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sehaedazokla · 3 months ago

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he that dares

part eight

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems.

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: adult content

word count: 12.0k

a/n: the pinterest board and playlist for this series have been added to the series masterlist! i am a little nervous to post this chapter because i've never written anything like this but here it is –

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The day prior to the trials held at King’s Landing, the young prince Aegon makes his first public appearance before the nobles at court. Scarcely has the sun peaked its way above the edges of the world when the lords and ladies are summoned to gather in the throne room, half-covered yawns and bleary eyes waiting impatiently for the presentation of their future king. Hazy morning light wanders in pale rays through the arching windows, illuminating flecks of iron upon the weapons composing the throne. Lady Tyrell has not even the energy to glare ferociously at it, barely having slept the night before. Her satins and feather pillows do little to assuage her troubled mind, roiling with concern over the arrival of her lady mother – perhaps on the morrow, more likely that very morning. She pictured all sorts of disastrous matches, weighing the probability of each one in her mind and finding that if she thought long enough, it is almost as if she can read her mother’s mind. This only served to agitate her further, for if she is indeed correct then her fate is rather sealed after all, as well as that of her sister.

Her hands skim down the front of her dress in a nervous habit, aching to appear as presentable as humanly possible. The fabric is a dark blue, inky and soft beneath her fingers, decorated with the golden embroidery of flowers that grow within the gardens of the castle she was raised in. A gift from her mother, sent for her most recent birthday with an assortment of teardrop pearls and letters adorned with curved words imploring her to hold out against the tumultuous wartime tide and wait for an advantageous time to act. The roses blooming upon her body, spun in shining silk, bind her and remind her poignantly of her where her loyalties ought to lie. During the war, her attention had been given solely to surviving and attending to Helaena and the children – there was little time to devote to any sort of scheming, save for what her mother deemed absolutely necessary to protect their House.

As of late, her heart has been swayed to those of House Stark and House Targaryen. Her eyes close as she imagines what her mother might say, finding the daughter she raised to be ambitious and cutthroat behind deceptively fluttery lashes instead harboring love and affection for those of other houses. Fingers dig tightly into the soft fabric of her heavy skirts, a sudden wave of suffocation washing across her body as the weighty dress seems to grow heavier. With a soft breath, she returns her attention to the head of the throne room. Many Northern guards are present, alongside what remains of the Kingsguard. Despite the exhaustion and ruffled expressions throughout the room at the early hour of the gathering, there is a hum of expectation about the hall. The coveted and damned chair of swords shall not be claimed by Rhaenyra nor Aegon II. A child shall sit it instead, only ten years of age.

Lady Tyrell does not much care who is cursed by the crown of the Realm any longer. She has seen firsthand what unimaginable horrors and suffering it brings about. Let the nobles squabble for it like crows over a poisoned carcass.

Yet as she looks upon the child at last, all eyes within the room locking upon the boy hungrily or with poorly concealed interest, a sense of resigned sorrow fills her chest. Doomed is he, through the blood of both mother and father and chained to a skeletal and haunted existence within these walls. It is already apparent in his face, the hollowness of his eyes as they rest sunken into his youthful countenance. With all of the division sowed during the war, she has almost forgotten that this child is not a stranger of some unknown lineage, but Helaena’s own nephew, Jaehaera’s cousin. The resemblance nearly frightens her, when her eyes meet Aegon’s across the room. Has Helaena not looked upon her with those same violet eyes, that same sense of dread, of finality?

Her gaze is violently torn away, a sharp breath clawing its way past her tongue and teeth and lips. She shall never know peace so long as she remains here within this castle. Ghosts haunt her every breath, and while one of them is always welcomed with open arms and a gentle falling to her knees, others she does not wish to see. The amount of Targaryen spirits lingering about, wide eyes still cast to the throne and the child sacrificed to it, is far too many for the Lady Tyrell. All she can hope to do is take Jaehaera away from here and ask the dead for forgiveness or at least to be ignored. But the soon-to-be boy king breathes still. Is it haunting if the figure’s blood thrums beneath taut skin, veins as purple as the eyes that unknowingly condemn? Is it haunting if the guilt from turning away rips her internal organs out with bone hands, wrapping her intestines around her neck and forcing her to look at the child whose fate she is feigning ignorance to?

By the prince’s side stand his two elder half-sisters, whom Lady Tyrell quietly hopes are supporting the child during this impossible time. As with Jaehaera, the prince has primarily been confined to his chambers whilst the North has held power at Court. She has never had the chance to converse at length with either Baela or Rhaena, given that she had been betrothed to Daeron and decidedly upon the other side of the war despite her own House’s neutrality. Cregan remains a few feet away, but his presence is far more commanding than anyone else’s upon the stairs. Remembering what he had told her of his own past, she watches quietly as Aegon begins to speak.

“The trials for those who betrayed the crown and forsook their honor will be held on the morrow,” The prince’s voice rings out clear and solemn, echoing the dullness of his amethyst eyes. It is clear that someone his elder has written the words for him to speak, and Lady Tyrell wonders if the presence of the princesses at Aegon’s side indicates that Cregan has made some sort of agreement with them. If they truly care for Aegon, the lady does not imagine it will be hard for the three to come to an arrangement that suits all of their desires for the betterment of the Realm and for the future of boy. “Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, shall preside over the trials as Hand of the King.”

If Lady Tyrell is shocked by this announcement, she is joined by nearly every noble within the throne room. The young prince is quick to depart following the brief words, the guards following him closely as he exits through one of the arched hallways at the sides of the staircase by the head of the hall. Rhaena and Baela linger within the hall of a moment to speak to Lady Blackwood, as the rest of the lords and ladies turn to each other to whisper their opinions upon this appointing quite fiercely, everyone seemingly eager to get their thoughts out at once. Many of them still regard Cregan with obvious distrust, seeing him as a foreign presence unfamiliar to their Southern customs and traditions. She need not cast him long looks, wondering upon whether he might plunge the capital into chaos or refuse to leave. The skirts of her gown brush delicately against the grey stone flooring as she nears the steps, caring little for the eyes that are drawn to her boldness.

It matters not when he is already searching the room for her, storm cloud eyes sparking as he catches sight of her approaching. The slight softening of his gaze does not go unnoticed by her, although it shall not be dwelled upon when she is sure her own eyes melt slightly as he crosses the space between them to meet her. Hushed voices murmur around them, the raising of brows at the pair of them. What might have been excused as courtesy before is now blatantly seen as it is – favoring. For formality’s sake, despite what little good it will truly do given how her public closeness with the Lord of Winterfell shall surely spread in wild rumor throughout the castle halls that night, she scoops fabric of her gown into her hands and gives Cregan a low curtsy.

“I wish to offer you my congratulations, Lord Stark,” Her chin remains tucked towards her chest, her eyes modestly lowered as she slowly rises up, shoulders pulling back gently. There is a light flutter to her lashes as she blinks up at Cregan, gazing into his eyes for a moment before a soft amusement tugs at the corners of her lips with the knowledge that many of the nobles present shall fret over how long the Warden of the North will remain and power and what anarchy he might cause. The volume of her speech decreases with a twinkle in her eyes, her head tilting slightly as she holds his gaze. “It is only a temporary position, I am sure, but I offer you felicitations nonetheless.”

Only the glimmer in her stare, scarcely more visible than a lighthouse in a midnight tempest, gives any hint at the teasing quality to her words. Cregan seems to find amusement in them, reflected in shrouded subtlety within his own eyes as he looks down at her. “So eager to be rid of me, my lady?”

The tilt of her head deepens at this, a soft breath through her nose escaping as her eyes briefly cast their gaze sideways in an attempt to conceal the delight dancing across her countenance at his low and rolling timbre and the peaking of his Northern humor. While the other nobles at court might view her as bashful and shy in the presence of the imposing lord, Cregan alone catches the humor within their exchange, the affection in her expression that softens her lips and her stance. It is exhilarating, reading her as one might a tome in the restricted section of a vast library. Giving another quiet breath, her voice adopts a sweeter quality reminiscent of their earliest conversations. “Oh, but how dreadfully boring it should be without you here, my lord.”

Cregan’s eyes narrow in almost playful scorn at this, only a fraction of an inch but enough that she can sense a teasing retort sharp on his tongue. Yet no time is spared for further conversation, as one of the Northern lords is standing so close to the Lord of Winterfell that he is practically breathing down Cregan’s neck and clearly has a pressing matter to discuss. Lady Tyrell dips her head in a demure excusing of herself, her attention drawn to the twin princesses once more as Cregan’s deep voice is heard softly behind her. Perhaps it is far past time she makes an attempt to speak to them, regardless of her hatred of their father. It is hardly their fault, nor should she allow personal feelings to interfere with a potential alliance. Her mother might have her head if she did so.

The conversation goes as well as she might hope, given the initial uncomfortable tension that stems from lingering feelings from the war. Both Baela and Rhaena seem weary from their efforts to reason with Cregan over the imprisonment of their grandfather Corlys. It appears that the Sea Snake has indeed been in contact with the lady’s mother, for the princesses mention that their families now share similar goals of bringing peace to the Seven Kingdoms. Yet at the remarking upon the favor she has gained with the Lord of Winterfell, all Lady Tyrell can do is merely nod and brush the inquisitive questions aside, not wishing to speak upon the matter at length when Lady Blackwood is rather close. She still cannot pinpoint the nature of Alysanne Blackwood’s relationship with Cregan, but her spies brought rather comforting rumors of a romance with Lady Sabitha Frey, who additionally fought in the battles during the war. If she truly wishes to be amiable, she might invite the ladies all to tea in the gardens prior to their imminent departure, but she cannot surmise if Lady Blackwood would find it worth her time and does not wish to offend.

A page hovering rather obviously to her right catches her attention, the young boy’s eyes widening in order to alert her of a message over which he fidgets with an anxious need to deliver. A caving pit begins to form in her stomach, sinking as if grains of sand in an hourglass that has run out of minutes, has her quite certain she is already aware of what it is he has come to tell her. Offering the princesses a soft smile and an apologetic excuse for taking her leave of the conversation, she straightens her posture and attempts to forge a steady peace within her mind before addressing the boy. Giving her a deep yet clumsy bow, the messenger looks up at her with brown eyes, straw-colored hair turning golden in the morning light streaming in from the windows.

“The Tyrell traveling party has entered the city, my lady.” The page’s voice is rather high-pitched, echoing the sharp twinge of her heart that rings in her ears like the plucking of a poorly tuned lute. Rather than allow this to show upon her face, she pinches her lips together in a tight smile, eyes lackluster as she nods in measured acknowledgement.

“I see. Thank you for informing me.” It is all she can force herself to say, her mind racing too hurriedly through the realization that her family has finally returned to King’s Landing after three long years. The boy is already scrambling to convey the news to others it is pertinent to, leaving her to clench her fists tightly as she begins to make her way towards the doors. The lords and ladies still lingering within the throne room are occupied with conversation over the trials, and the sudden appointment of a new Hand of the King, but she has banished every thought from her mind rather than how she might handle the impending betrothals her mother is certain to bring upon her today. For her sake, for her sister’s sake – she must have her wits all about her. Everything else in the throne room becomes a muffled, distant blur and murmur.

The sharp echoes of her steps are snuffed out by the ruffle of her skirts overtop, her attention solely focused on her worry and not at all upon Cregan, who takes notice of her rapid exit and draws out of his conversation quietly. His arm reaches forth to catch her softly as she passes him, the touch startling her out of her thoughts. After a brief flash of panic, unsure of who has grabbed her, she exhales a sharp breath that has the lord furrowing his brows deeply over his concerned eyes.

There is no need for him to speak his worry aloud upon his tongue, it reads as clear as a voice within his grey eyes. The depth of his frown, a tightening jaw, the soft brush of his thumb against the fabric of her sleeve. Her own expression, guarded yet yielding only to him, only at his waiting gaze, is undoubtedly legible to him as well. Lips part with practiced ease, the habit of brushing her worry aside to prevent any from seeing and weaponizing her own fear against her a hard one to break. It bends for Lord of Winterfell. The soft dip of her brow as she allows a flicker of concern to dance across her visage indicates all she wishes to convey. And hardly is there need to explain with further words when he knows her troubles already.

“My mother is arriving.” Her chin lifts defiantly as she speaks, yet she knows well her tendency to yield to the Lady of Highgarden. Cregan does not release her arm from his hold as she might have expected, but instead tightens his fingers around her slightly. As if he does not wish to let her go. After a moment of silence, the lord nods heavily, taking a slow breath.

“Let us greet her, then.”

The Tyrell banners fluttering delicately within the salty sea breeze from the bay embeds a compelling nostalgia like a polished stone into her chest. Olive fabric decorated with roses of the purest gold, the same flags that used to fly high above the whimsical days of garden girlhood, a dreamlike haze of giggles and flowers in her hair. When she had emerged from her carriage three years ago, the very one currently wobbling up the cobblestone streets to the gates of the castle, she had still retained the wide-eyed innocence of her youth. It had ended then, so she had thought, when the soft satin slippers of a baby blue shade had touched the rocks in the gated courtyard. And her days had been filled with challenge after challenge, shaping and molding her into the woman she has now become, not out of a desire to ascend the power chain of the capital but out of a primal need to survive. But it was not strife that had turned her into a woman; it was death. The loss of Helaena was the end of innocence and childhood and dreams.

Survival is intertwined in all of House Tyrell, binding ancestral words that are less about power and more about permanence. Incessant and persistent, tangled in the history of the soil as much as the roots of ancient trees. The growth is everlasting, ever-changing, weathering the various seasons as the woods do. While many Houses suffered great losses during the war, House Tyrell remained as they were before, watching and waiting until the ideal time to involve themselves would be. As the carriage draws near, the white horses tossing their golden manes in the brilliant sunlight beaming down upon the courtyard, the Lady Tyrell straightens her shoulders with poise and intention, a slow breath inhaled like syrup into her lungs. So tightly clasped together are her hands atop her gown, she wonders if she might break a nail off accidentally.

At her side stands the Lord of Winterfell, ever the sturdy presence she might rely upon. He had offered his arm for her to steady herself upon, but she cannot accept for fear that her mother might see the genuineness with which the lady attends to Cregan. It would be a poor start to what shall likely be a stressful few days even with the absence of any additional issues. The lord does not press the matter further, eyes lingering heavily upon her visage. Even in the earliest days of their knowing each other, when he had only seen the glass figurine of a lady she had presented to him, never has Cregan seen her so uncertain. Every muscle of her body seems to be drawn tight and strained, her eyes as sharp and watchful as a bird of prey. All of this appears to leave her figure in a sudden melting as the carriage door opens and a young lady can be seen stepping out gently, a footman by the open door to hold the girl’s hand as she descends the stairs.

Any concept of rigidity abandons her, the shimmering skirts of her dress bunched up in her fists as she all but runs to the carriage. As the girl finally steps solidly onto the ground, Lady Tyrell’ skirts are released hurriedly to fall about her feet as she throws her arms around the young lady, who gasps in soft excitement and returns the hug just as tightly.

“Sister,” It is a bright squeal, girlish and sweet with sincere delight. Cregan could have surmised as such without the word being spoken – the younger lady looks so much like the Lady Tyrell that he finds it almost amusing. The same hair, arranged in a similar manner, the same color of her eyes. A dress in a soft shade of pastel green that the lord knows he has seen Lady Tyrell wear upon at least one occasion. The lord watches with gentle patience, eyes soft as he witnesses the loving reunion.

“Oh, Cassia,” The breath Lady Tyrell responds with is one of complete relief and gladness, her eyes closing as she holds her sister tightly in her arms. After a moment she pulls away, her gaze pleased and mirthful as she beholds her sister’s face. In the three years since they last saw each other, Cassia has indeed grown into her beauty as their mother spoke of in her letters. The little girl who would race after her, always trying her utmost to keep up in the flowering fields outside the castle walls, has become quite the comely young lady. This reminds Lady Tyrell pointedly about the unavoidable fate of an upcoming marriage for both of them, a thorny reminder that nestles itself into her troubled chest.

“I had not known if you would meet us right away,” Cassia begins, her smile brilliant and delighted as she gives her sister another tight hug. A soft laugh escapes her lips, the excitement of being reunited after such long years apart evident upon her pleased visage. Lady Tyrell gives a soft hum at this, unable to prevent the easy way that her younger sister brings out the gentler side of her which she normally hides behind parapets of threatening briars.

“How could I not be here to greet you? I have missed you so.” The reply is a breeze of spring air, as Lady Tyrell smiles in a warm manner she rarely bestows upon others. She reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her sister’s ear, her mind instantly eased by the girl’s voice and presence. No more at home could she have felt if she had returned back to Highgarden, amidst the roses and fountains and string quartets playing elegant songs about the terraces. Cassia gives a nod at this, her eyes briefly wandering to the courtyard. Cregan seems to catch her attention first, and the girl hesitates, her gaze lingering upon the Lord of Winterfell with a soft worry. But the girl shall not stare – it is unbecoming of a lady to do so – and quickly returns her attention to her elder sister.

“I know,” Cassia speaks with a sweet cadence, reminiscent of Lady Tyrell’s when she is presenting herself to others, but with a twinge of hesitation. “It is only that mother was unsure of…”

As the girl trails off softly, her eyes once again flickering to gaze at the Warden of the North in silent concern, Lady Tyrell cannot help but smile knowingly. She is certain her mother has retained her belief of the Northerners, deeming a majority of them as violent savages who have brutally seized the castle and intend to behead all of those imprisoned. Cassia has never met anyone from the North, and likely deferred to their mother’s opinions. Her heart aches at the thought of her sister worrying over her, evident by the way Cassia takes her hand and squeezes it softly, unsure if the lady is treated poorly by the Northern forces.

If only she could tell Cassia that cannot be further from the truth.

Her attention is quickly drawn to their mother, the sunlight glittering off the pearls woven into Elinor Tyrell’s hair and the golden circlet that adorns her brow as she descends the steps of the carriage. A soft undulation of edelweiss and hyacinth swirls delicately about the air, catching like dew droplets amongst the salty gusts of wind from the Blackwater. The Lady Tyrell releases her younger sister’s hand gently, instead taking her gown into her own hands and dipping her head low as her body sinks into a practiced curtsy of the utmost grace. Her eyes remain cast to the pebbles that are scattered haphazardly throughout the courtyard, her lower lashes brushing demurely against the curve of her cheeks. The slight squeaking of the carriage steps, the light creaking of wood, and the soft rustling of pebbles all inform her that her mother is standing before her.

“Rise, and allow me to see my eldest child’s face.” Her mother’s voice is a lullaby from a distant memory, the comfort of stories told when tucked into a feathered bed, the remnants of a midnight dessert sweet upon her tongue. For all her fear over the fate of her betrothal, nothing can surmount the nostalgia over days when her mother was her entire world and the lady who stood guard between her and the monsters curling in shadowy tendrils beneath her bedframe. And who is the lady besides a mirrored reflection of the light from her mother’s shining glow, bound by blood and womanhood, made evident beneath the brightness of each full moon.

Her eyes are raised slowly, alongside her body, fluttering lashes indicating a hesitation and vulnerability in Lady Tyrell’s countenance. The sight of her mother’s face invokes a soft yearning in her bruised and broken heart, the organ giving a weak fluttering at the familiarity that trickles like a cooling stream through tired veins. How exhausted the lady has become, putting up each fight so fiercely for her survival over the duration of the past three years. A desire for a simpler time, for suns under which she would run with sparkling teardrops to her mother’s skirts and have all her pains and fears soothed, nestles its way beneath her skin. Her voice lodges itself into the sides of her throat before she is able to compel it out of her mouth quietly. “I am pleased to welcome you to the Red Keep again after so long, mother.”

Elinor Tyrell beholds her daughter’s visage with eyes that betray nothing of her thoughts, a soft ambiguity resting upon her high cheekbones and daintily arched brows. The Lady of Highgarden is a vision herself in a gown of a delicate shade of gold that reflects within her eyes. There is a youthful beauty to her despite her age, perhaps from the graceful manner in which she carries herself. “You have grown even more beautiful since I last saw you.”

At the soft murmur Lady Tyrell gives another dip of her head, pleased to at least have presented herself in a manner deserving of her mother’s praise. Any further thought is skillfully hidden at the approach of the Lord of Winterfell, Elinor Tyrell’s attention turning subtlety to the man as he makes his way across the courtyard. He gives a respectful nod, standing by the lady as Cassia regards him with slight worry and her mother with quiet intrigue. Cregan’s presence at her side is that of a beacon upon a moonlit hill, ever-grounding and drawing her towards him as if they belong in each other’s orbit.

“I am honored to welcome you to the Red Keep, Lady Elinor, Lady Cassia,” His rumbling voice retains a noble quality as he extends his formal greeting, met with a gentle nod from the lady’s mother and a soft curtsy from her sister. The sun has begun to shift towards the height of the sky, illuminating rays descending from the clear blue expanse. Lady Tyrell’s attention is intentionally kept away from Cregan, not wishing her mother to catch a glimpse of the warmth he extends to her reflected in her own eyes. “I am Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. If there is anything I might do to assist during your stay, do inform me at once.”

“That is quite kind of you, Lord Stark.” A voice as fresh and lovely as field grown flowers, yet Cregan cannot say he underestimates the Lady of Highgarden to any degree. The drifting of voices from the courtyard as the remainder of the traveling party dismounts their tired horses and begins to stretch after the long journey distracts the Lady Tyrell momentarily, before she brings a soft and saccharine smile to her lips and gazes up at Cregan pointedly.

“Perhaps you might accompany my sister about the halls whilst I show my mother to her chambers?” It is a delicate question, referencing an earlier conversation they had in which the lady had asked for a quiet moment alone with her mother prior to anything else that is to occur that day. Cregan holds her gaze, seemingly searching for the truth upon her state of mind, but readily accepts her request. His arm is extended to Cassia, who blinks in soft concern and casts her eyes to her elder sister.

“Lord Stark shall be a perfect host, I assure you.” Lady Tyrell consoles the girl in a hushed tone, her hand reaching forth to take Cassia’s comfortingly. “You must be aching to stretch your legs after so long in the confines of the carriage. Go ahead.”

After a moment of gentle hesitation, Cassia agrees with a delicate nod. Her hand wavers slightly in the air but she takes Cregan’s arm as gingerly as she can and offers him a wary yet grateful smile. Both the lady and her mother watch Cregan lead Cassia towards the archways of the inner doors, his deep voice floating through the air behind them as they walk.

“There is someone I wish to introduce you to, my lady…” Attempting to not smile softly at Cregan’s leading of her sister over to the young Lord Blackwood, whose face has gone quite red at the sight of the girl approaching, the Lady Tyrell returns her attention to her mother who is staring after Cregan with a thoughtful look upon her face. With a soft breath, she looks down and does her best to conceal any traces of true affection from her mother’s watchful observation. Yet there is no need to hide physical indicators of the truth of her feelings, not when she has written the depth of her trust for Cregan all over the rocks and pillars of the courtyard in messy script by entrusting him with her sister.

The exchange of words between the two women during their walk to the guest chambers of the castle is pleasant and easy, most of it revolving around the young Lyonel Hightower who will soon be turning four years old. The lady is filled with a soft melancholy to hear of the milestones her brother has been meeting in her absence, a flickering of regret over missing nearly all of his young life burning tightly in her chest. There had been no way to escape to Highgarden during the war, not when it meant abandoning Helaena and her children, and thus she had been unable to return to her younger siblings. Only once has she seen the little boy – with a sickening sadness she realizes that the child will likely not recognize her the next time they meet.

As they enter the guest chambers, the door closing behind them with the softest clicking of the metal latch, Lady Tyrell lets out a slow breath. Her back remains pressed to the deep oak of the door as she watches her mother survey the chambers with a neutral expression, the woman’s hands folded delicately at her front in the very same manner that Lady Tyrell always does. Waiting eyes track each step her mother takes, studying the way she carries herself as if the lady has not done so more than a thousand times in her life. Her shoulders instinctively lower to mimic the Lady of Highgarden as the woman stops to select a single white rose from a porcelain vase, twisting the stem elegantly within her hands. Each thorn is skillfully avoided.

“You have tamed the Northern wolf rather well.” Any sweetness from Elinor Tyrell’s voice has faded away, slipping from her mouth like dripping honey down the bark of a tree. Instead, the lady is met with low and quiet observation, certain and deliberate. As her mother’s eyes remain cast to the rose, the lady lets out a quiet huff of breath. There is an understanding of necessary practicality between them, yet the lady cannot say she has been nearly as practical as she ought to be given the precariousness of the power balance at court.

“I would hardly say so.” She breathes back in response, her gaze dropping to stare at the wooden floorboards that had been polished that morning for the arrival of guests. They shine with such pristineness that the lady finds them almost mocking as her own distorted reflection is whispered back to her. Her plan to manipulate Cregan had all but imploded, leaving in her a vulnerable situation with the Lord of Winterfell that her mother will certainly have an opinion upon. While she trusts him, the Lady of Highgarden will want insurance regarding this trust being rightfully placed and the lady cannot offer much save for his kindness to her and her own instinct.

“Nonsense, child,” Elinor Tyrell muses coolly, setting the rose down gently among the others in the pearl vase. The woman’s gaze returns to assessing the room she shall be residing in during her stay at the castle. “I must admit I am surprised at your success in the matter. I had read your reports and yet the situation appears far better than I could have imagined.”

It is a compliment, as clear as she might hope to receive from her mother regarding the issue. Elaboration does not need to be made upon the failing of her initial plan, and so she merely taps her fingers in soft rhythm against the wood of the door she rests her back upon. While she wishes to seek after Elinor Tyrell’s opinion upon Cregan Stark, it is a matter that holds little importance when the setting sun of her maidenhood draws lower in the sky. If only her mother held more hope for Cregan, perhaps she might set her attention to a marriage pact that the lady would genuinely wish for herself. But she knows well where the Lady of Highgarden has set her sights.

Sea rather than snow.

“But that is not what you wish for me, is it mother?” A quiet phrase, spoken through heavy lips and accompanied with gloomy eyes. Her mother turns at this, a spark of amusement in her gaze at the sharpness retained in her daughter’s mind over the larger game at play. The woman observes Lady Tyrell calmly, taking careful note of the dullness of the lady’s expression regarding the line of questioning. It is no surprise to Elinor – while most young ladies would have been ecstatic to be engaged to a prince, her child had never seemed to care much for her match to Daeron Targaryen. Another Targaryen had long ensnared the innocence of her young heart, but Elinor had hoped the revelation of the boy’s true character had woken her daughter from childish notions of romance and love within a marriage.

“You wish to know of my plans for your betrothal then.” The Lady of Highgarden purses her lips softly before she lets out a long sigh, shaking her head at her daughter. It is marginally more difficult to convince a daughter who has since reached twenty years of age to marry as her parents see fit – Elinor had been considerably annoyed when Prince Daeron had died and broken off a sixteen-year-long engagement.

“It has been on my mind as of late.” The lady does not need to possess any fantastical ability to know her mother finds her having an opinion upon the matter of her own marriage rather tiresome. It is tradition, longstanding and binding, for ladies to have their husbands selected by their parents. The intense glare her mother fixes her with only serves to agitate her further, and she remains drawn against the door.

“If you must know,” Her mother begins with another shake of her head, exasperation written as if in stone upon her face. “I believe you shall marry Lord Corlys Velaryon’s heir. A bastard, in truth, but he has been legitimized and will be the next Lord of the Tides. Being the Lady of Driftmark would suit you, and Lord Alyn’s fleet would be an excellent ally to possess.”

Repressing a sardonic breath that threatens to escape her lips at the confirmation of her suspicions, the lady feels her nails digging into the wooden door. After a moment of composing herself, gaze remaining downcast to the floor, she speaks in a measured tone. “Have you arranged it already?”

“The matter has been proposed to Lord Corlys, but the betrothal will be solidified once he is freed.” It is said with such certainty that a heaviness pools about her stomach, her eyes closing briefly as she attempts to reason with herself over the marriage. It could be far worse – she had briefly wondered if her mother mind demand she marry Lord Corlys himself, despite the man being over seventy years of age. She knows little of Lord Alyn, save him not being a trueborn son of the Sea Snake nor a dragon rider. And while she is frustrated at this decision, her true worry is for another.

“And Cassia?” Her eyes finally meet her mother’s with a stubborn glint as the question leaves her lips, searching to find if yet another of her hunches shall prove true.

“Lord Lyonel Hightower is in need of a wife, so it would seem.” Upon this matter, the lady cannot prevent the disapproving click that bounces from her tongue, fixing her mother with a glare of equal ferocity. She is nothing if not Elinor’s daughter after all. As she crosses the room towards the other woman, the reasoning she has spent many long nights sorting out is finally given voice.

“The Hightowers are already your bannermen. You need not vie for more power in their House, not when you have reminded them of the true strength of Highgarden,” After the realization that Garmund Hightower’s position as a ward of the Tyrells places the Hightowers in a delicate situation, the lady doubts any rebellions shall be happening in the coming years. Not when Lord Lyonel is still quite young and wholly inexperienced in battle. Additionally occupied with seducing his stepmother, whom he is rumored to be terribly obsessed with, and being altogether horrid to his serving staff. Surely, her mother cannot be eager to send Cassia to such a horrendous fate. Not when there might be more to be gained elsewhere. “If you use this rare opportunity to secure an alliance with a Northern House, it will extend our influence.”

Elinor gives a scoff at this, her stare hardening as her daughter’s stubbornness is presented to her once again. While the lady has rarely argued upon orders given directly to her, she is so very insistent regarding her sister. As it has always been, the Lady of Highgarden is both impressed and annoyed by the fierceness with which her eldest child is devoted to her siblings. “Cassia does not possess the skill needed to manipulate influence so far from Highgarden.”

“She is young, she will learn.” The lady reasons with a soft shrugging of her shoulders, her frown deepening as she attempts to persuade her mother against such a decision. As they had taken their leave of the courtyard, the lady had noticed the gentle way Lord Blackwood had lifted her sister’s hand to his lips, and the soft delight upon Cassia’s face at the meeting. After years of searching for an acceptable match for the girl, the lady will be damned if her mother sentences her only sister to life at the mercy of an ill-tempered and spoiled lordling.

“You were fully prepared to manipulate those in court at her age.” With a look of disbelief cast coldly to her daughter, the Lady of Highgarden squares her shoulders and tilts her head in a manner the implies she does not mean to be argued with upon the topic. Given usual circumstances, Lady Tyrell would then have lowered her eyes and her voice and deferred to her mother’s wishes. But after witnessing Helaena’s marriage, and the marriages of other ladies within the castle, she knows all too well that it is not only Cassia’s heart that is in danger. The physical suffering resulting from matches made with cruel and violent men shall last the entirety of the union. Still, blatant attitude will not convince her mother of anything. The lady’s voice simmers to a softer note.

“Cassia is…she is less like you and I, mother.” There is a fondness in her voice she cannot hide, but fear decorates the edges of her words like lace stitching. The lady cannot lose another. It would surely kill her, if she is not already dying slowly from the grief that snaps heartstring after heartstring, plucking her damaged heart like a harp. Let her bear the burden of being born a daughter, so that her sister shall not.

“She is naive.” Elinor dismisses with a wave of her hand, eyes closing with weary ache as she thinks after her more tenderhearted daughter. How she birthed two girls who are so very different from herself, she could never understand.

“I will speak to her.” Lady Tyrell’s brows have drawn together, her lips pressed together tightly as her hands are folded in front of her skirts with elegant poise. Yet her gaze remains stubbornly set, insistent and certain as carved marble. “I simply believe it to be in the best interest of our House.”

“Of our House, or of your beloved sister?” The question is wielded as sharply as a dagger, burrowing up to the hilt in the lady’s mind as her mother regards her with thinly veiled disappointment. There is a heavy silence that falls within the air of the room as the women regard each other with equally intense stares. Long gone are the days when she would hide at the sight of her mother’s cold glare, her heart plummeting at the very thought of letting down the only parent who paid her any mind. For so long has she obeyed every order to the utmost, earning her place as her mother’s darling and trusted spy at court. But the war has shown the lady what is truly frightening in this world, and no amount of lingering childhood guilt can convince her to abandon her sister to the hands of a senselessly violent man.

“Both can be true, can they not?” She speaks finally, a quiet reaffirming of her stance. Elinor’s shrouded gaze remains cast to her daughter, repressing the urge to remind the lady that their House only remains standing because of the effort she has put in to keep it from falling. Instead, she shakes her head, her lip curling slightly.

“Do not forget what a crucial time this is. I would hate to see your emotions stand in the way of our ambition.” Elinor’s voice is reminiscent of the rattle of a snake slipping through tall grasses, fangs withdrawn but always present. Venom that has been used before, to keep House Tyrell alive and strong.

“…Yes, mother.”

The warning is as clear as any.

The matter of an imminent betrothal weighs as heavily upon Cregan’s mind as it does on the Lady Tyrell’s. Despite the flurry of tasks he is swept up in as the newly appointed Hand, the concern lingering in the corners of his thoughts does not cease nor waver. It is with no surprise that after he has finally concluded the last issue of the day, his steps carry him with a heavy quickness to her chamber door. So familiar has he become with the carvings of the wood upon it, with the cool touch of the metal latch. With the way his knocks resound in hollow bursts through the thickness of it, and the soft adjusting of metal as she pulls the door inwards to herself. Each time she gazes upon him with such soft surprise, even if she should not expect anyone else when the crescent moon is so high in the inky darkness of the night sky.

