#her chapter is possibly where I peaked there | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hivemuthur · 3 months ago

Note

hihihihi i literally love ur writing smmmm like i actually need it sb. any time you post ik it’s gonna be peak literature 🙂‍↕️

anyhowwww, i wanted to request an arcane fic with a university au viktor x reader where viktor and reader are like academic rivals or wtv and they’re always bickering but viktor rlly wants to be her friend and doesn’t want to be rivals. sooo he tries like anything he can and as reader eventually warms up to him another guy comes along (maybe jayce or smth idk? or it can just be a random) and becomes their friend like almost instantly and viktor is JEALOUSSSS and envious and just ufhfhhffhhfghhf i need that sb.

it can be nsfw or sfw i literally do not care i just need that plot paired with your writing and ik it’s gonna be an absolute masterpiece.

Hey, love! You know what I'm gonna say, right? Sorry for the long wait. This will have 3 chapters, like for real, not like the other one that now is looking more like 5. I'm gonna say a few things got changed here, because I forgot the essence of the request while writing, but the general message is: Viktor is bad at flirting.

Tightrope - Ch. 1.

viktorxfemale!reader mature (overall explicit), frenemies/academic rivals to lovers, modern university AU

Ch.2. | Ch.3.

word count: 5,9K

tag: #tightrope

summary: You and Viktor are tethering the line between friendship and rivalry, Jayce being one amongst the few common factors you both acknowledge (of course more is there but for the smart people you are, you tend to be very stupid about things). Oh, and you have to do a project together.

author's note: I have a very poor name vocabulary sorry. Here's another Joe, this time he's a dude :v thank you @rennethen for beta reading and bearing through my shit with such grace. One trick pony here we go!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You squint as your eyes scan the list of projects for Heimerdinger’s class. And since the professor is just and fair, like a nice old man who has seen it all, you already know what to expect. But you check anyway.

He wouldn’t pair you—the almost top-of-the-class student, fighting desperately with your feet and elbows to stay there—with someone undeserving. This little annoying thing in the back of your head called hope still glows faintly, last embers about to die as you’ve read through almost all names known to you except for yours.

And as a bucket of cold water gets thrown over the ashen pieces of coal, you find it. And oh—

Of course. Next to it, your least favourite name. Of course, just… great. This is great. This is fine.

The last time you worked together, it ended with a lot of papercuts, pencils flying, and Jayce using notebooks and blackboards as shields—not to mention a tiny explosion because neither of you could agree on proportions.

So, like the responsible classmate you are, you make one final, desperate attempt to convince the nice little man to change your partner. For the sake of public safety and the well-being of everyone who steps foot on Academy grounds.

You are also nice and well-behaved, so even though the door to the classroom is open, you knock on the doorframe before disturbing the professor.

“Ah! I would lie if I said I wasn’t expecting you to show up. Please, come in!” he exclaims, and you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes in sheer existential pain. If he already knows what you want, you already know how this is going to go.

Still, you press forward, stepping inside and clasping your hands behind your back in what you hope is a diplomatic stance. “Professor, I was wondering if—by any chance, purely hypothetically—there’s a possibility to switch partners for the project?”

Heimerdinger folds his arms behind his back, looking up at you with the kind of patient amusement that makes you feel like a child asking for extra dessert before finishing dinner. “Ah, yes. I was almost certain you’d ask that,” he says, nodding sagely. “And before you say anything else, I do hope you won’t drop out of my class if I say no.”

You open your mouth, ready to assure him that you would never be so dramatic—except that’s exactly what you were about to say, just in different words.

Before you can recover, Heimerdinger raises a hand and continues. “This project is worth thirty percent of your final mark,” he states, his voice gentle but firm. “I am, of course, aware of the... tension between you and Viktor.” His moustache twitches slightly, betraying a hint of amusement. “However, I must ensure fairness in all assignments. There will be no one riding on someone else’s back in my class.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “Professor, with all due respect, we nearly set a classroom on fire last time—”

“The most beautiful diamonds,” he interjects, tilting his head with a knowing smile, “are shaped under pressure.”

You stare at him, jaw tight. He stares back, completely at ease.

Fantastic. Just fantastic.

“I—” you gulp on air, searching for words. Finally, a breath of surrender escapes you and you deflate completely, saying only, “Thank you for your time.”

Seeing your sagged chest and fingers grasping the edge of your notebook tightly, Heimerdinger offers you a consolation. “I know I seem ancient to you, child. But trust me when I say, I do remember what it’s like to be young, and a little bit of friendly rivalry can be transformed into something truly groundbreaking. Think Newton and Hooke! Tesla and Edison! Bohr and Einstein! All of them were in quandaries that led to further discoveries!”

While Heimerdinger lists off pairs of rival geniuses, completely different names surface in your mind, unspoken but undeniable. Verlaine and Rimbaud. Love and Cobain. Sid and Nancy. Bonnie and Clyde. You are convinced those are the dynamics that loom over you and Viktor—just without all the feelings, of course.

And if only you were just competitors, like Bohr and Einstein, things would be so much simpler.

From the very first meeting, Viktor had been cold and reserved, his sharp tongue laced with enough venom to wither anyone foolish enough to challenge him. But if there was one thing you had to do to stay afloat in this sea of STEM sausages, it was dare. And challenge.

You still remember that moment vividly. How you almost stumbled when Jayce introduced you—because gods, he was gorgeous. An angular face that looked carved from marble, warm amber eyes framed by a fall of auburn hair. A boy so unfairly pretty that, had you met him a few years earlier, you would have fallen hard.

Your eyes swept him from head to toe before you slipped your hand into his, and for a single, traitorous moment, something fluttered in your chest. A rush of warmth, unexpected and unfamiliar.

Then you blurted out your name with an embarrassing stutter—

And the magic shattered the second Viktor opened his sweet mouth.

"Charmed," he drawled, but the dryness in his voice suggested the opposite. His gaze flicked over you in a quick, assessing glance before he tilted his head towards Jayce. "Is she another one of your projects, or does she actually know what she’s doing?"

The warmth in your chest evaporated instantly, replaced by a sharp spike of irritation.

Oh. Oh. So that’s how this was going to go.

With a weak smile, you thank Professor Heimerdinger, and your mind is so out of it that you almost curtsy—which you hastily disguise as an awkward bow. Nearly stumbling over your own feet, you literally fall out of the classroom, colliding with something big and solid.

“Careful there! Hi, oh—” A surprised voice reaches your ears, followed by a strong arm steadying you. “Hi there. Hi, um. You alright?”

Either he’s a halfwit or completely smitten with you, because his articulation leaves much to be desired. Not that you're one to judge, given your current coordination.

“Hi, sorry. Just a small… miscalculation.” You smile sheepishly and extend your hand out of habit, instinctively introducing yourself to your unexpected saviour. After all, that’s how you met Jayce.

“I’m Joe,” he says in one breath, your much smaller hand completely disappearing in his massive palm. “It’s nice to meet you.” He chuckles, a blush blooming across his cheeks—so unabashed, his eyes glinting—and oh.

Nice, you catch yourself thinking in the most obscene, ludicrous way as you zero in on his chest, the tight team T-shirt clinging to it.

“Eh, it’s nice to meet you too.” You grin, nodding, and blink stupidly, batting your eyelashes, not entirely sure what’s happening.

Before you get a chance to unglue the dumbfounded smile from your face and actually say something more, Jayce’s voice rings through the corridor, your name echoing off the walls.

“There you are! Oops! Making new friends? Don’t mind her, this is her love language.”

Jayce—the oblivious Jayce, a man so naïve it would never cross his mind what he is doing to someone you literally just met thirty seconds ago. Mortification is too weak a word to describe what you feel inside.

“Jayce!” You smack his chest and shake your head in disbelief. “Don’t mind him, he’s an ass.”

And as if poor Joe doesn’t have enough on his plate already, another voice bombards him, and you’re certain he’s beginning to regret ever catching you.

“Hello. Are you a new face in Heimerdinger’s class?” Viktor asks, wearing that redundant smirk, his voice stretching into a deliberate, chewy, gross thing that makes you scowl. Just outright cruel.

“Heh, no, I just happened to catch your friend,” Joe answers without missing a beat. “And… I was hoping I could get her number.”

And that just. Does it.

You nod faster than you think, already reaching for his phone, clumping your number in there with sticky, shaky fingers and a stupid blush creeping up your neck. You avoid Jayce’s and Viktor’s eyes, but oh boy, you can feel both pairs drilling into you almost viscerally. Viktor’s especially—those fucking yellow embers burning right through you from under furrowed brows.

You flash Joe one last smile and a very awkward, very hurried, “Call me,” not knowing what has gotten into you. Then you let Jayce sweep you away toward your usual route to the cafeteria, while Viktor strolls behind, full of graceful disdain.

