#her features in the gentle candlelight

[okkotsuus]

"YOU'RE AS BEAUTIFUL AS THE DAY I LOST YOU" (katsuki b.) !

features: katsuki bakugo

contents: fantasy au. angst. hurt/comfort/more hurt. mutual pining. barabrian!katsuki. fem!reader. childhood friends to lovers to strangers to lovers again. kidnapping. grief. crying. implied panic attack. major character death. no beta we die like men. 3.9k

notes: i've been yearning desperately to make bakugo say stoick's famous line from httyd2 (my second favorite movie)... if there's interest i'm considering continuing this into the canon verse with it being these two 'reincarnated'.

tagging: @saexy (for enabling and encouraging me in killing off characters) & @meristryker (for enabling me in the gc like a real one)

never in all his life did the great katsuki bakugo think that he would ever love someone enough that he could die. watching the loving smiles of his parents, the gentle caress of his father's hand to soothe his mother's unbridled anger: it made his stomach churn.

yet, at the tender age of seven, while on a trip to a nearby village to discuss the war shifting on the horizon, he finds himself absolutely smitten by their chieftain's daughter. wide e/c eyes peeking out from behind her mother's leg, hands clutching onto the hem of the long skirt.

katsuki finds himself enamoured in that instance, seeing sweet you, looking at the boy with such curious eyes. he stomps over to you: temper even fiery in his youth. his hand grabs onto yours as he hauls you out from behind the safety of your mother.

under the dim candlelight of the meeting room, flickering flames cast dancing rays across your skin. his chubby little face is scrunched into a scowl, tugging you out of the room and into the courtyard with a tenderness that betrayed his expression.

"i'm katsuki and you better not forget it!" his pitchy voice calls, still dragging you behind him. he looks over his shoulder, soft red eyes narrowed in what was an attempt to be intimidating.

but when he sees the relaxing of your eyelids, falling slightly in contentment, with a warm smile that rivals any feeling of victory: the mask of indifference slips in a blink of an eye. red dusts over the slops of his face, baby-fat painted the same carnelian as his eyes. his small hand grips tighter onto yours, as if he never would let you go.

your chubby little face stretches as your smile widens into a toothy grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. "got it, katsuki, i'm y/n!" he swears your voice is just like the lullaby his mother would hum while rocking him to sleep, bringing a rush of warmth through his chest.

that day, katsuki bakugou falls terribly in love with y/n l/n.

the two of you are deemed inseparable, hands always connecting like opposing poles of a magnet. pinkies intertwined stronger than any woven cloth. it's as pure and innocent as it can be.

if one were to see y/n, then it was irrevocably certain that katsuki was a few steps away. it sends rumors spiralling through the lands that there will be a union between the bakugo barbaricum and l/n dynasty. you're only eight when there's an attempt made for your hand.

the thought of two families as powerful as you and katsuki's joining was a fearful thing to many. it spelled doom for many weaker civilizations, those who had dug their own graves with their actions.

your family, blessed be you to have been born to loving parents in a world such as this, easily rejects the many proposals. the l/n dynasty is in a state of power where they are not forced to fend for their village: allowing you this freedom.

running through the streets of his stronghold, chasing each other for the sake of some game that was the farthest thing from either of your minds. katsuki feels whole when you are at his side. the world doesn't seem so ugly, he doesn't feel so angry, everything sings the hymns of the heavens.

he can't pull his ruby eyes off of your form by the age of fifteen. the katsuki you had known, baby-faced with a slight stutter, has began to fill out into a man. his shoulders broaden and begin to carry thick cords of muscle. the chubbiness of his cheeks begins to give rise to sharper angles. his whiny voice is pushed aside by a more gravelly tone. he shoots up like a sprout, hunching over slightly in faces that used to fit him so easily.

but he isn't the only one who is growing into his frame. your shoulders soften at the corners, collarbones visible with every slight movement. your baby fat begins to settle and collect on your hips, rounding them. those toothy grins of yours become framed by pretty lips, always looking soft as a pillow. clothes that used to drape over your like a sheet now feel tighter in certain places, stretching over curves that popped up overnight.

the two of you don't know what to do with yourselves, stolen looks when the other isn't looking. you still hook pinkies, but the touch sends flares of heat running up the back of your neck. it's like you were just meeting each other for the first time all over again.

katsuki feels like a damn sap with the way his heart thunders under his skin: threatening to burst out. he's too taken to notice the heat that was rising to your face whenever he was around, the way your hands nervously would grip onto the swaying fabric of your skirt. too blind to see that you were just as infatuated with him as he was with you.

hurried words, lingering touches, sneaking glances, the two of you had every hint of love right in front of your faces. yet, there's a hesitance that lingers in the back of young minds: afraid that falling in love would end up with no one catching them.

unsurprisingly, katsuki is the one who jumps first. it's a quiet night, the moon is high in the sky. his breath puffs out in front of him like smoke, winter beginning to show herself once more.

you looked too beautiful under the soft azure glow that the celestial sky casts upon you, he simply couldn't bear another moment without you known how much his very soul ached for you.

on the eve of his sixteenth birthday he whispers the words like a prayer, voice softened and gentle for once in his life. "y/n... you plague my every waking thought, i cannot let my heart beat any longer without it being yours."

e/c eyes widen as your head snaps to him, lips parting in shock. katsuki beats you to it, rough palms (once baby-soft) cupping your cheek with a tenderness he was unaware he possessed.

the stars illuminate the sunkissed slopes of his cheekbones, showing the fine lashes that fan out over his eyes. katsuki was ethereal, in every sense of the word, it catches your breath in a hitch. your mind stumbles through everything you could say right now, desperately trying to find the perfect response.

but when the pads of his thumbs drag over the apples of your cheeks, leaving a buzz in the wake of his touch, all rational thought leaves as you allow words to flow like a stream. "i have loved you longer than i have known you, katsuki." your voice is hushed, only filling the small space between the two of you: like a secret that only he and you would ever know.