But as she opens the door to greet him, she is given momentary pause by the intensity of his eyes, gazing down into hers with such needing questioning that she is left silent for a second after she catches sight of his stoic visage. Unsure of what has him in such an agitated state, the lady blinks up at him with a quiet wondering. Cregan could give a breath of relief at the sight of her, not already swept up into the arms of some lord who might not take note of the way she adds three sugars to her morning tea or the glimmer in her eyes when she finds something amusing yet does not wish to show it. It burns within his chest like a raging wildfire then, the crux of weeks of learning her person and finding himself taken by each detail he has seen.

“I apologize for the lateness of the hour,” Cregan murmurs, the depth of his voice sending her stomach rolling about softly. There is a certain hum to the manner he speaks when it is only them alone that she cannot quite place, but the physical effects of it have only grown stronger in the hours spent in only each other’s company. “I had wished to come earlier but there were a number of pressing matters and time soon slipped away from me.”

Lingering in the torchlit hallway, she cannot help but allow her eyes to soften at the way the edges of his noble silhouette turn gentle and golden in the warm glow. Her lips melt into the smallest ghost of a smile, her lids lowering as she gazes up at him with knowing eyes. She too has been hoping for his company, having grown used to receiving it several times a day.

“You need not worry. Being Hand of the King is an involved position, I am sure.” Easy does the speech flow from her lips, rich and sweet as dessert wine when she presses one hand to her doorframe. Her lithe fingers curl about the wood delicately, and the crackling of the hearth can be heard from inside her ambiently lit chambers. A nightgown of ivory coloring adorns her body once again, scarcely obscuring anything from Cregan’s wandering eyes. She does little to hide herself, the hauntings of a smile widening in delighted amusement when a thick swallow is forced down his throat at the sight of her chest draped in such delicate silks. When his eyes flick up to hers again, she casts her gaze down so he might not see.

“It is,” He acquiesces, seeming rather weary from such a long day. But no amount of exhaustion or concern over the trials occurring tomorrow can keep Cregan from her doorstep, not when she might be betrothed at any moment. “And yet I still wished to see you, my lady.”

Her heart is sticky candle wax beneath a wick that has been set aflame, dripping into the cavity of her chest warmly. The Northern practicality that others might view as brashly straightforward heats her body as no other words can. There is little she can do to stop her smile from blooming fully upon her face as she steps back slowly, her eyes holding his with a quiet reflection of his own desires that she is sure he does not miss.

“You may come in, Lord Stark.” It is a hushed murmur, spoken to him before her back is turned and he is left to stare after her retreating figure once more. Taking a slow breath, Cregan finds himself closing the door as he has before. But this evening, there is a crackling of electricity in the air as there has not been during other evening meetings. An understanding seems to be on the precipice of being reached, yet Cregan cannot help but wonder if she knows the depth of his affection.

Slowly, he makes his way into her chambers. She has returned to the task she was attending to before Cregan had arrived – fixing her hair for bed in front of a full mirror the shape of an oval. With some hesitation, he follows her to the far side of the room and sinks slowly into the edge of her bed, watching the gentle movements she makes with half-lidded eyes. His gaze meet hers within the mirror, and he lowers his chin quietly as he speaks.

“Has your mother arranged a match for you yet, my lady?” It is as direct as she expects him to be, and yet an amused breath is taken through her nose as she breaks her eyes away from his. Her hands make their way through her hair as a soft, tired smile finds its way to her mouth. The firelight from across her chambers casts the room in a warm yet dim glow.

“She has her sights on Lord Alyn Velaryon,” The lady informs Cregan with a pointed resignation, attempting not to sound too annoyed or frustrated by her mother’s decision. Her fingers slow in their movements as she attempts to imagine a life at Driftmark, by the sea and sand. She has sent her spies out to learn more about Alyn, yet she does not imagine she shall receive information about his character until far later in the week. Whether for Cregan’s sake or her own, she attempts to reason out the circumstance. “It could be far worse. He – is of my age and has a good title.”

“Do you wish to marry him?” The quickness of the serious reply has her closing her eyes for a moment. She has half a mind to turn upon Cregan and ask if he imagines she wishes to marry a stranger she has never met nor has any concept of at her age, but it is not his fault nor is it fair of her to take out such frustrations upon him, he who is so very kind to her and has enchanted her so.

“Not particularly, no,” She begins truthfully, unable to stop the honest words from fleeing her chest. Cregan has a way of rendering her all but incapable of lying when he has gotten her alone, which is both refreshing and concerning. “But I have evaded my fate for far too long. I must fulfill my duty to my family.”

Cregan cannot tear his attention from her, his heart striving with sharp pull in his chest as he watches her quietly accept that which she herself has said she does not wish for. Her chin tilts down, her hands running softly through her hair to arrange it delicately atop the silk of her evening slip. Gazing at herself softly, she cannot help but smooth down a portion of the fabric, her hand running across the silks that cascade over her breasts and down to her stomach, fingers embedding a slow trail down the map of her body. His jaw tightens, his lips twitching slightly as he stares at her figure, her back turned to him as she busies herself with her hair. The fierce spirit he has seen her wield to fight for Cassia and Jaehaera – will she truly not utilize it for herself? Cregan Stark is sure in this instance he is not a fool. Surely, she must know as well.

“And your duty to your heart?” His eyes do not waver. There is not need to elaborate further, not when he is sat there upon the edge of her bed, not when he has been allowed into her chambers at this hour before. As he has been allowed past the thorny towers of her heart, as he has been allowed the soft trust she has placed in him. He shall ignore it no longer. The lady’s body goes rigid, her lips parting dryly as she stares down at the curved foot of the mirror with wide, unblinking eyes. While she too has grown keenly aware of this fire they share, she had not imagined he would speak so brazenly of it. But Cregan is of Northern blood and custom, to his last.

Cursed heart, flickering to life only to be put to the sword once again.

“It is but a dream.” The edges of her voice break upon her lips, glass and a ghostly whisper that lingers in the space in front of her as it falls from her tongue. Her heartbeat has become a steady thrumming in her ears, pulsing wildly beneath the skin of her wrists and beneath her collarbone. Her chin is softly lifted to meet Cregan’s stare through the mirror, and her breath is taken from her lungs by the intensity of his eyes. He shakes his head slowly, never breaking their shared gaze. An almost painful need to speak has lodged its way into his chest.

“If it is a dream then I do not wish to be woken from it. I cannot no longer hide what your discerning mind surely already knows when you look upon me.” The last word is spoken as a deep breath, as if he cannot fight with his own self-control for a moment longer. His brows draw lower, furrowing to show the weight of the longing and aching within his body that he cannot rid himself of. She can do little but stare at him, lips parted, a sweet wariness melting in desperate uncertainty upon her face as he continues.

“Your being consumes my every thought, my every breath. It is your eyes I search for in every room, your presence I long for at my side, you who has captured my heart and my soul wholly and without question. I came to this castle as a conqueror and instead find myself subdued completely by you, at your mercy and willingly upon my knees,” His eyes are anchored to her visage as a ship in a storm seeks a lighthouse, every word spoken with careful intent and heavy honesty. There is nowhere else he can look to, not even in a hall of thousands. It cannot be undone. “For but the chance that you consider another for your husband.”

A soft exhale of breath puffs through her parted lips, the flicker of firelight tracing the curves of her hips and thighs, nearly visible through the sheer gown. Burning fear and want has pooled in her eyes like golden starlight as a timid whisper is barely heard in the silence of the room. “Please do not jest.”

“I am not.” The words are low and instantaneous, rolling off his tongue like thunder from a long-brewing storm, clouds low and grey as the hues of his lidded eyes. Heat has spread from his chest to the tips of his fingers, settling warm and aching between his thighs as his intense gaze tracks her every movement, her every breath. Each rise of her chest is watched hungrily, earning him an expression similar to that of a wolf who can no longer hide its raw and heady desire. One of his tightly closed fists is flexed slowly, fingers extending by the digit as he attempts to maintain what little control he has left. It is not enough to prevent him from rising from her bed, the plush feathered mattress indented in his wake, his steps heavy and intentional as he crosses to stand at her back. She can see his reflection in the mirror, his chin lowered as his eyes rake across her figure with such evident need that a soft heat pools between the curves of her thighs. A large hand finds its place upon her lower back, sliding itself into the slot where her hips begin to curve as she turns to meet his gaze, eyes wide and waiting.

Cregan’s fingers curl softly into the silk, bunching up the pearl fabric within his hold as he presses his hand more firmly into her back, drawing her attention completely. Heat rises to her cheeks at the possessiveness of the action, despite the clear manner in which he is giving her room to draw away. His presence is imposing behind her, broad shoulders looming over her frame, but he does not corner her. The gesture is an asking, a sacred offering, a holy promise of the reverence he will use if he continues to hold her body beneath his hands. So hot is his touch, she expects to see a burn like a brand when he pulls his hand away next. But she does not wish him to. Caution curls in hesitant tendrils within her hollow chest, but they are waved away as mere wisps of smoke. If he gazes down at her with any more softness, his expression might melt beside the flames flickering in the fireplace. It is then that she realizes she has never been looked upon with such obvious love and devotion, by someone whose every action serves to reinforce this certainty. His voice breaks upon the whispered repetition of his own words, as if he is almost afraid of the need he betrays by speaking once more. “I am not.”

Her own palms are hesitant as they reach forth cautiously, wanting yet wary, head against heart. Curling into the softness of his clothing, she presses her hands to the swell of his chest as she turns, her back to the mirror as she faces him fully. Fear has been dissipated, scattered to the delicate night breeze slipping in through the crack in her window. Cool and fresh, laced with the salt from the sea. No sooner than when her fingers bend to take tentative hold of the fabric of his shirt, her eyes flooding with approval as she dips her head – yes, I want this, I want you – does he kiss her.

His mouth parts her wanting lips with a desperate yet constrained hunger, emboldened by the soft gasp against him and the tightening of fingers into his clothing rather than pushing him away. Her brows furrow sweetly as she allows Cregan to press his lips against her own in open-mouthed kisses, deep and messy with the overflowing from weeks of repressed desire, dispelling any sense of propriety and sensibility. As his other arm wraps tightly around her back, he solidifies his hold upon her waist by grabbing firmly at her hips, allowing her figure to melt against his as he holds her upright. As the curves of her breasts meld into his chest, a resonant hum escapes the back of his throat and lowers into a growl when he coaxes her lips further apart, sliding his tongue hotly overtop of them before it slips into the plush softness of her waiting mouth. This earns him another whine, sweet and breathless, that has Cregan hardening faster than he might care to admit. To soothe her, one of his hands pulls her in closer to him, briefly pausing the conquest upon her lips to lift her up into his arms.

It is with utter ease that he raises her from the ground, the muscles in his arms flexing as he leans in to kiss her hungrily once more. Her legs wrap naturally atop his hips as he settles her there, barely preventing them both from stumbling backwards and shattering her mirror, yet still bumping the dark wooden armoire and sending the trinkets atop it shaking. As she begins to meet his eagerness, discovering how she might endeavor to match the passion which with he moves his mouth against her own, neither one seems too occupied with the state of the furniture. His hands have settled into the plush skin of her upper thighs, grasping handfuls of fabric and flesh as he kneads deeply into her warmth. Her hands reach up to tangle in his locks of reddish hair, running through his soft strands and twisting themselves thoroughly. So long has she wished to touch, to brush, to hold. Cregan gives a small groan at the sensation of her fingers pulling his head back, momentarily ceasing his conquest once more to gaze into her eyes, lidded and with pupils blown wide from newly released lust. Her own eyes melt at the sight, at the beauty of him, at the depth of the affection and desire within her heart. One hand trails down to caress his cheek, cupping it tenderly in her hold as their eyes search each other’s for confirmation of the mutual desire for continuation. When Cregan is certain that her need matches his own, he is quick to shift her weight in his arms, crossing back to her bed in a few large strides.

As he bends his knees to kneel upon the end of her mattress, one hand reaches up to cradle her head gently as he lays her down before him, hair spread out beneath her and her cheeks rosy from the exertion of kissing him. Her chest heaves in labored breath, nightgown skewed upon her figure as she gazes up at the Lord of Winterfell with blossoming desire. Never able to deny her, she who blooms within his world as a rose amongst the snowiest peaks, Cregan lowers his body overtop of hers as his lips find her mouth once again.

The glowing fire burns low in the hearth, casting golden light upon their joining bodies in the soft satins of her poster-framed bed. The sheer silk canopy does little to hide the sounds of sweet and aching desire released from her lips as Cregan shifts his weight up onto his arms, trailing his lips and nipping teeth along the curve of her jaw and down her neck. At this, she tilts her head to further expose herself to his ardent kisses. The feeling of a mouth upon her skin is new, yet she feels far less anxiety than she might have expected. So long as it is Cregan Stark whose hands and mouth forge untaken paths onto the expanse of her body, lips pressing against sensitive pressure points as her pulse thrums beneath in hot pools, there shall be no fear in her heart.

Just as it had been before, her given name is a sacrosanct promise birthed upon his reddening lips. She breathes his in return, wholly as sacred, reverent and reminiscent of a vow.

Lady Tyrell’s hands once more find their way into his hair, raking fistfuls of soft locks into her grasp and tugging just so, earning her another delicious groan from his chest and a stuttered rocking of his hips against air. The action spurs him on further, as he pushes himself up by straightening his elbows and shifting back onto his knees. With his now free hands, he curls his fingers into the thin silk of her evening slip. The fabric gives way pliantly in his strong grasp. Another gasp falls from her open lips as the clothing tears, her breasts dipping slightly as they are exposed to the warm air of her bedchamber. Cregan does not give her a moment to consider embarrassment or worry as he immediately lowers his head, capturing one of her nipples with a deep kiss around the peaking bud. His eyes close at the taste of her upon his tongue, the other breast attended to with his hand as he kneads and pulls at the soft flesh with a feeling of near relief.

On many an occasion his eyes have been drawn to the lowness of her neckline, plunging precariously atop her breasts that bounce as she walks and turns to speak to him. Finally, he can lick his tongue across the rounded nipples as he has been desiring to, his cheeks blown as his head lowers and raises from the intensity with which he sucks at her. Her back arches at the feeling of his warm mouth over her sensitive chest, suckling from her as he pulls her body closer. The ache between her thighs is a demanding flutter that grows bolder with each movement of his tongue, echoing in yielding moans and whines.

Cregan rolls his hips against hers tentatively – needing more yet wishing to be tender with her, wishing to treat her as devotedly as he can given the heat that has pulsated into his throbbing cock – as he switches to lavishing attention to her other breast. Lady Tyrell squirms beneath his touch, yet her own waist lifts to meet his as she feels the prominent outline of him straining against the material of his pants. The silks of her nightgown have bunched up about her hips, leaving her cunt covered only by the thin fabric of her small clothes akin to a flower whose petals have curled back to allow the sun to reach its depths. As he continues to map out each plane of her figure with his mouth, descending to the soft skin of her stomach after he rips at her slip further, his fingers slowly reach through the fabric to brush against her wet core. Her head falls back against the satin sheets, a sweet sound filling the air that only serves to encourage Cregan further.

“Cregan please,” Her whine is far more desperate than she wishes it to be, but the neediness causes Cregan’s cock to twitch within the constraints of his clothes. The dampness of his fingers, feeling the physical manifestation of her desire even through cloth, has him leaning back, wrestling to free himself of his pants and breeches. The lady presses her thighs together in an attempt to relieve some of the aching throbbing that has been caused by him before reaching down to wiggle her hips and slide her small clothes down the smooth expanse of her legs. But he shall not leave her wanting, not when he can alleviate the pressure with his own fingers that resume their ministrations once he gently moves her thighs apart.

“As you wish, my lady.” An instantaneous agreement in a tone that rumbles with burning desire, pulled from his chest with no resistance. If she were his enemy, she would surely render him all but helpless – a knife to his neck at her mercy, if only to keep a tear from ever falling from her eyes, save the ones she sheds from the pleasure he might bring her. Her folds are wet and pliant as he massages his fingers into them softly, spurred on by the lovely sounds dripping from her lips as an ambrosial substance. His mouth returns to eagerly press kisses to each moan, tongue diving past her lips as he rubs small circles into her clit.

With each movement, she is willing to spread her legs further apart for him, hips fluttering to meet the calloused pads of his large fingers. The scent of him is in every breath – heavy musk and sweet pine, hints of leather and the distant memory of fresh fallen snow. As he draws back for air, she lifts her head to his neck, mimicking the hungry kisses he had lavished upon her collarbone. When her teeth sink into the juncture of his throat, his hips jerk sharply and he drops his head, hair falling over his face. Soothing a sweet kiss to his skin immediately after, she presses her mouth repeatedly to the sensitive skin as Cregan slides his thick fingers across her wet pearl. Her hips roll as ocean waves against his touch, her mouth leaving reddening marks akin to bruises upon the skin of fresh fruit, laying claim to the Warden of the North as he has allowed her to. As she begins to feel flush across the entirety of her body, Cregan aligns his hips with hers to lower his cock to rub against the wetness of her cunt, sliding easily across her as she takes a sharp breath. His head hangs above hers, eyes longing to see every expression that flickers across her visage as he rubs himself against her, catching upon her clit and dipping into the pliant folds only just so.

Never has Lady Tyrell been touched in such a way, but she is not ignorant of how the act is performed. Only, she had not believed it to be so pleasant nor so hot, burning as a raging wildfire within the lower realm of her stomach as Cregan groans from the feeling of his cock sliding against her wetness with such ease, a clear indicator of the pleasure she experiences from his touch. It had seemed like a chore, a burden forced upon ladies in order to create heirs. Even if she had not been instructed on the sequence of events during the process, she knows she would instinctively crave Cregan within her at the sensation of him rubbing with such strong and deep strokes against her. But he does not press inside of her, remaining atop her folds as his breathing grows labored.

“Please, I need you,” She breathes, hating the whine that escapes upon the last word, eyes nearly teary from the pulsing ache between her thighs where her body believes his cock should be. Cregan feels his self-control slipping off a precarious cliff at her insistence, struggling to deny her anything when she asks in that lovely voice, coated in such genuine desire and passion. But he is an honorable man, who cares for her far too much to claim her maidenhead before he marries her. Inhaling a sharp breath, he continues to roll his cock against her wet cunt with long strokes. “I need more.”

Cregan might die within her bed. His voice breaks as he rasps over his words.

“I cannot,” It is meant to soothe her, spoken in a deep and gentle voice, but only elicits a soft whine of displeasure from her as she begins to move her hips to match his. Each time he rubs against her clit, or her aching entrance, her mind grows hazy and soft. “I wish to, truly, but I cannot.”

For all his flourishing desire, primal and raw as it may be, the love he has come to harbor for her within his heart and his adamant desire to protect her outweighs his natural instinct to take her, to lay claim to her, to have children by her as he so desires. He cannot besiege her cunt as if some cruel conqueror, not when he has made no promises to earn him that right. Cregan Stark shall do right by her, as soon as he might be able to, as he should have done the moment he laid eyes upon the truth of her soul. One hand reaches down to rest softly over the gentle curve of her stomach, his hips jerking in a sloppier rhythm against her as the idea of her carrying his heirs fills his mind once more. To make her Lady of Winterfell, to give her the family she spoke of wanting, to protect her until the end of his days within his ancestral homeland – the desires he has been harboring in secret can no longer be denied.

Lady Tyrell does not argue further upon the matter, wholly desiring to honor his wishes and make Cregan feel as comfortable as he has made her, but the distress must show upon her face for he leans down. Pressing a loving kiss to her temple, his lips murmur softly against her forehead to calm her tenderly. “I am sorry, my sweet rose. It is only that I wish to have you as my wife.”

Her eyes widen at his voice, at the slight pressure he applies to her stomach as he keeps his hand pressed firmly to her skin. It is not long after the words are spoken that he rocks his hips forward, angling them so that he might rub against her clit in heavier strokes. When he captures her lips once more into his, she feels him groaning into her mouth as liquid heat pools between her thighs with a sudden stutter of his hips, coating her folds in his seed. Her own release is hot as it washes over her, her entrance contracting in rapid flutters as a warm burst of pleasure flutters through her nerves.

As her pleasure simmers beneath her exhausted muscles, she fears briefly that he may simply leave her there alone, as she has heard tale of men doing after seeking pleasure. But the Northern lord slowly rolls off of her body, eyes closing briefly as he presses a soft kiss to her lips and pulls her gently into his arms. His hand brushes hair out of her face, her cheeks shining with sweat from their passion, as he murmurs sweet praises into her hair until she feels sleep claim her.

a/n: i am going on vacation for the next 2.5 weeks so this series is going on a mini-break! perhaps i'll write oneshots while i am in the airport or something similar but i am not sure yet. anyways comments and asks and reblogs are always appreciated and thank you to everyone who has read everything so far!

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bengals-barnesbabe · 3 months ago

Text

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Singer!Fem Reader

Summary: Venus goes on live after rehearsal and lets her fans take a glimpse into what her and Joe's nights together are like.

Chapter 24: Mr. Perfect

#Track9 Masterlist | Main Masterlist

TW: implied smut, language, haters.

WC: about 2k

Part 1 🖤

₊˚ପ ⊹ ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ꕥ

@musicbyvenus has started an Instagram Live! Come join!

“Hello, all you beautiful people. How are my babes doing tonight? I haven’t done this in a hot minute, so be patient with me. I had a really long day and thought the best way to unwind would be for me to unload onto my darling fans.” The woman chuckled to herself while watching the viewer count grow by hundreds per minute.

Tell us all about your day bestie!

How are rehearsals going?

Are you gonna release the set list yet?

How’s Joe doing?

Where’s Joe?!?

“Wow these are coming in fast. I’m going to try and answer as many of your questions as possible, but thank you guys for just being here with me. I know I tend to go a bit awol with my public appearances, so I appreciate everyone here. Rehearsals are going great, I’m very happy with how the show is looking.”

@MarsOfficial Im expecting a least two Hamilton songs while I’m in attendance

“You always expect so much of me; you’re starting to sound like my mother, Y/Bff.”

@MarsOfficial then maybe you should start listening to me

A light-hearted giggle makes its way into the air as she reads her best friend’s comment. “I always listen to you!”

@MarsOfficial fat liesssss

“Y'all listen; the only reason I am in a relationship right now is because Y/Bff and Riana, two of my best friends, literally pushed us together. None of this would’ve happened without them.”

“What wouldn’t have happened without who?” A deep voice coming from behind her says.

OMG ITS JOEY

Joe said shit i have to work lol

PLEASE ASK HIM TO STAY

ON GOD HES SO HOT

I DON'T KNOW WHY I expected him to walk in shirtless, but I’m kinda disappointed

IS HE COMING TO THE LA SHOW???

“I was talking about how we got together.” Y/n peaks behind herself to watch the quarterback snicker while fishing through their kitchen cabinets.

“Oh you mean when your friends pretended to be my ex to make you jealous? Yea they were a great help.” Joe rolled his eyes while grabbing a snack and a bottle of water. “I’ll have you know, I was fully capable of doing that on my own.”

@Riri.intl24 why is he lying, he had almost two years to make a move and DIDNT

“Riana begs to differ. Can you grab me-“ Y/n’s cut off by her own water and snack being dangled in front of her. “Thank you.”

WHAT A GENTLEMAN

UGH I WANT ONE

IS THAT A CLIFF BAR

Y/n we’re judging you so hard right now

Joe takes a seat next to her but slightly out of camera. “Of course, and tell Riana I was trying to time it right.”

“Ok Mr. Time-Is-Of-The-Essence.” She smirked, then turned back to her phone. “Why are you people roasting my cliff bar?”

@MarsOfficial because you once said it tasted like good dirt then proceeded to inhale one

“I’m going to ignore that. Let’s answer some questions! Yes, Joey’s going to be at the LA show. I am not releasing the set list, but I do have an announcement regarding it. I’ve decided that my show will be about 2 hours long and each show will have 3-4 different surprise songs. I’m very excited about that. If yall have been keeping up on X, then you’d know the first show’s theme is ‘Slumber Party’. Unfortunately I can’t kick anyone out if they don’t dress up-“

ARE YOU ACTUALLY GOING TO PERFORM HAMILTON SONGS?

Is Walk Like This on the Set List

“Fantastic.”

THE NERVE

“You are not anyone, you have to dress up.” She pointed at the man.

YESSS SIS

You should bring him on stage with you!

WALK HIM LIKE A DOG

Joey shook his head and sighed, “I was joking babe, kinda.”

“Uh huh sureeee. Whoever asked about Walk Like This, this answer is 100%. I absolutely love that song and the choreo, ugh amazing. I can’t wait to perform it.”

What song is Joe most excited for?

What songs will you absolutely NOT be singing?

Is ‘The One’ on the no list?

“I don’t even have to ask him which one he wants to see the most. Joey?”

“Crazy for You.” He smiled.

“See, he’s extremely predictable.”

scripted

“Ok hold on, I also like what you did with Tell Me You Love Me.” He so kindly added.

“Why thank you kind sir.”

@lahjay10_ gross

We love a supportive boyfriend

Husband Material

Get married please

ADOPT ME

Not all of Team Shiesty being in the comments

It's in their dating contract

“Yall are too funny.” Y/n looks over at Joe to see him with his head thrown back laughing. “What is it?”

“Your accent.” He coughed out.

“Joey, I don't have an accent.” She pouts.

Nahhh we know a southern belle when we hear one

Someone forgot she’s from Georgia

You’d think it’d get weaker the longer she stays up north

orrrr maybe she still has it because she doesn't actually live in Ohio

“Yes you do, but don’t worry I think it’s absolutely adorable.”

“I can’t with you.” She rolled her eyes, but the smile spreading across her cheeks told him otherwise.

@MarsOfficial I KNEW IT

@MarsOfficial I knew he had a thing for your country shit

“Aight, we are getting off task! Is there a No list? Technically yes, but no ‘The One’ is not on it. And before any of you start, Joseph, please tell the people how you feel about ‘The One’ once and for all.” Y/n turns the phone so the fans have a full picture of him.

“I feel like people have been waiting and praying for this moment.” He chuckles brushing his fingers through his hair.

CAUSE WE HAVEEEEE

TELL USSSS

WE NEED TO KNOW

He raises his right hand. “Ok, everyone listening. I, Joe Burrow of the Cincinnati Bengals.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m trying to deliver an address here, princess.” He said sternly. She pretended to zip her mouth shut and throw away the key.

Stop making me feel singleeee

“Ok where were we, right. I, Joe Burrow of the Cincinnati Bengals, solemnly swear that Track Nine is one of my actual favorite songs that Y/n has put out. Now all the commotion stops here, thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.” As he finishes, they lock eyes and simultaneously burst into fits of laughter.

I knew it wasn’t that serious

We were clickbaited

THEY FOOLED US

Social Media is the devil

@MarsOfficial I tried to tell you

Her next project is gonna go so crazy

Hiiii from Canada

Instead of turning the phone back towards his girlfriend, Joey gently cuffs her waist and pulls her over to himself so she can continue her job. Then rests his hand over her shoulder.

Yoooo if you couldn’t see the height difference then, you def see it now🤭

Ugh they look so damn good together

Yall should do an whole day in the life

What happened to not liking cameras Joey???

“Okay guys, I think I’m gonna take a few more questions then call it a night.”

Noooo

Has Joe seen the entire show?

Booooo

Yes get off so Joe can get off from work and see his real girl

European fans here!!!

What is your ideal date night?

“I know I know, but our dinner’s almost here so we gotta wrap this up. No, he has not seen the whole show. I need my man to be surprised too. More importantly, he has no clue how Crazy for Me is being set.” She smirked as she felt his hand move down to her thigh.

Oh they gon wrap something else up tonight too

“Oh but does my mind wonder.” He bites his lip, no longer able to pay attention to anything but the woman on his right.

Omg the sexual tension is brewing

His hand continues to stroke her thigh until his phone goes off. “Fuck, food’s here.” He gets up and rounds the couch, but before he completely passes her their dark eyes meet and he makes a quick stop.

@MarsOfficial I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, they are literally CRAZY for each other

Dream vacation??

I’m sorry why can’t a man look at me like that

She was right about this not lasting very long

Shiiiiii I wonder how long HE lasts👀

@lahjay10_ yalls comments are getting out of hand

A strong but gentle hand lightly pulls her head back and they smile before he connects his lips to hers for a shy but sweet kiss, then he pecks her forehead and leaves the frame.

AGAIN A MAN LIKE THAT PLEASE

GOD WHOEVER IS LISTENING THANK YOU

That looked mad forced

You make me feel so single🤧

If you weren’t famous, what would you be doing?

Y/n quickly clears her throat before looking back at her comments.

@lahjay10_ oh god, get that off of my phone

She’s so flusteredddd

Girl we understand whewwww

“Uno, go away. Okay um, speed round. Dream vacation is definitely Greece. Ideal date night depends on how we’re feeling, but you can’t go wrong with a nice restaurant then coming home and getting in the hot tub. If I weren’t famous what would I be doing?”

Joe Burrow.

The man right behind you

That one Cincinnati quarterback maybe🤭

regular shit because they wouldn't even know each other

yall are unhinged

Her eyes widened and she looked over her shoulder at her boyfriend setting up their dinner. “Hmmmm yes to the first three.”

QUEEN

@Riri.intl24 Girl focus!

@MarsOfficial Ridiculous.

“Ok but for real if I wasn’t famous I guess I’d be trying to put myself through school.” She shrugged.

“Nope, you’d be in your residency program like you’re supposed to because I’d take care of everything. Now sign off of there so I can have my dessert.” He stated from the background.

“We didn’t order any dessert.”

Joe darkly smiled, “we didn’t have to. Everything I want is already here.”

HOT SHIT

OMG

thats so scripted🥱

I THREW THE PHONE

MSKSKFYCYHC

GIRL GO

“Fuck me.” She says under her breath, then reaches for her phone.

“I’m trying.”

SCREAMING

@lahjay10_ imma clown his ass for this so much

@MarsOfficial Venus you need to move faster

@Riri.intl24 Esa comida no se comerá pronto

(translation: that food is not getting eaten anytime soon)

“Jesus, bye babes. Love yall, and I can’t wait to meet you soon.” She stands, blows the camera a quick kiss, and turns off the phone.

As she walks toward the dining room, he meets her half way and backs her up against a wall. “Fucking finally, I’ve wanted you since I first walked in.”

His hands go straight to her soft waist and his lips meet hers with an intense fervor. Breathless moans are smothered against his lips and her fingers tangle in his hair. “Wha-what about the food?”

Joe grips her ass, his lips pull off of hers, and they begin to suck purple bruises on her neck and behind her ear. “You always say it tastes better after it's reheated anyway.”

He pecks her lips and smiles at his handy work: her lips swollen and red, eyes burning with a dark desire, neck glistening with a shiny magenta hue and knees trembling from the pressure. “You’re so beautiful.”

Her face heats up as she takes in the sight of her lover with a matching set of glossy lips. “I love you.”

“I love you more than anything, and I’m about to show you exactly how much.” He smirks then throws her over his shoulder and takes off towards the bedroom.

“Joey!”

₊˚ପ ⊹ ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ꕥ

a/n: part two this weekend♡

<<< Ch. 23: Tour Countdown | Part Two >>>

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back2bluesidex · 6 months ago

Text

Dear Darling - JHS [Masterlist/Prologue]

Pairing: Serpent king (imoogi)!Hoseok X Human!Reader

Theme: Angst, dark romance, smut, fantasy au.

Wordcount: 1.5+ for the prologue

Summary: After his bride flees from his clutches and reaches the realm of mortals to reunite with her lover - Hoseok has no choice but to chase her. Upon his arrival to the land of obnoxious humans, he crosses paths with you. You are a small, driven mortal who walks with a load of despair on her back. You are nothing but a delicious meal to him and he wants nothing more than to suck your life out of you, find his runaway wife and return to his kingdom. But much to his dismay, you ruin his plans, make him do what he never imagined doing in 600 years of his life - like making him fall in love and keeping him bound to you.

Warnings: Hoseok is cruel, there maybe some mentions of blood but nothing too crazy, eventual smut, heavy themes, quite dark actually (more will be added with each chapter). NSFW!!

Accepting Taglist Requests.

A/N: Got this idea in a dream.... that's all:')

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Epilogue

Masterlist | Patreon (Early access to the chapters)

Jung Hoseok.

The name was enough to shake the core of dark creatures with terror. Even serpents like him would not dare to cross paths with him.

He is an ominous creature of the night, rules the realm of darkness. He stays under the shadow and attacks when his preys are at their weakest.

He is powerful, cruel, horrendous and everything that can be one’s nightmare. And to climb at the peak of his power, to rule the underworld with more and more ruthlessness - he must get married.

He was about to be completed with the coupling ceremony by now only if - his bride didn’t run away.

“Do you think I believe you, sir?” Hoseok speaks with a voice so cold that he can clearly see the shiver that runs down the subject's entire body.

The old man - or more likely - an old serpent is sitting on his knees in front of him. His head is hanging low, palms conjoined with each other to beg the king.

“You- you must believe me, my lord. I know n-nothing of the lady’s departure.” his voice is trembling but he keeps lying regardless.

Does he not know Hoseok can see him through?

“Really? I must believe you?” he laughs, one that prickles on your skin in the worst possible way, “then.. Would you be able to pay the price of my trust?”

The old being doesn’t say anything. One of Hoseok’s guards pushes the tip of his sword further in his side. That coaxes a reply out of him, “what- what price must I pay, my lord?”

Hoseok smiles, “I heard you have a freshly transformed son? Only a year old, if I am right. I was wondering how enjoyable it would be to rip off his very new scales one by one and then behead him in front of the entire kingdom?”

The old man jerks at that “My-My lord. No. I beg you no. I- I will tell you as much as I know.”

“That’s good. So tell me, where is the soon-to-be queen hiding? Down the sea or up the mountains?” Hoseok bends one of his knees to come face to face with his prey. His heavy cloak falls on the ground as if to make a carpeted floor for the king.