“So, I saw the tables, and…” Jayce clears his throat, chattering into your ear. “I’ve seen the pairs! We can share a lab, I’m paired with Sky!”

“Yeah, I know.” You sigh and pat his shoulder—a touch saying more than a thousand words. Words that say how much you can’t wait for another round of throwing objects at Viktor, while Jayce scrambles to catch anything that might hurt Sky.

“Oh, are you not happy about the distribution of projects?” Viktor asks, a small smile playing at his lips.

“The project is fine. The distribution… I’m sure you understand.” You throw him an acidic smirk, your eyes empty of any emotion save for one slow blink. Neural Interface for Prosthetics is actually an incredibly good project—Heimerdinger got you there, and you couldn’t be more grateful. Well, maybe you could be just a little more grateful had he paired you with Jayce or Sky.

“Eh, you will forgive me, but I do not.” Viktor pauses and looks at you—challenging you. And you really hate it, because it works. “I do not wish to have the project jeopardized by something silly, as the topic itself aligns with my interests.”

“I’m sure the feeling is mutual, Viktor. Can we please eat? I am about to eat one of you if we don’t go to the cafeteria right now,” you sigh, exasperated, and your stomach growls to support your claim.

“You can eat me!” Jayce lands face down between your bickering, and you just laugh, completely disarmed.

Once you finally sit down, Viktor simply opens a book next to his tray, ignoring both you and Jayce completely—obviously sulking about something. Jayce, on the other hand, takes massive bites of his sandwich, staring at you intensely, as if willing you to spill the tea. When that doesn’t work, he speaks.

“So… who’s the new guy?” he elbows you playfully and you can barely understand him with his mouth full. But his eyes say it all—he is dying to know.

"Jayce, you’re so transparent I almost can’t see you. Where are you, Jayce? Where did you go?" You wave your hands around dramatically. He almost chokes. Viktor scoffs, unimpressed, barely glancing up from his book as he stirs sweetmilk into his coffee.

Once the immediate hazard of death by choking is under control, Jayce flashes one of those earnest grins—one that practically screams what a good person he is, full of pure intentions. "Oh, shut up. He seems nice, and I’m curious."

"He’s just a guy, nothing more," you hum, taking a sip of your coffee. And even though you have no idea if that little encounter will go anywhere, you can’t resist adding a pin. "Yet."

Viktor looks like he is holding back a scoff, so he just turns the page in his book with a violent sweep.

"Well… do you like him?" Jayce presses, oblivious to the tension at the table. He’s just such a gossip girl.

You let out an incredulous laugh. "Are you alright? Why are you so interested?"

Jayce shrugs. "I don’t know, I always thought you’d end up with someone of equal… interests?" Intelligence is what he really means. But that would be cruel. Just because a guy plays rugby doesn’t mean he’s brain damaged. Surely.

"Oh please, I hate STEM bros." You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms with an air of finality, as if that settles the matter. You do hate STEM bros. They are full of themselves, have no respect for women and look down on you.

Jayce raises an eyebrow, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. "Erm… you are a STEM bro."

Viktor finally looks up from his book, watching you with the barest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

You gasp, pressing a hand to your chest as if mortally offended. "Jayce Talis! I am a lady! Not a bro!"

That is Viktor’s cue. “I don’t think that lack of testicles classifies you as a lady instantly,” he says in a deadpan voice.

And you don’t know what pushes your stupid mind to say it. Is it just muscle memory—your tongue snapping back whenever you talk to Viktor—or an actual intention to say something mean to him? You really don’t know. In one breath, you say, voice equally dead to his, “Of course not. If that were the case, you’d classify as a lady as well,” and watch the chaos unravel.

None of that happens, though. The underwhelming events carry on in painfully slow motion—Jayce’s eyes widening so much there’s a real threat they might never close again, while Viktor gulps his coffee with an agonisingly slow bob of his Adam’s apple. It’s only when he’s done that you realise he was fighting not to choke on it—because the next moment, he bursts into laughter, covering his face with his hand.

Jayce exhales the breath he was holding and laughs as well—you’re not sure if it’s at your joke or simply at the sight of Viktor laughing so openly, an event so rare it shouldn’t go uncherished. Despite yourself, you grin. Indeed, Viktor’s face—his eyes squeezed shut to the point of a tear slipping from beneath his long lashes, smile lines filling out his hollowed cheeks, his teeth bared in an uninhibited cackle—is a sight to behold.

The stupid thing in your chest stutters, as Viktor wheezes and lowers his hand to rest on yours. “Remind me to never cross you again. Merciless is an understatement,” he says, barely, with a really warm smile and you find yourself blushing again, for the second time in a mere hour. Because of two different boys.

And as any moment made of pure magic in the history of magical moments, this one doesn’t last either. It gets violently interrupted by a buzz of your phone on the table.

If you wanna take a stroll, I have a free period now :) We can meet by the fountain. Joe, in case you wonder who this is :)

And your blush deepens. You calculate options in your mind and soon decide on the what the hell one. “I’m gonna scram boys. See you in the lab after class?”

“Yes. Please bring the less… distracted version of yourself if you can,” Viktor states and all the warmth evaporates from him at once. Back to the usual version of himself—sharp wit, balancing on the verge of cutting.

As you mumble an absent, “I’ll do my best,” and wave them goodbye, Jayce returns to his sandwich and sighs knowingly.

“You know… wouldn’t kill you to be a little bit nicer,” Jayce says, leaning forward on his elbows. His voice is casual, but there’s an edge of curiosity beneath it, like he’s prodding at something fragile just to see if it will break.

“This is me being nice,” Viktor replies in a neutral tone, lifting his coffee to his lips. The steam curls around his face as he takes a slow sip, his expression unmoving. He is being nice. He is trying to be nice. It’s just sometimes completely impossible to be nice to you when you get like this. Distracted. He scoffs to himself. It’s a strange friendship you have there, but it’s a friendship nevertheless—or so he likes to think.

Jayce studies him, his gaze sharp despite the lazy way he’s chewing the inside of his cheek. “No, that is just you being… well, you,” he says bluntly, tilting his head as if he’s considering whether to push further. “Being a dick is not a way to a lady’s heart.”

Viktor arches a brow, unimpressed. “Excuse me, but have we experienced the same scene? I was the one being offended and laughed it off like a gentleman, thank you.” He gestures vaguely with his cup, his fingers tightening just slightly around the ceramic.

Jayce narrows his eyes. “Then why are you so annoyed in the first place?”

“I am not annoyed,” Viktor states flatly, setting his coffee down with a little more force than necessary. He smooths his hands over his sweater as he rises from his seat, already turning away before Jayce can open his mouth again. “I am great. I am so great, in fact, that I will go and start working on that project. See you, Jayce.”

And then he just strides off, his cane tapping against the floor, leaving Jayce mid-sentence with his mouth open, eyes blinking slowly.

Of course, he is not annoyed. Maybe only slightly—and only because you’ve somehow managed to gain another distraction in your life right before you were about to start working on the biggest project of the year. And it’s just, well, fucking annoying.

***

When you glance at your watch, you yelp and press a hand to your forehead. “Fucking hell,” you mutter under your breath before breaking into a sprint toward the lab.

Viktor is going to kill you—especially since there’s no way to prove you were caught up in something important.

Because, well, you weren’t. It was Joe who took up all your time this afternoon. And he is… surprisingly nice. And smart.

You hadn’t expected that.

What started as a casual conversation somehow stretched into something far longer, the minutes slipping away unnoticed. He had opinions on films—actual opinions, not just generic statements about “liking action movies.” He had read some of the same books as you and even suggested a few you begrudgingly admitted sounded interesting. Sports came up, of course, but he spoke about them with a self-awareness that made it bearable. And when the conversation dipped into politics, he didn’t say anything that made you want to throw your coffee in his face. That alone was impressive.

It was… weirdly comfortable. Easy, even. Even when he lingered.

Joe’s gaze held onto you a second longer than necessary, like he was memorising the way you looked when you laughed. And when he hugged you goodbye, his arms stayed around you for just a breath too many. The slow way he untangled himself from you made it clear that if you hadn’t pulled away first, he wouldn’t have been the one to let go.

Shaking off the last remnants of Joe from your thoughts, you push through the heavy lab doors with a hurried stumble, your breath still uneven from the rush.

“Sorry, I’m late, guys—” The words die in your throat as you take in the empty room.

Only Viktor.

He stands at the workbench, sleeves pushed up, hands meticulously adjusting the placement of various tools and notes. At the sound of your voice, he pauses but doesn’t turn around immediately. The rhythmic ticking of the clock fills the silence, marking the seconds you take to process the situation.

No Jayce. No Sky. Just Viktor, and the sharp scent of metal and oil clinging to the air.