it sends a trill up your spine when his eyes visibly soften, his face had been growing more and more sharp by the day but only when he was with you did the curve of his cheeks soften. he turns back into a boy around you, as you turn back into a girl when held so gently between his hands.

katsuki surges forwards, nose clumsily knocking against yours, teeth colliding with your own. he's inexperienced, never having kissed a girl, much less even though of kissing anyone but you. you both are a mess, giggling softly through messy pecks smearing over each other's faces. it feels like you're both those giddy kids once more, chasing the other through the cobbled streets of your village. he makes your heart sing.

it was even harder to be apart from him now, hands fully clasped together as you walk through the streets of either of your hometowns. yet, no one is surprised. neither of your parents nor his even bat an eye when you announce the courtship at a family dinner.

love is as natural as breathing for you and katsuki. inherently you have always known exactly what the other needs. he knows just how much you like the wildflowers that grow en-route between your homes. you know just how much he likes when you rise on your tiptoes and press a kiss against the corner of his lips.

it's young and dumb, a rush of big emotions and smiles that stretch your cheeks so far they ache. once you both are eighteen, katsuki turns the courtship into a betrothal. an elegant gold ring, with a garnet slotted right in the center, it sits pretty on your ring finger. his band is thicker, small e/c gemstones scattered along the surface. when in battle he loops it through a chain around his neck: pressing a kiss to the ring before charging forwards.

the world has known y/n l/n and katsuki bakugo have been in love for nearly twelve years, official for three, and betrothed for one. the bakugo barbaricum and the l/n dynasty have began making their plans to unify upon the wedding. it sparks a wave of unease in the badlands.

all it takes is an emissary sent from the dark forest for your world to crumble into shambles. a demon who seems to be the land's scourge reincarnated, hand that turn all to ash, pillages your beloved village. he comes in tow with a mimic and a fire mage. destruction rains as you are brought to the center as their singular demand is you.

your eyes lock with the demon's red eyes, a color that had made you feel so safe until now. the hair on the nape of your neck stands pin-straight as his hand extended towards you: palm up.

a flurry of emotions rush through you like a burst dam, memories of katsuki at the forefront. you want to be selfish, to damn him and his band of criminals to hell, to fight back despite the gravity of the situation. but he is bringing terror upon the people you swore to protect with your life.

so, you step forwards, soft hand sliding into his own. never had a rough palm felt like daggers against your skin, never had you so violently despised the way carmine shines in the light of blue flames.

to save your people, your family, the home you have known your entire life: you go. swept away in black mist. the last thing you see of that place is the bakugo horde rushing towards the gates, your eyes lock with katsuki's before the void claims you.

katsuki lets out a guttural scream as her charges head first into the miasma, falling onto the ground as the last wisp flows just through his fingers. his fist slams against the ground, hands gasping at the dirt you had just been on. he allows himself to cry in front of someone other than you, a wail echoing through the ruins of your village.

that day, you disappear off the face of the realm. no matter how many search parties are sent into the dark forests in the badlands, they all return empty-handed (if they return at all). katsuki keep his ring around his neck, so it beats against his bare chest with every movement: like a reminder of how it felt when his heart actually beat .

scars wind around his arms, around his biceps, over his forearms, across his shoulders. his face is hardened, permanent frown on the lips you used to kiss so tenderly. he's angrier than ever, fuse short as his attention span.

he is a shell of the man he had been, going through the motions of survival but never truly being alive.

this persists for a grueling two years. for seven-hundred and thirty days. for seventeen-thousand five-hundred twenty hours. he is separated from the only person that has ever felt like home, the woman he has loved longer than he knew how to read.

he masks it behind his ego, boisterous laugh to hide the ringing in is ears that hadn't been able to stop. he's more violent the field, less forgiving when in training with kirishima. the explosions that thunder from his palms produce a blackened smoke that lingers and settles in his lungs like a fog.

yearning hits him late at night when he lays alone in bed, a bed that you had once shared with him. silent tears pour, running down the sides of katsuki's face as he stares blankly up at the ceiling. his breath feels short as his chest heaves to get air in. the man's mind is clouded with the look on your face as those bastards took you. he can still remember every single little twitch of your expression when you finally saw him. he remembers the way your breath hitched. he remembers the tears that began to pool at the corners of your eyes.

but, most of all, he remembers not seeing you: for what feels like the first time in his life.

katsuki cannot recall when he finally fell asleep, or if he ever even truly did. his dreams are plagued with you anyways, so the line between memory and dream is thin as a tightrope.

he has a dream that he makes it in time to save you and wakes up alone. that one sticks with him for months, hanging over him like a shadow. if he was only a minute sooner, a stride faster, reacted quicker. maybe you would be in his arms right now instead of gods know where.

relief comes in a rumor that circles in a tavern that a woman with h/c hair and e/c eyes was spotted wondering through the dark forest. katsuki doesn't hesitate, he makes no effort to send out a scout party. he rides at dawn, horse hooves beating against the grass in a frenzied gallop as he makes his way into the badlands.

none of the rouges or thieves hope to stand a chance with him, the smart ones don't even try. he vanquishes the less fortunate with a single swing of his cutlass. the man doesn't stop to rest, only to water his horse and allow it to graze while he catches a brief nap.

his horse comes to a stop right outside the dark forests, whinnying in rejection to enter. katsuki doesn't blame the poor thing, this was the kind of place people went with no intention to come back from. he dismounts, not tying his horse off: it would return with a whistle.

the forest is eerie, yawning opening that is reminiscent of a gaping mouth. but he didn't fear. because at this point, he'd rather not come back if it meant he wasn't coming back with you.

footfalls crunching against leaves and sticks echo through the dim lit treeline. the canopy is so thick that it completely obscures the bright sunlight katsuki has just been under: the perfect place for criminals to hide. the trees creak and groan, as if the land itself was breathing and living.

only when he hears the snap of a twig does he stop, his head snaps around, a flash of h/c darting just out of the corner of his visions. the man's heart stops as he stumbles to pursue, not minding the whipping of low handing branches against his face. not when he could see you darting through the underbrush.