“She… she has fled to the realm of mortals. My- my brother, who- who is half human has helped her out. I heard that her lover, a gumiho, is settled there. But I swear to my kids, my lord, I don’t know where she is, how she fled. I only helped her in contacting my brother. That’s all.”

“What? What did you say? Realm of mortals? Her lover is a gumiho?” Hoseok roars, stands abruptly. His anger flares like a ring of fire and as a result dark clouds start swinging in the already dark sky.

The storm starts raging just as Hoseok’s anger, “Guards! Behead his entire family right this instant! And make sure he watches them die before having the pleasure himself.”

He ignores the pleas of the old serpent as he walks away. And even if he didn’t ignore those, what could he do?

The blood that runs in his veins is cold, there is no heart that beats inside his chest. Even monsters call him a beast. He is just that bad.

But he is even worse to the ones who betray him - like his wife-to-be, who has managed to flee from his grips, who also has fallen in love with the enemies of his kind.

Only if she wasn’t the chosen one - the one who can increase his powers by tenfold. He would have killed her right the moment he found her.

However, he can’t do so, not at least now. Before everything he has to find her. He has to visit the realms of humans, whom he loathes so much, to pull her between his clutches again.

“How are the Mins doing?” Hoseok’s dark eyes focus on the goblet of dark red liquid that sits atop the table.

On the other side of the table sits his trusted advisor Kim Seokjin. He is probably the only serpent in the kingdom, whom hoseok as a speck of trust on.

“Thanks to you, my king. They have been running a very successful business on the land of humans.” Kim Seokjin states.

“Tell them to prepare a comfortable stay for me there. I will be finding and bringing my bride back myself.” Hoseok orders. His fingers curl underneath the goblet in the meantime.

“My lord, it will not be wise for you to visit alo-”

Hoseok slams the goblet on the table interrupting his advisor, “Mr. Kim, do you perhaps doubt my capabilities? I assume you already know I am more than capable of destroying the entire mortal land all by myself.”

“Yes, my lord, I am well aware of that. I will convey your message to Min Yoongi.” Kim Seokjin stands on his feet and bends down on a deep bow before leaving the room.

Hoseok feels a buzz in his cold veins. He is eager to find out how love can be more important than the power he was going to provide Soojin with.

She could be the queen of this kingdom but she chose to fall in love with a gumiho instead.

Love? Huh! He scoffs to himself. He is proud that he can feel no such emotions. And he would rather have his scales rip off than falling in love with another creature.

Extravaganza.

These lowly human beings know nothing but extravaganza.

From the full glass buildings to the noisy music on the streets, they overdo everything and anything.

Hoseok’s eyes scans each and every corner of the mansion that the Mins have organized for him to stay. This, too, is extravagance in every way.

Min Yoongi, the head of this generation’s half-serpents, sits on both of his knees in front of Hoseok.

“My king, it is a reward to have a chance of serving you personally. Just name what you want, I will have it presented right before you.” he speaks like the obedient servant that he is.

“A job. I need a job.” Hoseok speaks absent-mindedly.

“My lord, forgive this lowly creature but did I hear you right? You need a job?” Min Yoongi’s confusion makes Hoseok smirk.

“Yes, Mr. Min. you heard that right. I need a job to blend with these mortals. I am certain my wife-to-be has put the tigerlilies at work. You might already know, inhaling the pollen of those flowers once is enough to be transformed into any other creature for two nights. And even the King, as I am, is unable to defy its power.” Hoseok comes to stand in front of Yoongi, his hands are kept behind his back.

His dark eyes find the pale man amusing and quite obedient.

“Yes, my lord. I am well aware of the magical powers of the flower. About the job - thanks to you, my business here is running well. I can arrange an executive position for you at the company, if you’d like.”

“Executive?” Hoseok raises one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows, “what kind of work do they do?”

“They don’t have to do anything much, my lord. I will take care of whatever work your position might be responsible for, you can invest your sole concentration on your task.” Min Yoongi bows lightly.

“I like your proposition. Tell me how to get to your company.” Hoseok takes a few steps back towards the staircase. The intricate designs of the railing catches his eyes.

“I will have a car ready for you, if you want to visit now.”

“I would like that.”

Hoseok climbs out of the car and stands in front of the large building that the Mins have been ruling with the power of wealth that he had gifted them, some hundred years back.

He scrutinizes the glass walls. His gaze zeros on his own reflection and he devilishly smiles at the way he looks so human.

Min Yoongi has arranged some clothes for him. Some black silk pants with a silk shirt and a short cloak that they call a blazer.

Hoseok has always been proud of the way he looks. But he must admit - he looks even better and more eye-catching in human clothes.

His, now invisible, scales rise under the material of his clothes when he senses someone else watching him from a short distance.

He projects his eyes in that direction and finds a woman with petite form, big pebbly eyes and a beautiful face.

It’s you.

With just one glance he sees right through you. He can see your breath getting stuck in your throat at the sight of him. He can see the cogs of your brain working and your heart leaping inside of your chest.

He knows you are getting attracted towards him. And that’s good for him. Having a human right on his foot as a servant can help him in tracing Soojin faster.

It’s one of his powers to attract his prey, like how a pitcher plant emits a sweet smell to attract insects only to eat those up when those near it.

But with those innocent eyes, that alluring face - it’s a waste that you are just another moth driven to the flame.

Permanent Taglist:

@phenomenalgirl9 @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @chimchimmarie @coffeedepressionsoup @meowstake @vonvi-blog @nochuel @chimmisbae @i-have-no-life-charlie @mikrokookiex @jjk174 @lallataegi @savageyoongi @jwnghyuns

#bts angst #hoseok angst #bts smut #hoseok smut #bts x reader #hoseok x reader #jhope angst #jhope smut #jhope x reader #bts x you #bts fanfiction #bts fantasy au #bts

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minkdelovely · 6 months ago

Text

love and power

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

chapter ten: part two

“i won’t die for love but ever since i met you you could have my heart and i would break it for you.”

Alastor x Fem!Reader ; MDNI 18+ ; [y/n] used sparingly ; Alias in Hell is Sylvie

tags/warnings: nothing scary to report here — welcome to your happy ending 💖

word count: 8k

author’s note: cherished ones… i can’t believe we’re finally here at the end 🥲 it’s taken me much longer than anticipated to get this out, but i hope it’s worth the wait. allow me to extend my sincere gratitude to you all for hanging in there and going on this journey with me and this series. this started out as pure self-indulgence and turned into something much more along the way and i hope this is received by you as the gift i intended it to be. they’re not off the album i used as the platform for this series, but feel free to listen to rain and take me back to eden by sleep token, which i listened to A LOT while writing this. thank you again for all of your kindness and support. i truly don’t think i could have finished this without it 💖

prelude ; chapter one ; chapter two ; chapter three ; chapter four ; chapter five ; chapter six ; chapter seven ; chapter eight ; chapter nine ; chapter ten: part one ; chapter ten: part two

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The last couple days had been… good.

Vaggie had approached you the morning after your little sleepover with Angel to see if you’d actually take her up on the offer of managing the hotel’s books. It was a welcome distraction, easily falling back into the routine of your old work. And honestly, their records keeping system needed a complete overhaul. It kept you busy and focused, hours passing like minutes as you honed in on creating the foundations of your system.

Funny how in Hell the work you had always approached with a level of disdain in life had become something to look forward to. Something that was all yours. It was nice. Familiar.

Ironic.

You also hadn’t gone to the bar — the biggest improvement, or at least the one you were happiest about. Feeling more like yourself again and less like your father, who had been no stranger to bouts of liquored-up sulking. It was not a way you wanted to remember him by, nor make a habit of for the eons to come. And beyond just feeling better without alcohol in your system, it was great to see Husk in a more friendly capacity again. Haunting his bar in the way you did wasn’t something you were ever planning to subject either of you any time soon.

You were regaining a level of comfortability in your room as well. Sleeping better in your bed, which had been difficult to do. For the first few days you slept on the loveseat, where you’ve now spent the last two nights curled up with a book in front of the fireplace.

It was a decent distraction, but thoughts of Alastor still plagued you. Try as you might, it was hard for them not to. He felt so present as you went about your day despite maintaining the separation; feeling his aura hovering around you like a sixth sense. You wanted to ask Husk and Niffty if they felt it like you did — if at all — but hadn’t gotten the nerve yet to do so.

What if they said no?

It was too embarrassing even to think of. The possibility of it being some kind of adverse affect from sleeping with him making your blood rush to your face.

Maybe I took a piece of him, too…

The heat on your cheeks intensified at the thought. Isn’t that exactly what had happened?

Sure, in a literal sense he had been the one to take a piece of you. But in return, you had witnessed him in yet another state that no one else — in this building, at least — ever had. Just the fact that he had let you help undress him… That wasn’t something you look lightly, even at the peak of your anger toward him. The nervous way your heart fluttered against your ribs at the memory only further proved the point.

You wanted the opportunity to do it again. Undress him, that is.

What followed after wasn’t of much consequence; you’d be satisfied just the same. Whether that was helping him out of his day clothes and into pajamas or preparing him to pound you into the mattress — either result was made from the same circumstance. You found you had enjoyed it even more than dressing down his bed for the evening, which had always been a nearly meditative part of your day.

Or, well… it used to be.

Did he even bother with that now? Hell, did he ever? Or was it just more busywork? If it was… you missed it.

Taking care of Alastor was tedious at times but it hadn’t been all bad. He was petulant too, which is probably why he was always deflecting and pointing the finger in your face. But past his venom there was charm. His euphemisms and anecdotes. Grumbling into the newspaper with his ears downcast whenever he came across an unpleasant article, which happened more often than not.

He enjoyed his coffee black and extra hot, but god forbid if it was burnt. That was one of the first things you had been tasked with perfecting, and mercifully, had been able to accomplish. Alastor never made you handle his food, not out of lack of trust but courtesy. Due to the gruesome reality of what he enjoyed eating, it wasn’t a chore he ever charged you with. And you’d busy yourself with cleaning while he ate to allow him as much privacy as possible.

As much as he adored the structure of his morning routine, beyond that the day was his for the taking. Living the monotonous life that you had, it was admirable. Sometimes inspiring. He had a mischievous, opportunistic outlook on existence — no doubt a quality that followed him into the afterlife — while you had been (presumably) buried jaded and trepidatious.

He was… fun. Even when he was irritating.

Before Rosie pawned you off on him, the last time you had ever felt something close to fun was killing your grandmother. A horrifying revelation, but true, though that had more to do with the satisfaction you felt from it than anything. But fun was something that was right at your fingertips with Alastor, when you looked back on the last couple weeks. He had quite the proclivity for antics when he wasn’t being crushed by the weight of his self-imposed grandeur.

The memory of when he brought you back to the alley the day after what you had done came to mind. His inspection of the bag you’d left behind had upset you so much in the moment, but now all you can remember is the glimmer in his eyes. The nearly childlike glee in his fanged smile. Sure, it had been at your expense, but that was how he liked to joke. Satire and whimsy adorned with the pretty bow of his voice and charm.

But his jokes were sometimes too one-sided. His delivery too harsh and actions… demeaning. It wasn’t a facet he aimed at you often but the sting of his cruelty ran deep, almost to the bone. Your hand came up to your throat, the pain in your neck only barely subsided. It had been impossible to tell if the chain had bruised you under all of Alastor’s love bites, but if you were being honest with yourself, there was no way it hadn’t. If even just a little.

You made due with covering yourself up. Managing to find some high-collared button up shirts left to rot in the laundry room. Nothing a good washing wasn’t able to fix. And as the days passed and the marks faded, you were able to transition back into more familiar (and revealing, in comparison) pieces of your wardrobe.

Still, being left to your own devices when Alastor had been the one responsible for not only the marks but ruining the dress that would’ve easily solved your problems with its modesty nicked at you. Not that you had expected gifts after the argument, but considering how he made you wear that dress as uniform there was no way he didn’t have plans to provide a replacement that morning. But it never came.

Instead he had given you a threat and left you on the floor in nothing but a towel, feeling used and humiliated and alone. And yet here you were, with a book in your hand you hadn’t absorbed the last few pages of because your mind was busy remembering the feeling of removing Alastor’s coat.

Or how disheveled and boyish he looked the morning you went into his room without permission and found him in bed. The strain in his eyes before you walked into Valentino’s arms. His drawn brows and open, kiss-swollen mouth when he made you his own on the bed right behind you. That face would haunt you for the rest of your afterlife.

But there was another face that earned the honor, too. An expression that eclipsed even your grandmother’s worst sneer. Was what you said to him that morning really so outrageous that it had warranted such wrath and disdain? Alastor had been in quite a decent mood too, before the conversation took a turn. Not that it made you feel any better, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something bigger than that. You had copped attitude before and Alastor had either laughed it off as a mild tantrum or course-corrected you before you even had a chance to realize it.

Beyond that, there were also the things he had done after you fell asleep, face buried in his scarred chest. The medicine he had waiting at the ready for when you inevitably woke up from the ache of his bite, which he had taken the liberty of cleaning and bandaging. He had more than likely done it by hand as well, the same as when he tended to it on your bed that awful morning. No magic, no minions. Despite being the least he could do since he inflicted the wound, that didn’t mean he had to do it himself. But he did.

Your stomach turned thinking about it. The force of his anger just didn’t match up with the efforts he took in caring for you after your entanglement. It was the push and pull you had been battling all week, and your eyes flitted to the door. Going up to his room wasn’t something you had entertained, knowing better than to try and call Alastor’s bluff, but the desire to speak with him now was a temptation you worried you’d lose the battle against.

Knock.

The single, hollow sound echoing off the door sent a jolt through your body, sitting up from your relaxed position on the small sofa near the fireplace. It was Friday, wasn’t it? Meaning everyone had left the hotel already except for you and…

There’s no way.

Your pulse spiked.

Maybe you just imagined it. Or the hotel was settling. Things like that could still happen to buildings in the afterlife, right? Ghosts and hauntings and creaks and groans seemed fairly on-brand for Hell. Alastor’s shadow — that you had found yourself missing as well — was proof of that all on its own.

It was that final thought that brought you to the door, hand hovering over the knob as your breath thinned; perspiration beading your skin like morning dew. Tormented by the prospect that opening it would either reveal him or nothing at all.

Unsure of which you were hoping for as you let your forehead fall forward, a huff of air passing your lips. Eyes closed as you relaxed into the cool lacquer of the wooden door, reaching out. Alastor felt especially close now. Typical that he would show up now that you were not only beginning to feel better, but also reaching the end of your rope in your banishment from him. If you weren’t too busy fighting the whiplash of frustration and want coursing through you, you would have laughed.

Even reconciliation had to be on his schedule…

If he was actually on the other side of the door wanting to make up, of course. This could all be your imagination, which would be particularly cruel on your mind’s part considering how just moments ago you were feeling so desperate to see him, if only just to talk. You sighed, condensation from your warm breath pilling under your mouth hovering near the door.

Was he really there?

Your hand gripped the handle in response, heart heavy and loud in your chest as you turned it and pulled. There was only one way to know for sure.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Alastor took you in as you opened the door. An apprehensive expression on your face, but with an underlying relief. Though he didn’t need eyesight for the confirmation. Your heartbeat and scent told him all he needed to know with an honesty that betrayed you for his benefit. It was rather unfair, wasn’t it?

The life coming back to your eyes did not go unnoticed, either.

He felt what was left of his vitriol drain out of him, and in a rare moment of self-deprecation he found himself hoping his unpolished state would put you at ease. Despite the lingering tension that was still eating away at him, he truly did wish to avoid an argument. Shouting matches were simply… nasty. In a way he did not much, if at all, enjoy.

Conversation is called an art for a reason.

A true favorite of his and it was much more his speed. With such an adaptable form you could be fencing one minute and duetting the next. Unless, of course, the conversation was bad, which was a fate worse than death. But that hadn’t been a problem with you, for the most part. He’d like that to be the case now as he prepared to linger for as long as it took to reach some kind of resolution.

Things couldn’t stay the way they were. He knew you’d both return to yourselves eventually, but you had gotten a head start on him. Leaving him to grasp at what was on the other side of this only in regard to himself. If ever he needed you, you’d be just a summoning away. Tied to him always by your contract. Something that typically provided a sense of security to the point of aloofness. But the uncertainty of how you would approach your days independent of him in the aftermath made him falter. Made evident by the color that had returned to your face, that spark of ferocity in your eyes.

Deep down he understood that you would carry on.

Tied to him, yes, but not entangled. There was an unpleasant tightness in his chest at the thought, his jaw flexing with irritation. He wasn’t through exploring this, relishing the fire he felt in his blood at seeing you again up close, lungs taking in your scent to feed the flame. Your racing heart a sonnet so sweet in a way that only he could truly appreciate. Feeding a part of him that either had not existed or had been lying dormant which, now awakened, was eager for more and he found himself wondering when it ever would be satiated.

More of your voice ringing in his ears, whether it was coated in insolence or lust… or laughter. More of your scent in his lungs, oxygenating his blood with the bliss of childhood summers. More of your taste on his tongue. Blood, sweat, tears. He’d take it all, or whichever morsels you were still willing to give him. Even if all that left him with was cordiality, it would be far better than letting you slip through his fingers. How wasted you would be on some tramp off the street. Not even taking into account that the average soul couldn’t appreciate your scent, attributes like responsibility and integrity weren’t typically admired here in the pit.

Who else could see you the way he did?

Past the pout of your lips to the lethal fangs hiding behind them; that sleeping anger you managed to keep at bay but weren’t afraid to use if necessary. Would you ever reveal that ferocity and glowing eyes to someone else in the ways he had witnessed them — induced by tapping into some of your baser instincts? It made stomach twist just to think it.

Alastor’s imagination began to run away from him then. Flashes of you making some other sinner’s bed, fetching their coffee, and picking up clothes. Drawing a bath, hanging their coat, laughing at their jokes. That now-dear sulk of yours aimed at the faceless menace when one of those jokes went too far. Phantom hands stripping you of clothes, cupping your face, roaming your body… holding your chin. And though his urges were few and far between, worse still was the thought of you crying out a stranger’s name like a reverent prayer, writhing underneath them as you fell apart.

Foul.

Bile scorched his throat as he fought to maintain his composure in your doorway. The filthy handprints he had just pictured all over you gone in the blink of an eye as his own hand twitched behind his back, eager to hold you once more and feel the heat of your skin soak into his palm. Easy as it would be to reach out and satisfy the urge he refrained from doing so, smothering his desire in his fist. Now wasn’t the right time to succumb to impulse.

As much as Alastor wanted to pull you into his embrace he knew there was still a hatchet to bury. You had touched quite the nerve that morning, after all, and his actions had been less than genteel as a result. As justified as he had felt at the time, it settled in now as something he was less than proud of. Warranted… What a fool he was to think so. Though misguided, all you had done was try to make sense of things. You would be well within your rights to sever any further personal ties with him, and he swallowed against the anxious lump in his throat.

He had spent so much time wallowing in liquor, wasted countless hours justifying his anger toward you to ease his own unrest. Even if you had picked the fight… hadn’t he brought you right to the edge of it with his antics over the past weeks? In truth, hadn’t making you lose your composure been his goal from the start? He had certainly got what he wanted, just not in a way that was originally intended; culminating in a misunderstanding that threatened to keep parts of yourself locked away from him for, quite possibly, eternity.

Desiring someone’s comfort the way he did yours was something he never expected to have to face, let alone something he ever feared to lose. Alastor wondered for the first time how things between you would be had you met sooner. Granted, you had only been in Hell for two-or-so months, but he was a different man now than he was even then. The Alastor of two months ago still had his microphone, for starters. His sword and shield. Now nothing but another one of his corpses left to decay in the bayou.

That man hadn’t had his confidence shaken, his power drained. Alastor had felt so invigorated when he retreated to the radio tower to mend himself after battling Adam, but the healing process hadn’t been simple. Seeing as the weapon that caused the wound was made of angelic steel, Alastor expected it would take more time than usual, but he had underestimated the reality of it. So many arduous, slow hours had passed as he used all his strength just to make minute progress in closing the gash. It took a week to finally get it to seal, the scar barely formed by the time he encountered you at Rosie’s.

Simply put, you had weathered emotional storms that he typically had much better control of. There was a sourness in his soul that had been poisoning him from the very beginning of your relationship, which you took — more often than not — in stride. As much as he felt there was no one who fully appreciated you, Alastor believed it to be a two way street. Whether there was anyone else who could take your place — paramour, caretaker, or otherwise — was inconsequential. He simply wasn’t interested in the prospect. Hadn’t he gotten along just fine in his relative solitude before you fell to suffer your infernal fate?

It wouldn’t be the same.

It already wasn’t, in fact, which is why his feet had brought him here when his stubbornness wouldn’t. Opening the door to him was only the first step. You could still slam it in his face, effectively shutting him out; leaving him standing alone in the hall as the Overlord who owned your soul and nothing more.

He found it to be a dreadful prospect.

“May I come in?”

Even he could hear the exhaustion in his voice, making the question heavy in air as he watched you contemplate. Nervous fingers tapping the doorframe to the same beat as his heart before you stepped off to the side to make way for him. Alastor managed to fight the instinctual twitch at the corners of his mouth. Now wasn’t the time for smiling, despite the wave of relief he felt at your accepting of his request to enter.

As long as it takes…

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

You watched as Alastor practically collapsed on your sofa, massaging his temples with a single hand as he leaned back to cross his legs. Still doing his best to maintain decorum despite how worn out he was. Discontent, you shifted on your feet, not wanting to give into the pity you felt towards him too easily.

As much as you tried to remember your anger, there was no denying the relief you felt at being near him again. Hearing his voice. And knowing he could pick up on it only made it worse. Would it ever be anything but an uphill battle for you when it came to him? Your eyes couldn’t help but look just past him to where you had fallen to the floor, left to console yourself in your shame and grief. The memory didn’t fuel what was left of your animosity, but pricked at your sadness instead, making you feel the weight of the day.

I’m so sick of this…

Alastor’s gaze followed you as you moved to take your seat next to him, picking your book up off the cushion and placing it on the small coffee table in front of you. His eyes and hand lingered on the cover as you sat down.

“I just missed the first draft,” he said quietly, static replaced with the distant sound of remembrance. Eyes never leaving your copy of A Farewell to Arms as he continued with a small, humorless laugh. “I was eligible for the others but the only Divisions I could have been placed in were booked. Funny, isn’t it, a quota on the worthiness to die at war? But I suppose that’s a conversation for another time…”

The glimpse of his human life caught you off guard. Vulnerability wasn’t something you expected from him, especially not in the wake of your argument; the admission was given so casually you couldn’t help but soften just a bit, leaving you hungry for more of his secrets.

He turned to you then, somehow looking even more tired than he had before. “We have our own battle to rectify, don’t we?”

You sighed and positioned your body to face him, bringing your legs up to sit criss-cross. This was shaping up to be a long night, so you decided you might as well get this out of the way. Even managing to get a piqued eyebrow out of him from the sober look that was no doubt on your face as you considered what you were about to say.

“I wasn’t lying when I told you that I enjoyed our…,” you trailed off, looking for the right word.

Our what?

Things had become so muddled you weren't quite sure what to call it. Sex, obviously, but… it had felt like more to you in the end. No matter how many times you reminded yourself that it wasn’t supposed to be anything other than a one night stand at best — and had spent the whole week drowning your sorrows trying not to think about the worst.

“I know you weren’t.” He said it in almost the same tone when you had admitted it in the first place, but his eyes were soft. “I enjoyed it myself, the second time. I thought that was obvious, but when you asked about the pheromones that morning… they had nothing to do with it. Not that evening. I… initiated that. Which is why I was so incensed by the implication that I was acting outside of myself.”

The confession sunk to the bottom of your stomach. You hadn’t expected him to be so forthcoming and even keeled regarding it. And while you felt relief that the pheromones weren’t at play that evening — and that he had not only enjoyed, but desired it — you didn’t miss the implication of the words he kept to himself regarding how you ended up in this mess in the first place. The more you thought about it, the more you were beginning to understand why he felt the way he did. Was that why he had returned you to your room to wake up alone, because being in his bed was too much of a reminder? Had he really regretted it that much?

Because you didn’t.

The truth was you had been more than willing to give yourself to him that afternoon. Yes, you knew something wasn’t quite right, but you didn’t know he was fighting against Valentino’s nasty little trick. You’d never know what would’ve happened if you had denied him instead, because that’s not what happened. Would he have gone into a rage? In the state he was in, that wasn’t an impossibility. In fact, that was what you had been expecting, wasn’t it? In a way you dodged a bullet — received his affections, however intense, instead of his violence. The bruised remnants of his mark on your shoulder were a dizzying mix of both.

Though the ferocity you received the next morning… had it been lying in wait? Using the chain on you the way he did compounded by the words he spat at you was a tough memory to forget, to the point where you wondered if you ever could. He had only punished you that way one other time, but it had been nothing compared to this. Blood burned under your cheeks as you recalled how humiliated you felt. How different would things be right now if he had just let you stay?

“Look I…,” you sighed and ran a hand through your hair, but resisted the urge to look away from him. “I really do understand why you’re unhappy with how things happened that afternoon but…”

Here goes nothing.

“It’s something I’ve been aware of in myself for a little while but… you don’t know how much it meant to me, being touched that way by you and how you let me touch you back it —” You wiped a tear you couldn’t stop from falling and cleared your throat, but the thick, choking feeling didn’t subside. The pinched look on Alastor’s face nearly sent you over the edge, but you couldn’t stop now that you’ve started. He needed to hear this as much as you needed to say it. “It made me really happy, if that’s even the right word for it.”

It wasn’t. But you didn’t know how else you could try to tell him how wanted and safe you felt underneath him. That no one had ever managed to turn your blood to kerosene; every bit of him the match, the bed behind you kindling. At this point it didn’t really matter that you hadn’t known him for very long. You cared about him, much more than you ever expected to, and you wanted to be near him in whatever capacity you could be. Whether that made you his errand girl or concubine, so long as you were spared from the more acidic side of his temper.

“And when I think about how much you regret it, it kills me, even though I know why you do. But… I don’t. You didn’t take advantage of me, if that’s something you’ve been worrying about. Honestly, now I can’t help but wonder if it’s the other way around…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he huffed, lightly exasperated as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve only ever gone along with my impulses and games. My behavior in this has been… unbecoming. I fear my mother would be quite ashamed, and rightfully so, but you’ve come to know me at a low point.”

Everything about him felt wrung out and far off, from his posture to the defeat in his unfiltered voice. It had been absent from the moment he asked to come inside, but for some reason was only hitting you now. Though you couldn’t fight the ache in your heart from the poor state of him, there was still more you needed to know before you could let yourself give in. No matter what subconscious queues your body was undoubtedly feeding him in the meantime.

“You say unbecoming…,” you began tentatively, worried that what you were about to ask could possibly upset him again. “Is that because of how you punished me that morning, or the toying you’ve subjected me to?”

If you had to choose, you really hoped that he’d feel apologetic for the chain. While they could be annoying, his games and tricks were mostly harmless. You had admitted to yourself not too long ago that you were even beginning to miss them. That was not a feeling you extended to the invisible leash that bound you to him, not the way it had been used then, at least.

Alastor removed the hand from his nose to meet your eyes, the speed of his movement catching you off guard. For the first time all night his eyes were clear and earnest; that steadfast, hypnotizing red you had come to seek and cherish.

“Would you accept it if I said both? By pushing you I think I may have set us up for the argument. I won’t say that what you said that morning didn’t upset me, since it did, but… Perhaps if I had given you less reason to think I was playing at another game it would have never happened in the first place.”

His voice was soft as he held his left hand out to you, a different charge in the air as your eyes broke contact to flicker down to his open palm.

The olive branch.

There was no doubt he could hear the way your heart had picked up, nearly choking you with its fervor as you swallowed against it… and gave him your hand.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

“I was so humiliated that morning… I’ve been so mad at you.”

Alastor could hear the tears threatening to spill behind the statement, and he squeezed your hand before his thumb began to rub in soothing circles as you looked away from him for the first time that night. He took a quick moment to follow your line of sight and grimaced when he realized you were looking at the spot where he had treated you so harshly. There was nothing he could do to take back what he did. Regret was such an awful weight, reminding him of long nights trudging through the swamp to discard one of his victims. His mouth soured. It would seem he’d need to add your name to the list.

Things were never meant to end up this way. This… tangled.

He dared to lean forward, not that there was much distance to close on your quaint loveseat, and cupped your face with his other hand to draw your gaze back to his. The conflict in your eyes went right to his stomach with a kick — the chance that you would turn him away forever still there, but he was thankful you hadn’t rejected his touch. He really couldn’t have suffered through the empty ache in his hands for even another minute; the heat of your skin already refilling his cup.

And despite how much he wanted anything but, he knew he had to give you an out. It was only right.

“I was a brute… I can’t undo what’s been done but if you’d like me to leave you alone, I will. I’m not keen on releasing you from our contract, but I would let you leave this hotel if you wish.” The words scorched his tongue, but they were true. He would let you go if that’s what you really wanted. You deserved that chance. “It’s safer here, but I would know immediately if you faced any trouble. Well… any trouble you couldn’t handle yourself, that is. I know how capable you are.”

Alastor gave you a small smile, the first time his lips had curled up with any sincerity for days. It was the most generous offer he had ever given a soul under his heel, and your short, dry laugh in response was music to his ears. There was no bitterness in the sound, nor was there any coming from your scent, but that wasn’t an indication of what was going on in your mind. Something the Overlord needed to remind himself of more often. He took a moment to really breathe you in then, floral notes of almond warming him on the inside as your body warmed him from out. Would it be the last time he was ever surrounded by you like this?

He didn’t know when his thumb began to absently stroke your cheek, but he loved the flush it brought to your face as you considered his words. A hint of iron gave the sweetness in the air just enough bite to make him swallow, his throat now parched and wanting. It took all he had not to close the remaining space between you, needing your answer before he would move an inch save the part of him caressing your face.

A jolt ran through him as your eyes locked onto his with a resolve that made his hair stand on edge, and he steeled himself as your lips parted to speak. Never could he have imagined that you would join the short list of people to hold his fate in their palm. And fewer still, one that he didn’t hold resentment toward having that power. There was security in your hold, not malice. Such a rare thing to stumble across even in life, let alone in this sulfurous chasm that had been home for the last near-century. As unworthy as he felt to receive it, the thought of losing it was even worse. He wasn’t in love… but it wasn’t impossible that he could be, with more time.

If you would give it to him.

“I don’t want to leave the hotel,” you said quietly, and brought your free hand up to hold his chin in the same way he had held yours countless times.

Alastor felt his ears lower despite how attuned they were to hear what you would say next, though the thumping in his chest didn’t help. To reach out and touch him of your own accord this way was bold, and he tried not to hone in on the bashfulness he felt burning his face. Why choose shame when he could have comfort? That was what he wanted, after all. A reprieve from The Radio Demon. There was nothing to be gained in postering, not with you. With you he could be… anything. And no matter your decision, he vowed to provide you with the same space.

His schemes to mold you into something you weren’t fled him with every exhale of his lungs. It was a senseless desire… Remorseless murders were a dime a dozen here. Thrilling as it had been to see you decapitate that wretch with your teeth, the fact that you refused to do something akin to that again merely for the sake of it like so many others was refreshing. He could appreciate only killing with purpose. That had been his modus operandi in life, after all. Murder was a tool he now used to illicit fear and respect, though most souls here were free game to him even under his mortal code. You were not, and it had taken him much too long to acknowledge it.

“And I don’t want you to leave me alone… ever again, but…”

But…

The shakiness in your voice felt like the blade of a guillotine, hovering above his neck while he agonized over when you would let the rope loose and seal his fate.

“I don’t know if I could handle that again. The chain, your anger — ” A small sob escaped you then, tearing through him like a hurricane.

Alastor didn’t even realize he was kissing your face until the salt of your tears registered on his tongue. Every little press of his lips an oath to never make you cry like this because of him ever again. And when your hands cupped his cheeks he only had a moment to relish in his relief, sighing against your skin before you captured his lips with yours. A familiar green glow enveloping you both as an unspoken agreement was made.

Peace.

What a magnanimous gift to receive.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Low voices pulled you out of sleep, making you aware of the cold that was beginning to sink into the front of your body. You had been so warm… so comfortable.

Safe.

More mumbling at your door as you groaned, the grievance in the sound not lost on you even in your groggy state. It wasn’t lost on Alastor either, saying something you couldn’t decipher beyond its tone of finality followed by the closing of the door.

“It’s still the middle of the night sweetheart, don’t stir.”

You didn’t even have time to ask who was at the door before he ran a soothing hand through your hair, maneuvering himself back into place in your bed. Pressing the length of his body in close against yours as he nuzzled into your chest, humming as he found the pulse of your heart. The warm, claiming kiss he placed there sent a shiver through you, your shared embrace tightening in response.

“What’s gotten into you? You promised you’d be good,” you mumbled, wriggling a little from the way his breath tickled your skin.

Even to yourself the warning was half-admonishing at best. But you were also just barely awake. Fingers betraying you as they lightly massaged his undercut, his contented sigh making you hide your face in his hair as if he could see the flush on your cheeks.

You’d be stronger in the morning.

Pet names and kisses like this weren’t something you were expecting to receive again so soon. It had been discussed, and you had both agreed to try and take things slow. A fresh start, of sorts. While you were used to him calling you dear, it was a term he used frequently toward other residents as well.

Sweetheart was… special.

Which he no doubt knew. Most likely saying it when he did so he could press up and relish your rapid heart like you were none the wiser.