“Glad you could make it,” he remarks, finally turning his head just enough to glance at you. His voice is even, but something about it feels... off. You can’t tell if he’s irritated or merely stating a fact. Maybe both.

“Sorry,” you sigh, setting your things down with a thud. “I lost track of time.”

“With your new himbo.” It isn’t a question.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second. “Yes. And his name is Joe, Viktor, not a new himbo.”

Viktor hums—a short, unimpressed sound—and resumes his work, carefully aligning a set of blueprints. Somehow, his silence feels louder than an argument.

“Okay,” you say hesitantly, more to yourself than to him, or rather into the empty space between you and Viktor, which seems to be expanding with each passing second.

“And where are Jayce and Sky?”

“They managed to sketch out the roadmap for themselves in the time you spent with Joe and decided they needed the library for further planning,” Viktor replies flatly, still not looking at you. The way he deliberately keeps his gaze averted only emphasises how much has been accomplished in your presumably very long moment of indulgence. How nice.

“Alright, would you like me to crucify myself, or do you want the honours?” Impatience gets the better of you, and you fold your arms tightly across your chest.

At that, Viktor’s hands still over the workbench. His head tilts ever so slightly in your direction, though his gaze remains fixed on the floor, as if acknowledging you fully would be a waste of effort.

“I am merely stating a fact,” he says, his voice low, clipped. “This is more important than some affairs, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh, really, Viktor?” You let out a sharp laugh, shaking your head. “And here I thought thirty percent of my grade was worth sacrificing for some sloppy making out—but thank you so much for finally making me see the error of my ways.”

That makes him look.

And he is angry.

His head snaps up, eyes narrowing, gears visibly grinding in his mind as he weighs whether you’re just riling him up or—God forbid—whether you actually have made out with Joe.

His jaw tightens. “Just get to work already, will you?”

You say nothing, only flash him an acrid smile before reaching for your goggles on the workbench.

The two of you work in almost deafening silence, broken only by the occasional exchange of necessary questions and answers. You retrieve materials while Viktor arranges the workspace, and you scribble down the general plan on the blackboard, the tension in the air palpable.

Each time the chalk screeches against the surface, Viktor visibly winces, hissing under his breath and sinking his head between his shoulders in an exaggerated display of agony.

You roll your eyes but say nothing.

“Could you maybe try a little harder to make it less cacographic?” he mutters, irritation creeping into his voice.

The suddenness of it startles you just as you’re making another stroke, and the chalk lets out a bone-chilling whine against the board.

Viktor flinches violently, covering his ears. “For fuck’s sake,” he grumbles, voice muffled behind his palms. “Let me do it.” He steps forward, reaching for the chalk without hesitation.

You anticipate the move, tucking your arm behind your back in defiance. A childish gesture, maybe, but if he’s going to be an ass about it, you’re not about to make it easy for him.

He doesn’t stop. He closes the distance between you in a few sharp steps, his expression taut with frustration. Before you can react, his fingers wrap around your wrist—tight, unrelenting. He pries your hand forward and gives a firm shake, forcing your fingers to unclench until the chalk drops neatly into his waiting palm.

A sharp twinge shoots up your arm. It’s not painful exactly, but it’s close enough to make you wince.

Snatching your hand back, you massage your wrist, eyes narrowing. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

For a brief second, something flickers across Viktor’s face—regret, maybe. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, buried beneath the same rigid composure he always wears like armour. He doesn’t apologise. Doesn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he turns to the board and begins writing, his tone stripped of anything resembling warmth.

“I want to wrap this up before tomorrow,” he says flatly, chalk gliding across the surface with sharp, efficient strokes. “And you are being thoroughly incompetent. I told you to bring yourself not distracted.”

You let out a sharp scoff. “Okay, I am so sorry I was late. I’ll stay longer and finish up whatever we don’t get done in time. But you are outdoing yourself in being a complete twat today.”

You don’t wait for a response. Instead, you march over to the workbench, hands immediately finding the prototype components. If you focus on the task, maybe you won’t be tempted to launch something at Viktor’s insufferable head.

“Oh please, I do not trust anything you do without supervision,” Viktor says, scribbling quietly on the board, somehow making a point out of it.

“Viktor, are you serious right now? We literally have the same grades,” you huff, leaning over the table to pick up the components you need. You do your best to tune him out—his bickering is only distracting, and you need to rewire the prototype from the previous project.

Overall, the task is simple enough. The device is built around an EEG-based neural interface—a system that reads electrical activity in the brain and translates it into signals that can control a mechanical limb. In practical terms, the user wears a headband fitted with electrodes that detect neural impulses associated with movement. These signals then travel through a processing unit, which refines the input before transmitting it to the prosthetic itself.

That’s the easy part. The rest, well.

The prototype you’re working on today is a refinement of an earlier model. The previous iteration had suffered from signal lag and inconsistent responsiveness—issues you’re hoping to correct by integrating a new set of circuits and refining the algorithm for noise reduction.

You grab the headband from the pile of equipment, turning it over in your hands. It should work just fine if you tweak the wiring to accommodate the new design. Without thinking too much about it, you start securing the circuits, fingers working on autopilot as you weave the delicate wires through the correct channels.

Or at least, you think they’re correct—until Viktor’s voice cuts through your focus again.

“Are you even listening to me? What are you doing?” His tone is sharp, irritated—like he’s already asked this more than once.

Your expression tightens as he strides over to the bench, clearly unimpressed. “I just rewired it. Nothing too complex,” you mutter, adjusting a loose wire before reaching for the power switch.

Viktor doesn’t look convinced. He picks up the headband, turning it over in his hands with a scrutinising gaze. “Nothing too complex,” he repeats dryly. “Yes, because neural interfaces are famously simple. I’d rather be sure. Show me.”

You roll your eyes but oblige, reaching over and flipping the switch.

The reaction is instant.

A sharp jolt cracks through the air, followed by a strangled, almost undignified yelp as Viktor jerks back, dropping the headband as if it has burned him. His entire body stiffens, fingers twitching violently for a brief second before he stumbles, gripping the workbench for support, blinking rapidly.

Your mouth falls open. “Oh—shit—Viktor—”

He exhales sharply, pressing a hand to his chest, his face twisted in a grimace. “Wonderful,” he grits out. “So that’s what you rewired.”

“God, I’m so sorry,” you mumble, rushing to him, ignoring the sharpness of his tone. Your hands instinctively cup his face as you lean in. He blinks, startled, his mouth parting at the sudden concern—your brows furrowed, eyes searching his face for any sign of lingering pain, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he says flatly. “You’ve electrocuted me.” His hands move to seize your wrists, but you twist away before he can. Your palms return to his face, fingers framing him gently, and Viktor’s breath hitches.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, voice genuine. You are truly sorry, the worry overriding all the anger you had for him mere seconds ago. And Viktor has no idea how to react to this. He stands there, breath unsteady, before muttering, “I’m fine.”

You blink, straightening, and Viktor is almost ready to exhale in relief—until your hands shift again, this time pressing against his chest and back, cradling his heart between your palms. You stand beside him, hands firm but careful, instinct guiding you more than knowledge. You don’t even know if this is what you’re supposed to do for someone who’s been electrocuted, but it’s the only thing that comes to mind.

His heart thunders beneath your touch. The silence is so heavy you can hear yourself gulp on the lump in your throat. You don’t hate him that much, and you hope he knows it.

Finally, Viktor speaks, his breath still rattling. “Well, would you look at that. So there is kindness in your touch after all.” He tries to sound wicked, but there is no venom in his voice.

“Viktor, you bastard. When have I not been kind to you?” you respond playfully, your hands still pressed against him.

“Ah, well. When you implied my alleged castration is the first that comes to mind. But rest assured, my testicles are good and well. I’d show you, but I’m afraid someone has already filled this position in your life,” he trails off, slipping back into his seemingly unbothered attitude.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groan, rolling your eyes. Still, your fingers linger, as if trying to determine whether his heartbeat is elevated from the shock or something else entirely. Or is it always like this? You don’t dare to ask.

Viktor tilts his head, watching you. “What about?”

“Any of it. You make me fucking gag,” you scoff, finally sliding your hands off him.

“Not yet—but I could.”

You barely have time to register the shift before he catches your hand, his thumb pressing against your palm. A slight twitch makes your fingers curl around his.

“You could what?”

“Make you gag.” The words slip out just as a smirk blooms on his face, faster than he can think to stop either. He can’t tell if he regrets them immediately.

The figurative pin drops. A high-pitched whine rings in your ears. Viktor’s gaze is drilled into you, thumb still pressing into your palm.

Your eyes widen, but you don’t miss a beat. “Well, would you look at that. So there is kindness in you after all,” you murmur.

“Ah, for you. Only kindness, nothing else,” Viktor hums, his voice a low purr as his thumb idly circles the centre of your palm. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away, yet you don’t. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—something that makes your breath catch before you force yourself to scoff.