he finally sees you in the full when you run into a path dead-ended by brambles. it's really you. y/n, his y/n.

but you look over your shoulder with such a forlorn look it makes his heart ache in his chest. you don't believe that it's really him. "toga, this isn't funny, it's cruel to keep making me see him." your voice is rougher than he remembered, as if your throat had been worn. it makes his fists clench at his sides.

the mimic had been wearing his face, just to torment you?

just the thought of it sends a rage burning deep in his chest. he has no way of knowing what you have been through. katsuki couldn't protect you: like he always feared he would fail to do.

his steps toward you are hesitant, ruby red eyes softening the second he sees your face. his heart is pounding out of his ribs, it makes him wonder if you can hear it.

a rough hand reaches up to roughly tug the chain that held his engagement band around his neck, the links snapping and clattering to the ground. he doesn't even look at it. with a gentleness, he holds out the ring to you.

your eyes dart back between the metal and him, hands tentatively reaching for it. the thundering race of your heartbeat is all you can hear. your hands, once soft, now rough as his bush against his own as you roll the ring between your fingers.

katsuki's heart breaks when he feels the callouses on your fingertips. he lowers slowly to his knees in front of you, tears fighting their way to prick at the corners of his eyes. he looks up at you like you are the light in the world, a goddess before him. in a way, you are, because he had prayed to every deity to hold you again, even if it was only once more.

"you're as beautiful as the day i lost you." his words come out in a rasp. thick emotion coursing through his chest; nearly choking him.

he watched your eyes widen, tears pooling as you too crash onto the ground. your arms wrap tight around his neck, face pressed side-by-side with his own. strong arms encircle your waist in an instant, pressing you closer with an urgency.

"katsuki... oh gods, katsuki..." you don't even know what to say, just repeating his name like a desperate prayer. your cheeks are wet and your chest aches but you don't care, because he's finally here.

lips clash desperately, just as messy as the kiss the two of you first shared five years ago. it's a mess of teeth and tongue as your fingers tangle into ash-blonde hair, his hands finding the back of your head and your hip. he sucks the breath out of you, as if wanting to absorb you into his being.

and you'd let him if he asked.

carmine eyes search for e/c, his hands cupping your cheeks as he pulls back to study your face. it's like you never left. your eyes are tired, there's some grime on your cheeks, a soft scar above your eyebrow that you've had since you were thirteen.

the softest smile spreads on his face, forehead pressing against yours as his lashes flutter shut. katsuki lets out a deep sigh, one he had been holding for nearly two years now.

warmth blooms in your chest as everything finally settles back into place like puzzle pieces. your hearts beat in sync, you draw breath when he exhales, everything is right in the world once more.

but your heart skips a beat as your eyes open to see that cursed white hair with horns peeking out from below it. tomura shigaraki. a wicked smirk on his lips as he's leaned back against a tree, simply watching.

your hands grip tighter onto the back of the shawl draping over katsuki's shoulders, breathing turning shaky and ragged.

no. no. no. they couldn't take this from you. not again. not after how hard you fought to escape the league just at the fleeting chance of being able to see the man you love. this had to be some cruel joke, right? a trick of the light, maybe...

even you aren't naive enough to believe that, your eyes close as you lean against katsuki, head burying into the crook of his neck. your fiddle with his hands to slip the ring back onto it's rightful place on his third finger. a part of you had already resigned to being ripped away again.

after two years with the demon, you learned firsthand what shigaraki was capable of. and you were not going to allow katsuki to find it out as well.

your legs shook as you stood, a weak smile given at your lover's confused look. "i'll always love you, 'suki, you know that." his eyes widen as his head nods, brows furrowing.

"then let me keep you safe."

carnelian irises widen in realization as his head turns to look back, growl ripping from his chest at the sight of the scourge of the realm's protege. his hands immediately reach for the hilt of his sword, explosions popping in his palms.

but you're already beginning to approach. katsuki seizes you in one arm, hauling you away like the day you first met. he runs through the forest with you: knowing that shigaraki would not allow the both of you to leave.

he bounds over winding tree roots, holding you steady and tight against his chest. the impending sense of doom begins to crawl up the back of his neck, but he needs you to be safe.

with you in his arm, he stumbles out of the forest, shrill whistle leaving his lips as the sound of hooves grows closer. with ease he sets you up on the saddle, but he does not join. you realize immediately what is about to happen. "katsuki-"

"no. it's my turn to keep you safe, y/n. i've always loved you, and i always will. in every life i will find you, and in every life, i will protect you." his words bring tears to your eyes as you desperately stake your head, sobs bubbling past your lips.

shigaraki creeps out of the forest and he delivers a harsh smack to the horse's haunches, sending it galloping away. within a second later a hand is reaching through katsuki's chest, mocking laugh against his ear.

"how heroic. i'll make sure you die slow, barbarian."

never in all his life did the great katsuki bakugo think that he would ever love someone enough that he could die.

that was until he lay on the edge of the forest floor, lifeblood leaking from the gaping hole in the center of the chest. but he wasn't anguished: because he died for you, the only person who he would ever love.

okkotsuus 24

[ageofevermore]

DRUNK ON YOU

SUMMARY — after a night out with natasha and maria, wanda intends on getting what she wants from you

WARNINGS — smut 18+ only, hair pulling, finger sucking, praise, slight slight degradation, also very very slight dom/sub dynamics, fingering… i think that covers it all but it’s very mild in everything

AUTHORS NOTE — @family-house-of-m requested spicy fluff with the prompt “i really like you” so that’s what she got… hopefully it doesn’t suck too bad and if it does, we’re all going to collectively agree i never wrote this!

The blinds were pulled shut, encapsulating the room in near complete darkness save from the candle burning on her bedside table that smelled of firewood and sweet vanilla nectar. You can hear her rustling through drawers in the bathroom, a very dim touch of yellow slipping out from beneath the crack in the door. The faucet turns on after she’s found whatever she needed, and then a string of curses. A snicker climbs your throat like a ladder, your head cocking toward the bathroom entryway in peaked curiosity and amusement.