“I know, I know,” he conceded, his words muffled by your skin. Inadvertently kissing you more due to the sheer proximity of his lips to your chest. Feeling closer to you now than he had during intimacy.

And, admittedly, cuddling in bed wasn’t exactly what you’d call taking it slow. But by the time you had finished talking — and making out on the loveseat — the two of you were so exhausted that letting him spend the night had seemed innocent enough. Like platonically sharing a bed with a friend. Though that’s not a word you would use to describe what Alastor was to you.

More than friends, not quite lovers. Beholden to each other all the same.

“Which is why I’ll only do this… for now.”

Alastor’s words and the warning, low tone of his voice hardly registered before you felt his tongue lap at the valley between your breasts, leaving a scorching trail in its wake that made your breath hitch. The soft groan from his open mouth right over your heart only making it beat harder, pleading for more of him. His large palm splayed against your back as he pressed you against his lips to nestle and kiss and suck, as if trying to pull the frantic organ through your skin through desire alone. You gasped as the light prick of his nails between your shoulders sent a fresh shiver down your spine, ending in a warm bloom between your hips as you curled into his touch. His responding needy hum as he grazed you with his teeth making you whimper.

Stronger in the morning…

“You’re not playing fair,” you complained, but it was a pathetic attempt at a scolding. You didn’t really want him to stop. Alastor’s responding chuckle told you that he knew it, too. The sound of it making your heart ache, and you were unable to suppress the small whine from behind your closed lips as he nipped and licked at your collarbone. “I missed you so much.”

You barely managed to finish speaking when he moved up to kiss you properly, slow and sweet, hand leaving your back to cradle the crown of your head. Melting into his touch, you moaned as his tongue entered your mouth; gentle and hot, coaxing whimpers and gasps from both of you as you tangled your fingers in his hair to keep him close.

“I missed you, too,” he said quietly, nudging your nose with his.

Tears fell unbidden as Alastor caressed and kissed the lingering bruises from his bite, seemingly determined to make them disappear through sheer willpower. Every little touch — administered or received — was comforting in a way that you feared would leave you insatiable, but the thought that formed in your mind through the haze of affection was a reassuring one.

This was eternity.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

“Fess up, toots.” Angel plopped down on a chair across from you, gleaming as he rested his head in his hands and leaned forward conspiratorially. “You’re havin’ all kinds of sleepovers now, huh?”

You nearly dropped the mug in your hands from the sudden question, and quickly looked around to see if anyone else had overheard. Not that the reconciliation was going to be secret — which would have been impossible to pull off anyway, considering how much the two of you had been moping around the hotel — but you had hoped to at least make it through the morning with the knowledge kept to yourselves.

“That was you at the door last night, I’m assuming?” The nonchalance you were aiming for just enough to get a laugh from him. “What did you say to him anyway?”

“Just that I was checkin’ up on my girl — which he did not appreciate me callin’ ya, by the way — after missin’ the big night out. I hope I didn’t send him to bed too mad.” Judging by the smug look on Angel’s face, he knew that Alastor definitely had returned to bed at least a little ruffled. “Buuut after I heard ya wakin’ up I figured I’d save the teasin’ for another day.”

“And you started bright and early,” you quipped, unable to help the smile tugging at your lips as you went back to preparing the breakfast tray.

“Well ya ain’t exactly bein’ subtle, what with the two mugs and all,” Angel taunted, jerking his head in the tray’s direction, “but jokes aside… I’m glad you were able to patch things up with Smiles. Who woulda thought all it’d take was an empty hotel, huh?” He gave you a wink and you narrowed your eyes at the suggestion, but he cut you off before you could even begin to ask the question forming in your mind. “Look, I gotta run, but I’m expectin’ a full report when I get back from work, capisce? Oh! Speakin’a which — guess who’s supposed to be on set tomorrow?”

It was your turn to laugh. “It’s about time that lazy bitch went back to work. Making the rest of you pick up the slack is just rude.”

You both snickered as you added the finishing touches on the tray, rounding out the coffee with some croissants and fruit. It definitely paid to be in the Princess’ circle; grapes in particular were very hard to come by. There wasn’t much time to relish in your mirth with Angel before you felt a cool, slinking tendril climb up your leg. Alastor’s shadow soon emerging over your shoulder to glare at your friend and whine in your ear.

Angel put all four of his hands up in mock defeat and pushed away from the table. “Duty calls, I get it,” he chuckled and gave you a knowing look, popping a grape from the tray into his mouth before making his way out of the kitchen. “Make sure the boss man knows ya got plans for tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you called after him, glancing behind you as the shadow growled at the spot where Angel Dust had been. Its face reverted back to sullenness when you pursed your lips, admonishing him with only a look. Any lingering irritation dissolved as it tugged at your sleeve, urging you back upstairs, and you conceded with a sigh. “You wouldn’t even be here to come get me if it wasn’t for Angel, you know. I expect you to be nicer next time.”

The shadow nodded its head and pulled on you again, its phantom grin quickly returning when you picked up the tray and began to walk back to the elevators. Baseless hostility toward Angel aside, it was hard not to smile as you watched it flitter across the floor; pausing every few feet to materialize and look back, ensuring you were right behind it. If your theories about this creature were right, it was merely acting as an extension of the demon you were making your way back to, and he was apparently quite eager for your return. A warm rush of pride left your body tingling at the thought.

Then again… it wouldn’t do well for the two of you to be late to your sudden appointment with Rosie. Who, according to Alastor, was very anxious to see you both and had something special planned that he had nothing to do with.

Yeah, right…

When you entered your room, you found Alastor at the loveseat still lounging in his pajamas and you scoffed, “That was a lot of urgency from someone who hasn’t gotten dressed yet.”

“Well, I had to do something. Our mutual friend was getting you off-track. I thought we took the same pleasure in this morning routine of ours, but perhaps I’m mistaken?” Alastor’s tone was light, his smile teasing as he watched the blush burn your face.

You cleared your throat as you took a seat next to him after setting down the tray and decided to change the subject. What point was there in admitting what he already knew?

“Rumor has it that Donny’s finally scheduled back to work tomorrow,” you said conversationally, helping yourself to some of the fruit.

Alastor’s eyebrows shot up in surprise before his face lit up in a hearty laugh; the ebullient sound of it making the mark he had left over your heart radiate with fondness. His face sharpened with that menacing, debonair grin as he looked down at you while you poured his coffee.

“Took him long enough to pull himself together, didn’t it? You did do quite a number on him, darling.”

You hummed, pleased with the proud look he gave you, and passed him the mug; a shock running through you as your fingers touched. Silly, considering how you had been pressed together all evening… not to mention all the other marks he left that matched the one currently throbbing between your breasts.

Even in life, you never could have imagined something like this. Sitting in the parlor with a suitor, giggling over coffee and breakfast after an evening of whispering sweet nothings between kisses. It would be foolish to think a peace like this could last forever, but this was the afterlife. Wasn’t peace the absolution from mortality and its fickleness? As you watched Alastor sip his coffee, his free hand absently massaging the back of your neck as he hummed along to the radio, you couldn’t help but think so.

Peace, friendship, sanctuary, love, and power.

Hell wasn’t what you had expected it to be. It was home.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

ps: a special shoutout to my darlings @hazelfoureyes and @sugoi-writes for giving me their shoulders to lean on while i worked on this final chapter. you both have listened to me ramble off ideas and scenarios and have supported me with such patience and grace… i don’t know how i’ll ever repay you but i will never stop trying!

pps: i do have plans for an epilogue, but don’t have a timeline on it just yet… stay tuned 😌💖

tag list: @fairyv-ice, @wat4r, @midorichoco, @raynerrold, @krak-jj, @tremendoushearttaco, @redfoxwritesstuff, @chibistar45, @kaylopolis, @cutiebimbo, @lousypotatoes, @rfox1998, @cosmiccandydreamer, @stardustandbrimstone, @cherry-cola-100, @wonderlandangelsposts , @catticora, @velvette3, @sailorsmouth, @alastorthirsty, @reath-solia, @junieshohoho, @cxrsedwxrlds, @fraugwinska, @littlebluefishtail, @nxcxllxsevens, @swagkittybear

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fan fiction #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #alastor x reader #x reader #alastor x female reader #alastor smut #hazbin hotel smut #song fic #if i can't have love i want power #love and power #slow burn #hazbin hotel slow burn

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 7 months ago

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the treacherous tyrant

the wistful wyvern, chapter three

a/n: I'm just gonna take this moment as an excuse to say that if you haven't yet checked out the info or maps about this world i've created, then i highly recommend you do, it'll make it much more fun, for example when we hop around from place to place in this one? you can spot on the map where we are.

summary: halting a moment, he turned to tug your horse’s reins out of your grasp and let her stand on her own, “look, just follow my lead,” before he turned with the expectancy of you shadowing him, “I have a plan.”

warnings: knight!bucky barnes x knight!reader, fantasy AU (monsters, but not much magic), original fantasy world, ex-friends to lovers, coworkers to lovers, former fuckboy!bucky, tattooed!bucky, slow burn, one-sided pinning, forced proximity

word count: 1374

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“What is it?” you asked when Bucky suddenly leapt off his horse and kneeled down to investigate a spot on the dusty path that split the treacherous terrain.

“…boot marks…” he mumbled, “fairly recent too…”

It had been a week or so that you’d been stuck trying to navigate through the jagged landscape of The Asadånie Mountains. From climbing rocky hillsides to the crumbly trail you now followed, it had been hard to know if you were making any headway at all or simply walking in circles.

Straightening back up to his full height, you slid off your horse as well just as a low rustling noise, from further up where the path curved, found both your alert ears.

Swiftly, you rushed in behind the tall shrubs that grounded the thin pine trees that shot up towards the blue skies above the mountains.

The bigger of the peaks before you appeared to open up into a dark cave. In the mouth of it, posted just outside, stood three figures that sent a chill down your spine.

Silently nudging the knight hiding beside you, his eyes too grew wide with recognition of the uniforms they wore.

“What are Oblén soldiers doing up here in the mountains?” he whispered, sharing a glance with you before you turned your gaze back to the guards.

A fourth figure then appeared, marching out of the cavern and prompting the other warriors to go rigid at his presence.

“Commander Abbot,” one of the soldiers addressed the man clad in gilded armour, “did it go as planned?”

“Well, I still have my head, you idiot,” he rolled his eyes, “so yes, it went as well as it could.”

“So, The Treacherous Tyrant is agreeable to the king’s orders, then?” one of the others asked as their commander began to walk away from the grotto, the guard’s feet slightly shuffling to keep up, “will he strike again before next full moon?”

“As long as we keep his dearest safe, then he will continue to do as the king commands.”

You both stood frozen, hidden behind the flora as the soldiers from the southern kingdom passed, scarlessly even breathing at all before they were long gone.

“The dragon’s in cahoots with them?” you uttered as you guided your horse back up onto the narrow path, “how is that even possible?”

With his gaze low to the ground, Bucky then mumbled, “The Treacherous Tyrant… I’ve heard that before… what was it…” he shut his eyes a moment, “Farrowghol,” his vision blinked open once more as he remembered, “Farrowghol, The Treacherous Tyrant.”

“Holy fuck…” you shuttered, unable to stop the terror that began to rain down upon you as you stared over at Bucky and saw the wheels in his brain still turning.

“They mentioned something about keeping something dear to him safe?” his features crinkled up in thought before unfurling with clarity, “oh, what if–…” and before he could finish his own sentence, share his brilliant idea with you, his feet began to move.

“What are you doing?”

“I have a feeling,” he began to walk towards the cave entrance, “something’s off.”

“You have a feeling? You’re gonna go get flambeed based on a fucking feeling?”

Halting a moment, he turned to tug your horse’s reins out of your grasp and let her stand on her own, “look, just follow my lead,” before he turned with the expectancy of you shadowing him, “I have a plan.”

“Fuck your plan!” you screeched, standing your ground, “I’m not going in there!”

But as you watched him get swallowed by the darkness of the cave, only a few seconds passed by before a sharp curse burst out of you and you reluctantly followed him inside.

Catching up to him, the dark tunnel soon unfolded into a vast and echoing grotto. Stalagmites burst up from the rocky floor and surrounded various mountainous boulders that might have crashed from parts of the caved-in ceiling where light now streamed in through the cracks and lit up the dim interior.

For a moment, you thought perhaps the beast had flown away right before you’d entered the cavern.

But that moment didn’t get to linger for long as one of the enormous silhouettes you’d assumed was just another boulder began to move.

The deep growl that then rumbled throughout the lair caused the small rubble on the ground to vibrate around your boots.

Its scales were such a murky brown that it nearly looked pitch black, and as it reflected in the rays of light gushing in from above, an opalescent sheen glistened on its hide at its movements as its head unfurled, towering above you and eclipsing the low light before its wide jaw unhinged and a smouldering glow began to appear in the back of its throat.

Throwing an arm around your waist, Bucky yanked you with him as he ducked behind a nearby boulder just before the monster began to spew fire at you.

As flames licked up the sides of the rock, the view of them cresting over the top caused you to curl further into Bucky’s side.

But when the dragon paused a moment, reeling before another go, the man beside you unexpectedly yelled, “we’re here to help!”

Shooting a glare up at him, “what the fuck, man?” you cursed in a hushed tone, “what are you doing? Shaking its hand and offering it a fucking pint?”

The leviathan’s booming rumble then invaded the entire cavern, “Farrowghol doesn’t need the help of wheezily little insects,” his heavy stride shook the space as he circled you like a large cat ready to pounce on their prey.

“King Ivan has something you love,” Bucky bellowed, “we can get it back for you!”

Farrowghol then suddenly halted, the entire cavern growing dead quiet.

“That’s why you’re doing their bidding, correct?” Bucky went on, “they took something from you?” he then shifted, slowly sliding his crossbow off his back, “you can trust us. See?” he tossed the weapon off to the side for the beast to spot, “you and I, we share the same enemy.”

Squeezing your eyes tightly shut, you thought for sure the dragon would let you feel his wrath once more, but instead, his deep roar resounded once more.

“Not something,” he corrected, “someone.”

“A person?” Bucky carefully stepped out, leaving your hidden frame still in his eye line as he faced the beast with his palms raised up high.

“My kin,” the dragon bellowed, “that’s who he has imprisoned. Ready to crush each and every one of them if I don’t obey. They’re hidden deep within his walls, in a chamber made entirely of hellstone,” he spoke of the rare material, which was the only thing known to be able to withstand the obliterating breath of a dragon, “I could never reach them, even if I tried, and I have.”

“We can get them back!” Bucky promised, “set you free from the king’s control!”

You couldn’t help but tremble as the beast's words shook the lair once more, “I lost my mate aeons ago… Those eggs are all I have left,” he shared hesitantly, “if something happens to them,” he warned with a crackle that raised the temperature a significant amount, “I will burn down everything you hold sacred.”

“Sounds fair enough,” your fellow warden nodded tensely, “and if we do this, you’ll hold out on their commands of attack?”

“You have one lunar cycle,” he slowly settled, “if my kin have not returned to my cave within that time, I will not hesitate to strike.”

When you finally exited the cave and the bright sunlight once more licked at your skin, Bucky’s tense shoulders dropped back down with a long exhale, whereas yours, on the other hand, did not.

“Alright,” he muttered, passing you as he briskly walked up to where your horses were still waiting, “so we just break into the palace in Ingorn. The chamber, it’s probably like a vault or something? That can’t be too hard, right?”

Trailing behind him, you breathed, “no, it is…” before halting your step completely as you sighed, “fuck…” staring daggers down at the ground as you then uttered, “I have to go speak to my father.”

#lea’s writing #eflorr au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes hurt/comfort #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff

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hiramaris · 7 months ago

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Kiss it Off Me

CHAPTER 8

Chapter Summary:

Yeah, she might die a happy woman right here, but if Yoba were kind enough, she hoped she'd live long enough to see those smiles.

Pairings: Haley x Fem!farmer

Disclaimer: I do not own Stardew Valley or any of the related characters. Stardew Valley is created by and owned by ConcernedApe. This fanfiction is intended for entertainment only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of the original Stardew Valley story belong to ConcernedApe.

Warning: none

Notes: I know, I know it's late again. I'm really sorry, my loves. It's just that life hasn't been giving me a break already. Hope you enjoy this one! I know I've been taking my sweet time to this fic at a very slow pace but I just really want to take my time to lay out our characters, especially my wife. I hope you weren't bothered with it but I promise you, all this waiting will be worth it ;)

Spring 8

It was a warm, sunny Tuesday afternoon. Being spring, the afternoon sun did nothing to burn her skin, and the post-winter air combined with the fresh spring breeze provided a wonderful cooling effect on her exposed skin that wasn't covered by her blue tank top.

It was really a great idea to wear her hair up today, allowing her to fully enjoy the refreshing air.

Although there wasn't anything particularly picturesque about hanging out at the playground, it offered Haley a rare moment of solitude away from the crowd.

In her high school days, she would have basked in the attention people gave her.

Back then, being in the spotlight was exhilarating. However, after her peak during college, she found that she didn't like it as much. For one, popularity didn't help her grades, and secondly, being an 'It' girl didn't matter anymore—not when everyone was scrambling to pass their exams.

But now, here in Pelican Town, being popular just meant being in the center of gossip. The less attention she got, the better.

She preferred these quiet moments, where she could be herself without the prying eyes and whispers. The playground, with its empty swings and silent slides, provided the perfect escape from the pressures of scrutinizing gaze from townspeople who were no better than her either.

"Uh, Haley?"

Haley froze at the sound of a familiar voice, the smell of flowers and dirt filling her nostrils. She turned slowly, her heart skipping a beat.

"Oh..." she said, startled. "Hi, there..."

She wasn't expecting to see you so soon after that whole ordeal (Chapter 3, Spring 7). She might have invited you for breakfast out of goodwill and to make up for her rude behavior, but she kind of half-expected you to chicken out and possibly (hopefully) have the presence of mind to avoid her or something because, for the love of Yoba, your presence is becoming too much for her.

You’re like a pebble suddenly thrown into a pond, causing ripples in what was once stagnant. Haley couldn't quite figure out why you had such an effect on her.

You were speaking, talking about what seemed to be a hair tie but Haley's mind was buzzing elsewhere to actually understand you.

Her eyes briefly scanned you. You wore your typical green overalls, and even with a bit of dirt and grass clinging to your clothes, you still managed to look pretty good. The earthy tones seemed to suit you, giving you a rugged, outdoorsy vibe that was oddly attractive.

Surprisingly, your scent wasn't as pungent as Haley expected it to be. In fact, there was a hint of something pleasant mixed in with the earthy aroma, perhaps a subtle whiff of fresh hay or a trace of wildflowers. She couldn't really tell.

Her attention drifted almost inadvertently to your mouth. Slightly chapped, but full pink lips. Wait, what?

Eyes widening by a slight fraction, she immediately darted her eyes elsewhere, making her spot a hair tie and a handful of daffodils in your hand.

Then her eyes spotted Demetrius walking from where you both stood. Haley's mind quickly realized that you were planning to give her another gift this week, and while there's nothing wrong with daffodils (she likes them), you only give them to her when no one is around.

But now, in the presence of Demetrius, who will probably tell Robin, who will likely tell all her Yoga club members, who will surely tell the whole town that you have given her flowers!

While it shouldn't be a big deal, she has lived in this valley long enough that the rumor mill tends to exaggerate things. And Haley doesn't want to get caught in the middle of this.

As you continued speaking, she made a split-second decision to interject, surprising even herself.

"Uhm, how do I say this..." she began, her voice wavering slightly. "I appreciate your gifts and such. But please don't get the wrong ideas. It's not like a little flower will make us besties or anything, you know."

Her pretty mouth is probably the foulest thing ever created, but she couldn't really stop herself from saying the awful things in this world even if her life depended on it. It was as if her mouth had a mind of its own, blurting out things she'd later regret.

Fortunately, you didn't appear offended; rather, you seemed both confused and amused by Haley's abrupt interruption.

"Uhm, I was just asking if this is your hair tie," you said as you handed her the item.

"Oh!" Haley's voice held a note of embarrassment as she accepted the tie from your outstretched hand, her cheeks likely flushed with a deep shade of pink. "I didn't even notice it was missing..."

Your lips quirked up slightly at the sight of her flustered state. "You were saying..?"

Haley was certain you were teasing her, and she would have half a mind to wipe the adorable smirk off your face if she weren't so embarrassed herself.

"Sorry for jumping to conclusions. I was just..." She fidgeted uncomfortably, unable to find the right words. "Well, nevermind."

"Hey, you weren't even wrong. These are actually for you." You presented her with the daffodils before Haley could respond. "And I'm not expecting you to be friends with me just because I give you flowers, you know?"

"Then what else were you expecting?" That question should have sounded so harsh if Haley weren't so busy burying her nose in them to hide her flustered expression.

"Ever heard of giving a pretty flower to a pretty lady?"

She could have sworn she heard Demetrius snort back a laugh.

Haley couldn't help but sigh, but a smirk tugged at her lips at your poor attempt at charming her.

Rumors be damned. These flowers smelled good.

****

Summer 12

"Yoba..." she muttered under her breath, huffing as she finally managed to lift all her shopping bags off the bus. The driver, thankfully, was patient enough to wait as she struggled with her haul.

Some guy had even offered to help her, but Haley shot him a look that could kill, silently telling him to respectfully fuck off. She might have accepted his help if he hadn't been staring at her tits throughout the whole ride and being generally a creep altogether.

There was no way she was letting that perv touch any of her stuff.

The only problem now is how in Yoba's name she's going to lift all these shopping bags back to her house.

"Now there's the pretty face I hadn't seen all day."

Haley immediately perked up at the sound of your voice, her breath hitching as she caught sight of you approaching her.

Your hair was in a loose bun today, with stray strands framing your face in that imperfectly perfect way, it looked so endearing.

The late afternoon sun cast a warm, golden glow, creating an ethereal aura around you as you stepped closer. The sunlight highlighted the gentle slope of your button nose and the soft curve of your lips, naturally tinted with a delicate shade of pink. Your tan skin seemed to radiate warmth, making Haley momentarily forget to breathe.

The sight of you, dressed in a sleek black leather jacket over a fitted white shirt, paired with jeans that hugged your figure just right, only intensified the fluttering in Haley's stomach.

Despite her best efforts to hide it, a flush spread across her cheeks as she took in your appearance.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, attempting to sound casual but failing miserably. The nervousness in her voice was unmistakable.

"Oh, I was about to take a ride to Calico," you replied with a casual shrug, causing Haley's eyes to wander toward the sword strapped behind your broad shoulders. "I've heard there's a cavern there worth exploring."

"To mine?" She couldn't help but make a face. "At this hour?"

You barked out a laugh, the sound hearty and genuine. "Don't worry," you said, a reassuring glint in your eyes. "I'm just going to check the area. My weapons aren't strong enough to take on the monsters in there yet."

"Or better yet, stick to the usual farming and foraging, which is much safer," she suggested, trying to mask her concern with a light tone.

"I don't think so, Hay." You reached out and pinched her nose playfully, earning a mock scowl from her. "Anyway, you need help with the bags?"

She crossed her arms, her stubbornness making its appearance once again. "I think I can handle them myself. Give me some credit."

"Nope." With a chuckle, you swooped in to grab all the shopping bags from the ground, ignoring Haley's protest. "You've been wearing those heels the whole day. They must have been killing your feet right now."

That made Haley pause, her defiance wavering. "B-but—"

"I know you're capable of handling them yourself," you continued, adjusting the bags with ease. "But letting your arms rest for a couple of minutes wouldn't hurt, right?"

Haley sighed, her resolve softening. "At least give me the other bags," she insisted, her cheeks growing warmer by the second.

She wasn't at all foreign to your chivalrous tendencies, but she's still not used to the feeling. She also knew you weren't struggling, she just couldn't shake the guilt of letting you shoulder all the bags after doing such heavy chores on the farm.

But you were stubborn as a mule. When Haley attempted to take some of the bags from you, you shook your head with a playful grin, transferring all the bags to one hand and extending your free hand toward her. "Tell you what, I'll carry the bags, and you can just walk beside me. Deal?"

"B-but I thought you were going to Calico?"

"That could wait," you answered simply, hand still extended, waiting expectantly.

Reluctantly, Haley took your hand, feeling a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. "Fine," she muttered, her cheeks flushing as she glanced away. "But only because my feet are killing me."

You gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "That's the spirit!." You beamed at her, oblivious to Haley's heart pounding hard against her chest. "Let's get you home."

Haley usually kept her cool around you, but feeling your calloused palm against her soft hand stirred up a whirlwind of emotions within her.

She'd be a liar if she denied that there are certain nights that she wonders what it would feel like for your hand to intertwine with hers, and it felt like nothing compared to actually feeling it for the first time.

Despite the roughness of your palm and fingertips, it only added to the warmth she was feeling. They were also a bit bigger compared to Haley's, making your hands almost fully encapsulate her whole hand, almost protectively.

She thought she'd dislike the feeling. Strangely, though, it only made her feel secure. They were the hands of a hard worker, after all.

As you walked through town together, she could see the prying eyes of Jodi and Caroline. She sensed their whispers, undoubtedly exchanging her name and yours.

Surprisingly, this time, Haley didn't seem to mind.

Being called 'yours', even in hushed whispers and rumors, didn't seem so bad now.

****

Summer 13

Dear Miss Carter,

Thank you for expressing interest in our modeling opportunity. After careful consideration, we regret to inform you that we have decided to pursue a different direction for the campaign. While we appreciate your enthusiasm, we believe this decision aligns best with our project goals. We hope to collaborate on future endeavors.

Best regards,

Victoria Bloom

Stardew Valley Gazette

Haley couldn't bring herself to read the letter in its entirety. A single glance was enough to confirm her fears—it was a flat-out rejection.

The sting of disappointment was immediate, sharp, and disheartening.

Her hopes had been high this time, not just because she thought she was beautiful enough, but because she believed in her own talent and passion. She loved photography, had an eye for detail, and knew what made a model truly shine in a photograph.

This was one step closer to her dream—her chance to prove she was more than just a pretty face, designer clothes, and expensive make-up.

This is where she truly shines. Or at least that's what she thought.

But maybe she had become too complacent, thinking her appearance alone would open doors for her.

Seeing the words "We regret to inform you..." felt like a punch to the gut. Doubt began to creep in, whispering that perhaps she wasn't as good as she thought. Maybe the others were right after all.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror felt like salt being rubbed into her wounds. This face, this body... they were all she had. And even those seemed to have failed her.

How on earth was she going to break this news to you? You had been the first to support her when she shared her desire to apply for the position. You believed in her, encouraged her, and told her she had what it took. The thought of seeing the disappointment in your eyes was almost unbearable.

Haley was used to feeling disappointed in herself. She had faced setbacks before, but this felt different. This felt like a failure that might change how you saw her, and that was a bitter pill she wasn't ready to swallow yet.

The fear of letting you down, of not living up to the potential you saw in her, weighed heavily on her heart.

She sniffled, regretting how eagerly she had opened the letter. Now she had to face Alex and celebrate his birthday, looking like she had been crying for hours. Her mascara was smudged, leaving dark streaks down her cheeks, and her eyes were puffy and red from crying.

While she may have to put on her mask, pretend everything's okay, she knew that you and Alex could easily see through her facade no matter how hard she tried to put on a brave face.

It will still ruin the spirit of the party.

Maybe she should consider not going.

But Alex would be upset with her.

Or, either that, he'll physically drag her to the party himself.

Both scenarios felt like disasters.

She let out a harsh breath. Attending was the only option.

She began to retouch her makeup, particularly the parts that had smudged because of her tears, but it was a difficult task with the tears continuously pouring down her cheeks. Her hands trembled as she tried to fix the damage but she didn't dare stop.

She had to look perfect.

Fake it until you make it.

Come on...

A sob couldn't help but escape from her lips.

Fuck.

"Haley." A pair of warm, rough hands take hold of her own, stopping her from smudging her makeup even further. "Haley, come on. Stop."

"Huh..?" Her voice hitched as she saw you tower over her. Her big, baby-blue eyes, filled with unshed tears, met yours.

Oh, no....

You can't see her like this.

"What's wrong?" you began to question, keeping a firm grip on her hands but not too tight to hurt her.

Haley only shook her head. You can't see me like this.

As you lifted her chin up to face you, forcing Haley to meet your gaze, her eyes still glistening with tears, you noticed a makeup wipe lying nearby. With a quick yet gentle movement, you reached behind her back and snatched it up.

"I'd rather fight a whole swarm of skeletons than see you like this," you murmured as you gingerly wiped mascara stains from her cheeks with such gentleness, leaving nothing but her smooth, rosy skin. "What's wrong, Haley? Tell me, please."

She should just push you away. Tell you to leave her alone.

But she couldn't. Not when you're looking at her like that.

Like she's worth of so much more.

And just like that, Haley's resolve crumbled. She had been trying so hard to keep it together, to be strong, but your kindness broke through her defenses. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over as she tried to find the words.

"I... I got rejected," she finally managed to say, her voice shaking. "I really thought I'd get that job. Finally prove I'm more than just a dumb blonde from Pelican Town. But now... I feel like such a failure."

"You know that's not true."

"I keep trying my best, Y/n..." Her lips quivered and you were quick to caress her cheeks. "But it feels like I'm getting nowhere."

You squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "Haley, you're not a failure. You put yourself out there and took a risk. That's something to be proud of."

"But what if I'm just not good enough?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "What if I'll never be good enough?"

"Hey, hey... none of that. You are more than good enough," you assured her, gently cupping her cheeks before pressing a chaste kiss on her forehead. "One rejection doesn't define you or your worth. And it certainly doesn't change how I see you."

Haley sniffled again, trying to believe your words. "You're not bullshitting me, are you? Because I'm not in the mood to bake for you right now, you know?"

"I would never." You chuckled, your laughter infectious as Haley joined in. "Plus, it's their loss, you know? Only idiots would turn down a spectacular photographer AND model."

"Now I know you're definitely just kissing my ass," Haley snorted, lightly tapping your shoulder. As if to further tease her, your eyes playfully drifted downward, making it Haley's turn to cup your cheeks, unable to stop herself from giggling. "Eyes up here, miss."

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about," you retorted with a playful smirk, your eyes meeting hers with a twinkle of mischief.

Haley's laughter subsided, replaced by a soft, appreciative smile.

"Thank you, Y/n..." Her eyes are now sparkling with adoration instead of tears. The hands cupping your cheeks slid around your neck, drawing you closer. "You always know what to say to make me feel better."

Closeness that was once awkward and forced...

What was once a heart pounding like a drum in her chest, fast and hot in an uneven rhythm...

Is now a heart steadily beating.

This closeness is calm and silent.

And if she were to die today in this spot with your arms around her, then Haley would die a happy woman.

"Keeping you happy is a responsibility I'd happily taken upon myself," you said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead once again, and Haley couldn't help but close her eyes this time, unable to suppress her own smile. "Now, let's fix your makeup," you added with a small smile, reaching for the makeup wipe again. "And then we'll go to Alex's party together. We'll get through this, one step at a time."

Haley nodded, a genuine smile tugging at her lips. Yeah, she might die a happy woman right here, but if Yoba were kind enough, she hoped she'd live long enough to see those smiles.

****

Summer 17

Click. Click.

Haley sighed as she looked through her camera's viewfinder.

"Just how many variations of the same shot can I take?" she muttered, exhaling another sigh.

After her sudden show of vulnerability to you, Haley suddenly got this urge to take pictures once again. While she may have failed to get that position as a model, that doesn't mean she failed as a photographer.

But looking at the flat, uninspired pictures she'd been taking for almost an hour now, she was starting to think otherwise.

The view here was spectacular, sure, but she’d been photographing this same spot by the lake for years now.

She needed something new. Something more alive.

Haley lowered her camera and gazed around, searching for a fresh perspective. The sun was up and about, casting a golden glow on the water and surrounding trees. It was beautiful–majestic even, if she could dare to say, but still... it wasn't enough.

It felt soulless. Bland.

Chop. Chop.

"That again." Haley couldn't help but glare in the direction of the sound, as if her annoyance alone could make it stop.

The incessant noise of wood chopping from the distance was not helping her at all. Whoever was chopping away had been at it for hours already and didn't give the impression of stopping anytime soon.

She tried to refocus, raising her camera again, but her concentration which was already nonexistent to begin with, was now a mere dust taken away by the summer breeze. The rhythmic, relentless chopping seemed to seep into her mind, making it impossible to find the spark she was looking for.

As if this person knew which buttons to push, the sound of a tree crashing to the ground echoed through the air, making a fully formed nerve start to throb on her forehead.

Whoever that idiot was, they were really going to get a piece of her mind. There was a whole damn forest just south of here, so why did they have to do it here?

Yoba forbid if it was Clint. He was really going to get an earful.

Frustrated, she decided to investigate.

Maybe a change of scenery—or at least figuring out what was going on—would help. Haley packed up her camera and headed toward the source of the noise.

As Haley got closer, she stopped when you suddenly emerged from behind a mahogany tree, an axe in hand.

You leaned down to grab a bottle of water beside your rucksack resting against the tree. Haley only realized she was staring when even the droplet of water that missed your mouth began to cascade across your neck down to your already wet tank top, leaving little to no imagination.

Yoba, when did it get so hot?

Probably unable to not notice such a pretty being such as herself on your peripheral, you turned your head to her with that familiar shit-eating grin she had grown to like so much as you closed the cap of your bottle.

"Hey there, pretty lady!" you greeted, slamming your axe on the stump behind you as you walked closer. "I didn't know you were here."

"Hey, yourself," she greeted with a small smile, her initial irritation suddenly evaporated into thin air. "I'm trying to get back on foot with photography and I was kind of distracted with the chopping noise, is all."