“Yeah, right.”

His smirk deepens. “When have I not been kind to you?”

“Like… ever?” You raise a brow, tilting your head as if you’re genuinely considering it. “You mock me. You think I’m outright stupid and don’t deserve my spot in class. You constantly correct me and fight me over solutions. You hate working with me, scoff at me, and laugh me out in front of Jayce. And Sky.”

Viktor clicks his tongue, his fingers squeezing yours ever so slightly. “Such is my love language.”

You huff and roll your eyes. “Oh, forget it.” You finally try to pull your hand away, but Viktor doesn’t let go just yet, his grip tightening for half a second before he releases you—only for his cane to hook lightly around your wrist, stopping you mid-motion.

“Wait.” His voice is softer now, coaxing. When you glance at him, there’s something else in his gaze, something warmer, but it’s masked beneath that ever-present air of a prank. “I almost died, you shouldn’t leave me.”

You gape at him. “Viktor—”

“Alright, alright! I surrender.” He chuckles, but there’s something breathless in it. His fingers twitch against his cane. “Wait. Please.”

The sudden plea stills you. Your heart stumbles over itself before you swallow and straighten your posture, crossing your arms in an attempt to shake the feeling off.

Viktor exhales, dragging a hand through his hair before returning his gaze to you. “I do not mock you or laugh you out. I simply jest—I do that with Jayce all the time. You should have noticed by now.”

You purse your lips, unimpressed.

“I do not correct you,” he continues, his voice lilting, as if this is all some grand performance. “I offer you my point of view. And I do not fight you—I simply enjoy some intellectual sparring. Not many can provide one that satisfies me.”

Your fingers twitch, nerves sparking beneath your skin at the way he says satisfies, but you ignore it. Instead, you level him with a flat stare.

“You’re just gaslighting me at this point, Viktor. At least give me a head start before you snap my neck with this thing one day.” You tap the end of his cane with a pointed look.

Viktor grins—slow, wicked. His weight shifts, allowing the cane to rest a little heavier against your wrist, his fingers curling just slightly around the handle.

“Oh, come now. That would be far too merciful.”

Your stomach flips, and you hate that it does.

“Are you going to be good to me now?” Viktor asks, his voice so low you barely hear it, but the weight of it settles deep in your chest.

He takes a step closer, and your breath catches when you feel it—his exhale, warm against your skin, ghosting over your lips. His fingers brush against your wrist, the same one he had seized not long ago. A touch that lingers.

“You have almost killed me, after all.” You watch his lips twisted in a smile you’ve never seen before. And it scares you for some reason.

“Stop this,” you say, firmer than you expected, yanking your hand away. You clutch it to your chest like a wound, like something fragile he might pry apart if given the chance.

Viktor tilts his head, eyes sharp with curiosity. “Why?”

Your throat tightens. “You know goddamn well why.” You take a step back, shaking your head, something bitter curling in your gut. “I am not your project, you dick.”

Viktor’s expression shifts—his smirk falters, lips parting slightly as if caught off guard. “Hey, that is not what I meant—”

But you don’t let him finish. You pivot on your heel, retreating towards the door, your pulse hammering in your ears. You need distance. The lab suddenly feels too small, the air too thick, charged with something neither of you were prepared for.

Behind you, Viktor’s voice follows, just a step behind. “Wait—”

You don’t.

The door swings shut behind you, and Viktor is left standing in the empty lab, staring after where you had just been.

A long exhale leaves him, and he runs a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath,

“Well, damn. That backfired.”

He frowns to himself, rolling his jaw as if trying to make sense of what just happened—of what he just did.

And for the first time in a long while, Viktor realises he doesn’t have a formula for this.

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation #requests #tightrope

312 notes · View notes

shiro-s2e2-erukinzu · 2 months ago

Text

Anime only watchers and people who aren't caught up with the Manga, BEWARE... Cuz I'm about to discuss Spy X Family Mission 112 (Part 2)... You have been warned...! 👌

[SPOILERS AHEAD FROM THIS POINT ON]

THIS CHAPTER WAS JUST TOO FREAKING HILARIOUS...!!! 😂😂😂 I HONESTLY COULD NOT STOP LAUGHING!! 👏🤣👏🤣👏🤣👏🤣

My goodness, the absolute goofiness of Part 2 of Mission 112 was truly OVER 9000!!! 🗣 So let's talk about it, shall we...? 👌😌

Since this chapter IS a two-parter, of course it would pick up right where we left off last time with Tertius and the kid with his eyes closed (whose name we learn is Freddy by the end of this chapter 😁) about to engage in a "duel"...! 😌

But before that happens, the other students recognize Anya as the one who stopped the bus hijacking, and so she steps up to the plate to put end to this conflict...!! 👌😎

OH MY GOSH ANYA, YOU'RE TOO MUCH! 🤣

Anya then goes over to Freddy and tells him that she's here to help him get that booger off of Tertius' face, which makes Freddy very thankful for Anya's help...!! 😆 Anya prepares for her attack to grab the booger, but then...:

THIS GIRL I SWEAR! 😂(But honestly, I don't blame Anya for not wanting to touch someone else's booger!!👌😌)

Then, we get probably the funniest thing in this chapter (to me at least...):

THAT IMAGE OF ANYA JUST STRAIGHT UP BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF BILLY SQUIRE IS HONESTLY PEAK COMEDY TO ME!! 👏🤣👏🤣👏🤣👏🤣👏🤣

Also Anya, I think that you are pretty close to being THAT violent...!! 👌😌

After that hilarious sequence, Tertius tries to stop Anya by being chivalrous and gift her a flower, but...:

HE JUST GAVE ANYA A WAY TO GET RID OF THE BOOGER!!! 👏😂

(This chapter is gonna be the death of me for just how FUCKING HILARIOUS IT IS!! 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣)

After Tertius thinks back to his training to become strong enough to deal other nations, he's ready to fight back against Anya, then...:

ANYA GOES FOR THE KILL!! (I mean, Anya tries to remove the booger...!! 👌😎)

As Anya tries to MURDER get rid of the booger on Tertius' face, she suddenly gets a crick in her neck a let's go of the flower and it successfully knocks the booger off!! 😆 Then, Freddy comes in clutch to get rid of the evidence and SAVES HIS SKIN!!! 👏👏👏

And after The Booger Incident, both Freddy and Tertius have seemingly become friends with Anya, and that makes me so happy!! 😄

But, someone might've just gotten the wrong idea about Tertius and Freddy...:

OH MY GOD BECKY!!! 🤣🤣🤣 ALSO, POOR DAMIAN...!! 🤭

And that was Mission 112 (Part 2), it was SO FREAKING HILARIOUS Y'ALL!!! 😂😂😂 My goodness, I can't believe how much this chapter got me busting out laughing, it was such a good time!! 😆

I am so glad that Tertius and Freddy (and possibly Arnold and Connie as well) are chilling with Anya by the end of this chapter because I was hoping that Anya was gonna make new friends, and it looks like that's exactly what just happened...!! 😄 I don't know if or when Becky is gonna realize that her assumption of Anya scoring two boys is wrong, but I do however know that whether Damian thinks that those guys are "together" with Anya or knows that they're just her friends, he's definitely gonna be jealous regardless...!! 😌

I can't wait to see what kind of shenanigans the Eden Kids are gonna get into now with these new kids joining the group!! 😄 So anyway, until the next Mission; take care, be safe out there and be kind to one another...!! SEE Y'ALL NEXT TIME!! 👋😆

165 notes · View notes

swizzlemynizzle · 27 days ago

Text

Underneath the Noise

—————————————————————————

Masterlist

Chapter 6: Post-Party Panic

—————————————————————————

The morning sun slices through Y/N’s window like a passive-aggressive reminder of her life choices. Her head is surprisingly okay. Her feet, not so much. The muddy size elevens are still by the door—silent, damning—and her own shoes are God knows where. Possibly in the Thames. The memories of last night blurred at the edges, not quite comprehensable this early in the morning.

Her new flat is still half-unpacked. Boxes lean against the walls, a heap of wires sprawled across the floor like a tech-themed crime scene. But she’s buzzing. Giddy, even.

Her cold feet sting on the kitchen tile as she makes a coffee, an attempt to rejoin Earth after a wild night. As the bitter liquid coats her tongue, the memories feel a little clearer.

Last night keeps looping in her head like a glitchy highlight reel: tambourine guy, fountain dipping, George’s stupid smirk when she called him a hobbit by mistake. The way he’d looked at her��really looked at her—like he saw through the performance and wasn’t put off by what was underneath.

And yet, beneath the buzz, something sharp simmers in her stomach.

Chris’s video.

She’s not in control of how people will see her—how they’ll edit her, meme her, decide who she is based on five minutes of drunken footage and one out-of-context laugh. She’s been on the internet long enough to know how fast strangers form opinions.