A countdown begins in your head, anticipating for her to appear in the yellow lighting, dressed in a deep frown. It's at three that she does appear, wet brown hair sticking to her cheeks and holding her single pointer finger to her chest in dramatic dejection. Her bottom lip quivers in a forced pout; her attempt at earning your pity. You cock an eyebrow, not at all sympathetic. She huffs, shuffling toward the bed that you continue to lay unmoving in.

Despite the heavy covers overtop of your body, she plops herself into your embrace, slightly wet skin illuminated by the dim candlelight. Droplets gather closer to her hairline, racing down her porcelain skin when she doesn’t wipe them away immediately. One arm locks around your neck, dragging you closer to her. The headboard digs into your back noticeably, but you don’t shift in any direction. She’ll have to work for what she wants.

“And what happened this time, baby?” You tease, letting go of the balled up comforter and settling your hands on her instead. You snake them beneath the black t-shirt she’s clad in, finding not a trace of material as a second barrier. It flusters you immediately, but you can’t allow her the satisfaction of noticing. This is her game. This had been her game since you came home from dinner with Nat and Maria. You rub at the skin of her hips, only ever letting your fingers brush the curve of her ass. Nowhere farther, and nowhere deeper.

“I pinched my finger in the cap of your face wash. It's your fault.” She whines, bringing her finger away from her chest for the first time since coming out of the bathroom, to instead wave it in your face. The skin is slightly pink, and slightly hard to see in the darkness of your bedroom, but you feign sympathy all the same.

Your brow quirks, your sweet erubescent lips creating a puckered pout that's intoxicating. She draws in a breath that she tries to conceal, only it's far too late by time she realizes her lapse in sadness. You suppress a smirk and a tease at her slipup, just squeezing the flesh of her hips. “Oh, it was my fault, was it?” You tug her closer to you, and allow the gentle gasp that follows to be like music to your ears as she drags against the fabric of the bed covers.

“Yes.” Something shifts, something becomes heavy, like you’re reminded of your place, but it doesn’t dissuade you from keeping up your disinterested front. You’re far too stubborn to let it all go so quickly. “Kiss it better.” She huffs, placing her finger just out of reach of your lips, waiting.

You pause for a moment, a smirk ghosting over your features. You look younger this way, in this lighting, in her arms. She’s in love with this carefree side of you that is protected by walls even with your closest friends. The words fall from your lips so easily, she knows you didn’t truly need that second to think, and it only adds to the game the both of you are caught up in. “Why should I?”

Her eyes darken, even just the slightest bit, but it lights a fire in your belly that she’s been feeling for hours. “Because I said so.”

“I suppose that’s a good enough reason.” You kiss the soft skin of her finger, eyelids fluttering at just how close she’s suddenly become. Your resolve is crumbling, and she can tell. She’s winning by a landslide. Her skin is icy, like it always is, and to your surprise, while you're distracted, her other hand tangles into your head and tugs your head back. An audible moan parts your lips enough for her to slip her finger inside, and it's a struggle to even keep your eyes open enough to look up at her through your lashes.

“You suppose?” She taunts, her voice heavy and seductive. She has you right where she wants you, and there's nothing you can do about it as the weight of her unmoving finger is heavy on your tongue and clouds your mind and judgment. You're putty in her hands. “Wanna try that again, Malysh?”

With your mouth full, you mumble an almost incoherent disagreement. She smirks, pulling her finger away from your wanting lips and then retracting her touch all together. You whine at the loss of touch, reaching for her back before your hands are batted away and she shimmies the t-shirt off of her body. The covers go with her top, and when she’s back in your lap, it’s bare skin on cotton shorts.

“I think you’re a little overdressed for the occasion, wouldn’t you agree?” Wanda teases, the raspy edge to her words completely eradicating any coherent thoughts you had remaining. You nod in agreement, but its not enough for her, you’ve wound her up so horribly she’s absolutely buzzing to break you in and break you down. “Uh uh.” She stops you, “Words.”

The room is suddenly a couple hundred degrees and even in candlelight you're sure the pink to your cheeks is visible from three towns over. Swallowing dryly, you respond the way she wants, “Y-Yes.”

“I think we should do something about that.” She’s undressing you as quickly as you shoved her out the door earlier, and it gives you no time to catch up with her chilly hands.

“Lift your hips.” She demands. Your shorts and underwear are discarded onto the floor in a pile beside your top and hers easily, and then she’s getting to work on your unmarked skin thats warm and blushing. “You’ve been naughty. Haven’t you?” She mumbles from her place in your neck, and the vibrations of her words tickle you enough to have you shifting. “Stay still.”

“W-We had plans!” You tried to argue just as her teeth sunk into the softest spot of your neck just behind your ear, and a guttural whine interrupts you from making any solid arguments, not that she’d listen. She needed you then, and she certainly needed you now.

“Maria and Nat would’ve understood. How many times have they kept us waiting?” She reminds you, easing you farther down the bed so your back is away from the headboard and against the soft pillows you have piled up. Your back arches into her touch when her kisses begin to collect lower and lower until she’s eyesight with your breasts and looking dangerous.

“Please, Wands.” You pant, arching your chest impossibly close to her mouth. Your body is both on fire and a puddle, a feeling only she’s ever been capable of provoking.

“Oh, now you want it, huh?” A cocky smirk pulls away the frown that was once embedded into her features, and she lapse a teasing lick to your right nipple the pebbles instantaneously. Kitten licks do you no service and she’s aware. It’s not about your pleasure, this is about her revenge. You’ll learn your lesson by the time she’s done with you tonight, that is if you ever get anything more than this.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I p-promise-” Her lips attach to your sensitive buds maliciously, tugging with her teeth and then soothing with her tongue in rhythmic intervals. When she’s not focusing on one with her tongue, the other is being twisted and tugged so beautifully it drives you further to being undone by her. So easily can she be your undoing, but still her pace is painstaking and there's greater need to be dealt with. “Please.” Your legs rub together, and you're craving some friction where you need her most.