"Oh!" You scratched your nape sheepishly. Haley couldn't help but notice the way the sunlight caught the sweat on your skin, the muscles in your arms flexing with each movement. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to distract you."

Oh, you are distracting her alright, but probably for the wrong reasons.

"I just needed some woods so Robin could make some renovations on the cabin. Didn’t think anyone would be around," you went on, seemingly unaware of the effect you had on her. "If you'd like, I can hang with you for a bit. See your progress with your camera."

"Sure," Haley replied distractedly. "Wait, what?"

Before she knew it, you were peering over her shoulder, waiting expectantly for her to show the pictures she just took. The scent of sweat, wood, and flowers filled her nostrils, and Haley couldn't help but feel lightheaded. In a good way, she supposed.

Still, it was too much all at once.

Overwhelmed by the closeness that had been familiar over the months you had spent here, Haley instinctively backed away from you.

"Sorry," you chuckled, rubbing the back of your neck. "I forgot I smell."

"No!" she almost shrieked, her cheeks turning a shade of pink. "It's not that. I just…" she sighed deeply. "I got nothing to show you. All my shots are flat. Almost the same variations of the same scene. I can't put these in my portfolio, Y/n."

You plopped down on the grass, leaning back on your arms as you looked up at her with brilliant eyes. "That can't be true. You love taking pictures of this place."

"I know..." She let out another sigh, gingerly sitting on the grass in front of you. "I used to love this, capturing the beauty in everything. But now, it's like I'm stuck in a loop. There's got to be more to photography than just this."

"I think..." you trailed off, rummaging through your bag and producing a piece of white cloth. You brushed off the grass beside you, clearing away dried leaves and small pebbles before laying the cloth down. "Come sit here first, Haley." You patted the spot next to you.

Haley nodded dumbly, surprised and touched by your thoughtfulness. Did you really made sure she wouldn't sit directly on the grass because you knew how much she disliked getting dirty?

"I was saying," you continued, brushing off a stray piece of dry grass from Haley's skirt before helping her get comfortable beside you, "I think you need to find some new motives to spark your excitement again."

Haley settled next to you, feeling a bit more at ease. "New subjects, huh? Like what?"

You smiled, your eyes twinkling with ideas. "Anything that catches your eye. Maybe try photographing people, events, or even little details you might have overlooked before. Sometimes, a change in perspective is all it takes."

Haley considered your words. "You might be onto something there. I mean, I've been so focused on the same old scenes that I haven't really thought about branching out. It's just..." She looked down at the camera on her lap. "It's hard to break out of my comfort zone, you know? Old habits die hard, I guess."

"How about you take a photo of me chopping woods?" you suggested with a smirk as you helped her up.

"Be my model, you say?" Haley replied, a mischievous glint lighting up her eyes. "That's not a bad idea. You'd actually make a pretty good model if I say so myself."

That wiped the smile right out of your face.

"I was just kidding!"

"Nope." She grinned, even exaggerating the 'p' sound to further tease you. "Get your axe and get to chopping already, miss."

"But I'm as stiff as a board to be your model!" you whined but were already on your way to retrieve your axe.

"Just pretend I'm not here. Be candid."

"It's kind of difficult to ignore your camera's lens," you muttered, gripping the axe.

"Y/n," she called from behind her camera, adjusting the settings to capture the perfect shot. "Remember that photo I gave you last month?"

"Yeah..?"

"It was a good photo, you know?"

"Really?"

"You didn't need to pose at all to look good. Just be yourself." Haley briefly looked up from her camera, meeting your eyes with a soft smile before going back behind her lens. "I like you a lot better that way, anyway."

****

Later that night, she found herself inside her freshly made dark room. Designing this room had been challenging, but nothing was more challenging than sifting through hundreds, maybe thousands, of clothes in her walk-in closet that is now turned into the dark room, and finding some clothes she'd be willing to donate next spring for charity.

She truly loves her clothes and finds them as her way of expressing herself but hoarding them at this rate is alarming. So what better way to make good use of space than for her passion?

Though not completely satisfied with her setup, Haley knew this would have to do for now. Once the rest of the equipment she needed arrived, she'd definitely want you to see her darkroom one day.

With everything developed, she began to scan each photo with keen eyes, ready to pick out the ones that would go into her portfolio. But as she went through them, she realized that had been a mistake.

Her shots were... Impeccable. No surprise there.

And you were surprisingly a good model. Too good, actually.

She stopped on a particular photo, eyes raking towards your exposed stomach when you were about to slam your axe towards a log, arm flexing as you did. You have this fierce expression that's making Haley feel a lot of things one would deem explicit.

She felt her cheeks heat up as she continued to stare at the image, tracing the lines of your muscles with her eyes.

If she were to touch them, would they be hard against her fingertips or smooth and inviting? She was pretty sure that if you pinned her against the wall, she wouldn't budge. Not because she couldn't get past your solid chest, but because she'd probably melt right then and there, too overwhelmed to move.

Realizing she's thirsting over your photo, Haley gently slapped herself out of her trance. She tried to focus on the technical aspects of the photo, but it was no use. The picture was stunning and well—hot, and it's not just because of her photography skills. You were the reason it stood out so much. The way the light caught the sweat on your skin, the determination in your eyes—it all combined to create a powerful image.

She sighed, placing the photo in the "keep" pile. If she was this smitten over a couple of photos, there was no way she was submitting all of them. She liked to think these were for her eyes only, especially if that sultry, almost enticing gaze you were giving in front of the lens was anything to go by.

****

Summer 23

"Okay, Haley you got this. It's just water," she mentally cheered herself. "Every pretty girl must know how to swim on the beach."

It was probably just her screwed reasoning, but it definitely wasn’t because she saw you the other day swimming with Leah like some Olympic swimmer or something.

She's also gonna ignore the part that she avoids swimming on the beach because of some incident involving being taken away by the tide, water choking her lungs and her almost dying.

It wasn’t like that experience had put her off swimming entirely. She still loved the beach. The sun, the sand, the perfect tan it gave her—what's not to love?

But now, standing at the edge of the water, her toes curling into the wet sand, Haley felt the familiar knot of anxiety in her stomach. She took a deep breath, glancing over at the waves lapping gently at the shore.

"Just focus on the sun and the sea breeze," she told herself. "You can do this."

Anyway. It's not so bad if she confronted this... err—setback of her, right?

"Fancy seeing you here, Haley."

Haley whirled around from almost touching the water with her foot. Do you have some superpower in showing up whenever she felt the need to be vulnerable?

It wasn't that she didn't appreciate your presence, but she specifically woke up at the crack of dawn to practice her swimming skills because she knew you'd probably be busy tending to your farm, and most of the folks would still be snoring in their beds.

Well, aside from Elliot of course—knowing him, he was probably up already writing books and wouldn't leave his cabin anytime soon.

"Hi!" she finally greeted after what felt like an eternity of looking at your face. "I didn't expect to see anyone here so early."

"Really? I thought you know me well enough to know that I'm already up by 6 AM." You chuckled, running a hand through your hair. "And since when do you wake up so early? What happened to your beauty sleep?"

"Shut up. I'm just..." she rolled her eyes, stalling. She's not keen to tell you just yet what she's up to. Especially for a ridiculous reason. "I just felt like coming here for some fresh air."

Haley looked so proud of the reason she had come up with but it seemed you weren't buying her excuse.

"You look like you're going for a swim," you observed. Haley could have sworn she saw you checking her out, but it was gone as soon as she blinked. "You look good in blue."

Caught off guard by the compliment, Haley felt her cheeks warm up. "Oh, um, thanks," she mumbled, trying to play it cool.

Ever perceptive, you must have noticed she looked a little off.

You tilted your head, a hint of concern in your eyes. "Everything alright? You seem a bit caught off guard."

She sighed, glancing down at the sand. "Well, I guess I am."

"Wanna talk about it?"

Haley hesitated, weighing her words. "I could, but aren't you going somewhere?"

"I was planning to fish for some crimson fish," you explained, rubbing the back of your neck. "But now that I think about it, I remembered Willy saying there's a specific time for catching it. So, I have time right now."

Haley gave you a hard look. She knew you long enough to know you were bullshitting her. The tips of your ears turning red was a telltale sign she noticed whenever you lied. Which wasn't often, because you couldn't lie convincingly even if your life depended on it.

"Are you sure?" she asked, eyebrow raised. "It sounded important."

"Don't worry about it," you insisted, trying to sound casual.

You lent out a hand and Haley took it without hesitation. For some reason, clasping her hands against yours seemed a normal occurrence now that it seemed weird not to do it.

"Come on, let's sit by the shore. I heard the sunrise during summer looks great."

"Alright." Haley gave a small smile, appreciating the effort you were making to put her at ease. "Let's go."

The two of you walked towards the water's edge, the cool sand squishing beneath your feet. The horizon was starting to glow with the first hints of dawn, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange.

Sitting down, you both stared out at the calming waves. Haley took a deep breath, feeling a little more grounded by the familiar presence next to her.

"So, what's really going on?" you asked, your voice raspy but gentle. It was so soft that if it weren't quiet around them, she wouldn't have heard it. It was as if you were afraid to break the tranquil moment.

It was quiet for a moment. But the silence wasn't uncomfortable or forced by any means. It was calm and warm—feelings you seem to radiate whenever you were around.

After a few moments of finding a comfortable position to sit, Haley's head found its way to rest on your shoulder, and as if on instinct, your hand settled on the small of her back, pulling her closer.

"You know, I was thinking about getting out of my comfort zone," Haley began, staring at the waves.

"What do you mean?" you asked, turning to look at her, your cheek pressing gently against her hair.

"Okay, fine. I'll admit it." She took a deep breath. "I'm scared of swimming in the ocean. Silly, right?"

"I don't think it's silly," you declared, and Haley couldn't help but believe you.

"I read online about confronting your fears and thought I'd give it a shot. But..." She sighed, looking down at her hands. "I couldn't bring myself to do it."

You gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Fears are real. It doesn't matter how it may seem to anyone. The fact you're even trying to face them is a big step already."

"Thanks, Y/n... I just couldn't help but feel like I'm letting myself down, you know?"

"You're not letting yourself down," you reassured her, your voice gentle but firm. "We all have things that scare us, and it's okay to take your time. The important part is that you're here, trying to overcome it. That's something to be proud of."

"Thanks, Y/n," she murmured, her fingers gently squeezing your arm. "It means a lot to hear you say that."

"Anytime," you responded with a chaste kiss against her hair and Haley could feel herself melt on the spot if she could. "Maybe it's about finding the right way to face your fear. How about we do it together?"

"You'd do that?" she leaned back from you with surprise in her eyes.

"Of course. I'd also feel a lot better if you had someone looking out for you."

"Alright... I'll give it another shot. Just... just promise me you'll be there with me?"

"I promise."

****

As you both waded into the water, Haley took a deep breath, focusing on the feel of the cool water against her skin and the soothing rhythm of the waves. She glanced at you, and the sight of your reassuring smile gave her the courage to take another step forward.

"Okay..." she breathed. "I'm in the water."

It felt different from her usual pool experience, with the sand underfoot instead of solid ground, but she was cautious not to let her foot stomp on any sea urchin.

"You're doing good, Haley," you encouraged from behind.

"This... definitely feels different," she admitted, noticing the vastness of the ocean around her.

"But the water feels nice, right?"

She nodded, still unsure what to feel. While the fear of being taken by the tide lingers in the back of her mind, the thought you're just behind her makes her feel safe, even just for a little bit.

Feeling a little brave, she wadded a bit further until the water rose up to her chest. She can feel that familiar pressure in her lungs, and she can feel herself panicking a little, her breath coming in short gasps.

"Is everything alright?" your voice cut through the sound of the waves.

"Could you maybe..." her voice cracked a bit and she couldn't dare herself to turn around and face you, afraid the wave would swallow her whole if she even dared to move. "Can you come a bit closer to me, Y/n? I'm still a bit scared..."

"Come here..." It wasn't long before she felt your familiar arms enveloping her, offering a sense of security she desperately needed. "I got you, see?"

"Thanks…" she murmured, a shiver coursing through her body despite the warmth of your embrace.

"One step at a time."

"One step at a time," she echoed your words, trying to muster some courage. "It's not that bad, right? I mean it's just water."

"Uhuh," you nodded, your breath warm against her ear. "Plus keeping yourself calm is one of the important aspects of swimming. And you know, being aware of the tides so you know when it's okay to take a swim."

"Okay... I'll keep note of that."

****

"Can you believe I modeled in swimsuits once?" Haley suddenly said after allowing herself to be familiar with the water. "This feels a lot different from a photo shoot."

"Even if you don't tell me, I'd assume you had been in one before," you mused as you tucked a stray blonde hair away from her face. "You're more than brave enough than you let on. Doing a photoshoot needs a lot of bravery, too, and— well, confidence. Give yourself some credit."

"You know what? In some ways I did face scarier things, I guess," she admitted with a chuckle. "Like wearing heels on a rocky path for a shoot."

"Hmm, just think about those whenever you feel like you can't do it."

Haley couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at you, her lips curling up in amusement. "You're making it sound like modeling is a big thing and you facing dozens of monsters in a cave like a walk in the park."

"Well, I'd rather take on hundreds of slimes than be a model," you grumbled, a playful scowl on your face. "I'd look silly."

"That's ridiculous, you'd be a great model."

"You're just kissing my ass." With a mischievous grin, you splashed some water on her face, making Haley gasp at your audacity.

"I would never!" she protested, laughing as she wiped the water from her cheeks before retaliating with a splash of her own, catching you off guard.

Oh, it's on.

****

A/n: this chapter is more like a filler—a glimpse of how Haley and the farmer got closer. I stumbled upon a mod that adds additional heart events for Haley, and I decided to include it. I'm focusing more on exploring Haley's arc, which is why I'm drawing out this fanfic so much. Forgive me; I just couldn't jump ahead to the kissing and whatnot, even though I'm dying to write that scene already.

This is actually a two-part chapter because I think the mod adds about ten heart events, and I had to cut it short since I think this chapter is already lengthy. I also need a couple of hours to rest my eyes. Forgive me for any grammatical errors; I continued writing this after my exams, so my head is a bit foggy at the moment. Love y'all and thank you for your patience.

@joordynn

taglist:

@taliiiaasteria

@iluvwomen01

#stardew valley #haley x farmer #haley x reader #stardew farmer #stardew haley #stardew fanfic #stardew valley fanfic

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novaursa · 15 days ago

Text

Between Pride and Fire (the final chapter)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the curse

- Next part: the ravine

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

The air was bitterly cold, the sharp wind slicing through the rugged terrain as Jason Lannister rode at the head of a small escort. The men of the Vale flanked him, their faces grim and their cloaks pulled tightly against the chill. The mountains loomed around them, jagged peaks that seemed to scrape the heavens. The further they traveled, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, as though the land itself mourned.

Jason’s armor was dulled by dirt and wear, and his face, unshaven and shadowed with exhaustion, betrayed the sleepless nights he had endured since leaving the Riverlands. His green eyes, usually bright with wit or confidence, were now hollowed with worry, fixed on the path ahead. Every step of his horse brought him closer to what he both dreaded and needed to see.

The captain of the Vale escort, a grizzled man named Ser Arnall, rode up beside Jason, his expression grim. "We’re near the place, my lord," he said, his voice low. "The shepherd described it well. It’s just beyond this ridge."

Jason nodded curtly, his jaw tightening. He didn’t trust himself to speak, afraid his voice might crack under the weight of his emotions. He urged his horse forward, his heart pounding as the path narrowed and the jagged cliffs rose higher on either side.

When they reached the ridge, the escort halted, their faces pale as they stared ahead. Jason dismounted, his boots crunching on the frost-covered ground as he stepped to the edge of the ravine.

The sight before him was haunting.

A massive black pit yawned open in the earth, its jagged edges descending into an abyss so deep that no light could reach its bottom. The air above it was heavy with the faint stench of charred flesh and sulfur, the unmistakable remnants of dragonfire. Jagged rocks jutted out from the sides of the ravine, their surfaces slick with frozen condensation. It was as if the pit itself had swallowed the two dragons whole, leaving no trace but the desolation surrounding it.

Jason’s breath caught, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “This is it?” he asked, his voice low and strained. “This is where they fell?”

Ser Arnall nodded, dismounting to join him. “Aye, my lord. The shepherd who saw the battle swears by it. He said they plummeted together, locked in combat, straight into this pit.” He hesitated before continuing. “No one’s dared to climb down, my lord. It’s too treacherous, and no dragons have been seen since.”

Jason stared into the black abyss, his mind racing with images of Y/N and Morrath. He could see it so clearly—Morrath’s amber eyes blazing with defiance, her powerful wings struggling against Vhagar’s might. He thought of Y/N, her fierce determination, her strength… and the horrifying possibility of her lying broken somewhere in that bottomless void.

“Have you searched the surrounding area?” Jason asked, his voice sharper now. “There could be something—anything—that tells us what happened.”

Ser Arnall nodded. “We’ve scoured the cliffs and the woods nearby. There’s no sign of the dragons or their riders, my lord. Only this.”

Jason’s throat tightened, and he turned back to the pit, the weight of the moment crushing him. The others began murmuring among themselves, their voices hushed, as though afraid to disturb the silence.

“Leave me,” Jason said suddenly, his voice cutting through the cold air like a blade.

Ser Arnall blinked, confused. “My lord?”

“I said leave me,” Jason repeated, his tone steely. He turned to face the escort, his green eyes blazing despite the grief shadowing his features. “All of you. Return to your camp. I’ll stay here.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared to argue. Ser Arnall hesitated, his brow furrowed. “My lord, it’s not safe—”

Jason raised a hand to silence him. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Ser Arnall. Go.”

Reluctantly, the escort began to withdraw, their footsteps crunching against the frozen ground. Ser Arnall lingered for a moment longer, his gaze filled with concern, but Jason didn’t look at him again. Finally, the knight mounted his horse and followed the others, leaving Jason alone on the ridge.

As the sound of hoofbeats faded into the distance, Jason stepped closer to the edge of the ravine, his breath visible in the cold air. The wind howled around him, carrying with it the faint echoes of memories—her laughter, her voice, the way she looked at him when no one else was watching.

He sank to his knees at the edge of the pit, his gloved hands gripping the frozen earth. The abyss seemed to stretch endlessly before him, a black maw that swallowed everything—hope, love, and life itself.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “If you can hear me… if there’s anything left of you… I’ll find you. I swear it.”

The wind answered with a mournful wail, and Jason closed his eyes, his heart heavy with despair.

The halls of Harrenhal had grown colder with each passing day, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on every soul within its ancient walls. The fires in the great hearths did little to chase away the chill, for it was not the cold of winter but the cold of unanswered questions. The news—or lack thereof—about Princess Y/N, Aemond Targaryen, and Lord Jason Lannister had left the camp in a state of uneasy limbo. Even the most battle-hardened soldiers cast wary glances at the sky, as if expecting Vhagar or Morrath to appear at any moment.

Daemon Targaryen stood at the head of the war council, his presence as commanding as ever despite the grim atmosphere. His violet eyes burned with a cold fire as they scanned the map laid out before him, the Riverlands and the Crownlands marked with careful strokes of ink. Around him, his commanders and advisors stood in tense silence, waiting for his word.

Loren Lannister was among them, his youthful face shadowed with worry and barely contained frustration. His pale curls so reminiscent of his mother's, framed a furrowed brow as he stared at the map, his fists clenched at his sides. It had been a moon since his mother’s fall and his father’s departure, and the uncertainty gnawed at him like a wound that refused to heal.

Daemon’s voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and commanding. “We can wait no longer,” he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The Greens are vulnerable. Vhagar’s absence is a gift, and I intend to use it.”

One of the Riverlords, a grizzled knight with a scar running down his cheek, frowned. “But, my prince, without confirmation of Vhagar’s fate—”

Daemon’s glare silenced him instantly. “We know enough,” he said coldly. “The largest dragon in their arsenal has vanished, and so has the one-eyed bastard who rides it. If Vhagar still lived, Aegon would have unleashed her fury on the Riverlands by now. Instead, they cower in the capital, hoping we’ll hesitate.”

He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “But we will not hesitate. We march for King’s Landing. With Harrenhal as our foothold, we’ll strike at the heart of their false king’s power. The Greens will regret the day they spilled Targaryen blood.”

Loren stepped forward then, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his heart. “And what of my father, Prince Daemon? My mother? Do we leave them behind while we move on the capital?”

Daemon’s gaze softened slightly as he regarded the young man, seeing the fire and anguish in his eyes. “Your father made his choice,” Daemon said, his tone firm but not unkind. “He searches for your mother because he believes she lives. I cannot fault him for that, but we cannot let the war grind to a halt while we wait for answers.”

Loren’s jaw tightened, his green eyes blazing. “If they’re lost…” He faltered for a moment, his voice thick with emotion. “If they’re lost, then I’ll avenge them. But if there’s a chance—any chance—they’re alive, I won’t rest until I know.”

Daemon nodded, respect flickering in his expression. “You have your father’s resolve,” he said. “And your mother’s fire. Use it wisely, Loren. They would expect no less.”

Another Riverlord spoke up then, his tone cautious. “But to march on the capital… it’s a bold move, my prince. Do we have the numbers?”

Daemon smirked faintly, his confidence unshaken. “The Riverlands are with us. The North sends men even now. And with Harrenhal secured, the Greens’ support in the Crownlands is tenuous at best. Their fear will do half our work for us.”

Loren, still standing tall, placed a hand on the table. “And the Lannister banners from the Rock will hold the West. My brother and sisters are safe, and I will see to it that our forces join yours, Prince Daemon.”

Daemon’s smirk widened, his sharp features shadowed by the flickering torchlight. “Good. Then let the lion roar alongside the dragon. Together, we’ll tear Aegon from that wretched chair.”

The room buzzed with newfound resolve as Daemon began issuing orders. Scouts were dispatched, messengers sent to gather their forces. The camp, which had been steeped in uncertainty for weeks, now hummed with purpose.

As the council broke apart, Loren lingered, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he stared at the map. Daemon approached him, his tone softer than before. “You’ll have your answers, Loren,” he said. “But remember this: your parents would want you to fight for more than vengeance. They would want you to fight for your family.”

Loren nodded, his gaze unwavering. “And I will,” he said, his voice firm. “For them. For my siblings. For the West.”

Daemon clapped him on the shoulder, his expression approving. “Then let us march,” he said, his voice filled with determination. “And let the Greens tremble.”

Outside, the soldiers of Harrenhal prepared for war, their banners unfurling in the cold wind. The dragon Caraxes roared from the castle’s heights, his crimson form a harbinger of the storm to come. And though the fate of Jason and Y/N remained unknown, their legacy—fury and fire—would shape the next chapter of the Dance.

The air within the Great Hall of Dragonstone was heavy, the weight of Rhaenyra’s decree pressing on everyone present. The Painted Table, its intricate carvings illuminated by the glow of candlelight, reflected the grim reality of the war as Rhaenyra stood at its head. Her violet eyes burned with determination, the queenly resolve she carried masking the turmoil beneath.

Around her, her sons Jacaerys and Joffrey stood to one side, their faces etched with the seriousness of the moment. To the other side were her nieces, Leona and Aemma, their expressions mirroring the dread in the room. Behind them, trusted knights and advisors waited silently, the flicker of the flames casting shifting shadows on their armor and cloaks.

Rhaenyra’s voice, steady and commanding, broke the silence. “The time has come,” she announced, her gaze sweeping over the room. “The Greens have held King’s Landing long enough. Daemon and our allies have already begun their march. Now we will do the same. The capital will be surrounded, and the usurper will have nowhere to run.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the room, but it was short-lived as Rhaenyra raised a hand, silencing them. Her gaze fell on her sons and nieces, her voice softening but retaining its edge of authority.

“Jacaerys, Joffrey, Leona, and Aemma,” she said, her tone heavy with the weight of what she was about to say. “You are to remain here, on Dragonstone.”

Jacaerys, standing tall and proud despite his youth, immediately stepped forward. “Mother, I—”

“You will stay,” Rhaenyra interrupted firmly, her gaze locking with his. “I need you here to defend Dragonstone. This island is our seat, our stronghold. Should anything happen to me, it must remain secure.”

Jace’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, though his fists clenched at his sides. “Yes, Mother.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened briefly before moving to Joffrey, her youngest son. “Joff, you too must remain. Your strength will be needed here.”

Joffrey nodded solemnly, his face pale but resolute. “I’ll do whatever is needed, Mother.”

Rhaenyra turned to Leona and Aemma, her expression filled with equal measures of pride and sorrow. “Leona. Aemma. You have shown your bravery time and again. But I cannot risk you on the battlefield. You are the future of our house. Your strength will be needed here.”

Leona’s eyes blazed with defiance as she stepped forward, her voice trembling with barely contained emotion. “Aunt Rhaenyra, my place is with you. My parents—my mother—” Her voice broke, but she steadied herself. “They may be gone, but I am still here. Let me fight for them.”

Aemma placed a hand gently on her sister’s arm. “Leona, we have our orders. We must honor them.”

Leona’s jaw clenched, her hands curling into fists as she struggled to contain her frustration. “How can I sit here and do nothing while my parents’ deaths go unanswered?” she demanded, her voice cracking.

Rhaenyra stepped closer, her hand resting on Leona’s shoulder. “Leona,” she said softly, her tone laced with empathy. “Your time will come. I promise you, the Greens will pay for every life they have taken from us. But your strength is needed here, with your betrothed. You and Jacaerys will stand as the future of our house, should anything happen to me.”

Leona’s defiance faltered as she met her aunt’s gaze, the weight of Rhaenyra’s words settling heavily on her. Finally, she nodded, though her expression remained hard with grief and anger. “I will do as you command, Aunt,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

Rhaenyra stepped back, addressing them all once more. “Should I fall, Jacaerys will take the throne as my heir,” she declared, her voice ringing with finality. “Leona, as his betrothed, you will stand beside him as the queen. Aemma, Joffrey, you will defend Dragonstone with your lives if it comes to that.”

The room fell silent, the gravity of her words sinking in. Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on each of them, her heart aching with the weight of what she was asking. She knew the risk she was taking by leaving them behind, but the war demanded sacrifices, and she would not allow the Greens to take more from her family.

“Promise me,” Rhaenyra said softly, her voice trembling just slightly as she looked at her sons and nieces. “Promise me you will stand together. No matter what comes.”

Jace stepped forward, placing a hand over his heart. “I swear it, Mother.”

The others echoed his words, their voices filled with quiet resolve. Leona’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she nodded firmly, her voice steady as she said, “We will not fail you.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She stepped forward, embracing each of them in turn, holding them tightly as though she could shield them from the storm to come.

When the moment passed, she straightened, her queenly composure returning. “Prepare the troops,” she commanded, her voice ringing with authority. “We march at dawn.”

As the room began to empty, Leona lingered for a moment, her gaze fixed on the Painted Table. Aemma placed a comforting hand on her sister’s shoulder, but Leona didn’t turn.

“We’ll avenge them,” Leona murmured, her voice low and fierce. “No matter what it takes.”

Aemma nodded, her expression solemn. “We will.”

The Fall of King’s Landing and the Wrath of the Dragons

(As chronicled by Mushroom and High Septon Eustace)

The taking of King’s Landing in the waning months of the year was a sight that neither bard nor chronicler could ever forget. It was a day of fire, blood, and vengeance—a reckoning long foretold by the stars, as claimed by the mystics, or long manufactured by the ambition of Targaryens and Hightowers alike.

The Attack on King’s Landing

High Septon Eustace writes that the assault on the capital began at dawn, with the black banners of House Targaryen flying above two separate armies. Daemon Targaryen, astride his crimson-scaled dragon Caraxes, led the vanguard with Loren Lannister, the eldest son of Jason and Y/N Lannister, commanding the Lannister and Riverlands forces. From the north side of the city, Queen Rhaenyra herself descended, her forces bolstered by loyal Crownlanders.

The twin assaults upon the city were brutal and swift. Mushroom’s account is far less decorous than Eustace’s, describing how the city gates, long thought impenetrable, crumbled beneath dragonfire and siege engines. Caraxes led the charge, unleashing a torrent of flames upon the Gate of the Gods. Loren’s black-armored cavalry, their banners of crimson and gold streaming, swept through the smoldering rubble, cutting down any resistance. The once-proud city watch, loyal to Aegon II, scattered like leaves in the wind.

Rhaenyra’s forces, meanwhile, broke through the southern gates. Syrax soared above her, her roar reverberating through the city as her flames engulfed enemy battlements. The smallfolk screamed, scrambling to escape the inferno that had descended upon the capital.

Both chroniclers note that the assault was not without great loss. Scores of men fell on both sides, their blood soaking the cobblestone streets. Yet the outcome was never in doubt. By midday, King’s Landing had fallen.

Daemon and Loren’s Wrath

While Rhaenyra focused her efforts on the Red Keep, Daemon and Loren turned their vengeance outward. Eustace claims that Daemon, once the Rogue Prince, burned with righteous fury as he took to the skies on Caraxes. Mushroom, less complimentary, describes him as a man consumed by rage, a fire in his heart that matched that of his dragon.

Together, Daemon and Loren led their forces southward, burning everything in their path. Mushroom writes that Loren, though young, fought with a ferocity that rivaled his father. “The cub of the lion roared as loudly as the dragons,” Mushroom quips, “and his blade was no less deadly.” Villages and strongholds loyal to the Hightowers fell to their wrath.

Their path led straight toward Oldtown, the seat of Hightower power. Mushroom gleefully notes the irony: “The mighty tower that cast its shadow over the realm now cowered before the flames of vengeance.”

The Red Keep’s Reckoning

While Daemon and Loren exacted their revenge, Rhaenyra claimed the Red Keep. Mushroom paints a vivid picture of the queen’s entrance into the throne room, her armor stained with soot and blood, her crown gleaming in the dim light. She found the usurper’s court in disarray, with Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, attempting to rally what remained of their forces.

Otto’s efforts were in vain. Rhaenyra ordered his immediate execution, a decree carried out in full view of the court. Larys Strong, the clubfoot who had served as Aegon II’s master of whispers, was next to face her wrath. “The queen herself swung the blade,” Eustace writes, though Mushroom claims she allowed her eldest son Jacaerys the honor. Regardless, both men met their end in pools of their own blood.

Aegon II, the usurper king, was found cowering in the dungeons. Mushroom’s bawdy account describes how he wept and begged for mercy, though Eustace insists he maintained some semblance of dignity. Rhaenyra ordered him stripped of his crown and thrown into the dungeons, a fate that many considered more merciful than he deserved.

Alicent Hightower, along with her daughter Helaena and Helaena’s surviving children, was confined to her chambers. Rhaenyra decreed they would live, though under constant watch. Mushroom claims this was out of pity for Helaena, while Eustace attributes it to Rhaenyra’s desire to keep the surviving Green bloodline under her control.

The Queen Triumphant

By nightfall, the banners of House Targaryen flew above the Red Keep once more. The usurper’s reign was over, and Rhaenyra had reclaimed her birthright. Yet the fires of vengeance still burned, both within the capital and beyond its walls.

The Marriage

The Great Hall of Dragonstone was adorned with banners bearing the sigils of House Targaryen and House Lannister, their vibrant reds, blacks, and golds intermingling to symbolize the unity of the realm. The hall was filled with the hum of conversation, a mixture of laughter, tension, and hope. The wedding of Leona Lannister and Jacaerys Velaryon was not just a union of two houses but a symbol of the crown’s efforts to stabilize the fractured realm after months of bloodshed and chaos.

Leona stood tall at the altar, her gown a shimmering masterpiece of black and gold, the sigils of the lion and dragon embroidered intricately across the bodice. Her scar, once hidden behind a mask, was now proudly displayed—a testament to her resilience and strength. Jacaerys, beside her, wore the black and red of his house. His expression was one of quiet determination, though his gaze softened when it rested on his betrothed.

Rhaenyra, seated on the throne, looked on with a mixture of pride and relief. This marriage, she hoped, would cement alliances that could ensure her rule and bring a measure of peace to a realm still smoldering from the fires of war.

Mushroom’s account of the ceremony is predictably bawdy, describing how the young couple exchanged vows with a passion that seemed to set the hall alight. High Septon Eustace, however, writes of the solemnity of the occasion, noting the weight of expectation that hung over the young pair. “A marriage born of war,” he called it, “but with the promise of peace.”

After the vows were exchanged and the blessings given, the hall erupted in applause. The feast that followed was a spectacle of opulence and revelry, with lords and ladies raising their cups to the health of the bride and groom. Yet beneath the laughter, there was an undercurrent of unease. The war was not yet over, and the fates of Jason Lannister and Princess Y/N weighed heavily on the hearts of many.

Daemon’s Search

While the realm celebrated the union of fire and gold, Daemon Targaryen had already set his sights elsewhere. With the Greens defeated in King’s Landing and the capital secure under Rhaenyra’s rule, Daemon left Harrenhal behind to scour the Vale for any sign of his niece and her husband.

Mounted on Caraxes, Daemon’s search was relentless. High Septon Eustace describes his mission as one born of guilt and obligation. “He sought to repay the debt of blood, for he had encouraged her courage and boldness,” Eustace wrote. Mushroom, however, claims Daemon’s motives were simpler: “He was driven by fury, for the thought of his niece lost to that one-eyed bastard was more than even the Rogue Prince could stomach.”

Daemon’s search was thorough, visiting shepherds, hunters, and villagers near the Crownlands-Vale border. Rumors swirled of a ravine that swallowed dragons whole, though no concrete evidence of their fates emerged. Still, Daemon pressed on, his determination unyielding.