She’s done nothing wrong. But still. Anxiety doesn’t care about logic.

She shoves it aside and refocuses on her streaming setup. At least this part she can control. Two monitors up, ring light plugged in, mic adjusted. Her little digital kingdom—home.

Her phone buzzes on the desk. It’s a message from Chris.

Chris:

btw—thanks again for being in the vid yesterday. you were class. don’t let the internet be weird. if anyone gives you grief I’ll just post an unflattering picture of George and redirect the drama.

She snorts. Then reads it again. She hadn’t even realised how much she needed that.

She and Chris had only met a few times before yesterday’s video, yet he welcomed her like a long time friend.

Another notification follows almost instantly—this time from WhatsApp.

New group chat created: CHAOS GOBLINS

Members: Chris, Bach, Arthur Hill, ArthurTV, George, Y/N

Chris:

everyone give a round of applause to Y/N for not bailing when we made her wade into a public fountain

Bach:

absolute trooper. also possibly immortal?

Arthur Hill:

I still haven’t thawed out. if i die tell the coroner it was for content

ArthurTV:

100% worth it. someone check on Pickle the ferret tho

George:

still think Y/N peaked at “clown shoes and Hot Bitch Ready To Party shirt” tbh

Y/N:

sorry that I’m setting fashion trends you all can’t keep up with

Chris:

love you guys

Her grin creeps up before she can stop it. Despite the cold floors and the lingering worry, the thread of connection weaving through her screen is warm. Real.

Her Discord pings next.

georgeclarkey:

you up for streaming today or are you still emotionally recovering from trench foot?

She blinks.

Then grins wider.

y/n:

depends. are you going to insult my shoe choices again or play COD like a civilised human being?

georgeclarkey:

no promises. get in the vc.

She joins the call and is immediately met with George’s voice, clear and low and just a bit smug.

“There she is. The woman who turned the fountain into her personal Olympic trial.”

“Jealous I outpaced you in the chaos Olympics,” she replies, slipping her headset on.

They load into a match. It’s easy, this. Banter bouncing between them like they’ve done this for ages—even though this is technically their first proper stream together.

He makes dry, ridiculous commentary.

She mock-scolds him for stealing her kills.

He starts humming Wonderwall at one point and she threatens to rage quit.

The chat, naturally, loses it.

@bananasformonsters:

why do they lowkey sound like a couple

@yourewatchingBBCthree:

"she turned the fountain into her personal Olympic trial" – I’m crying, marry her already

@justvibingirl:

how do they know each other?? is this a collab or a situationship??

She snorts reading the comments, but George—either oblivious or intentionally ignoring them—just keeps playing.

After two hours and several chaotic rounds, they finally log off.

Y/N slumps back in her chair, cheeks aching from smiling. She opens Instagram on autopilot, half-thinking she should maybe share a clip.

And then—

@georgeclarkey followed you.

Huh.

A second later, a DM pops up.

georgeclarkey:

sorry in advance for the influx of people asking if we’re dating. feel free to deny everything. or say we met in Tesco. up to you.

She stares at the message for a moment. Bites her lip.

Then types:

y/n:

Tesco feels right. Two hands met over the last salt and vinegar packet. Destiny.

The typing bubble appears.

georgeclarkey:

iconic. should probably get married for the brand alone.

She laughs out loud. Okay, maybe she’s going to be alright.

---

@madforgeorge

@wherethezoes-at

@sundarksposts

@clarkey4life

#arthur hill #chrismd #george clarkey #italian bach #george clarke fics #w2s #italianbach #ukyt #arthur tv #george clarke x you #george clarke fluff #george clarkey imagine #george clarke fanfic #george clarke x reader #george clarke

123 notes · View notes

unabashegirl · 8 months ago

Text

The Cover — sneak peak

Y/N and Harry, lifelong best friends, pretend to be a couple for a family wedding weekend in Edinburgh. As they navigate the event, old feelings resurface, and what starts as an act turns into something real, leading them to confront their true emotions for one another.

Author's note: hello, the cover has already been posted on Patreon, but I wanted to give you a sneak peak to it. Just in case you want to give it a read on my Patreon. It's a four part story. The final part will get posted tonight.

check out my patreon (starting at $2) and get full access to all chapters, various one shots and much more :)

masterlist

---------------------------------------------------------

Harry sat next to Y/N, his body half-turned toward her as he read a book, legs tucked beneath him like a cat seeking comfort. There was a distinct softness about him when he was in his own space, away from the flashing cameras and curious eyes of the public. His hair, dark and messy, tumbled over his forehead, catching in the dim light, giving him a boyish charm that contrasted sharply with his usual confident and polished public persona.

He wore a simple white t-shirt, the fabric clinging loosely to his lean frame. His broad shoulders spoke of strength, but his posture, slightly hunched as he leaned into his book, gave off an air of vulnerability. His long fingers traced the edges of the pages absentmindedly, and now and then, his green eyes flicked up from the book, studying Y/N with a kind of quiet amusement, like he was aware of the unspoken understanding that lay between them.

Harry had always been attentive, almost in a way that felt second nature, as though he knew more about her moods than she did. There was something undeniably magnetic about him—his laugh was a little softer here, his voice a touch lower. His fame could never overshadow the gentle heart he showed her when they were alone.

Y/N’s eyes hovered over the same paragraph for what felt like the hundredth time. The words blurred together, the meaning lost as her mind wandered to the man sitting beside her. She was supposed to be reading a novel on leadership—something meant to inspire her as she navigated her demanding corporate job—but her thoughts kept drifting back to him. It was ironic, really. The book talked about control and decisiveness, yet here she was, lost in the one thing she couldn’t control: her feelings for Harry.

She had always found him attractive. No—more than attractive. Beautiful in the kind of way that felt effortless. His messy hair, the way his lips quirked into a half-smile, those green eyes that seemed to see straight through her… It all added up to someone she could never quite believe was real. He’d always been larger than life to her, even before the fame. Back when they were younger, when they were just two young adults with dreams and no idea where life would take them.

But then, his life had soared into stardom, and hers had stayed grounded in the corporate world. He became Harry Styles—the Harry Styles—and she remained his best friend, hidden away from the glamour of his world. She had watched as women swooned over him, throwing themselves at his feet, and she had silently swallowed her feelings. She knew she could never compete. He was out of her league, in every possible way.

And yet, sitting here next to him, as close as they were, it was impossible not to be reminded of just how deep her feelings for him ran. His presence had always had this effect on her, an electric undercurrent that made her skin tingle and her heart pound just a little harder. She stole a glance at him over the top of her book. He was engrossed in whatever he was reading, completely unaware of the thoughts swirling in her mind.

That’s what made it all so painful—he would never see her that way. She was just Y/N, his best mate, his confidant. The one person who was always there, but never the one he looked at with desire. She felt a knot tighten in her chest as she allowed herself, for just a moment, to imagine what it would be like if things were different. If she were someone else. If he saw her the way she saw him.

As if sensing her gaze, Harry suddenly looked up, catching her in the act. His lips twitched into a small, knowing smile, and he set his book down on the coffee table.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asked, his voice low, breaking the silence between them. His eyes locked onto hers, and the way he studied her made her feel exposed, as though he could read her thoughts without her saying a word. “You’ve been staring at that same page for ages.”

Y/N quickly dropped her gaze, closing the book to avoid his probing eyes. “It’s nothing,” she mumbled, though the heat rising to her cheeks gave her away.

He tilted his head, not buying it for a second. “Come on,” he coaxed, a teasing edge to his voice. “Spill it. I know you. You’ve got that look.”

She shifted uncomfortably, trying to laugh it off. “What look?”

“The one where you’re overthinking everything,” he said, leaning back against the couch, still watching her closely. His gaze softened. “Talk to me, Y/N. What’s going on?”

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat as Harry’s green eyes bore into hers, his expression filled with gentle concern. She had always struggled to lie to him. Whenever he looked at her like that, like he truly cared, she felt like he could see right through her. The panic rose quickly, threatening to bubble over, and she knew she had to say something—anything—to steer the conversation away from the thoughts that were tangled up in her mind.

She blurted out the first thing that came to her. “My cousin’s getting married.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. “Which cousin?”

Y/N let out a long sigh, glad for the distraction, though the topic she’d chosen wasn’t much better. “The worst one. Out of the three, I mean. You know, the one who’s always got something to say about everything. Perfect life, perfect fiancé, perfect job… perfect everything.”

Harry’s expression softened into one of amused sympathy. He knew exactly the kind of family pressure Y/N was talking about. He stretched out his legs, making himself more comfortable, as if settling in for a story. “Ah, her. That sounds like fun,” he teased, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Y/N rolled her eyes, tucking her legs beneath her as she faced him. “It’s not just her. It’s the whole family. They’re all so excited, and for some reason, they’re all hell-bent on me bringing a date.” She threw her hands up in frustration. “I don’t even have a boyfriend, but everyone keeps asking if I’m bringing someone. They’re already assuming I’m going to show up with a ‘plus one,’ and I just… I don’t want to deal with the humiliation of telling them I’m still single. Again.”