“Knock it off.” She warns, finally coming up for air and pulling your legs apart before you can feel any kind of relief. The pressure in your belly is building, and you're preparing to explode if she doesn’t touch you soon. She sits back on her heels, letting her fingers dance up your legs and back down, getting nowhere close to where you ache for her. You huff in frustration, whining for her. “You’re glistening, baby.”

“Shut up.” You mumble in embarrassment, pinching your eyes shut when her fingers ghost over your heat just long enough to collect a sample of your anticipation on her fingers. You can hear her licking her fingers clean of you, and the moan she allows herself to produce is chilling. “Wanda. Please. Stop being mean.”

“Being mean? Is that what you want, baby?” She teases, her damp fingers going straight back to the source with less care of being gentle. She eases two inside of you with little resistance, though the initial stretch makes your eyes water momentarily. A pathetic gasp is like a symphony, and she twists them at just the right angle to hear it again, but then she freezes. Her fingers still and she leans closer to your face, eyes shining mischievously. “Are you gonna rush me to dinner, again?”

“No! No! I promise. I p-promise! Please just move! Please!” You beg, your resolve completely crumbling as you lay beneath her. Her lips brush yours for the first time, and you can taste yourself on her tongue as she fights for dominance and wins easily. There’s no fight left in you, you just need her.

“Good girl.”

‧ ⁺ ⋆◞

She rolls the both of you over in bed, allowing her back to be flush against the damp bedsheets. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and there's an almost angelic blush settling in on her cheeks as she tries to catch her breath. Her flustered state is addictive, and it fills your belly with so much unbearable love and admiration that you can't help the tears that cloud your vision. Your limbs ache, there are scattered purple bruises covering your skin, but she’s not much better. Like a masterpiece, perfectly sculpted, they’re reminders of her that’ll last for the next days to come.

Your head is heavy on her chest, but she doesn’t mind, instead tangles her fingers into your mess of sweaty hair, massaging your scalp earnestly. “You know, I really like you.” You giggle, nuzzling impossibly close to her, drunk on her scent and her touch. You want to feel her inside of your veins and never have to live a minute of your life without her.

She laughs softly, leaning in close to press a gentle kiss into your forehead. “I really like you too, baby.”

[whore4abby]

bathtime; abby anderson

warnings; smut - scissoring/tribbing, brief nipple play, semi-rough sex, spit as lube, abby gives reader a tiny bite, mdni

wc; 0.9k

as the warm water enveloped you both, abby lets out a sigh of relief. the soothing scent of lavender filled the air, curtesy of the essential oils you had pleaded with her to let you use, creating a tranquil atmosphere in the bathroom. soft candlelight danced on the walls, casting a soothing glow across the tiles.

you nestled closer to abby, resting your head against her broad chest, as she sank deeper into the tub, feeling the tension melt away from her body. with each breath, you inhaled the calming aroma of the bath oils. the warmth of the water seeped into your bones, surrounding you in an overwhelming sense of comfort. lost in the serenity of the moment, time seemed to stand still, leaving only the pure bliss of the bath.

abby's hands begin to trace lazy patterns along the expanse of your tummy as you sit together with the soap bubbles lathering you up, the sensation of her soapy fingers gliding across your skin and the feeling of each touch, each caress, and each whispered word of affection that passes between you heightens the pleasure and deepens the intimacy between you.

you find yourself captivated by abby's beauty, her every feature highlighted by the dim light of the room. as your eyes meet. “pretty girl….” you coo and cause her to blush and with a gentle shift, you turn abby's face towards you, feeling the warmth of her skin against your fingertips. as your lips meet hers in slow and sensual kisses, she lets out a blissful groan of pleasure. her body arches slightly, seeking more of your touch, as her moans of pleasure become more needy.

as you feel the anticipation building, you slowly flip over, allowing yourself to run your fingertips up her inner thighs and towards her needy cunt. “dont fuckin’ tease…” abby murmurs, leaning in to attach her lips to your neck, sucking and nipping at the wet skin. you bite your lip and continue your teasing on her thick thighs, running your fingers right next to her puffy pussy lips before dragging them away again.

your giggles fill the room as she suddenly scoops you up and stumbles out of the bath with you in her arms, water dripping from you naked bodies. wet skin sliding against each other as you tease and kiss eachother.

abby grabs a fluffy white towel and starts to haphazardly dry herself and then you before scooping you up and effortlessly carrying you into the bedroom where she tosses you onto the king-size bed, eliciting a playful squeal of delight from your lips.

abby crawls up over you with hunger in her eyes, the thought of fucking you with the strap not even entering her head as the primal need to feel your cunt against hers takes over her brain. your bodies pressed together in a tangled mess of damp limbs as she she places her calloused hands on your knees and spreads your thighs apart roughly to get a look at your dripping center. “fuucck babe…” she growls before spitting onto your pussy, the saliva mixing with the juices that are already seeping from it.

abby positions herself between your thighs, hissing when her glistening pussy makes contact with yours. her hips slide forward and back, fucking her pussy against yours as she throws one of your legs over her shoulder, giving her leverage as she picks up the pace. the sound of whines and grunts alongside flesh slapping against flesh echoes through the room.

the new angle creating a delicious friction between your pussies as your clits bump together. she growls into your ear, “take it baby…. be a good girl for me…” you whimper as her head dips down and her plush lips take one of your nipples between them, sucking hard. she swirls her tongue around it before pulling back with a soft pop, leaving sloppy kisses against the squishy flesh of your tits.

“fuck abs….!” you gasp as abby pushes her hips forward with vigor, the sound of skin slapping making you cry out as your clit throbs. your leg draped over her shoulder giving her access to your vulnerable ankle as she kisses at the soft skin before sinking her teeth in, a wicked grin filling her face as you whine pathetically. “oh did that hurt…? m’sorry baby…” her words laced with a mix of faux sympathy and sadistic satisfaction.

her giant hands grip tightly onto your hips, pulling you closer to her as she slams her hips down hard onto yours. moans spilling from your parted lips as she brings you closer and closer to cumming. each thrust of her hips has your pussy clenching, leaking sweet juices that drip down onto the linen sheets.