The Return of Loren

In the West, Loren Lannister returned to Casterly Rock, now named its lord. The young lion carried himself with a newfound gravity, though the weight of his parents' unknown fate was evident in his every step. The Rock welcomed him warmly, its banners flying high in honor of their new lord. Baela Targaryen, ever sharp-tongued and fiery, accompanied him, her presence as commanding as any knight’s. Their betrothal, announced shortly after their arrival, was met with approval by the Westerland lords, who saw the match as a union of strength and fire.

Rhaena, Baela’s gentler twin, chose to stay at the Rock as well, finding joy in the company of Loren’s younger siblings. Little Rhaelle and Rhaegel had grown especially fond of Rhaena, trailing after her like ducklings as she spun tales of her time on Dragonstone. And young Tyland and Daena became her best friends. Mushroom’s account notes the twins' contrasting roles at the Rock: “Baela ruled the halls with fire and fury, while Rhaena mended hearts with kindness.”

The Return of Aegon and Viserys

Back in King’s Landing, Queen Rhaenyra received her youngest sons, Aegon and Viserys, who had been sent to safety during the height of the conflict. Their return marked a moment of rare joy for the queen, who embraced them fiercely. The capital, though battered, was beginning to heal under her rule, its streets no longer shadowed by fear of dragonfire or civil war.

The sight of her sons seemed to reignite Rhaenyra’s resolve. “The future rests with them,” she declared during a council meeting. “We have endured too much to falter now.”

The Realm’s New Order

Though the war had not yet ended, the realm began to take its first tentative steps toward peace. The marriage of Jacaerys and Leona was a beacon of hope, their union a symbol of what could be achieved through unity. Yet the shadow of those still missing loomed over the celebrations.

For Loren, now Lord of the Rock, the uncertainty surrounding his parents’ fate fueled his resolve to safeguard his siblings and his people. For Daemon, the search for his niece and Jason Lannister became an obsession, one that would drive him to the edges of the known world. And for Rhaenyra, the victory was bittersweet—her throne secured, but at what cost?

The Arrival of Winter’s Hand

As the cold of winter ebbed and spring touched the realm with its tentative warmth, Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, rode into King’s Landing at the head of ten thousand men. His arrival was as much a declaration of strength as it was a gesture of loyalty. The North had come, its banners of the direwolf unfurled against the sky, and its lord ready to stabilize the realm and dispense justice under the rule of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.

High Septon Eustace writes that Lord Stark’s presence brought with it a sense of gravity and honor. “The wolf walked into the dragon’s lair, not to rend flesh, but to preserve peace.” Grand Maester Orwyle, who survived the war and lived to serve Rhaenyra, noted that Cregan’s mere presence was enough to quiet even the most fractious lords.

The Pact of Ice and Fire

Cregan Stark’s first act upon arriving at the Red Keep was to bend the knee to Queen Rhaenyra. He pledged his loyalty to her and her line, reaffirming the pact made during Jacaerys Velaryon’s journey to Winterfell. But there was another matter to attend to—his bride, Aemma Lannister.

Aemma, still a girl of tender years, was present in the great hall alongside her cousin Jacaerys, her sister Leona, and the queen. Rhaenyra, though reluctant to see her niece wed to the North so young, honored the pact made by her son.

Grand Maester Orwyle records the moment Lord Stark addressed Aemma with the solemnity befitting a Stark. “You are a lioness bound for the snow, my lady,” he said, his voice measured. “And you will rule with strength unmatched in the North.” Aemma, poised but shy, responded with the decorum instilled in her by her mother, though her nervous glances toward her cousin Jace betrayed her unease.

The Letter from Jason Lannister

As preparations for Aemma’s eventual departure began, Cregan Stark revealed to Grand Maester Orwyle that he had received a letter from Jason Lannister moons earlier. The letter, penned after Jason learned of the betrothal agreement, was, in Orwyle’s words, “a testament to the peculiar wit and unyielding pride of the Lannister lord.”

The letter read as follows:

To Lord Stark of Winterfell,

Greetings from the Riverlands, where I have spent the better part of my days ensuring your southern neighbors remember their place. It seems you and I have more in common than I would have thought—we are both men tasked with safeguarding our families in a time of turmoil.

I understand you have entered into an agreement with Prince Jacaerys Velaryon to take my daughter Aemma as your bride. While I have little love for such arrangements, it appears I am to endure this one for the sake of the realm. Rest assured, Lord Stark, my daughter is a lioness, and if you intend to keep her in the North, you will need the strength to withstand her roar.

Treat her well, for she is as dear to me as gold to the Rock, and her happiness will mean your continued existence should I ever return to claim her hand back myself. Consider this my blessing—or my warning.

Lord Jason Lannister

Shield of the West, Protector of Casterly Rock, and a father who would rather face a thousand winters than give his daughter to a Stark.

Grand Maester Orwyle notes that Cregan read the letter with a rare flicker of amusement. “He saw in it the spirit of the man, both fierce and irreverent. And though he found little humor in matters of marriage, he respected Lord Jason’s sentiment.”

Shadows of Uncertainty

Despite the solemnity and grandeur of Cregan Stark’s arrival and the stabilization of the realm under Rhaenyra’s rule, shadows still loomed over the court. There was still no word of Princess Y/N, Lord Jason, or even Prince Daemon. It was as if the three had vanished into the abyss that had claimed Morrath and Vhagar.

Mushroom writes that the court whispered endlessly about their fates. Some claimed Y/N and Jason had perished in the ravine, their bodies lost to the depths. Others whispered that Daemon’s search had uncovered something so horrifying that he had not returned to report it. Mushroom, ever eager for scandal, suggests that Daemon remained in the Vale because he could not bear to face Rhaenyra after failing to find her sister.

Rhaenyra herself was haunted by their absence. High Septon Eustace describes her as “a queen surrounded by victories yet hollowed by losses.” She often wandered the Red Keep at night, her eyes searching the horizon as though willing the dragons to return.

The Realm Holds Its Breath

As the preparations for Aemma’s eventual journey to the North were made, and as Cregan Stark dispensed justice in the queen’s name, the realm held its breath.

The Crowning of King Jacaerys I Targaryen and Queen Leona Targaryen

After the death of Queen Rhaenyra, the realm saw the ascension of her eldest son, Jacaerys Velaryon, now King Jacaerys I Targaryen, to the Iron Throne. His wife, Leona Targaryen nèe Lannister, stood beside him as queen consort, her violet eyes fierce and her scar now a mark of pride, emblematic of the strength and resilience she brought to the crown.

High Septon Eustace writes that the coronation was a grand affair, marked by a renewed sense of unity across the Seven Kingdoms. “The dragons’ roar was tempered by the lions’ might,” he remarked, “and the realm was reminded of the strength that lay in their union.”

Mushroom, ever colorful, paints a different picture, claiming that Leona’s scarred visage unnerved some of the more traditional lords of Westeros. “She was no soft queen,” he wrote, “but a warrior’s bride, as fierce in her words as her king was in his decrees.” Yet even Mushroom admits that their union was one of love and partnership, a rarity among royal marriages.

Under their rule, the realm entered a period of tentative peace, though the scars of the Dance of the Dragons lingered in the hearts of its people.

The Marriages of the Next Generation

Time had brought changes to the great houses of Westeros, and with them, new alliances through marriage.

Loren Lannister had wed Baela Targaryen, their union solidifying the bond between the West and the Crown. Mushroom notes their relationship as fiery but enduring, with Baela often described as “the flame that kept the lion warm.”

Aemma Lannister, after coming of age, had married Cregan Stark in Winterfell. The match, agreed upon years earlier, proved to be one of mutual respect. Aemma, who had grown into a poised and capable lady, adapted to the harsh North with surprising ease. “She was the lioness who roamed the snows,” Eustace wrote, “and the wolves howled in her honor.”

Prince Aegon Targaryen, the son of Rhaenyra and Daemon, was betrothed to his cousin Rhaelle Lannister, daughter of Jason and Y/N Lannister. The match was seen as a gesture to further unite the bloodlines of dragon and lion, though Rhaelle’s mother and father remained figures of mystery, their fates unknown.

The Mystery of Princess Y/N, Jason Lannister, and Daemon Targaryen

Despite the years that passed, the fates of Princess Y/N, Lord Jason Lannister, and Prince Daemon Targaryen remained shrouded in mystery. Their disappearances became the subject of songs, tales, and countless rumors, though no definitive answers ever surfaced. Grand Maester Orwyle noted that their absence left “a shadow over the realm, one that even the brightest flames could not dispel.”

Rumors Surrounding Their Fates

1. The Bottomless Ravine:

Many believed that Y/N and her dragon Morrath perished in the ravine where they fell battling Aemond and Vhagar. Jason, it was said, had thrown himself into the depths searching for her. Some claimed that Daemon, after arriving moons later, met the same fate. The shepherds near the Vale spoke of hearing dragon roars echoing from the pit long after the battle, but no one dared venture too close.

2. The Silent Vale:

Mushroom suggests a darker tale: that Y/N survived the fall but was captured by Aemond and kept hidden away. He claims Daemon uncovered the truth and sought vengeance, but both were killed in a final confrontation. “The Silent Vale,” Mushroom called it, “where secrets die with their keepers.”

3. Exile Beyond the Narrow Sea:

Another tale, whispered among sailors and traders, suggested that Y/N and Jason were not dead but had fled across the Narrow Sea. Daemon, some said, discovered them and chose to remain in exile rather than return to a realm that had taken so much from them. This theory often included claims of a small, dragon-guarded island far to the east where the three lived in seclusion.

4. The Ghosts of the Vale:

A particularly haunting tale claimed that Y/N, Jason, and Daemon had become specters, cursed to haunt the skies above the Vale. Shepherds and hunters spoke of seeing shadowy figures atop dragons in the moonlight, their cries echoing through the mountains like the wails of the damned.

5. The Last Dragon War:

Some believed that Aemond survived the battle and had taken Morrath’s dragon egg to hatch another beast, and that Y/N, Jason, and Daemon had been drawn into an endless hunt to find and destroy him. This rumor often ended with their eternal struggle playing out far from Westeros, a private war that the realm would never witness.

A Legacy of Uncertainty

As King Jacaerys I Targaryen and Queen Leona ruled from the Iron Throne, the shadows of those who had been lost loomed large. Rhaenyra’s reign had ended in victory, but the scars of war lingered in the hearts of her children and the realm alike. The question of what happened to Y/N, Jason, and Daemon became a legend unto itself, woven into the larger tapestry of the Dance of the Dragons.

Mushroom, in his final account of their tale, wrote:

"The lion, the dragon, and the rogue—three flames that burned too brightly to be extinguished. Yet like all flames, they left only smoke and shadow in their wake, leaving us to wonder what light they might have brought, had they burned together a little longer."

Honymoon Tour of the West

The dawn broke over Fair Isle in hues of amber and pink, the waves of the Sunset Sea shimmering like molten silver beneath the first light of the day. The air was cool and briny, carrying the scent of salt and the cries of distant gulls. You stood waist-deep in the water, the soft crash of waves brushing against your skin as you tilted your head back to feel the rising sun's warmth on your face. The hem of your white chemise clung to your legs, translucent from the seawater.

Behind you, Jason waded in, his golden hair catching the sunlight like a halo. He grinned, his green eyes filled with amusement and a touch of exasperation. “You couldn’t have waited until after breakfast to start your frolicking?” he teased, the water splashing as he made his way toward you.

Turning to face him, you laughed, your voice carrying over the waves. “And miss this? Come, my lord, the sea is calling!”

Jason groaned in mock protest, but his smile betrayed him. “You’re mad, you know that? But if I must chase you into the sea, so be it.” With a theatrical sigh, he plunged into the water, his laughter mingling with yours as he reached you.

The waves lapped around you both as Jason swept you into his arms. “You didn’t have to follow me,” you teased, brushing wet strands of hair from his face.

Jason’s grin softened into something deeper, something more tender. “Oh, I think I did,” he said, his voice low but full of meaning. “I would plunge into the surf, the storm, or even the abyss itself if it meant finding you there. Just to feel your warmth.”

You stilled at his words, a strange feeling washing over you—not just love, but a sense of gravity, of something unspoken and eternal. You cupped his face in your hands, pressing your forehead to his. “You’re too dramatic for your own good,” you whispered, though your smile betrayed you.

“Maybe,” Jason replied, his smirk returning as he tilted his head closer, “but it seems to have worked.”

Your laughter dissolved into a kiss, the kind that felt as endless as the sea itself. The world around you fell away, leaving only the two of you and the soft rhythm of the waves. When the kiss broke, you were both breathless, your laughter returning as Jason hoisted you higher in the water.

“You’re soaking,” you said, feigning scolding as water dripped from his tunic.

“Whose fault is that?” he shot back, his green eyes sparkling with mischief.

Before you could reply, a fisherman’s boat drifted closer, the crew shouting and waving jovially as they passed by. Jason turned slightly, shielding you with his body as if to protect your modesty, though his grin widened. “Seems we’ve an audience.”

You rolled your eyes, your cheeks flushing as you buried your face in his shoulder. “Only you could find humor in this.”

Jason laughed, his chest vibrating against yours. “It’s not every day the Lord of Casterly Rock is caught cavorting in the shallows with a princess.” He planted a quick kiss on your forehead before turning toward the shore. “Come, my lady. Let’s save the rest of our adventures for when the fishermen aren’t watching.”

He carried you out of the water, the sea cascading from your clothes as he walked. His strength never faltered, and his arms felt like the safest place in the world. As you both reached the shore, Jason gently set you down on the warm sand. The sunlight framed him like a painting, his grin boyish yet confident as he reached for the cloak he’d left on the beach.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” you said, shaking your head but unable to hide your smile.

“And yet, here you are,” Jason quipped, draping the cloak over your shoulders and pulling you close. “I must be doing something right.”

You sighed, leaning into his embrace as the sun climbed higher in the sky. The waves whispered their eternal song behind you, and for a moment, the world was nothing but warm light and the man who held you as if he’d never let you go.

“You’ll follow me into the abyss?” you murmured, your words teasing but your tone serious.

Jason’s smile softened, his green eyes meeting yours with a rare sincerity. “Always,” he said, his voice unwavering. “There’s nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t follow.”

You kissed him again, letting his warmth chase away the morning chill. And as the day began in earnest, you couldn’t shake the feeling that his words would echo in your heart long after the waves of Fair Isle had faded from memory.

#house of the dragon #hotd #fire and blood #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #house targaryen #house lannister #between pride and fire #hotd jason #jason lannister #jason x reader #jason x you #jason x y/n

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namelessdumbass · 7 months ago

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Rite Here Rite Now

It was amazing and funny. Copia girlies and boys fucking won!

I expected different outcome, tbh. Tobias managed to surprise me and also made me a tiny bit sad (reasons will be explained in the spoilers below).

The film consists of like 95% of concert footage and 5% of off stage/plot stuff. The quality of sound and editing is just 🤌 I expected the live of Twenties to be good and gosh Ghost delivered. And Mummy Dust...Tobias let Mary Goore out! But i honestly prefer Terzo's version (CaD) better. Sorry not sorry haha. Ghouls/Ghoulettes footage. Everyone who loves them will be very veeeery well fed!

Dance Macabre live...i was'nt wrong when i called it a satanic gay party 😁

The movie is worth watching and i do hope Ghost releases it as soon as possible for all those who were not able to go.

The spoiler free review ends here. Don't read further if you don't want to spoil it for yourself. And please, don't copy them and paste it everywhere for the sake of ruining other people's fun! Seriously, don't fucking do that!

If you accidently clicked here, don't worry! spoilers will be below and you still have a chance to avoid them :)

Alriiiiight:

Movie starts with Saltarian who tells fans to record for the first 2 minutes, to show how happy they are etc and posted a qr code for fans to upload those recordings. I guess it will be put up on RHRN website. We'll see. There were also photos of fans who attended LA ritual. I fucking loved the person who showed up in a giant Plushia suit. I LOLed! Then fans were asked to put down the phones and enjoy the movie. The beginning was narrated Star Wars kinda style (a little bit) with the small recap of the chapters and about Copia's worries that he might die. And yes, it literally began in space lol. The movie is basically is like what we saw in small snippets Ghost posted earlier. Plot mixed with a really good show.

And the plot: -Short footage of Copia and Ghouls arriving. ALmost the whole set was the same as any other concert from Re-Imperatour + a few awesome exceptions. -Dews does that annoying thing with guitar, Rain stops him, takes his pick and throws it into the crowd and Dew...he freaking showed him YouSuck sticker on the backside of his guitar. Peak Dew moment! -Copia asked the right question about the Clery. He also does not quite understand what it does, why and where it goes. I suppose Tobias decided to thicken the Ghost lore a bit and will have more clarity in the nearest future. -Remember when Copia jumped at the end of the Watcher in the Sky? He ended up in one of those stage boxes (for equipment or something) and is taken to the stage B. While he's carried to it by Kevin he has a chat with Nihil's ghost. Nihil says he recorded not 2, but 3 songs. That probably means that we'll hear a new one. (UPD: the new song we heard during the credits, "The Future is a Foreign Land" is Nihil's 3rd song! Confirmed by Tobias himself in a new interview). He also tells Copia to breath in deep and then farts. -On the Stage B Copia sings "If You Have Ghosts". 3 Ghoulettes played piano and violins and the 4th one did the haunting ghost-like opera vocals. It was beatiful. Copia kissed her hand. -He then wore boxing robe and went next to crowd. Almost the whole scene was shown in the trailer. -Btw, remember that silly moment when Nihil's eyes were crossing? Well, Kevin was also included in that staring contest. -Twenties live. The skeletons, the performance and one of those skeletons who crawled between Dew's legs...that's hot. -Nihil calls Copia "son". Copia calls Nihil "Dad". Cardi will insult him later, don't worry. -Nihil/Seestor cartoon during MOAC. Yes, that's when Sis hit him with the car. Basically it's what happens after "Kiss the Go Goat" mv. Sister leaves and Nihil runs after her. "I'll never let you go". They end up kissing in a coffin on a graveyard , later Nihil wakes up naked in a bed in a motel and we see Sister leave. -There was a moment in a movie when we see Ashley (stage crew) bring Copia a new pair of shoes and put the on on his feet. Tobias, goddammit what the hell was that? :D -Seestor was a in wheelchair all the time -She and Nihil encouraged Copia throughout the whole movie and gave him a piece of advice. -About the baloon from the poster. Copia flies on it after finishing the set...or he imagined that because a few moments later after Nihil/Seestor flashbacks he ends up on the floor and watches Seestor die. All of the Ghouls and Ghoulettes also stood right next to her. -Copia has a twin brother -Copia didn't die and became the head the Clergy (Father Imperator or something like this). He found out about his new position from a letter Seestor left for him. -New song during credits (credits show dictators, assassinations, wars and the use of nuclear war). Years 1984 and 2024 mentioned. The song is not heavy. -Ghouls/Ghoulettes real names mentioned in the credits -Funny post credit scene with Copia. He had no piant on and had a new cool drip (with black jacket and red and black cross). Seestor is also a Ghost now. Tobia's children cameo. They're also Ghosts. -Papa V is teased the same way Copia was teased in a chapter 1. They even used the same music (Pro Memoria). No face reveal. Either he will be revealed in new Chapters or at some point during the new tour???

-aaaand my biggest disappointment: no footage of Primo, Secondo and Terzo. Literally ZERO.

I mean, Nihil is a Ghost, Seestor also became a Ghost, even Tobias' children made a cameo as Ghosts, but nothing for previous Papas? Really?! The same could have been done for them, but i guess Tobias doesn't care about them anymore :( And it hurts. I know that's my fault that i had so many expectations and hopes, but holy shit :( As a newbie who never saw previous Papas, i'm so sad i'll never get a chance to see them and there won't be any new footage of them. Being Terzo widow is so hard. Guess that's why i'm a bit salty Copia lives (sorry, guys, i like him, but i also hate him haha)

And yes, as it turned out the twins theory from Square Hammer was true...but not for Terzo 😭

I enjoyed the movie nevertheless. It's fun and kinda gives you an opportunity to see the band "live" if you've never been to a ritual before. And yes, the movies was'nt just about Papa IV and his fate, i believe it was also Tobias' message for us to enjoy the life rite here rite now! As i said, Copia's girlies and boys truly fucking won. Congrats, lads, your Papa lives and will live! I bet that feels amazing. Thanks for reading! P.S. since you know the plot, don't spoil it for the others please.

#the band ghost #rite here rite now #rite here rite now spoilers #sister imperator #copia #papa nihil #ghovie spoilers #SPOILERS #papa emeritus iv

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solar4seekstron · 17 days ago

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Transformers 2007 - Chapter One: Beginnings

Indie Bayverse Transformers Series - Creator: Solar Seeks

Introduction Movies Masterlist

Introduction, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six

Content: 18+, basically a battle and interactions to get to know the characters a little more.

TW/Tags: 3rd POV (1st POV wouldn’t work here sorry), Altair is a placeholder for Y/N, This story is self-insert, Multiple deaths, Decapitation, Swearing, Jealous Elita in background, Angry Prowl, Optimus and Altair have a pretty happy relationship.

Notes: Originally the first chapter was going to be all the way to where Sam and Mikaela are taken and the bots will come to save them. The story ending on bee getting captured. OP and Reader having a small argument because reasons. More on that in the next chapter. But I decided that I need to write the story to start off with reader Altair and key points. Like their relationship with everyone and the lead up to arriving to earth.

The second is because I was redoing some lore reading. In the comics Megatron is the one to take Bees voice box. And so in the first chapter he has already lost his voice box. I do plan on doing a flashback to better fletch out the situation and event from the comics in possibly later chapters if it fits since I just learned this.

Third I’ll probably do a rewrite at some point and add a little more once I rewatch the other movies and after I finish the 2nd chapter if I realize I must add more.

Editor: @midnightbears

Chapter One: Beginnings

Location: Unknown Planet - Situation: Battle Between Autobot and Decepticon

It was a full-on Battle. And it was messy. The Decepticons at large as they yelled in almost joy. The planet is windy and full of dirt.

A mission set for the Autobot to find energon gone wrong. The battle is mostly surprising when the skilled shooter Chromia is almost shot by one of the Decepticons.

Who at first was a lot closer to the Decepticons during the fight. Other bigger bots making their way over to help her out.

Crosshiars jumped over a rock, using his cervo and arm to pull his waist up before landing next to her.

Speaking to her while he gets his sniper gun ready. Both kneeling and yelling.

“How many did you counter?” Crosshiars asked. Avoiding a shot that only hit the rock by the side. Chromia then responded. “So far ten. But it seems that more might come!”

Crosshairs peaked a little over the rock before returning to looking at Chromia.

They then heard very large engines and looked toward where the ship was. Ironhide, Prowl, and Jazz soon showing up. Transformering mid-air, joining the fight.

The Decepticons slowly move in circles around them. Jazz led them out of the center.

Trying to find any way to get out of there with the others. But that was starting to prove difficult. The Decepticons there proving to be a little stronger.

Jazz then tries to speak through the comm as his back presses harshly against a large rock bigger than him. One cervo holding his gun while the other digit presses into his comm.

Prowl is on his left while Chromia stays on his right.

“This is First Lieutenant Jazz! We are under attack and need help! Reporting to Autobot base for immediate backup!”

He yelled but the comms weren’t going through Ironhide brought out one of his larger guns and started shooting almost like a madman left and right. Walking forward.

Crosshairs getting behind him as a shield.

Jazz gets upset trying to figure out what’s happening with the signal.

But then he got a comm by another bot. Jazz answering. “Where are you we need help! And have you tried the comms for the base? I can’t reach Optimus!“ he closes the call.

But he soon gets another one by a different comm. Another bot spoke with a strong yet soft voice.

A cybertronian car is making its way closer to the others. Then spoke once more to Jazz through the comm. “The Decepticon Cyclonus cut signals on this planet. He’s been dealt with. I’m the backup now. See you soon jazz.”

The comm closes. Jazz then turned his helm to the side and peaked above the rock to see the Decepticons hiding behind other larger rocks and trees.

The wind is harsh while Chromia and Prowl remain by his side. Ironhide hid behind a large tree and a few rocks, reloading his weapon.

Crosshairs is a lot closer and further than the others and can get a better shot at the Decepticons. Like hitting their shoulder and even getting a few headshots earlier.

He had a huge grin on his dermas the entire time.

As the others continue they soon hear the sound of a car speeding.

Jazz, Prowl, and Ironhide are the ones to turn their helms toward the sound. Soon they saw the car drive up on a larger rock next to the ship.

The car flies and then transforms into a certain bot.

Altair soon appeared in the air with their face plate fully covered by their visors and mouth guard. Anyone who knew them like Ironhide, Crosshairs, and Jazz knows that they’re smiling under that mask.

While in midair, they then pull out two purple guns. All in a fast motion, they point the two guns down and start shooting at the Decepticons below.

Able to get four of them.

Jazz and Chromia cheered while Prowl just scowled under his visors. A frown on his dermas. Chromia and the others were too busy with the shooting.

Once they hit the floor flawlessly once on their legs, Altiar rolled forward smoothly with the guns and started shooting at the others more and more.

Doubledealer noticed them to be Cyclonus. Soon yelling.

“You Autobot scum!!! You killed Cyclonus didn’t you!!!!” In a fit of rage, he started to shoot like an idiot, leaving himself open.

Crosshairs getting a headshot. Covering for Altair as they continue.

Altair started to run further and further into the battle. Being a pretty big bot they’re able to easily take on many of the larger bots who were bigger than Ironhide.

One of the snipers on the Decepticon's side was able to get a good hit on the shoulder.

When the ammo soon ran out. They throw them to the side and then soon pull out their swords. Hiding behind a large rock a few feet ahead of Ironhide.

Who looked over at them from behind.

Altair peaking just a little past the rock to see how many Decepticons are there.

Jazz then spoke through the comms. Unable to speak to Prowl and Chromia even when they’re next to him thanks to the noise of guns and wind. “We move forward!”

They and Ironhide look at each other before nodding.

The four of them move. From their current hiding spot make their way closer to where Crosshairs and Altair are. Able to easily avoid the shootings as they make it to larger trees.

Kneeling and hiding just behind Crosshairs. Altair stayed close to the ground and sneaked closer to one of the Decepticons.

Jazz continues to get closer to Chromia and Prowl.

But a grenade was able to cause them to scatter once it landed in front of Jazz. Getting around more than just in the middle of the field.

When Prowl got behind Ironhide with a tree. Ironhide shooting again.

Prowl would then get a comm call. Seeing it’s not from the base. Prowl answers expecting it to be someone searching for them on another planet or is from the Autobot base.

“This is Officer Prowl of the Autobot cause. This better be our backup!”

He said in a strict and commanding tone.

Only to get more upset when he hears a certain gun specialist bot on the other side.

“Nope! But if you give me the permission I need I can come right in then I’ll save y’all without a second thought!”

Prowl then rolled his optics and responded while his back remained against a large tree.

“Hound we need you to get back to base. We can’t reach it and it’s too dangerous without more. Your team won’t be able to help stand against what we’re dealing with. We need better backup!”

“Well, I’m better backup! Hell, I’m a great backup! I-“

Prowl interrupts him once more. Being almost shot by the side of his helm. The shooting only hit the side of the tree. Then speaking once more when he glanced at the mark on the tree.

Then out of nowhere, a full-on blast of guns started to fire.

“Just go get the backup we need!!!!”

He then hangs up. Peaking by the side seeing Ironhide returning to shooting once more. Prowl groaned and loaded his police gun. Sighing before he peaks over next to the tree once more.

Seeing Jazz jump over a rock and shoot another Decepticon.

Altair was close by decapitating one and kicking another away. Soon getting into another sword battle with a different person.

Jazz then transforms to drive closer. Shooting one of the Decepticons that was behind a small boulder. Then staying down on the other side of the boulder once the other Decepticons start shooting at him.

Reloading his minigun and getting his blaster ready.

Until. ”Ring, Ring, Ring” Jazz a little confused answers the call after turning his blaster back into his cervo then answers. “Optimu-“

”Jazz! Where’s your location I can come to you guys as backup!” Jazz then responded. “No- damn it Hound! Go back to the base and tell them we’re outnumbered. You need to-“

Jazz is then tackled to the side by Chromia right as he’s about to be hit with another grenade.

Jazz then helped her up and the two hid behind a couple of trees together. Jazz kneeled to shield Chromia while she kept shooting. Jazz then responded to the comm.

”Hound this is an order. Go to the base and try to get us back up! Besides you’re not even supposed to be on another planet! You need to leave to get help! You’ll have your chance another time! Now go to the base! That’s an order!!!”

He ends the call. Hound stood there on another planet a good million miles away with a few other Autobots who were just wandering around.

Altair and Ironhide then start to head deeper into the battlefield killing as many cons as they can but the two also notice that these are. The Decepticon's weakest cons. Something is up.

Ironhide and Altair then looked at each other until Altair got a call through the comm.

Altair and Ironhide continue to run to the other Decepticons with the others behind them. Altair answered it. Soon hearing Hound's voice on the other side.

”Altair! Tell that stuck-up Prowl and Lieutenant Jazz to let me join you guys. I’m a great back up and with me, you, and Ironhide on the team. Those scums don’t stand a chance!”

Altair listens to him while still fighting in a sword battle.

Being able to win then hides behind a rock and tree. A second later a Decepticon came to. Try to catch them off guard next to the rock but Altair was faster.

Altair then currently strangling the Decepticon Razorclaw with one arm as they keep listening to Hounds little rant. Razorclaw was having a hard time trying to save himself while Altair was trying to avoid being shot at by the other Decepticons.

Altair then finally responded as they placed their other cervo to their helm. Showing they’re thinking ‘Is he for real right now?’.

“Sorry Hound, but shouldn’t you be with the others back at the base? I mean you were given orders.”

Hound then responded once more.

“Come on I’m a great back up and you still owe me for that kill count. I still want that redraw!”

While he spoke Altair has then grabbed the side of Razorclaws helm tightly. Then twisting his helm in the other direction breaking his neck completely in a fast snap.

Then ripping it off and kicking the body away. Turning back to the other Decepticons once he was finished with a scowel.

Ironhide continues to shoot without much worry while the others keep up with trying to shoot other cons.

While Hound responded, Altair jumped to another tree before being almost shot. Still holding Razorclaws helm before sticking a grenade in it then starts running toward the larger Decepticon there.

Ironhide joining them.

“Yeah, but I have a job to disarm bombs for other teams. So Optimus sent me and now that I hear in a cut-off call to base by Jazz. This can be a good excuse to start killing people!”

Ironhide then joins the call. Having hit a bot with the back of his gun and then shot them.

Altair has thrown the head into one of the larger bots' cervos. Getting killed by the explosion. Altiar then jumps through the explosion with both swords at hand.

Then landing and starts a sword battle against Fang. Ironhide is only a few feet from them as the others join in.

He joined the comm and started to speak to Hound in a tone that was almost calming and cheerful showing they’re both old friends. ”Hound you are a trained soldier! Just do as the others tell ya. Ya know you can’t change Jazz's mind. Well- Unless you’re Prime or Altair.”

Altair then chuckled with a response. M

“Oh please it’s Prowl you gotta deal with when it comes to changing your damn plans. And besides, we’re handling this pretty well! Wouldn’t ya say? Hide!”

They say with a cheer while Ironhide chuckles.

Jazz, Chromia, Prowl, and Crosshairs soon joined around them like a true team. Altair then kills Fang with a stab. Twisting their blade causing his blood to splatter on them.

They then respond with a casual tone while his frame falls back.

“Look Hound you’ll have your chance next time. But for now, just do as the boss says. Which is Jazz.” They finished, their voice almost tired but calm at the end.

They then got into another sword battle with Menasor. Fighting the larger bot as they spoke. Ironhide then finished the conversation while Hound and Altair just listened.

“Don’t worry Hound. You’ll be kicking head before ya know it! Oh, and you better not have eaten my snack back at base!”

The call then ended between the three, with Hound groaning and getting fussy. The Autobots around him getting their ship ready to leave. He reluctantly walked over for them to leave.

Altair and the others continue to shoot and kill as many Decepticons as they can.

Altair then noticed that some of the bots were retreating after they saw them and Jazz. Calcar then gets an upper cervo on Altair.

The two fall down a small hill as he gets a few good punches at Altiar.

The others scream their name but are slowly overwhelmed by more Decepticons. At one point though, Crosshairs and Jazz start killing the bigger bots by getting on them.

Chromia and Prowl stick next to each other while shooting at grenades that the Decepticons try to throw at them.

In the background, Ironhide helps out Jazz with gutting one of the larger bots with his bare cervo.

Altair meanwhile was trying to block punches from Calcar but he was a strong bot and also much younger.

The two bots got into a fistfight while he yelled how he tried to become a knight before the war. Only to realize the knights are the the to abandon their duty like many others. Including Altair.

“I looked up to you as a sparkling! You and Orion Pax but you guys could care less about us poor folks. Tonight. I will give you the gift of joining pri-“

Altair then was able to get the upper hand and turn him over. Being on top now and getting a few good blows at him. He tries to keep speaking but at one point his helm is shot clean off.

His blood splattered onto their face plate. Well, their face mask anyway.

They then stood up. Wiping the blood off their visors then turning their frame towards to Crosshairs. They then nodded to him.

A form of thanks as he then kneeled to them.

The other out to them to help them up. They then took it and got back up with him and the others. Shooting still going on.

They then made their way to the others. Crosshairs and Altair then yell in triumph as they run into battle. Altair can get a good hand at one of the larger bots. Chromia taking in the smaller ones, covering for Jazz.

Prowl continued to run faster and faster into the battlefield. He always seemed annoyed with how Altair fought so casually.

