar. The largest, oldest being in the world. 

To think, the things she has seen. The conquest, the Dornish Wars, the very founding of the realm of the Seven Kingdoms. Dozens of castles have crumbled in her fire, and thousands of people have perished, and she has fought and won hundreds of battles; torn through stone, rock and earth as though it was boiled jelly. 

It is at once terrifying and romantic, like something from a fairytale, or stories of ancient times. A creature of such myth and legend that you almost feel as though you should bow down to her, as one does before a great matriarch.

Vhagar the Conqueror. Queen of all Dragons. 

She closes her eyes when you draw back. 

“He might ride her too, some day,” the prince says quietly. Wistfully. 

“But dragons only have one rider - ” you protest, cutting yourself off when you realise what he meant. What he left unsaid. 

This is war. The realm is at war. Death is everywhere; at the end of a blade, in the point of an arrow. And if not on the field of battle, then in tainted water or plague-ridden camps; empty bellies or festering wounds.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” you mutter, looking down at your feet. Your dirtied shoes. 

The prince does not answer. A heavy mood has settled over the rocky beach, something vast and bleak and empty, only compounded by the surroundings. The colourless sky, the sombre crashing of waves. Even Vhagar gives a doleful sigh, as though she too is weary of what is to come.

She has been the prince’s companion since childhood. He was born to the queen, but Vhagar made him what he is, made him ruthless, made him brutally ambitious. Made him Aemond One-Eye, Aemond the Kinslayer. Prince Regent, Protector of the Realm. She has known him boy and man, as well as any, and better than most. She has known him in life, and she may yet know him in death.

You push that thought away as forcefully as your mind allows. You shouldn’t think such things. 

A coo from your son breaks the tension, and his eyes turn to the sky, where a large heron is flapping its wings. The afternoon is turning to evening, and soon the bell will ring for supper - something warm and comforting, you hope. You are cold, your breasts feel sore, and you have most certainly had enough excitement for one day. For several days, in fact.

“Can we go, please,” you breathe, looking up at your husband with wide, pleading eyes. 

“She is tired,” he says, with a soft glance at Vhagar’s terrifying face, and a gentle touch to her side. “Yes, we should.”

—

You walk slower on the way back. Uphill, with sore feet, and your boy now fast asleep in your arms. Safe and snug where he belongs. 

“My Prince,” you begin, sweet and innocent. “What does… yoreliatzeh mean?”

There is a sly little smile on his face when you look at him, a self-assured look in his remaining eye.

“Jorrāeliarza,” he corrects, with an artful pause before he continues. As though to keep you in suspense. “It means dear. Or… beloved.”

If he sees the sudden blush on your face, he does not let on. 

“Jorālitzeh.”

“No,” he says. “Jor-rāe-liar-za.”

“Jor-rāe-liar-za,” you repeat, trying your very best to mimic the exact movements of his mouth, the way he gently rolls his tongue. “Jorrāeliarza.”

“Better,” he nods, and then you round a corner, just in time to see the guards hastily hide their cards away, and the driver shuffling back towards the carriage, eagerly shoving his winnings into a pocket. 

Jorrāeliarza. Jorrāeliarza. Jorrāeliarza. 

Dear. Beloved. 

You like that very much.  

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Tags. @arcielee, @targaryen-madness, @aemondsbabygirl, @qyburnsghost, @blackswxnn

I am a mess with the tagging, I'm so sorry if I forgot or wrongly tagged anyone. Let me know, I will fix it.