"fuck yeah, sweetheart…you like that…?" she growls, grinding into you harder and faster. her breathing becomes ragged, movements becoming more messy and uncoordinated as she nears her own orgasm. “uh huh…s-so good abs….” hearing your moans and feeling how wet you are, she can't help but get even more aggressive, her hips snapping back and forth as she smashes her clit against yours. “cum for me baby…”

“nnghhh….!” your body convulses and your eyes roll back as your gushy cunt rubs against hers, webs of sticky juices forming between the both of you. and with a final rut of her hips, abby lets out a guttural moan and throws her head back as her orgasm hits her. “mmm, good girl….”

after a couple seconds of catching her breath abby looks down at you with a satisfied smirk, giving a harsh slap to your juicy, swollen pussy before collapsing onto the bed and bringing you in to her chest, kissing your forehead “fuck, i love you…”

[lirotation]

Ever since a discussion about the mortality of my human Tav with my fellow Tavs on Tumblr, the idea has become an intrusive thought🤣. I couldn't shake it from my mind, so I decided to confront it. I chose to explore the worst-case scenario.

Astarion X F!Tav, warning, character death.

Oh my gosh, I couldn't think about anything else! But now I feel better =) The lyrics are from the song "Let Me Down Slowly" by Alec Benjamin, which seems to be popping up everywhere for me recently! It was meant to be.

_____________________

The rain poured down in relentless sheets, obscuring the old gothic manor in a heavy gray veil. Inside, the candles flickered softly as Astarion combed his fingers gently through Amaara's hair. Her skin was pale and cold under his touch, she had passed in her sleep, her life of many decades finally at its end.

Astarion dressed her in finery befitting his princess, never taking his eyes from her still face. He lifted her fragile body, holding her close to his silent heart, and carried her through the corridors of their home, the echo of his steps filling the emptiness left behind.

Down into the secret crypt below he took her. The chamber was illuminated by candles that cast dancing shadows on the stone walls. He lay her gently in an ornate double coffin, positioning her with care one last time. His vision blurred as tears threatened to spill out at the thought of an eternity without her laughter to drive away the dark.

So soon...too soon...

A dry, wrecked sob clawed up his throat as he stretched his lean body beside hers inside the casket. He turned to face her, drinking in every beloved feature - the graceful arch of her brow, the gentle slope of her nose. With infinite tenderness, he ran the back of his hand against the line of her jaw, tracing its elegant curve.

He threaded his long, pale fingers into her thinned silver hair, soft strands pooling like mercury in his palm. He cradled the nape of her neck, his thumb caressing the tender skin behind her ear just the way she always loved. Each gesture was etched with reverence and sorrow, communicating wordlessly all the affection and devotion that overflowed from his shattered heart.

In the muted candlelight, she could have been merely sleeping, poised on the cusp of awakening. But her skin was growing colder under his touch with each moment, the last of her warmth fleeing to merge with the eternal night. Soon all that would remain of his beating heart would be a decomposing shell. The anguished realization tore through him anew, and he released a thin, keening cry like a creature skewered through the soul.

At last, Astarion forced his quivering fingers to release her. With agonizing restraint, he gently smoothed back a few errant strands of her pale hair, arranging them flawlessly across the plush satin pillow.

He shifted slowly onto his back beside her. Reaching up with a leaden arm, he grasped the ornately carved lid of the casket. As he gradually pulled the heavy cover down, shadow crept over their forms. Her alabaster features were swallowed up inch by inch in the hungry darkness.

With a muffled thud that reverberated through his entire spirit, the cover closed completely. The chamber became at once a bridal suite and a tomb, its occupants trapped by cruel fate.

Astarion shuddered in the darkness. The familiar confines of a coffin, once a hellish prison, now served as his refuge from the fresh anguish threatening to consume him.

When Cazador had buried him years ago, the crushing isolation and helplessness nearly shattered Astarion’s sanity. But here, cocooned with his lost beloved, the cold casket took on the bittersweet air of a marriage bed on their final night together. He welcomed the isolation, sought solace in it. Here he could muffle the bleeding, gaping wound in his soul with the old, healed over scars of past trauma. By wrapping himself in familiar pain, its sharp sting would numb the fresh, unendurable agony of Amaara’s absence.

In this chamber of death, Astarion found his only chance for even transient peace. Here he could hold the cruelties of time and fate at bay, if only for a few decades of dreamless slumber next to his beloved. Here he could forget, could almost pretend the sweet burden in his arms still drew breath... before mere memory of her touch faded like everything else into the hungry dark.

[writingsbychlo]

lavender | cassian

summary; cassian has had a tough day.

word count; 3032

notes; ki wanted cassian fluff and I do whatever it takes to make her happy so here’s something absolutely tooth-rotting. go easy on me I’m not used to writing for cassian and idk how i feel about this.

The second Cassian stepped through the door, you could practically feel the weight of his exhaustion weighing down onto you, heavy enough to press you into the plush carpet of your bedroom. He stood for a second, shoulders slumped, wings dropping, and the moonlight of the outside bounced off of his face, only illuminating the tiredness. Bags under his eyes, a frown that looked like it may never leave, a dullness to his eyes that made him seem centuries older. Even his siphons seemed like they were muted from their usual glow. 

“M’sorry I missed dinner.” He tapped twice at the siphon sitting in the centre of his chest, scales of protective black leather armour crawling back away, hiding within every siphon until only the glowing red remained and his sweaty underclothes clung to his body. “M’sorry I smell.”

He sighed, and you only shook your head, sock-clad feet silent as you paced toward him. He reached a hand behind his shoulders, one at a time pulling off the siphons that rested on each one, the clasps holding the rocks coming loose. Dropping them down onto the side table, he met you halfway, hands falling to your hips as he leaned down to press a swift peck to your lips. He was stiff under your palms as you smoothed your hands up over the tight shirt he wore to train. 

“I had a hard day.”