Trying to find a way to give them orders but couldn’t think of anything. The others not paying much while Crosshairs just focused on covering for the others.

At some point, Prowl and Altair's backs were against each other and fighting alongside each other.

Covering for each other while a few Decepticons got closer. Prowl then spoke while Altair continued to slash them with their sword. Prowl doing the shooting.

At one point Prowl shot a cons helm.

Between Altiar and their cervo when they tried to wipe the blood off them.

Altair then stabbed through one of the bots their same size who was behind Prowl after he took the shot. Prowl and Altair watched the con fall back before the two looked at each other.

Altair stared down at him while Prowl looked up at them.

Both with opposite expressions the other can’t see. Prowl with a frown while he couldn’t see. They were smiling. He then spoke in an angry tone.

“I had him.”

”Sure you did boss bot. And what would you have done if you did deal with him?”

They responded casually. Prowl was about to scold them until Altair noticed a bot about to shoot Prowl while lying on the ground from behind.

Altair then placed their arm around him while kneeling for a moment before turning around with prowl against their chest.

Bracing for the impact to be shot.

That’s until they both heard the shots but when Altair released they weren’t shot.

They slowly turned their helm, Prowl peaking over their shoulder to see who it is. They then see that it’s Ironhide who used his large gun to block the shot.

Chromia is the one to shoot the Decepticon in the helm. Just as they notice more Decepticons coming their way from afar.

Altair standing straight no longer holding Prowl. Who just looked at Jazz and Chromia. Still next to them.

Ironhide next to the. Crosshairs casually makes his way next to Ironhide while holding his sniper gun and letting it lean against his shoulder.

Chromia standing in front of Ironhide just a few feet ahead and Jazz standing next to her while looking at his arm.

He then groaned in frustration while his fingers kept tapping at a screen hologram showing on his arm. This causes the others to look at him. Jazz then spoke as he kept pressing buttons.

”I just can’t reach base. We will just have to return with what we have and return to the base. And pray to Primus that we find more energon for at least another planet after. These damn Decepticons just keep appearing on each planet we go to!”

As he spoke Crosshairs checked the amount of bullets in his sniper. Ironhide rested his large gun against his shoulder while he spoke. Chromia just looked at him.

Altair checks out their swords seeing how bloody they are while Prowl, while not obvious under his visors.

He side-opticing Altiar while they didn’t seem to pay him much mind.

Ironhide then responded. Causing the other optics to be on him now. “I hate to say it. But the best thing we can just do now is retreat. We can’t keep fighting against these bots like this. A damn hour has already passed. Hound probably got stuck or something.”

Altair and Chromia nodded in agreement. Crosshairs didn’t seem too interested in what he was saying.

Prowl just crossed his arms and thought. But seemed way more annoyed than worried. Altair then looks at Jazz before speaking.

Speaking before Prowl even has a chance to speak. So he looked at them angrily while they spoke.

“Ironhide is right. There might not be a lot but we can still survive with what we got. With any luck the other Autobots were able to find even more. Better chances than us. So, let's return before these Decepticons get any closer. Alright?”

They looked at everyone else. Who just sighed. Then out of nowhere, a grenade called their attention.

Realizing even more Decepticons are coming. All of them turned their helms toward the explosion. It happening a few feet away behind Altair and Prowl.

And so Jazz sighed and held the bridge of his visors. The others looked back at him.

Then raising his cervo before pointing at the ship on the way back. “Alright, alright, Full retreat team. Let’s go.”

Crosshairs then sighed. His helm leaned back before turning around while walking next to Ironhide. Who turned around while putting his large gun back to be behind his back.

Chromia starts moving forward with her pedes turning into wheels.

Prowl puts his guns away while Altair spins their swords for a good moment then flawlessly puts them back into their sword handles.

They all make their way to the ship. Soon transform and drive alongside together while the yells of the Decepticons can be faintly heard in the background.

Altair passed Prowl who was a bit slower than everyone.

All making it to the ship and getting on board right away. Everyone gets into place on the small ship. Jazz and the others run into the main room to control the ship.

Jazz gets into the captain's chair while the others go to the others' seats getting the engine started. The ship is hit a little by a grenade as the Decepticons get closer.

Crosshairs then spun to face Jazz and put his cervos together as he pleaded. “Oh please, please let me shoot them!”

Jazz just sighed. His helm made a full circle motion.

Going up and then down to face the side before waving his cervo. “Might as well. Means killing more while in the process.”

Crosshairs then yells a Yes while Ironhide and Chromia are heard chuckling. Altair focuses on the ship balancing as it rises. Prowl doing the same and groaning in annoyance.

Crosshairs soon have the weapons of the ship ready and start shooting at the Decepticons below. The many cons soon ran for their lives like a bunch of little ants.

As the ship continues to rise. Crosshairs wasn’t holding back anytime soon. Even laughing like a madman.

Everyone else casually doing their job on the ship while Jazz continues to give orders.

Eventually, the ship is high enough to start going into space. Crosshairs soon get sad and fussy when he can’t shoot any more Decepticons.

Jazz then puts in the location for the Autobot base while also putting the ship on autopilot. He leans back and tries to relax in his captain's chair.

The others leaned back a bit in their chairs and stretched their arms and legs.

Prowl would just lean back a little as he watches forward. Being in the middle of everyone else’s chairs.

Ironhide then looks forward into space before getting to work on his gun that was shot. Chromia doing the same with her weapon.

Jazz remained neutral before leaning to the side.

Resting the side of his helm against his cervo. He’s tired. Anyone can tell that. He then glanced at the others. Looking down, seeing they’re doing their own thing.

Crosshairs just staring off into space.

His optics soon sets on Altair. Who just sat there for a moment before looking at their reflection through the window of the ship.

They are the most covered in blood. But doesn’t seem too bothered. The Six of them watched as they got closer and closer to the base. It only takes a few more minutes to get to them.

Everyone soon had a warm smile and looked at each other. Altair and Jazz keeping their visors and masks on.

Their frame is still as they watch the main Autobot base ship get closer and closer.

———————————————————————————-

Location: Autobot Base Ship - Status: Expanded

The ship holding Jazz and the team soon fly into the main ship base while other bots walk around. The ship then landed deep into the larger ship.

Jazz and the others start walking out the door for the entrance of the ship.

Jazz took the lead while the others walked behind him.

The other bots pay their respects to him as they pass by. Jazz made his way to the ship's main control room.

As they walked the bots who’d pass by would both nod their head in respect toward them. While a few of them did it to the five of them others fully six.

The others who didn’t only at times gave Altair more uncertain looks. While the bots that look much older still paid their respects.

Once inside the base and heading through the halls of the ship. Bots pass by to nod their helms. Jazz then spoke.

“Alright bots, you know the drill. I’ll speak to Optimus and you all give in your info one by one. I’ll let Prime know it was a semi-success but at least we got enough energon to last another three weeks. Understood?”

The five then responded. “Yes, Lieutenant Jazz.”

They all continued. Getting closer and closer. Chromia can feel her exhaustion finally catching up with her.

Ironhide let out a huff of air as he felt his lower back start to ache. Crosshiars felt his legs and arms slowly feeling sore. Though he tried to ignore it.

Prowl was just ignoring the mild scrapes on his shoulder and arm.

As for Altair. Still mostly covered in blood and only a couple of scrapes on their arm and waist. Being the dirtiest out of them all. While not anxious.

They do feel their self get worried and curious at the same time.

As will be shown why now.

Jazz then pressed the buttons to open the door. Looking down at the passcode, pressing so casually.

Once the door opened, they all then walked in. They’re met with silence at first but while they walked many bots waved hello to them.

Saying such words as Welcome back or How was the mission?

Once they got closer, the view of Optimus Prime was seen in his seat as the captain of the ship. Elita was next to him as she appeared to be speaking.

Optimus has his mouth guard on and his optics focused. He was looking over data and seemed to be typing in it. That’s until he notices them all.

He then gave Elita the data pad. Who looked at Altair.

Physically looking down at them with an almost frowned expression. Altair just looks away. Looking down as Optimus makes his way down to the floor to the others.

His deep voice is then heard as he speaks to the team.

“I hope the mission went well for you guys, unlike last time. And have you all heard from the Jolts team? They haven’t responded or reached out after a while.”

Jazz then stood a little straighter then spoke.

“The Decepticon Cyclonus cut the comms line at some point while we were hunting. So most likely before we were attacked once more by Decepticons. We were able to get enough energon. So better than last time. But.”

Jazz noticed the way Optimus narrowed his optics at him. Not out of anger but out of worry. Even if others couldn’t tell.

Altair has glanced at Jazz through their visors. The others mostly looked at Optimus the whole time he spoke. Jazz then continued.

“It keeps getting harder and harder to deal with just us as a team Prime. They give us their weakest and then more show up. We barely made it out. Luckily we had Altair, Crosshairs, and Ironhide but what if we don’t next time?”

Chromia nodded in agreement. Looking down as she glanced at Arcee and Elita who stood there.

Waiting for her. Optimus seemed like he was about to speak until he got a comm call. Finally speaking. “One moment, please.”

He then turned his frame to the side a little. Answering the call. “This is Optimus.”

It was Jolt on the other side of the line.

“Optimus. Apologies for not answering or reaching to you out sooner. Hound informed along with a few others that comms were cut thanks to one of the Decepticons. We’re not sure if they’re still alive. We were only able to help each other except one team. Unknown if they’re alive as well. We’re on our way to you now that the comms are working once more.”

Optimus closed his optics for a moment before opening them once more. “Thank you Jolt. We shall await your return.” The comm ends.

Optimus then fully faces Jazz once more. During the call, Altair has placed their cervo over one of their sword handles.

Waiting to hear if it was an emergency. Ironhide glanced at them and placed a cervo on their shoulder.

Telling them through his optics, they have fought enough for the day. Altair calming down a little. That’s when Optimus finished the call.

”We shall speak after you get some rest, old friend. You all can send in your reports later tomorrow.” Optimus spoke as he placed his larger cervo on his shoulder.

Jazz feels an almost form of comfort. Looking up at him with tired optics before giving a simple nod.

Optimus then stands a little straighter and looks over the rest of them.

”You all did well today. Go rest now and we shall discuss the next plan or mission later on.” Everyone gave a nod and said at the same time. “Yes Sir.”

The Ironhide and Optimus share a glance for a moment before he, Chromia, and Jazz start walking away. Prowl tries to speak to Optimus, only to be stopped by Optimus's cervo. Optimus then turns his helm before speaking. “You have your orders. You’re exhausted. Go sleep Prowl.”

Prowl furrowed its optic ridges behind his visors before turning around and leaving to the same door as the others.

Leaving Altair with Optimus. Both knew why the two were still there.

Optimus then glanced at Elita. Who stood there since Arcee went to join Chromia. He then looked back at Altair. Who was currently waiting for his orders. Elita tried to make it look like she didn’t care. Altair didn’t make it obvious but they made sure to glance at her.

Side opticing at her knowing she can get too interested.

Optimus then looked back at you. Speaking in an almost whisper-like tone. Slowly nodding his helm as he spoke. “Let’s go.”

Optimus then walked past them. Altair then turns their frame and starts following him. Keeping a distance as he walked forward. The two continue forward until they reach a meeting room.

Once at the front of the door. Optimus then presses in the passcode. The door soon opened. He then steps aside for Altair to enter first. They do so with their cervo still placed on top of one of their sword handles. Optimus watching them before joining behind them.

Then pressing into the passcode with his digit on the other side. The door then closed. Optimus turned to fully look at Altair. Who stood there looking over the table.

Their helm low. Showing they’re deep in thought. Optimus's mouthguard then retracts. Disappearing while he makes his way towards. Them. Placing a gentle cervo on their shoulder. This causes them to look up at him. He then spoke.

”What did he tell you?”

Altair looked back at the table. Their cervo once on their sword handle moved to grab something from their back. In a hidden pocket part of their frame. They pull out a drawing. Made out of some form of a paper-like object with greyness and some energon blood on it.

They placed it in his cervo that was out before them, showing he was waiting to hold something. He then scanned the strange paper.

Though the two didn’t know what it was. He then makes his way around the table.

So then he’s on the other side of it. He then puts the paper down. Then sits in the chair there. Altair doing the same when Optimus gave them a nod.

Optimus and Altair stare at each other for a moment longer. That’s until Altair finally pulled back their visors and mouthguard.

Their bright yellow optics shinning almost bright for a moment. That’s when the two share a gentle smile.

Their optics soften for a little before Optimus speaks.

”As always, you pull through old friend. Bringing everyone back.” Altair let out a soft chuckle. Continuing to stare at him before speaking.

”I’m your oldest friend Optimus. Could you ever think any less?”

The two remained silent for a moment longer. Optimus looking at the paper. “This…planet. It could be the clue to the cube. But why does it look so familiar?” His helm remained turned looking toward the paper.

Who then had a serious expression on their faceplate before speaking. “It’s Earth, Optimus. Where our brothers are.”

Optimus seemed almost saddened for a moment.

Though he tried to not show it. He couldn’t hide it from them. They then spoke once more in a more serious tone once placing their cervos and arms on the table.

“Optimus, we made a vow.”

Optimus only glanced at Altair. Taking note of how serious they are. He then let out a soft sigh then turned his helm to look at them. Speaking once more.

Following their tone.

“We have history on that planet. Stepping foot will be like old times. Fighting alongside the humans. Though, times surely must have changed over the years. To get too attached in case of betrayal.”

Altair slowly gave a small nod. They agree with him. But their optics show worry.

Their usual smile is not visible anymore for them. They then spoke, trying to change the subject for a moment. “Any news of Bee and Drift. How are their missions going?”

Optimus let out a sigh. He then interlocked his cervos as he spoke.

“We still haven’t heard from Drift. He is taking this “make up for time” mission very seriously with such a dangerous mission. But I worry he’ll push himself. He’s a young bot. He can only learn the hard way at this point only now.”

Altair then looked down for a moment to think. “He’s trying. Now we can only wait upon his return.” They chuckled to themself.

Optimus then spoke in his usual yet almost casual voice. A voice only Altair and others close to him hear. “Still owes you that drink him?” They then nodded with a soft smile on their dermas. They noticed that Optimus soon had a bit of a frown on his dermas. Speaking again.

”Bee has returned from the same search mission. It was a success...He’s resting right now ” Altair stared at him a moment longer. The two of them deeply cared about him.

Altair then closed their optics for a moment. Thinking about everything that happened today.

Optimus finally spoke once more. “Go wash up. And get some rest, old friend. We don’t want that blood sticking and staying on you forever.”

Altair lets out a soft sigh before standing. Bowing their helm down with their optics closed.

“Good meeting. I’ll see you in the morning, sir.”

Optimus then spoke. “Rest well…….soldier.” The spoke the last part in almost sad. Hesitating a little. The two smiled at each other.

Altair then turned away and walked towards the door. Pressing in the same passcode and walking out.

The door then closed behind him. They let out a sigh and started walking toward the cleaning stations. Passing Elita who was about to join Optimus for another meeting.

The last one for the day alongside Ironhide who didn’t need much to recharge.

He then nodded to Altair when the two passed each other. They do the same to him with a small smile.

They soon past a few other neutral bots who were in the same shower on the ship.

Altair walks into one of the parts with the three walls and a door. Cleaning themselves up. Finally getting all the blood off and showing the small scrapes on them.

After they’re finally cleaned up and dry.

They make their way to their shared berth room with Moonracer. Who was already sleeping.

Altair made sure to make their way in quietly. As quiet as they can. Soon they lay down and then looked out the window of their berth room. Watching the stars and such.

Only now it hits them of how they haven’t slept so much in so long.

Soon since tomorrow they’ll be with Optimus for certain missions and meetings. They can sleep in. At least for an extra hour.

The first meeting won’t be for a long while on that very morning.

Oh man. I’m not really a perfectionist, but I got so excited about this chapter and honestly had to make sure everything was just right before posting.

Honestly, I think I’m gonna do a sort of rewrite just to add in a few more scenes that can help with the story and honestly look forward to opinions and even some criticism along with thoughts for this first chapter. I want a lot of people to enjoy my work, but I am also aware that it’s not for everyone. Anyway, I hope you guys still enjoyed this chapter. I know I did and I hope to see many of you in the next one in a couple week.

As always a repost is appreciated and I hope to see you guys in the comments. Hope the rest of you have a good rest of your day.

Those who wished to be mentioned/tagged:

@drimmmy

@shddyboo

@shiny-sol

@redblueequalhot

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seancekitsch · 2 months ago

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The Sword and the Quill: Chapter Two

Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Reader

In the weeks leading up to little Daeron's departure to Oldtown, Queen Alicent finds herself trying to entertain the unmarried ladies of court. As one of her ladies in waiting, you agree to an anonymous penpal in one of the men at court, and end up spilling your heart to him. He is your perfect match, your equal. The only issue? The Queen's brother Gwayne Hightower will not stop teasing you as you try to uncover who responds to your letters.

My Darling Unfamiliar,

It does delight me to meet you this way, as often court can be all too serious and formal. The summer treats me well. I can tell you, without divulging too much, that the sun grants me her warmth daily, and the nights feel alive in their starlight. I am enjoying it, to say the least. However, I find the castle all too humid and stuffy despite its lofty peaks and open windows. Summers in my own home, though far, are much more favorable as far as comfort.

I will try not to make it too easy for you to guess my identity, as I can tell you are as sharp as any blade and cunning too. Though I must agree, it is a thought that taunts me as well. I desire to know you immediately, to put a face to such lovely penmanship and words. I will be looking for your hand everywhere in the keep, I fear. In fact, I have already begun. By the end of this little experiment, you may even know me better than myself.

I am a man of noble birth, and as you so desire, I have traveled a bit. Where would you wish to go first, my Unfamiliar? If I have been there, I can write to you of my time in that place, maybe even draw you a picture from memory. I appreciate that you wish to see the world for what it is, as most might not. The world is a dangerous and wild place, but are you ready to see it?

I too enjoy the arts, as well as sport. Will you be at the upcoming tourney? If I am lucky, a boisterous young knight will not steal your favor. I will not say more, except that I have a wonderful tutor for the lute and I feel myself learning more as time goes on. I admit that I am only adequate at dancing, but if I had a tutor in the form of an adventurous woman, perhaps that could change. Might we hope for a feast soon, perhaps with the coming of the Princess’ babe? Maybe without knowing, we will speak to one another. If we are lucky, we may even share a dance. I will even promise not to step on your feet.

I am certain our letters will become tomes themselves, as I find myself already getting along with you. Even from one letter, I find you a breath of fresh air in a stuffy keep.

I await your next letter eagerly,

Your Unfamiliar

You could kiss Alicent, you really could. How had you not known that there was such a man within these walls? Well truthfully, that was easy to miss with the way that you stick by the young queen and chase her children around when they’re playing. There are, however, only so many men it could be. Only a few men remain unmarried at court, and only so many do you think are capable of writing this way. They must be well educated, and not war-minded. This leads you to only four names.

“Lord Rowan, Lord Beesbury, Lord Darklyn, Ser Loras Florent, I don’t know,” you sigh as you sit back into the plush settee in Alicent’s apartments. Young Aegon throw’s down playing cards towards his sister Helaena, much to his mother’s dismay. Luckily though, neither child pays attention to your conversation.

“You’ve forgotten the Lannister Twins and my brother,” She offers, looking towards the list in the little book you’ve brought with you. You’ve started two lists. One of possible identities, one of the information you’ve learned about your unfamiliar. It’s a funny name you’ve come up with, you think. That someone will be so unfamiliar to you in person but so familiar on parchment. You did not dare tell Alicent of this, however. It feels that if you do, she will find something to admonish in it; or worse, speaking of it will mean that some of the magic will be gone. You were serious when you wrote the first letter, thinking that this person may end up knowing you even better than she does. She is your friend, but you do not for a moment forget that she is the most powerful woman in the realm.

You frown, forehead creasing into the pout.

“Do you really think the Lannisters are read enough to write like this? Do you think Jason plays the lute?” you don’t hide the humor in your tone, “Or Tyland being well traveled?”

Surprisingly, Alicent lets a chuckle escape her lips at your words.

“Suppose not,” she agrees, tearing her eyes from your list.

“But my brother still stands,” she punctuates her statement by tapping a finger on the list. Her nails are red, bitten and bloody in the cuticles. You grab her hand in yours, your thumb rubbing over her knuckles.

“Don’t you see, Alicent? Your idea is working,” you reassure her, and drop her hand to begrudgingly scrawl her brothers name onto the list.

The queen only offers you a weak smile, still so unsure of herself. You wish that she would just come into her power, that she would recognize her gentle strength. You suppose that this is unfortunately because she was raised here, as this castle could break anyone’s spirit. You wonder how the princess has lasted this long with her sunny disposition, but even that is starting to wane.

“Have you shown anyone your letter?” she asks, avoiding your praise.

“Only Lady Tarly, as she asked to compare letters.”

“And what of hers?”

“He called her ‘his hopeful betrothed’ and said he wished to know her waist size,” you scoff, infinitely pleased that he is not your partner in this scheme.

“I am only glad that man was not your letter receiver,” Alicent admits, “I think you would have eaten him.”

You laugh heartily. Alicent is rarely like this.

“As if his meat isn’t already spoiled. He would not be worth the roast or the wine uncorked for it.”

It’s then that Helaena speaks up, placing a card down on the rug between herself and her brother.

“The biggest smile will come from teeth stained by wine made from unfamiliar grapes.”

A shiver runs down your spine, as it often does when Helaena speaks. She seems to have riddles that only she understands, but her word choice cannot be coincidence.

“Princess, what do you mean?” you ask, and she only shrugs her shoulders and does not look towards you. She is focused instead on making patterns out of the cards before her, ruining Aegon’s game while he struggles to understand and add to the pattern she makes. She pushes his cards out of the way without explanation.

Later in the day, you find yourself heading towards the library, parchment portfolio and the letter tucked into a bag around your shoulder. You had tried desperately to write in the comfort of your rooms, but each time you went to put quill to parchment nothing came to you. You reread the letter from your unfamiliar nearly twenty times, wanting to say everything on your mind, yet none of it sounding right on paper. You had determined that it was a change of scenery that you needed to clear your mind.

Pushing open the large doors, you take in the familiar scent of the old books, the light of the windows streaming in on their spines. This is where you go to escape, to pour over texts and write notes and copy pictures from books about the old kingdoms and the far off reaches of the realm. And so far, it is only yours. Aemond will scurry in wither a maester from time to time, but mostly you have the vast collection to yourself. All of the books Viserys and Alicent read are delivered to them.

There is a table towards the back of the study, behind all of the shelves and next to a large window that you typically like to set yourself down at; you hide even within the hiding spot. As if compelled, your feet take you there immediately, only when you go to place your bag down, there is already a stack of books and someone else’s parchment there.

“Hello?” you call out, expecting a maester or even one of the servants that picks out Visery’s books. You do not expect a cropping of auburn hair to peek out from behind one of the rows of books.

“Ah, the outspoken pretty one,” Gwayne says, bowing slightly as he reveals himself to you. Already, you feel your blood boiling.

“Ah, the arrogant one,” you match his tone, sarcasm dripping, “I didn’t know you could read.”

“I must have you know I’m skilled at many things,” he replies.

You stand at an impasse, both awkwardly in the alcove at the back of the room at opposite sides of the table.

“What are you doing in my library?” the words come out without thinking.

“Oh, this is yours? I apologize, my lady, I did not know you owned the kingdoms books!”

“That is not— that’s not what I meant. This is where I go. Alone. When I must think or I must write.”

Any jibe to come from his mouth doesn’t land, instead:

“And I’ve taken your writing desk.”

“Yes!” you throw your hands up, exasperated by this back and forth with him.

He seems to ponder the situation, drawn out as his face scrunches in mock thinking.

“Tell you what, you can be of use to me.”

“I would rather be dismissed from court.”

Gwayne rolls his eyes, and you can tell whatever patience he has is wearing thin. That makes two of you.

“Must you always be this vexing? I need help finding a book. I will trade this spot for the book.”

Oh. Well why did he not just say that?

“Fine,” you sigh, but not before placing your bag down onto the chair to already stake your claim.

He leads you back towards the front of the library, where some of the tallest shelves held built in ladders and a large fireplace sat unused until the winter months.

“What subject entices you, Ser?” you ask, mock interest steeped into each word. You turn your back to him, gazing up at the shelf behind you. It contains books on the histories of all the great houses, and all of their vassals. You can see the burgundy and gold of your family’s history sitting far enough away that you’d need the ladder to reach it.

“Courtly Love,” he responds, his voice betraying hesitance. You spin back around towards him.

“And does a knight such as yourself not already know the rules of Courtly Love? Is that the cause of your irksome disposition?” you balk at him. Truly, you are only half joking. As a knight and highborn man, this is something he should know front to back.

Gwayne grimaces, his eyes downcast.

“Forget it. I will find it myself. Enjoy your writing desk,” he tells you, and starts to move away. For some reason, a pit begins to form in your stomach.

“Wait! I apologize, Ser Gwayne,” you say it, and you mean it, “I know where we can find a book that may help.”

“Lead the way.”

You find yourself then looking back as you urge him through the labyrinth of books, a glance over your shoulder here and there to make sure he is keeping up. ‘Just this way’ and ‘almost there’s peppering the experience; to which he sighs, but it’s not as exasperated as before. He seems almost amused at your knowledge of the vast collection around you.

You huff, almost out of breath as you stop before a certain shelf. Gwayne, distracted, accidentally runs into your back, pushing you to brace yourself on the ladder. His hands find purchase on your waist, where your satiny bodice meets your skirt, the sound of swishing fabric and clinking armor echoing.

“Ser Gwayne! Act like the gentleman you claim to be,” you chastise him, but the genuine anger of your bite from earlier is gone. What game is this that he’s playing? He removes his hands from you, steadying you both.

“Lady Y/N, the way you speak to me is unbecoming of your birth,” he retorts, his edge also gone. Are you joking with him right now? Is this not animosity?

“Do you still want this book?”

“Desperately.”

“I thought so,” you confirm, narrowing your eyes at him.

You grab the rungs of the ladder easily, this climb normal and easy to you. It is at least weekly you grab books from the tops of ladders, and at least monthly you help Alicent pick out books for her children though you suspect only one of them reads them all.

“It is here,” you call down to him, gesturing at the shelf nearest where the wall turns off to a balcony of sorts, a separate study. You grasp the book, pulling it gently from the other dust covered tomes and climb back down.

“I did not take you for a climber,” Gwayne remarks, watching you carefully the entire time as if you might fall. You do not; you are good at this by now.

“And again, I did not take you for a reader,” you retort, hopping down the last rung and returning to the floor on his level.

“I appreciate this, and I’m sure my sister will be glad to hear that we did not kill each other.”

The corners of your lips fight to turn upwards, and you steel yourself against smiling.

“What do you need this for?” you ask as you hand over the book, watching him press his lips together and blow excess dust off of the cover.

“I fear that you will be merciless if I tell you, but you’ve been helpful today.”

Right, the urge to smile dies as he throws that your way.

“It’s about those letters my sweet sister has us writing. I find myself wanting to brush up on the practices of Courtly Love if my writer will have me.”

Your eyes widen, understanding what he’s saying. Gwayne Hightower is potentially looking for a wife. Maybe that will suit him, you think, maybe matrimony will quiet the boisterous personality and bold flirtatious streak within him that frustrates you about him. Maybe a wife will make sure Daeron does not grow up to be a spitting image of his uncle.

“Well I do hope she understands the challenge ahead of her.”

His eyes narrow, taking the barb in stride.

“And you? What are you here for, my lady?”

Your shoulders sag, the magic of an almost nice moment with him already gone.

“If you must know, I am here to write my own response letter to my writer. Sometimes my quill seems to take a mind of its own in this room, and I can get the words on the page easier.”

“Is this where you normally go?”

“I have one other place, but I do hope you never find it.”

And you do mean that, for multiple reasons. You do not want him knowing your location like this, nor do you want him or anyone discovering that you know about Maegor’s tunnels, though all they would have to do is find the same book you did to be able to discover the tunnels for yourself. Based on his inexperience in the library, however, you feel that secret will be safe.

“Not to worry, I won’t go looking,” He assures as he holds up the book to you again, as a silent thank you before he turns to walk back towards the front of the library. As he turns, he mumbles just barely loud enough for you to hear, “I fear what might happen to me if I do.”

He leaves you again after giving the last word, though this time it does not leave the same bitter taste within your mouth. You sigh deeply, and decide to head back to your writing desk to finally sit down and pen this letter.

You take out the parchment, your little pot of specifically blue ink, your quill, then finally you sit; this chair is old, and specifically needs to be reupholstered and stuffed, as now your bottom has created a noticeable dent within the failing down within it. However, you hesitate to notify any of the castle staff about this, as that could spell the end to the privacy of this location for you.

You try to clear your mind, thinking of only your Unfamiliar. You read the letter again, and again; thinking of all the things you wanted to say, the urge to be an open book and practically reveal yourself to him almost too tempting, but you need to be clever.

So you dip your quill in the ink, and begin.

My Traveled Unfamiliar,

It is quite coy, the way you evade giving yourself away. I fear, for your sake, that it will be much harder to hide from me as you reveal more of yourself in these letters. If I may be so bold, I feel that I am glad and surprised that a man such as you is not betrothed, and that we may meet at all. How terrible would it be if an impending marriage would stop us from becoming friends? I feel I need more friends in this castle, and despite not knowing who you are, I feel a certain kinship. I agree with you that this place is far too humid, it makes my hair frizz and my temper fray. I find myself, despite a promise not to, trying to narrow down the list of eligible men that you could be. I will be comparing every answer of yours to my knowledge of these men, so your identity will not remain a secret for long. I apologize if that seems forward, but I have never been one to let a mystery sit.

Have you ever been to Dorne? Or Lys? I have heard many a wild tale and adventure from their lands, and one day I’d like to see them for myself. Maybe one day, I will be traveled enough to write to you of where I have been. Or even closer, have you ever been to Oldtown? The Queen has mentioned its beauty before, I would love to know more.

You pause your writing, thinking for a moment about that question. You ask partially for yourself, partially for little Daeron. Of course Alicent says all good about Oldtown, but she is from there. Maybe, if there is some kind of flaw there, maybe you can keep little Daeron as your shadow for a little longer. Perhaps this will also prevent your quill mate from knowing who you are. Everyone here has spoken to the queen, and you did not reveal you know her well.

I must disappoint you though, as I do not care much for tourneys. I find the boastfulness of the men distasteful. Though this time, perhaps it will not be so vexing. This tourney, I will be scanning the crowds in hope that I will find you. I have this hope that when our eyes meet I will just know that it is you. That there is something that I will recognize right away in you. Perhaps after this tourney, if I find you, I can persuade you to play me a song on your lute after the games conclude.

I would very much like us to share a dance at the next feast, though you must be warned that I will dance circles around you. You will not be able to step on my feet because you will not keep up with them!

I am very glad to have met you, even though I have not met you. Your letter has brightened my disposition within this castle, and I appreciate you. I hope we will write novels to one another.

Hoping for a quick response,

Your Unfamiliar.

You look over the letter, realizing that maybe it’s very forward, but the way that whoever on the other side wrote to you tells you that it won’t matter. You fan the parchment in the air, the corners of it shaking and making noise. Gwayne, from across the library, snaps his head up to look at you. But instead of any sneer, he simply just smiles at you and nods. He is already about halfway through the book you recommended, a parchment next to him and notes clearly taken from the content of the book. You pity whatever young woman he is trying to impress, you think.

When the ink on your parchment is dry, you place it carefully into your portfolio, and pack up to leave so you can seal it in your room.

You walk across the library, bag slung and rusting against the material of your skirts. Gwayne’s attention falls upon you again.

“Thank you,” he calls to you, that soft smile on his face again. You only nod in response, an odd feeling settling in your chest as you put more distance between yourself and Gwayne Hightower.

#gwayne x reader #gwayne hightower x reader

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nomie-11 · 4 months ago

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Chapter 11 - The Awakening of a Life Weaver

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The sun is bright and welcoming, a warm breeze lifts her hair.

An older woman is standing in front of her, a red poppy in her hand. Her smile is familiar, her laugh is contagious, and as Genevieve looks at her, she can see that the woman in front of her looks like her too.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She moves to take a step forward, but with each step, the woman takes another step back.

They’re in a field of flowers. The flowers are soft and the grass is lush, while the mountains roll behind them. Snow covered peaks give way to the spring streams, and the green dress the woman wears is covered in white lilies.

The woman opens her mouth, and speaks. “Wake up,” She says, but Genevieve nods her head no. She can’t respond, but she never wants to leave. She’s home. “Wake up.” She says again.

Genevieve’s voice returns to her. “Mother,” she whispers, reaching out to the woman in front of her. “I don’t want to wake up.”

Her mother opens her mouth once more, but the voice that comes out is no longer hers.

“WAKE!” The voice bellows. It’s Tairn.

But why is he here? Genevieve looks at her hands, and she knows that she is young. Far too young to even know about the possibility of her bonding a dragon. But then her hands are red, covered in blood, and the voice screams out once more.

“Wake before you die!” The mountains rumble, and suddenly her mother’s green dress is covered in blood. “Now!”

Her eyes fly open, and she gasps as the last remnants of the dream disintegrates. She’s not in a field of flowers, she’s in her room in-

“Move!” Tairn bellows, and Genevieve shoots out of bed, her hand stealing the dagger from under her pillow as she moves.

“Fuck! She’s awake!” Moonlight reflects over a sword that is now impaled into the bed where Genevieve once lay. She stumbles, her movements still clouded by sleep. As her knees hit the floor, she unsheathes another dagger from under her mattress.