Harry’s brow furrowed slightly as he listened, a small frown tugging at his lips. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked at her thoughtfully. “Y/N, you don’t owe anyone an explanation. If you don’t want to bring someone, then don’t. Your family’s expectations shouldn’t dictate your happiness.”

Y/N smiled weakly, appreciating the sentiment, but her heart was still heavy with the weight of the situation. “I know, but it’s just… hard. It’s like they see me as incomplete because I don’t have someone.” She let out a bitter laugh. “They don’t understand that I’m happy with my life. But at a wedding, it’s like a flashing neon sign that I’m alone.”

The room fell silent for a moment as Harry absorbed her words, his gaze softening even further. He opened his mouth, about to say something, but then paused, seemingly deep in thought.

Y/N bit her lip, realizing she was rambling, but it was easier to talk about this than the real issue she was trying to avoid. And with Harry sitting so close, his concern for her so palpable, it made her feel even more off-balance. Every time he cared, every time he listened so intently, it reminded her of how much she longed for something more than just friendship.

But that wasn’t an option. Not with him. So, she buried it all under the wedding invitation and the pressures from her family, hoping it would be enough to keep him from asking more.

Harry studied her for a long moment, eyes searching her face like he could sense there was something more she wasn’t saying. He tilted his head slightly, lips pressing together in that way he always did when he was thinking hard.

“Is that really why you’re freaking out?” he asked gently, his voice laced with quiet skepticism.

Y/N felt her stomach twist, the question catching her off guard. She hated how easily he could see through her, but she wasn’t about to crack. Not when it came to her deeper feelings. So, she nodded quickly, clutching onto the family wedding excuse like a lifeline. “Yes, it is. It’s a big issue, Harry. Every time I visit my family, it just… it tears me down a little more. They make me feel like I’m somehow falling behind because I don’t have someone. It’s exhausting.”

He sighed softly, his eyes softening with sympathy, though there was still a trace of doubt in his gaze. Without saying anything more, he leaned back against the couch and picked up his book again, his fingers absently running along the spine.

For a few minutes, silence fell between them, the crackling of the fire and the soft rustle of turning pages the only sounds filling the room. Y/N watched him out of the corner of her eye, heart still racing from the close call. She didn’t know what she’d do if he pushed further—if he managed to pry open the lid she’d been keeping on her feelings. She shifted in her seat, trying to focus on her book, but the words refused to make sense.

Then, just as she was beginning to lose herself in her own anxious thoughts, Harry broke the silence.

“I’ve got an easy solution,” he said suddenly, his voice calm and casual, like he hadn’t just spent several minutes in contemplative silence. He didn’t even look up from his book. “I’ll go with you.”

Y/N blinked, his words not quite registering at first. “What?”

He glanced over at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll be your date. To the wedding,” he clarified, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Problem solved.”

Her heart skipped a beat, her mind racing to catch up. “You… you’re serious?” She could hardly believe what she was hearing. Harry Styles, her best friend—and secret crush—offering to be her date to her cousin’s wedding?

“Of course,” he said, shrugging as if it were no big deal. “If it’ll make things easier for you, I’m in. I’ll go, smile for the family, and be the perfect distraction. You won’t have to deal with any awkward questions about being single.”

Y/N stared at him, stunned. He made it sound so simple, like it was no trouble at all. But for her, it was anything but simple. Having him at her side, pretending to be her date, while she tried to keep her feelings under control… It sounded like both a dream and a nightmare all at once.

She swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. “Harry, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted, closing his book and turning his full attention to her now. His gaze was steady, sincere. “You’re my best friend, Y/N. If this is stressing you out, let me help. I’d be happy to go with you.”

Her heart swelled at his words, warmth spreading through her chest at the thought of him being there, by her side, at a time when she felt most vulnerable. But at the same time, the reality of pretending—of standing next to him, feeling things she shouldn’t, knowing it was all just for show—made her feel dizzy.

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost unsure...

247 notes · View notes

ncillary · 4 months ago

Text

Self Aware AU (Sylus)

Summary: You have the lowest Affinity with Sylus. The reason is because he is a red flag. As red as his eyes. Spawn of the devil. Unless, he is actually not as evil as you label him to be. Does this change something in you? Yes? No? Maybe so?

-------&&&&&-------&&&&&-------&&&&&------+

Masterlist Self Aware AU

-------&&&&&-------&&&&&-------&&&&&-------

| 1 [current] | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 |

-------&&&&&-------&&&&&-------&&&&&-------

"I'm letting myself beta test this game just to receive a spawn of the devil? What a bull!"

You huffed out after you saw the official news about the new character.

"He already has a fandom even before his release. Maybe he wasn't so bad." Your friend sipped her drinks.

"They're just joining in the bandwagon of a hot looking face. But with a thrash personality, he remains a thrash."

"Wow. Slow down. You might get yourself in trouble for that."

"Let them. It's not like I'm bothering them in any way possible. I'm just complaining to my sole therapist." You grinned playfully.

Your friend looked deadpanned at you, "Pay up."

+------------------+-----------------+---------------+

After the update, you enjoy all the free resources the game gave to its players. The Main Story? You ignored it. You went with your merry routine each day. Going into Main Story update meant that you had to meet him. You're content with not meeting him. AT ALL.

Until an event came up.

Your friend's story peaked your interest.

"He almost died in the desert. You gotta question what exactly happened there, you know. Plus he said he had been called worse than the monster MC had him play the role that time."

"Hoooo... Setting some vulnerabilities to a strong character like him, huh. That's interesting."

That night, your interest had you searching for a fan post on the full video of his limited card for the current event. You looked bored until you reached the end. The scene where MC lounging around at night while having a quiet conversation with him.

Your heart wretched when it played out. The animation. The voice. Him thanking MC with the genuity of how much he felt at that time.

A tear trickled down to your cheeks that went unnoticed. Sobbing.

"...huh?"

You were confused. You stopped your curiosity there.

+---------------------+-------------------------------+

"So..." you cleared your throat, "what's his Main Story like?"

Your friend was looking at you, amused.

"He saves us from the kidnapper. Argument ensued. We kinda shot him on the chest," your eyes widen, "force to resonate with him-"

"What!"

"We knew people using his name to take the blame for explosion of MC's house-"

"What."

"He left us alone. He came to our rescue. Again. Make a deal with him to go into a dangerous place that he warned us about. He left us. Again. Safe us. Again. Ended with MC and him had this kinda connection like a red thread of fate."

You stared at your friend.

"All of this in just two chapters?"

"Yup."

You massaged your temple, "Maybe I shouldn't have been so stubborn by ignoring the Main Story. It IS the most important aspect of the game."

Your friend patted your back, "Enjoy your consequent to your action."

+---------------------+-------------------------------+

A few days later, you decided to finally brace through the Main Story. It's enjoyable. You admitted to that. Until the last chapter.

The blurriness. The blood. The embedded sword.

"You must press on."

That statement was resounding in you. Tears pooling in your eyes. The scene ended with a lot of open end mysteries. Good cliffhanger.

But you didn't register for that at all. Your mind was stuck on the image of Sylus walking away in the night.

"Where..." You breathed heavily.

What did you want to say?

Why this affect you so much?

+-------------------------+------------------------+

"Relax. I'm just a normal customer who wants some coffee."

You sighed, "Indeed you are."

You let him linger around after finishing the Main Story a few days ago. He just stood there. Watching you, MC, with an occasional smile. You had quietly selected him as one of the cafe encounters along with the others.

Staring. Silent.

You spoke first.

"...I'm sorry... judging by the bit of memories in the Main Story, MC probably stabbed you. Me stabbing you. I hurt you first. You did nothing wrong. I apologized for hating you for no reason. You're pretty chill." You gave him a simple smile.

"Take a deep breath. The air at night is more refreshing than daytime."

He suddenly spoke. You laughed slowly.

"What a coincidence. Well then, let me enjoy the night air and eat my late dinner peacefully."

You logged out.

+-------------------------+--------------------------+

He stared at the spot where your face was present seconds ago. Deep. Longing.

He gave a low laughed as he walked back to the sofa.

"We finally met, kitten. Take your time. I'll be here. Ready anytime."

-------&&&&&-------&&&&&-------&&&&&-------

| 1 [current] | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |

-------&&&&&-------&&&&&-------&&&&&-------

Masterlist Self Aware AU

-------&&&&&-------&&&&&-------&&&&&------+

#love and deepspace #sylus #self aware au #fanfic

141 notes · View notes

sehaedazokla · 7 months ago

Text

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 –

previous part | next part | series masterlist

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!