“I know, baby.” Your hand came down to rub over his chest, the same place within your own that always pulled, giving a gentle tug on that bond now. The edges of his lips barely flicked up, nostrils flaring somewhat as he sighed. He winced, one hand coming up to sit over yours on his chest. 

“I’m sorry that-”

“Stop apologising, Cass. Especially if you’re trying to apologise for the bond. I never, ever regret being tied to you, being yours, you being mine.” You shook your head, leaning up to press a kiss to each of his cheeks as his eyes slid shut, a real smile finally taking over his features, even if it was only a tiny one. “Besides, if I didn’t know how you were feeling, I couldn't know when to make you feel better.”

Taking one hand in your own, you tugged him along, stepping backwards toward the bathroom. As soon as the floral smells of your favourite bubble bath reached your nose, they hit his too, a groan falling from him as you entered the heat of the room. 

Stopping him beside the tub, he reached one hand behind his head to tug at the material of his shirt, yanking on the neckline, and you chuckled, reaching behind him to unclasp the siphon around his chest, and the buttons under his wings. The second it came free, the shirt was eased up and over his head, barely even catching on the tight bun his hair was pulled into.

He dropped it to the ground, the harness in your hands following, and he unclipped the fastens around his hands. The ones over his knees were next, then his boots kicked off, pants and underwear following, until he was stretching tiredly, in all of his golden-skinned naked glory, and stepping into the tub. 

Sinking into the water, his head rolled back, legs stretching out beneath the piles of bubbles and sweet-scented oils. Stooping down to pick up the scattered clothes and siphons, his arm shot up, head rolling tiredly to the side as he blinked up at you through the candlelight. 

“You’re not getting’ in with me?” 

With armfuls of clothes, you looked down at him, the vulnerability glittering in my eyes, a pang of longing coming down the bond to you. “Yeah, ‘course I am. Let me just go put these clothes away first.” He nodded, swallowing thickly and offering a smile, before letting you go and letting that hand slip back under the bubbly water. You made quick work of the siphons on the counter, the boots by the door and the clothes into the laundry basket, before stripping off your pyjamas and robe, throwing your hair up out of your face into a knot and following the incessant pulling of the bond back to him. 

“You were takin’ too long.” His voice was deep and rumbly, and he tipped his face back toward you where it rested on the edge of the large tub. He let his gaze roam over you, from head to toe as you stared down at him, and he smiled. “If I wasn’t so tired, I’d be lovin’ you so good right now.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for tomorrow.” He leaned forwards, letting you settle in behind him, legs spreading on either side of his own, arms draping over his shoulder as he curled his wings out of the way, leaning back into you. Rough, leathery flesh pressed against you, his head falling back to rest on your shoulder, and you leaned to the side, pressing a kiss to his temple. 

“It would be so good.”

“Yeah, baby. It always is.” He only nodded, your hand rubbing bubbles into the coarse hair of his chest idly, and you felt him puff up happily under your palm. 

“You’d be screaming my name by now. Water all over the floor, then I’d take you to bed, do that thing you like with my fingers and my tongue, before getting to the good stuff.” He shuddered a little, wings twitching, and he sank a little further into the water. The water swished around his hips, before he was grunting unhappily. “Not even a twitch. I’m too tired to get hard.”

You could only laugh, mouth buried in his hair as amusement overtook you, feeling his own happiness and humour flood into your chest as your hands tightened around him. Reaching up, he smoothed one calloused hand over your forearm, waiting until the laughter died down. 

“Thanks for.. this.” His muscles were already loosening, his body letting go of the tension he was riddled with and the frown lines on his face were beginning to lessen. With one wet finger, you reached up, tracing over the frown around his mouth, the wrinkles by his eyes, the dips on his forehead. His head twisted, lips puckering as your touch ran over his lip, pressing a soft kiss there. Long lashes fluttered against his cheeks. “Will you.. wash me?”

“Any time, Cass. You know that. I’ve been cleaning you up when you’re bloody and dirty and sweaty for decades now.”

“Well, I never like to assume.” As he spoke, though, he leaned forwards, letting you rub your hands up along his back, massaging the thick muscle surrounding the bases of his wings, and working your way up to his shoulder. “Now, do you want the lavender body wash or the apple and cinnamon one?”

“Which one makes you want to tear my clothes off at the end of the day?” He had a smirk on his lips as he toyed with both bottles, passing the sponge over his shoulder to you, and he laughed in a sudden burst as you dipped it into the water, swatting at the side of his head with it for the comment and sending water droplets flying. “Hey! What was that for?”

“Just pick a soap!” He considered them both, before taking the cork out of the lavender one to you and passing it back to you. Adding a dollop onto the sponge and frothing it up as he re-corked it and put it back. Smoothing it over his shoulder and down the first arm, he lifted it in your hold, letting you clean right down to between his fingers. “For the record,” Your lips brushed his ear, and he stiffened a little, in an entirely different way as your breath brushed his skin, “it’s the smell of you when you’re all sweaty and adrenaline-filled that gets me going. I like it when you come home looking wild.”

He gave a shaky sigh, and you only moved to the other arm, cleaning along his skin. The quiet encased you both, your arms wrapped around him, cleaning over his chest, down to his arms, along strong thighs as far as you could reach until he took the sponge himself and cleaned down the rest of his body. “Now you?”

“I already had a bath.”

His head snapped to you, eyes softening at the smile you gave him, the water cooling around you both and the bubbles were beginning to deflate. “You had another bath with me?”

“And miss a chance to get wet and soapy with all this Illyrian beefcake?” You pinched at his side, and despite the smirk on his lips, there was nothing but love in his eyes. “I’d never pass that up.”

“Well, all this big Illyrian beefcake is utterly in love with you.” Leaning in, he cupped your cheeks, thumbs smoothing over your face as your lips melded together gently. He was intoxicating, even when he wasn’t trying to be. His mouth encased yours, a pouring of love and affection racing through your veins, like a feeling that never quite faded away. “Tell me you love me too.”