She scans the room from her point on the floor, blowing the now grown out hair from her eyes. Her eyes meet the eyes of the unbounded first-year, but he’s not the only one. There are seven cadets in her room. There are four men, three women.

The door slams behind a girl as she runs out of the room. It clicks in Genevieve’s mind, she’s the one who opened the door.

The rest are all armed, all determined to kill an unkillable rider. Her hand tightens around the hilt of her daggers and her heart rate skyrockets.

“This was a stupid mistake,” Genevieve says, her eyes glistening with the thrill of the kill. “Guess it won’t do much good to ask you to leave nicely?”

“Get away from the wall! Don’t let them trap you!” Tairn’s echoing, commanding voice resonates within her. She moves, but there isn’t much room for her to move.

“Damn it! I told you she was fast!” Oren hisses from the other side of the room, blocking Genevieve’s exit.

“Violet should have killed you during Threshing,” Genevieve barks, her voice loud and commanding. She knows that if her voice is loud enough, someone will hear, Liam is just across—

A woman lunges for her, and she dodges, sliding along the icy pane of her window. The window!

“It’s too high. You’ll fall to the ravine and I cannot get there fast enough!”

“No window. Got it.” Another woman throws her knife, rending the fabric of Genevieve’s nightshirt sleazes as it lodges in her armoire, but she misses her actual flesh. She spins, ripping the rest of the sleeve off, lunging her own hands towards the girl.

The hit lands, her dagger plunges down into the torso of the girl, and a surge of adrenaline.

The girl collapses to the floor, her weight trapping Genevieve, and her body feels as if she was dead. Scrambling out from under her, Genevieve’s breathing is ragged.

“Fuck! You have to go for her throat!” Oren shouts, registering the sudden death of his companion. “I’ll do it myself.”

“She’s dead,” Tairn confirms, and another surge of adrenaline flies through Genevieve. It feels as if lightning was dancing across her skin, burning her, boiling her blood. Genevieve is panicked, but she moves her dagger to fend off an attack to her left, slicing down a forearm, and then another to the right, stabbing into a man’s thigh.

“Use your brain!” Tairn bellows, and she lands an awfully hard dagger to a man’s gut. He collapses down to the floor as well, his sword tumbling after him. But now she’s cornered between the desk and the armoire. There are too many of them. They all rush in at once.

In her state of overwhelming confusion, the daggers are snatched out of her hand with appalling ease, and her heart seizes as Oren grips her throat. Another attacker is pinning her hands behind her with a torn blanket. She attempts to sweep for his knees, but her lifts her off the ground and she never makes contact. She’s too far away for anything.

“No. No. No.” She repeats over and over in her head, digging her nails into her palms, puncturing her skin as she attempts to claw free. His grip never eases as he crushes her throat. Air. There’s no air.

“He’s almost there!” Tairn promises, panic lacing his tone.

He who? Genevieve tries to respond, but she can’t breath, can’t think.

“Finish her!” The one who’s hands pin Genevieve’s hands behind her back yells. “He’ll only respect us if we finish her!”

They’re after Tairn.

His roar of rage fills Genevieve’s head as Oren lowers her body, flipping her around as he curls his arm so her back is against his chest. She can feel her feet back on the ground, but her vision is dark, her lungs fighting for oxygen that isn’t there.

The greedy eyes of a bleeding first year stare back into Genevieve’s blank face. “Do it!” She demands.

“You’re dragon is mine,” Oren hisses in her ear, and his hands fall away, replaced by a blade.

Air rushes into her lungs as cold metal caresses her throat, the oxygen flooding her blood and clearing her head just enough for her to know that this is the end. She’s going to die. From one heartbeat to what will probably be her last, an overwhelming feeling of

sorrow seizes her chest.

What about Violet? Does she graduate? And Rhiannon, Ridoc, and Sawyer? Do they survive too? And Xaden, does Xaden regret not kissing me once more?

The knife tip touches her skin.

Her bedroom door flies open, the wood splintering as it slams against the stone wall, but she doesn’t have a chance to turn to see who is standing there before a harsh yell pierces her vision.

“Now run!” Tairn screams. Skin-prickling energy zings down her spine and through her arms, then rushes to her fingertips and toes.

A man to her left lunges at her, sword in full motion, and she’s dagger-less.

In a last resort, she snaps the blanket that binds her hands, and holds them out, hoping to stop him in his tracks, but she doesn’t. Her hands make contact with him, and immediately he freezes, falling to the floor.

“Go!” Tairn demands.

She blinks at the man who has seemingly died from her touch. He isn’t breathing, isn’t moving. He’s dead.

And before another one can take a hit on her, Genevieve darts to the door, nearly slamming full force into Xaden, who fills the doorway like some kind of dark, avenging angel, the messenger of the queen of gods.

He’s fully dressed, his face a mask of veritable rage as shadows curl from the walls on either side of him. Relief immediately floods Genevieve’s mind, she feels so relieved that she could cry.

“It’s about damned time,” Xaden’s gaze snaps to Genevieve, his onyx eyes flaring in shock and relief for a millisecond before he strides forwards, his shadows streaming before him as he stands at her side. He snaps his fingers, and the mage light illuminates the room around them.

“You’re all fucking dead.” His voice is eerily calm and all the scarier for it.

Every head in the room turns.

“Riorson!” Oren’s dagger clatters to the floor.

“You think surrendering will save you?” Xaden’s lethally soft tone sends goosebumps up her arms. “It is against our code to attack another rider in their sleep.”

”But you know he should have never bonded her!” Oren says, putting his hands up, his palms facing them. “You of all people have reason to want her dead!”

“Dragons don’t make mistakes.” Xaden’s shadows grab every assailant but Oren by the throat, then constrict. They struggle, but it doesn’t matter. Their faces turn purple, the shadows holding tight as they sag to their knees, falling in an arc in front of her like lifeless puppets.

Xaden prowls forward as though her has all the time in the world and holds out his palm as yet another tendril of darkness lifts Quinn’s dagger out from under the first girls’ body.

“Let me explain.” Oren eyes the dagger, and his hands tremble.

“I’ve heard everything I need to hear.” Xaden’s fingers curl around the hilt of the dagger. “You’re lucky she only had two daggers on hand, or you would already be dead. But I’m here to kill you now.” He slashes forward so quickly that Genevieve barely catches the moves, and Oren’s throat opens in a horizontal line, blood streaming down his neck and chest in a torrent.

He grabs for this throat, but it’s useless. He bleeds out in seconds, crumpling to the floor. A crimson puddle grows around him.

“Damn, Xaden.” Garrick walks in, sheathing his sword as his gaze rakes over the room. “Morning Genevieve,” He nods. “No time for questioning?” His gaze sweeps over Genevieve, cataloging her injuries, catching on her throat.

“No need for it,” Xaden counters as Bodhi enters, saying the same greeting, doing the same quick assessment that Garrick had.

“Let me guess,” Bodhi says, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re on cleanup?”

“Call for help if you need it,” Xaden answers with a nod, and suddenly, Genevieve is swept out of the room as she follows Xaden to his quarters silently.

——————————————————————

Sitting on the bed in the center of his room, Genevieve rests her head in her hands, her breaths shallow as if she was still being choked.

I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive.

“Yes. You’re alive.” Xaden steps closer to her as he sits next to her. Her entire body shakes like a leaf as the adrenaline leaves her system, leaving her tired and hurting.

“I didn’t realize I said that out loud,” She says, her tone an attempt at joking.

A few seconds pass in silence, just the sound of her breaths coming in short wheezes that Xaden can only describe as painful resonating in the walls of Xaden’s dorm. She shoves herself off of the bed quickly, muttering a quick apology as she nearly launches herself onto the trash can.

She throws up once, then dry heaves for a moment. Xaden immediately is next to her, his hand warm on her back.

“It’s just the shock,” he says, his hands soft on her back. “Are you hurt?” His words are clipped, but they’re gentle, and the pain in her body ebbs forward at the reminder that it's there. Every breath feels like she’s shoving broken glass into her lungs, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I’m still angry at you.” She whispered, her voice hoarse and dry after throwing up.

“Come on, Gen,” Xaden mutters, lifting her up off the floor next to the trash can and putting her gently onto the floor. “Tell me where you’re hurt.”

The blood of the three cadets Genevieve has killed has dried underneath her finger nails, staining her hands red as she looks at them. Xaden killed three cadets, too, but he doesn’t look nearly as shaken as she does. Quinn’s dagger glitters on the table next to the door, but its blade is covered with blood, accentuating the ruby in the hilt.

Genevieve can barely breath, her lungs burning with pain and fire. His fingers are warm under her chin as he tilts her head up so she’s looking at him, instead of her blood-crusted hands. “You’re breathing like crap, so I’m guessing it has to do with your ribs?” He says, his voice comforting as a hint of panic swirled behind his eyes.

“I’m fine,” She lies.

His focus snaps back to her eyes, his gaze no longer soft.

“Don’t lie to me,” He says it with such ferocity, bit out through gritted teeth, that she can’t help but nod.

“That’s rich coming from you,” She snaps, but her voice is too soft to have any real bite, and for some reason Xaden knows that Genevieve doesn’t mean it. Not right now, at least. Xaden’s eyes are trained onto hers, begging to know what’s wrong. “It hurts,” she finally admits, her voice so quiet he can barely hear her talk.

“Let me see.” And she nods, so he pulls her nightshirt over her head, gently pulling it off so as not to shake whatever is hurting more than it already is. Their eyes meet, and a warmth flutters through her stomach. But the moment is gone as quickly as it came, and inspecting her right side, fingers gently stroke over the bruising on her ribs from when she clattered to the floor.

“You have one hell of a bruise, but I don’t think they’re broken.��

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice still quiet.

“Come on, let’s go,” He says, and all of a sudden, when Genevieve turns around to grab her boots, he kneels on the floor in front of her, boots in hand. “I need to take you to the flight field.”

“Why?” She asks, and Xaden can’t help but feel like it’s almost as if she was a child again. Her voice is soft and innocent like a young girl who hasn’t seen anything, but he knows that when she wakes up tomorrow morning, refreshed and strong for the day, she’ll be back to normal. She’ll be back to ignoring him and casting him glares whenever he tries to give her pointers.

“You and I need answers,” He says, finishing up her boots before handing her the cloak he must have grabbed when ushering her out of her crime scene of a room. “That was one hell of a signet if that's what that was.”

Oh right, she can feel herself remember what she had just blocked out. The whole touching people and then they die thing.

“And we have to ask Tairn what the hell just happened,” Xaden’s jaw flexes. “And I’m not just talking about the attacks. How the hell did they get past your locks.”

Genevieve stumbled, her legs weak as she tried to fall into step beside Xaden. His arm snaked around her waist to keep her steady.

“I don’t lock my door,” She said, her voice soft but the words rang clear.

“Sorry?” Xaden says, his tone indicating that he wants her to try again. To say something else. Anything else. “You don’t lock your doors?”

”I don’t lock my door.” She repeated, not changing. “It scares me. I don’t like being behind locked doors.”

“You know it locks from the inside, though,” Xaden says, dragging her down one confusing hallway after the next. She’s lost all sense of direction as mage lights flicker on and off above her. “You’re not going to be locked in.”

Genevieve’s breath hitched as she tried to keep up with Xaden’s long strides. Every step jarred the ache in her ribs, but she bit her lip, refusing to let him see just how much it hurt. She wasn’t fragile. She had survived worse—much worse.

”I know,” she whispered, her voice sounding distant, like it was floating from someone else. “But it’s not the same. The feeling is the same.”

Xaden’s brows furrowed as they walked. His face resembles concern and confusion. His hand still anchored at her waist tightened slightly, keeping her upright.“What do you mean?”

Genevieve inhaled shakily, avoiding his gaze. Her mind raced, flashing back to the darkness, the dungeon, the cold stone walls that seemed to press in on her from all sides. The memory of Lilith’s mocking voice, the rattle of chains as she was left alone in the pitch-black cell with nothing but the sound of her own ragged breathing, clawed at her insides. Locked doors were cages. Locked doors were suffocating.

She cleared her throat, willing herself to focus on the present. “I don’t like the idea that someone can lock me in, even if I’m the one doing the locking.”

His grip on her waist loosened as the words sunk in, understanding flickering in his dark eyes. He took a breath, as if searching for the right words. “You’re not there anymore, Gen. No one’s locking you in.” His voice was quieter now, and it had an edge of softness she hadn’t expected from him.

For a brief second, she almost believed him. Almost. But the remnants of fear still clung to her chest, suffocating her almost as much as her buried ribs. The weight of it all—the kills, the literal blood on her hands, the secrets—was too much. She couldn’t afford to feel safe. Not yet.

She quickly broke her eye contact with Xaden, moving away from him, “I know.” She said, and her voice was strong. “Let’s just go to the flight field now.”

The ground shifts beneath her feet as though it’s rocking, but she knows better. It’s her head, the rust of the pain and the stress, and now the reminder that this happened because she was too weak to even lock her doors. Her breath catches, and her steps wobble.

Xaden moves next to her again, steadying her. They just continue down the pathway in a silence she can’t find herself to try and break. He just stands next to her as they walk down the cold stone corridor.

“Why are you taking me to the flight field?” She asks again, her voice now clearer than before. “Because I can talk to Tairn whenever I want to, so unless you want to talk to him, there’s no reason for this.”

Xaden stayed quiet, but his eyes watched her sharply.

“You’re insane,” Genevieve said, her voice dropping to a tired murmur. “I can’t believe you want to talk to my dragon.” Her words were a mix of frustration and disbelief, but there was something else beneath it—something softer. Maybe even relief.

Xaden didn’t respond, just continuing to take her farther and farther down the hall and then to a stonewall end of the tunnel. A few hand gestures and then another click sounds before he pushes open the door. They step into the crisp, freezingly cold November air.

“What the hell,” she whispers. The door is built into a stack of boulders on the eastern side of the field.

“It’s camouflaged.” Xaden waves a hand and the door closes, blending into the rocks as if it’s a part of it. “When you get better at lesser magic, I’ll teach you how to use this door as well.”

As they walk towards the center of the field, the grass grows behind her every step. It turns a little greener as she moves closer, and browns as she leaves, almost as if she was breathing life into the winter stricken earth with every step. Flowers bloom behind her movements, red poppies and white lilies spring across the field, illustrating her path.

But Xaden and her don’t notice. They’re just focused on her hands, on the death that sprang from them.

There’s a sound that she now recognizes as the steady beat of wings, and she looks up to see two dragons block out the stars as they descend. The earth shudders as they land in front of them.

“I’m guessing the wingleader wants a word?” Tairn steps forward and Sgaeyl follows, her wings tucked in tight, her golden eyes narrowing in on Genevieve.

“Yes, I want a word. What the hell kind of powers are you channeling to her?” Xaden demands, staring up at Tairn like he isn’t… Tairn.

Yep. Ballsy. Every muscle in her body locks, sure that Tairn is bound to torch Xaden for impudence.

“None of your business what I choose or do not choose to channel towards my rider,” Tairn answers with a growl.

This is going well.

“He says—” She starts.

“I heard him,” Xaden counters, not sparing Genevieve a glance.

“You what?” Her eyebrows raise so fast they nearly hit her hairline. Dragons only talk to their riders. That’s what Genevieve was taught. Despite whatever mate bond they have going on, Tairn should only talk to her.

“It’s absolutely my business when you expect me to protect her,” Xaden retorts, his voice rising.

“I got the message to you just fine, human.” Tairn’s head swivels in the snakelike motion that puts Genevieve on high alert. He’s more than agitated.

“And I barely made it.” The words come out clipped through clenched teeth. “She would have been dead if I’d been thirty seconds later.”

“Seems like you had thirty seconds gifted to you.” Tairn’s chest rumbles with a growl.

“And I’d like to know what the fuck happened in there!”

Genevieve inhales sharply.

“I may hate him right now, but you said you wouldn’t flame him,” Genevieve reminds him, her words begging. “And he just saved me.”

Tairn grumbles in response.

“We need to know what happened in that room.” Xaden’s dark gaze cuts through Genevieve like a knife for a millisecond before he glares back at Tairn.

“Don’t dare to try and read my rider or I, human, or you’ll regret it.” Tairn’s mouth opens, his tongue curling in a motion Genevieve knows well. She steps between the two, her gaze narrowing.

What in Malek’s name does that mean?

“He’s just a little freaked out. Don’t scorch him.”

“At least we agree on something.” A feminine voice sounds through Genevieve’s head.

Sgaeyl.

In awe, she blinks up at the navy blue dagger tail as Xaden moves to Genevieve’s side.

“She talked to me.”

“I know. I heard.” He folds his arms across his chest. For a moment he understood her second of frustration because that was his dragon, his beautiful blue dragon. “It’s because they’re mates. It’s the same reason you can feel my emotions. The same reason I’m chained to you.”

“Don’t make it sound so pleasant.” She quips, her eyes never leaving Sgaeyl.

“Gen, don’t do this right now,” he turns to face her. “But you and I are exactly that, Gen. We’re chained. Tethered. You die, I die, so I damn well deserve to know how one second that cadet was alive and the next he was on the floor dead as if his life was taken from him. Is that the signet power you’ve manifested with Tairn? Come clean. Now.” His eyes bore into hers as she finally moved from Sgaeyl.

“I don’t know what happened,” She answered honestly.

Xaden’s frustration simmers, his gaze sharp as he watches her, watches the flowers that seemed to have spring from the frost coated ground around her, the vines that snake up her legs. “You’re telling me you don’t know how you killed someone just by touching them?”

Genevieve shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his stare, her ribs aching with every breath. She truly didn’t know how to explain it. One moment she was fighting for her life, her body reacting on instinct—then there was a hold of energy, like something had snapped within her, and everything had unraveled. The cadet had fallen at her feet, eyes wide and unseeing.

“I didn’t mean to,” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her mind replays the scene-the surge of power, the warmth in her hands, the sudden absence of life. It hadn’t felt like her. It had felt other. A force she had no control over.

Xaden grits his teeth, but before he can respond, Tairn lets out a low rumble that reverberates through the ground beneath their feet. The dragon’s golden eyes flicker between the two of them before settling on Genevieve.

“It was your signet,” Tairn’s voice echoes in her mind, deep and resonant. “You are a life-weaver, Genevieve.”

Her breath catches, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the sound of his words. Life-weaver? She had heard of rare signets that could manipulate the life force of others, but they were legends—whispers passed down by riders who had never known anyone strong enough to possess such power.

Xaden’s hand reached out to her, and panic immediately flashed through her eyes. She took a step back, shaking her head.

“No, no, you can’t touch me,” She says, her voice rising in panic and fear. “I don’t know what will- I didn’t mean to—” Her words falter as her gaze drops to her hands, still stained with the blood of the cadet. The memory of that fleeting connection with his life—how it had pulsed and then slipped away like sand through her fingers—burns fresh in her mind. She had taken it, without even realizing it.

Sgaeyl shifts, her broad wingspan stretching, casting a shadow over the group as her voice cuts in, smoother and more refined than Tairn’s. “Your power, Genevieve, is not just in taking life. You can give it as well.”

Her brows furrows in confusion, her heart pounding. Give life? The concept seems too foreign, too overwhelming. she had always seen herself as someone who had survived by taking—taking control, taking lives, taking what was necessary to keep herself from falling apart. The idea of giving, of restoring life, feels impossible.

“How… how do you know that?” She asks, her voice small.

Sgaeyl’s eyes gleam as she tilts her head, her voice patient but firm. “It is in your nature, Genevieve. You want nothing more to live, and signets are manifestations of a rider's truest desires. In time, you will learn to control it.”

Xaden is still beside her, his expression unreadable as he watches the exchange between Genevieve and his dragon. He seems torn between awe and concern, his dark eyes glancing between Tairn and Sgaeyl before settling on Genevieve once again.

“And what happens if she doesn’t?” Xaden asks, his voice low. There’s a tension in his tone, a hint of fear that Genevieve hasn’t heard before.

Sgaeyl’s gaze sharpens, her voice no longer gentle. “If she cannot master her power, the consequences will be devastating. For her and those around her.”

A chill runs down Genevieve’s spine. She can feel the weight of the warning in Sgaeyl’s words, the unspoken danger lurking beneath the surface of her newfound abilities. If she couldn’t control this power—this ability to manipulate life and death—then every touch, every moment of weakness could mean someone else’s end. The thought makes her stomach twist.

“How do I control it?” She says, and she hopes her voice hasn’t cracked to give away the vulnerability she’s trying so hard to suppress. “How do I make sure I don’t hurt anyone else?”

Tairn steps forward, his massive form towering over her as he speaks. “You will learn, Genevieve. But it will not be easy. This power comes at a cost—every life taken, every life restored, will demand something from you.”

Xaden’s eyes darken at Tairn’s words, his protective instincts flaring. “What kind of cost?”

Tairn’s tail flicks, his eyes narrowing on Xaden before turning back to Genevieve. “That is for her to discover. The balance between life and death is delicate, and every choice will weigh on her soul.”

Genevieve swallows hard, her mind racing. She wants to scream, to push the dragons and Xaden away, to shut out the overwhelming reality that her signet might be something far darker and more dangerous than she ever imagined. But there’s no escaping it now. This power is a part of her, whether she likes it or not.

Xaden steps closer, his gaze softening as he looks down at her. “You don’t have to face this alone,” he says quietly. “Whatever happens… we’ll figure it out.”

She looks up at him, her chest tight with emotion. The weight of what she has done, of what she might do in the future, threatens to crush her. But in his eyes, she sees something else—trust, perhaps, or maybe just a flicker of hope. Something she hasn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time.

“I’m not ready,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

“You don’t have to be,” Xaden replies softly. His hand reaches for hers, and when his fingers lace through hers, she feels a warmth—life, not death—flow between them. But she immediately retracted hers, and watched as a flash of hurt echoed over his eyes. “We’ll take this one step at a time.”

Tairn and Sgaeyl watched silently as the two stood there, connected by the fragile thread of shared understanding. Neither dragon speaks, but Genevieve can feel their presence, a steady and unwavering reminder that her journey has only just begun. She isn’t alone, not anymore.

———————————————

The next morning, Liam Mairi was added to Genevieve’s squad, his own squad being dissolved as a result of him being one of three left. Amber Mavis was executed by Tairn’s fire for organizing an attack on a sleeping cadet, and Genevieve found herself face to face with the horrified eyes of her own squad mates.

“So you killed them?” Sawyer asks, trying to get his facts straight. “With no weapons? Just your hands?”

“No,” Genevieve corrected. “I only killed one of them with my signet. The other two I stabbed. If you're going to look at me like I’m a monster, at least get your head out of the clouds and be realistic.”

Sawyer glanced up and down, his eyes traveling from the unnaturally lush grass at her feet to her white hair. “What even is your signet? And what happened last night?” He asked again.

“My signet is Life Weaving,” she said again. “Don’t ask me what it means, I have a day until Professor Carr starts training and then I learn what Life Weaving really is. And for the last time, I was attacked in my sleep by Oren and Amber Mavis and five other cadets. Two of them I murdered with a dagger and one of them I murdered just by touching him.” Her tone was final, and left no room for argument. “Now can you stop asking me? And I don’t like the face you’re making!”

“Gods, Genevieve,” Ridoc said, his voice low with a mix of admiration and fear. “You show up on the craziest dragon and now manifest the craziest signet?”

Genevieve stared at Ridoc, her eyes cold and calculating. His tone was laced with a sense of awe and apprehension, which only served to amplify her discomfort. She could sense the shift in the atmosphere around her squad—whispers and sideways glances punctuated the air as news of her signet traveled from person to person. They were both intrigued and frightened, and Genevieve didn’t need to be an inntinnsic to understand why.

“Don’t get too caught up in the spectacle,” Genevieve said, her voice cutting through the murmur of the squad. “It’s not a show. It’s survival.” She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She could feel the vines growing up from her feet, twisting and winding up her legs and around her. The weight of her own abilities and the consequences of her decision were heavy on her shoulders, almost as heavily as Xaden’s gaze.

Liam, who had been silent until now, still getting used to the squad, getting acquainted with the new people, nodded slowly.

“You did what you had to do,” He says, and a flower blooms in the palm of her hand accidentally. “You didn’t want to kill them but you had to. And you’re alive now, isn’t that what matters?”

“Exactly. I did what I had to do,” She shot a glare at Sawyer. “Now stop looking at me like that!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” He says, putting his hands up in mock defense. “I just didn’t know everytime I high-fived you I was risking my life.” His voice carries a tone of joking play.

Genevieve’s eyes narrowed at Sawyer’s attempt at humor, the flicker of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth despite herself. The tension in the air eased slightly, though the discomfort lingered beneath the surface.

Liam’s thoughtful observation had brought a moment of clarity amidst the chaos, and Genevieve could see how the squad was beginning to adjust to the new dynamics. The lush grass beneath her feet seemed to pulse with the lingering energy of her confrontation from the night before, a reminder of both her power and her peril.

Sawyer cleared his throat, his playful facade faltering as he looked around at the other squad members, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. “Alright, alright. I get it. No more questions about the ‘craziest signet.’”

Ridoc, still with a glint of respect in his eyes, stepped forward. “We should focus on what’s ahead. We’ve got new training sessions starting soon, and we need to make sure we’re all on the same page. We go to the archives tomorrow, and then Genevieve and Sawyer start in Professor Carr’s class, so hopefully we can get some information on their signets.”

The group nodded, everyone in agreement with the plan.

“Alright team,” Rhiannon continued, stepping forward with her usual blend of authority and empathy. “Let’s put the past behind us and focus on the present. We need to be prepared for what’s coming. Signet training with Carr is going to beat Genevieve and Sawyer’s asses, so let’s get to it!”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, the squad was united in their resolve. The previous night’s chaos had shaken them, but now there was a shared purpose in their eyes. Genevieve, though still reeling from the events, felt a flicker of something she hadn’t fully acknowledged—hope. It was a small, fragile thing, but it was there, nestled among the cracks of her hardened exterior.

The squad’s camaraderie was palpable, a shared commitment to overcoming their trials together. the tension in the air began to dissipate, replaced by a cautious optimism. The lush grass around Genevieve continued to grow, a visual testament to her power and the new path she was forging.

As they began to disperse, preparing for the day ahead, Genevieve felt her head clear for the first time since the attack.

Life really does go on after signet manifestation.

——

Violet sat across from Genevieve at a secluded table in the archives, scribes that Violet knew, bustled around them, but Genevieve’s eyes were trained on the single book in between them.

“I searched the entire archives and I could only find one thing on Life Weaving,” Violet says, “and it's from a guy who lived 400 years ago.”

“Great,” Genevieve groaned. The past few days had been hell for her, with everyone finding out what her signet is. From her squad, it was just her and Sawyer so far that had manifested their signets, and Professor Carr was of no help in figuring out what Life Weaving really meant, so she was on her own. Not to mention, she had been practically ignoring Xaden since October, now it was mid November, and the only time she had talked to him was when he came to save her. “Let me guess, it’s in some obscure language that only you or the scribes know, so I can’t even figure it out for myself.”

“Let me finish.”Violet said, her voice snapping. “His name was Korrin Lysander, and according to this he’s the only other known Life Weaver, ever. Even then it was considered a rare and mythical power, even of the most skilled of riders.” Violet’s fingers gently brush over the worn pages, revealing a faded illustration of a man with pale eyes and pale hair, hand glowing with ethereal light as vines twisted behind him. “It’s said that Life Weavers can manipulate the very essence of life itself—both creating and destroying.”

Genevieve leans in closer, her eyes scanning the text as Violet continues. “Lysander’s notes are vague at best. He describes it as a power tied to the rider’s deepest desires and emotions. He mentions something about ‘balancing the scales’ of life and death, but it’s mostly cryptic.”

Liam appears from behind a bookshelf, pulling up a chair and sitting right next to Violet. Genevieve casts a sideways glance at how close the two of them are, but ultimately she ignores it, her fingers still trembling slightly as she turns the pages. The weight of the power she’s discovered presses heavily on her, each turn of the page feeling like a step deeper into the dark, uncertain path.

“So this Life Weaving thing… it’s not just about killing, it’s about giving life?” Liam asks, snaking an arm around Violet. “And sorry, I searched all the old Tyrrish texts, but nothing. Sawyer and Ridoc are in the Luceran section, but no luck there either.”

“Exactly,” Violet replies. “It seems like Lysander could heal as well as harm, but the specifics are unclear. Seems like his main mode of fighting was through rapidly growing vines and using them as whips or ropes. He also writes about the cost—how each act of weaving could take a toll on the rider’s own life force.”

Genevieve’s brow furrowed as she absorbed the information, her mind racing with the implications. The idea that every time she used her signet, it could drain her, chip away at her own life, sent a chill down her spine. The thought of losing herself bit by bit, becoming weaker each time she saved someone else, felt like another chain around her neck.

“So, I could heal people, but it’d drain me in the process?” Genevieve’s voice was quieter than she intended, her fingers tracing the faded ink of the ancient pages. She already carried the weight of her survival, the guilt of who she’d had to become to stay alive. But not, the possibility that her power could take even more from her—strip away her life—was overwhelming.

Violet glanced at her, her expression more sympathetic than usual. “It seems that way. Lysander’s writings are frustratingly vague, but I had Jesenia help me, and we found that there’s enough here to suggest that in order to be able to take you need to give too, and giving is easier than taking. It does suggest that the power isn’t infinite though, the more you use it, the more it could cost. It’s all about balance—creating life, taking life, it all seems to go hand in hand.”

Genevieve swallowed hard, leaning back in her chair. The tension between her and Xaden over the past few weeks had been like a boulder pressing on her chest, and now, with this new layer of uncertainty, she felt even more isolated. It had been bad enough when her squad found out about her signet, the fear and awe in their eyes as she realized what she was capable of. But now, learning that the very thing that had saved her life in that brutal moment could also lead to her undoing…

“How in Malek’s name am I supposed to balance something like that?” Genevieve muttered, running a hand through her dark hair. “What if I can’t control it?”

Violet doesn’t respond immediately, instead, flipping another page and scanning the text. “You’re definitely not the first person to feel that way,” she finally said. “Lysander writes about the early days of his power, when he was terrified of using it, afraid that he’d lose control. But he learned!”

Genevieve scoffed softly, her skepticism cutting through her fear. “That’s great in theory. But Lysander had time. I don’t.”

Liam, still seated close to Violet, finally spoke up again. “That’s why we’re here, right? To figure this out before something happens. And you won’t be on your own. You’ve got us.”

Genevieve glanced at him, her lips twitching with a hint of a smile. Liam’s loyalty was something she could always count on, even when everything else seemed uncertain. But the truth was, this was a path she’d have to walk largely alone. Life Weaving was rare, mythical even. No one, not even her friends, could truly understand what it felt like to have this burden.

Except Xaden. Shadow wielding was almost as rare as Life Weaving. He would know.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with gratitude and exhaustion. “I know.”

But the unease lingered, heavy and suffocating. The memory of that night—of the cadets lying lifeless at her feet, of the vines she hadn’t even realized she’d summoned—flashed in her mind, and a part of her wondered how much of her life had already been taken.

“What now?” Liam asked, breaking the silence. “Do we keep searching? I could go back and run through the Tyrrish section again, just to see if anything is stashed away?”

Violet shook her head. “There’s no point. We’ve combed the archives top to bottom. If there’s anything more on Life Weaving, it’s buried so deep no one’s found it in centuries.”

“Maybe she could practice on Ridoc?” Liam proposed, his voice light, as usual. “Kill him quickly and then revive him. He’d never know the difference.”

“Be quiet!” Violet said, lightly hitting him on the arm.

Genevieve’s hands tightened into fists on her lap. She could feel her chest tightening, her breaths shallow. Her instincts were screaming for action, for something to fight against, but there was no enemy in sight—just this invisible force tying her to a power she didn’t understand.

“I need time,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I need to figure this out before it kills me or one of you.” She stood abruptly, pushing back the chair and grabbing the book, clutching it tightly as if it held the key to her survival.

Violet stood as well, placing a hand on Genevieve’s arm. “It won’t-”

“Don’t touch me!” Genevieve said loudly, earning a harsh shush from one of the scribes nearby. Violet immediately retracted her hand, mumbling a quick sorry.

“You don’t have to do this alone, Genevieve. We’ll figure it out together. Xaden will—”

”Don’t,” Genevieve cut her off again, her voice sharp. “Xaden and I… we’re not..” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. The weight of their last encounter still hung heavily between them, unresolved and festering. She couldn’t think about him now, not when she didn’t know how to even deal with herself.

Violet hesitated but nodded. “Just… don’t shut him out forever. He cares more than he lets on. And he’s literally in your head, all day every day, you can’t avoid him.”

Genevieve didn’t reply, her focus already shifting to the book in her hands. she needed answers—needed to understand what she had become. The path ahead was dark, but it was hers to walk, even if it meant risking everything in the process.

————————————————

Hello all! I’m back a day early with this chapter, just because all of a sudden I’m getting a lot of love on this work, and I want to keep you all happy (make you all watch Genevieve slowly descend into a self-dedicating madness).

Either way, I’m going to update again on Wednesday this week with Chapter 12, and then Chapter 13 next Saturday or Sunday, but I want to know- I wrote chapter 13 with a little smut (😬) and it’s my first attempt ever so It sucks, do you still want me to post that?If no one says no I’ll post it with a warning LMAO.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed, and what do you think of her signet? I spent so much time thinking about it, and it’s definitely very much based off of the fates from Greek mythology. Please like and leave a comment on what you thought! Thank you~

#violet sorrengail #fourth wing #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing xaden #liam mairi #xaden and sgaeyl #xaden riorson #xaden riorson x reader #garrick tavis x reader #bodhi durran #the empyrean #the wounded healer

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