205 notes · View notes

bengals-barnesbabe · 7 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 >>>

195 notes · View notes

emotionalhottiee · 4 months ago

Text

Made For Each Other!

Chapter 1: A New Friend

Aleah

“40-inch when, I bust down

G6, how I touch down

Hot girl, put them cuffs down

Icy from the neck down

I'm that bitch, so they all dissin'

Puttin' on for the tall bitches

All these hoes be big fans

Swingin' at the air and they all missin”

I rapped with my whole chest, as Megan Thee Stallion blared my speakers while i stepped out of my afternoon shower. Today is the day I start my new job as an assistant content officer working for WWE. Working as a mentee under The Paul “Triple H” Levesque. I have to make the right impression, to be taken serious as a young black woman in a white male dominated field as my mom would always say.

Finishing up the final touches on my makeup, i made sure all the lights in my apartment were off, before heading to my car. Lookin at my apple watch the time read 1:16pm sounds like i have enough time to stop by Starbucks. For an afternoon Coffee. I am gonna have to get use to this crazy schedule, between starting work around 3 in the afternoon until after midnight possibly, to being on the road most of the week. This is going to be a different experience for me. Especially because this is my first big girl Job, since graduating from college.

“Ugh would yall please hurry the hell up” i quietly raged in the comfort of my own car. Why do people get in both lanes to drive the same slow ass speed? I questioned to myself. Praying i won't be late for my first day of work. That would be so embarrassing.

After a short drive from starbucks i made it to the State Farm Arena. Pulling into the parking lot where Monday Night Raw, will be filmed tonight. I am very happy my first show is in the city i live in. I peaked at the clock on my dashboard and the time read 2:49pm. That allowed me to let out a high sigh of relief. “Thank goodness I’m not late” i said gratefully checking my makeup one last time, before making my way into the building. Swiping my badge i got a few days prior at my orientation. I smiled and waved to all the WWE employees i walked past. My heels clicking on the creating a small echo against the concrete, as i made my way into elevator area of the parking structure.

Walking in to the elevator, and pressing the up button to take me to the main floor of the arena. I stepped into the big elevator and just as the door was closing i saw HIM. A very fine specimen of a man. His tall muscular frame making his way over to the elevator, trying not to miss it. I stuck my hand out of the elevator just enough to stop it, causing the door to reverse opening back up, to allow the hunk onto the elevator. “Preciate it” he said in a deep powerful voice. Sending chills down my spine, into my vagina causing her to throb a little. “You’re welcome” i replied calmly. Trying not to let the man see, he had me weak in the knees off two words.

I never really been into wrestling as a kid, that was more of my dad & older brother’s thing. But i had been brushing up on all things wrestling in order to not seem like a fish out of water. And clearly i had to learn about the finest men in the WWE, which is how i learned about The Jey Uso. I had to relax my thoughts, before i started sweating, because it’s late fall in Atlanta. This is not sweaty weather. Snapping back to reality i watched as big sexy tried pressing the lobby button, but it was already lit from me pressing it just a few moments earlier. My mind started roaming again, wondering how close we were going to be working together, if at all.

But my thoughts were quickly interrupted by the elevator dinging letting us know we were on out floor. The big fine gentlemen holding the elevator doors open for me. “Thank you” i replied putting on my sweetest voice. “You’re welcome” he replied kind but so matter of factly.

Hopefully i will be seeing him again. I blushed as i made my way to the backstage area looking for Triple H, so he could give me the rundown and everything i will be doin. I wish i coulda talked more to big sexy, but the shyness took over my body while i was intoxicated off the smell of his cologne. Lord knows i don’t need to get involved with someone i work with. Things could get quite messy, if it didn’t work out. Snapping myself out of my thoughts, i finally saw Triple H. “Hello Mr. Levesque i greeted him reaching my hand out for a shake. “Ah Miss Alexander, welcome to your new home” he reached his hand out returning the handshake.

Finishing up the impromptu tour of the arena, and its offices. Triple H gave me a brand new work computer so that i can log in to all the WWE website, and save all my media. I found my way to catering to grab a snack. And to fidget around with my work computer. Finding an empty table. I sat down doing some remote work, for my other job as a junior project manager. I’m thankful my other job is remote and i can just login anywhere i have teams. I was focusing on my work, answering my emails. When i felt a large figure looming behind me. Before i could turn around big sexy was in front of me asking to sit down.

Jey

After unloading my bags from the trunk i made my way over to the elevator, only to find it closing. I wasn’t even worried about catching the elevator until i saw HER. A fine ass shawty standing in the elevator. I had never seen her before, so i had to see who my future wife was. I started jogging over to the elevator now hoping i can catch it before it closes. Luckily shawty held the doors open for me. “Preciate it” i said trying not to sound out of damn breath. “You’re welcome” she said her voice so soft and cute.

Trying not to look to obvious i stole a couple of glances while going to press the button for the Lobby, but i realized she had already pressed it. I stole one more glance, before noticing she had a WWE badge clipped to her purse. “She must be new here” i thought to myself, quickly getting snapped out of my thoughts, by the elevator dinging. I went to hold the door open for shawty, stealing one last look. DAMN she was fine as hell… “Thank you” she said, barely hearing it above the sound of my own thoughts. You’re welcome” i replied back. We went our separate ways but i caught her name from her badge before we did. I definitely will be seeing you later Miss Aleah. I thought to myself smiling as i made my way to the locker rooms.

After dropping my bags off in my locker room, i was making my way into catering when i saw shawty talking to Triple H. I wonder what she does here, and how come i ain’t neva seen her? It don’t really matter as long as i get to see more of her fine ass. I got distracted from my thoughts running into Damian, and Rhea. After a few minutes chopping it up with Damian & Rhea i was finally on my way to catering. I felt my phone vibrating in my pants pocket so i took it out, only to be slightly annoyed at the notification.

iMessage

Saniah; goodluck tonight zaddy. I miss you

Shrugging my shoulders i just slide my phone back in my pocket. Don’t get me wrong Saniah is cool, but I’m not trying to be in no relationship with her. But she always texting me, like she is my girl. And besides i couldn’t stop thinking about shawty from earlier. She got my mind & my heart racing. I can’t believe it, i haven’t even officially met the girl. Getting myself a sandwich i saw shawty sitting at a table by herself. This is my opportunity to introduce myself. I gotta bag her, before someone else tries talking to my girl.

As i honed in on her like a lion, stalking his prey. I was approaching her and i saw she was typing away on her computer. Whatever she was doing she was focused and singing a song i had never heard before. But her vocals were on point, let me find out my girl can sing. I didn’t want to scare her, so i walked around the table until i was in front of her. “Mind if i sit here babygirl” i asked while pointing to the chair that had her big ass Louis bag. She snatched a headphone out of her ear, before replying “yeah of course. let me move my purse out of the way”. She likes the finer things i see, ima have to spoil my princes.

She smiled at me before moving the bag, so that it was hanging off of her chair.

Damn she has a beautiful smile.

“Whatchu got in that big ass purse a body?” I chuckled looking at the bag that was almost as big as her. That bag was big as hell. “Nothing just my work stuff”. She giggled pushing a hair behind her ear. “You must be new around here” i asked watching her face intently. I smiled at her showing off my bottom row of grillz. “Yes today is actually my first day. I do content for WWE”. She said still smiling. “That’s wassup. My name is Josh, but everyone calls me Jey”. I responded reaching my hand out. “Nice to meet you Josh, I’m Aleah”. She responded sweetly returning the handshake. Bring her soft little hands into mine.

“I hope you didn’t mind me joining you” i mentioned after our greeting. “Oh no you’re fine” she spoke so softly.

She has the softest voice i had ever heard. This must be what angels sound like.

Series Disclaimer!

Tag List:

@prettypink-princesss

#jey uso #jey uso fanfiction #jey uso romance #wwe fanfiction #fanfic #wwe #alennyae

107 notes · View notes

minkdelovely · 10 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

171 notes · View notes

back2bluesidex · 10 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

274 notes · View notes

andhumanslovedstories · 3 months ago

Text

If You Don't Have Store-Bought Character Growth, Homemade is Fine (chapter 15)

Luo Binghe knew he had demonic heritage. As he got older, his blood's influence became more and more apparent. He embraced the power it gave him and tried hard to stomp down everything else. His attraction was disgusting, violent, possessive, frightening—nothing Shizun could possibly tolerate. Nothing Shizun deserved. To win Shizun’s love, it was not enough to get older and attain glory, though both were essential parts of Luo Binghe’s elaborate forty-part seduction plan. Luo Binghe needed Shizun to feel safe. Hearing that Luo Binghe dreamed of ripping open his own chest and tucking Shizun within his ribs and viscera so that no one could ever hurt him again was not what would make Shizun feel safe.

(“Hey kid,” Meng Mo had said after that dream. “What the fuck.”)

ch 15 of ??? (but my current outline says 22) on AO3

So much dvd commentary:

This chapter is, astonishingly, exactly how I outlined. Some of the sections are in different places, but I managed to get through without adding another POV, introducing a new subplot, or going into such detail that I had to split the chapter in half. It IS about 8,000 words, but it's still one chapter. That's a win in my book.

With this chapter, I hit a total word count of about 85,000 with the first chapter posted in August. That's about 14,000 words a month. Fourteen thousand words, by the way, was my original lestimate for the whole thing. My new wordcount goal is to not double my wordcount before the story is over. In theory, that 85,000 represents about 2/3s of the story, but also I know how my long fic tendencies work. The later chapters always get longer and longer and longer.

The first chapter of Homesick (total word count 118,000) is 4k words. The last chapter of Homesick (not counting epilogue) is 16k. Character Growth fic has so many plot and character threads I want to wrap up. That's the thing about doing a canon rewrite (A PARTIAL CANON REWRITE. I'M NOT DOING ALL FOUR BOOKS)--I want to address all the parts of canon that would be affected by this AU. And then there's the stuff I invented for the fanfic, which also need to be resolved.

The increasing length and detail is the result of the stories being an evolving work in progress. I've always known the ending of the story and the very broad strokes of how we're getting there, but the details that texture the story develop as I'm actually writing. That means I'm adding stuff to current chapters because I find them interesting but also because I might need them later. The reason this fic has gotten so long is because I want big moments to feel like they had good buildup, but I'm not always sure what will be most useful for those big moments before I'm actually writing the scenes in context. So I want to have multiple elements I can draw upon, but I don't want those elements to feel unresolved if they never appear again. Like Yao Lijuan, for example. I wasn't sure if I'd need her again in a later chapter, so I tried to write her previous sections in a way where I could either bring her back as a pov character or keep her as a fairly simple joke.

Ocs in general are one of the most versatile tools I have for making narrative choices while still keeping my options open. It's so delightful to me when people comment that they like my OCs in chapters where the OCs are prominently featured, because I think very heard about how to give them a narrative purpose that couldn’t be filled by a canon character. I want to have a reason that I’m not just writing like Ning Yingying here instead. I'm aware fanfic is for fun and I can do whatever I want, but I find it really fun to deal with the challenge of "justifying" an original character.

Yao Lijuan was originally conceived because I wanted to show an outside POV on this timeline's Shen Qingqiu and on Qing Jing Peak in general. I also use Liu Qingge (and to a smaller degree Mu Qingfang) as outside POVs, but they're both Shen Qingqiu's peer. I wanted an outside POV from a younger geneartion disciple talking to other disciples, so I invented a feral ten-year-old girl from a rival peak. In addition to her filling this POV role I wanted, her voice is also SUPER useful to me. She's blunt, shameless, and knows what she wants. It's so easy to keep conversations and action moving with her because she just plows forward as reasonable characters try to keep up. She's the younger generation equivalent of LQG in that way, except with none of the relationship baggage.

That's the main reason I have certain OCs in this story. For the story I have in mind, I want SQQ to have relationships and conversations that don't have the weight of canon attached to them. There are things I want SQQ to do, say, or think that would be a lot harder if he’s interacting with someone who has set characterization and relationships. Like sometimes you don’t want to think about Ming Fang’s interior life.

Yao Lijuan emerged to be an outside POV disciple because I wanted to show how the younger generation views the new SQQ. She’s also there to characterize Bai Zhan Peak culture. Interacting with her in turn characterizes Qing Jing culture. The relationship between Bai Zhan and Qing Jing has ended up being more prominent than I originally anticipated, because that relationship functions as a representation of both Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge's relationship and as Cang Qiong versus Shen Qingqiu in general. The canon presents LQG and SQQ as bitter enemies prior to transmigration at which point LQG gets so down bad. I wanted that present in a lesser degree between the peaks themselves. Enemies to people who hang out together an inexplicable amount.

The OCs narrative need molds their personality, sometimes drastically from my original idea. The previous Qing Jing head disciple evolved as in response to what I needed to show about canon characters. In the originally posted version of her first appearance, she was straight up the peak lord. I snuck back in and retconned that when I realized that I wanted a foil for head disciple Shen Jiu, not Peak Lord Shen Qingqiu. Shen Jiu was originally going to kill her, but I thought that was too evil. Then she was going to die off-screen so he could become head disciple, but then I thought it was too easy.

I also thought about how if I want him ousting her to be a character moment with SJ that had weight to it, then Dai Qinglai should to be more sympathetic. But I’d already written her as affably abrasive and openly skeptical of SJ. I’d written it that way to compare to LBH’s tea ceremony with SQQ. So what way do I want her relationship with SJ to contrast with LBH and SQQ’s? I liked SJ seeing enough of himself in DQL and LBH that he can’t control his bitterness and envy. If they are like him, what would it mean if they were happy or successful and he wasn’t? Either something is wrong with him or something is wrong with the world, and he believes whichever version brings him the most satisfaction.

At the same time, I’m trying to figure out why Dai Qinglai is the one to welcome SJ? I was like, okay maybe the actual lord is absent so she’s in running the peak. The next question is if she’s doing a good job. I decided yes so she would be a genuine threat to SJ’s aspirations. Then since I was writing this in between scenes with Ming Fan, I shaped her so that she would be an interest foil to him. She’s someone who is considered by her shizun to be remarkable but too withholding and sly. She doesn’t like or respect her master. Meanwhile Ming Fan is a dedicated SQQ flunky, completely loyal and desperate to please. This isn’t not a major element on page in the outline, but I keep this comparison I’ve drawn in mind when I write Ming Fan and SQQ. Ming Fan’s narrative needs shape her character.

I also realized that I could pull in more of Shen Jiu's sexual trauma. I didn't want to write him as a sexual predator (again, I think that would be a bridge too far) but I wanted to show him inflicting his traumas upon others by betraying her in a way that relies upon sex work. He’s aware that she did a brave thing in being open about her past with him, and he cannot accept her doing that because he cannot conceive of reciprocating. He is misunderstood because he wants to be. He is incapable of the vulnerability of openness. And since Shen Jiu visiting brothels is such a big part of his character, I knew that we’d inevitably have a scene in a brothel, I just didn’t know when, so I did myself a favor by giving myself material to build on later.

Chapters later, when I wanted to flesh out the history of the previous generation in Liu Qingge's, I already had a character that I could use that was connected to Shen Jiu. Since Liu Qingge is reflecting on/responding to new knowledge about SJ being abused, it made sense for him to think about someone willing to say another peak is harboring an abuser. We see Dai Qinglai as the only person standing up to a repeat predator in the sect, and that this action is neither successful nor popular. That something about her but also about Liu Qingge for the way he recounts it and sect politics in general.

Plus, she had only been seen from SJ’s pov. SQQ is such an unreliable narrator and I want to constantly draw attention to that, which means multiple narrators dealing with the same or similar events, noticing different traits than he would and offering different opinions.

Besides just wanting to give Liu Qingge narrative space to react to the last chapter, I wanted to zoom out to look at the sect as a whole. Part of the issue of Original Shen Qingqiu was that he had no checks on his actions. His misconduct and abuse is tolerated. Additionally, Luo Binghe is bullied by basically everyone. Both of those speak to a more systemic problem than just one cruel peak lord. I could characterize the sect and LQG through this recounting of failed attempts to check an abuser’s actions through proper process and the ultimate solution of circumventing the official process to just beat the shit out of the guy.

I could have used a canon character in that role, but none of them were perfect. MQF didn’t have the right personality, Yue Qingyuan would have required giving the event more narrative weight than I wanted, and the other canonical peak lords haven’t really come up. And I knew that the next chapter or two was going to involve the brothel, and that DQL was going to be connected to the brothel, so if she was the character challenging LQG, then I can further characterize her which characterizes SJ by proxy for his decision to betray her AND remind people that she exists before she became plot relevant again.

That’s how plotting and characterization usually works for me. I like it when any given detail is able to serve at least four different needs. And thinking about narrative purpose and intent rather than specific plot actions helps me get out of ruts. Makes me thinking on a structural level.

I hope these are interesting to read, btw. I love hearing how authors think about their stories and find it very useful for my own writing. I'm not trying to like "explain how to read the story" or anything like that, but to show (some of) the reasoning that goes on behind the scenes for people like me who find the mechanics of writing fascinating.

#b.#svsss #my fic #ooc fic

78 notes · View notes

thyme-in-a-bubble · 11 months ago

Text

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

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

info about the world | maps | pinterest board | playlist

masterlist | join my taglist

“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

231 notes · View notes

novaursa · 5 months 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

82 notes · View notes