“I love you too, Cassian.” He smiled, sagging at the words and pulling away to step back and out of the tub. Water ran down his body, his hand coming out to offer you some help, holding you as you stepped out of the tub before pulling the cork to drain it. Towelling yourself down, he did the same, following you through to the bedroom and snatching up the plaid pyjama pants from their place sitting atop his pillow. “Come sit, let me take care of you.” 

Rubbing the little velvet seat before your dresser, he glanced between the stool and the bed, and back to the stool, all but dragging his feet across the floor to you once his pyjamas were sitting low on his hips. The strands of hair from his bun were falling around his face, and as soon as he was sat down, you reached out, tucking them behind rounded ears delicately. Sifting through the various tubs and jars on the counter, you leaned back against the table, unscrewing the cap on a small one and swiping out a small dollop of cream. 

Rubbing it between your thumbs, you swept each one underneath his eyes, rubbing the cream into the fragile skin tenderly, and his eyes fluttered shut. “What’s this one do?”

“Helps get rid of the dark circles and the wrinkles.”

“You sayin’ I’m getting old?” He chuffed, and you chuckled, all whispers falling quiet as the moment between you passed. 

He reached out, tugging you closer, until you weren’t just standing beside him but sitting straddled across his lap instead, the towel still secured around your body shifting to accommodate his large form. 

You picked up another, a serum that ran glittery droplets over his skin and smelt of summer, followed by a thick moisturiser that took several minutes to fully soak in. Shifting off of him, he let you go, albeit hesitantly, and you slipped around to his back. He already knew what was coming, head tipping forward to stretch out the skin of his neck, hanging there as you took a very particular and large tub. Scooping a handful out, you warmed it between your hands, rubbing slowly until it was loose and pliant. 

Rubbing in slow circles between his wingers, your fingers dug into his skin, soft pants and grunts leaving his lips as you massaged at the skin around his wings and his tight shoulders, skin growing oily and shiny with the treatment. All the way up his neck until you were brushing the tightly pulled hair, the tug on the strands making you frown. Running back down, your fingers moved over the base of his wings, where black leather melted into golden skin, and the nerves in his back twitched happily at the stimulation. 

When there was nothing left on your hands, and his forehead was resting on his crossed forearms on the edge of the desk, you pulled back. Your focus instead moved to his hair, undoing the ribbon holding it all up tightly, and locks of matted, knotty hair tumbled down around his face. He blew a strand away as it tickled his nose. 

You reached for the brush, beginning to untangle it, strand by strand. You tried not to pull, the occasional sigh falling from his lips as your fingers brushed over his scalp each time you sectioned off a new strand. He’d been so still by the end, you were sure he’d fallen asleep. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his wings were drooped so low they were half-rested on the carpet, the preternatural stillness of a body usually hopping with movement. 

You reached over, silently grabbing for the hair oil, citrus and mint filling your nostrils once it was uncapped. Pouring some into your palm ad distributing it between your fingers, you began to run it lightly through his hair, rubbing the tips and making sure the frizzy locks had been tamed and smooth once again. 

With a little more oil on your hands, your fingers slipped back into his hair, beginning to press at his scalp rubbing at the roots to ease the ache he no doubt felt. He’d left before you had even woken this morning, and the sun had long since set before he’d made it back to you. He always got headaches from tight buns, and you wanted to do anything you could to soothe that. You knew all the spots after all this time, the places that would make him sigh and shake and turn to jelly underneath you, and you targeted all of them. 

When you were finished, he was like melted chocolate on a summer day before you.

“Cass, baby..” A tentative whisper, and you rubbed his shoulder lightly. He hummed.

“‘M awake, sweetheart. Just very, very relaxed.” 

“Yeah? That was the point. Now we just need to get you all relaxed in bed.” He yawned, nodding his head, and sitting up slowly, no more stiffness and tension in his muscles, only placid relaxation. He stood, head rolling side to side, and he shook out his wings stretching them to full extension once before shuddering them back into a happy fold against his back. “Go get in bed.”

“S’your turn, first,” He reached for your shoulders, heavy hands pushing down toward the stool, warmed from his body as you collapsed down into it. 

“Cass.. you don’t have to. Go get in bed, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“I want to look after you. Sit down and let me.” He picked up the brush, tugging at the tie in your hair too, putting it back with his own and scooping up a handful of your hair. It wasn’t the first time he’d brushed your hair, far from it, and so as he started slowly at the tips, brushing each tangle out gently before moving up, you let your eyes slip closed. 

Your eyes stung with tears, the way they always did when he took such good care of you, such an intimate act, and your throat felt tight. Long ago, he’d confessed to you he felt the same, the feeling of your fingers rubbing over his body and scalp often made a well of emotion threaten to burst up and out of him. 

He repeated all of the same motions for you; brushing through your hair until it was not free, rubbing hair oil between his fingers, brushing it through your hair, massaging your scalp until your lips were parted, sucking in shallow breaths, eyes rolling behind closed eyes. He shifted, smoothing eye cream onto your skin, glittery droplets and moisturiser as you smiled, pecking your lips twice as he went. 

“All done.”

“Thanks, Cass.” Standing on shaky and weak legs, your body almost gave out, knees weak as they tried to hold you up. Wrapping your arms around his neck, he chuckled, guiding you back toward the edge of the bed. As you reached it, he tugged at the towel, removing it from your body and tossing it onto the stool the pair of you had vacated. Crawling across the bedding, you shuffled ungracefully into your pyjamas, flopping into the covers as Cassian tugged them out from under your body, and settled in beside you. 

The lights flickered out of their own accord, the house always knowing just what you needed, and he reached for you under the sheets. Tugging you closer, he twisted your body, until your hips were snug to his, back to his chest, one wing resting across your body as he all but smothered you. Just the way you liked it. His fingers wove with your own atop the mattress. 

“Do you want to talk about your day?”

“Not really.” His sigh was nothing short of utter fatigue, dipping to press a kiss between your shoulder and neck. “It wasn’t a bad day, per se, just a long day. Tiring. Everything seemed like it would go on forever. Everything that went wrong, did, and I was just tired of it all. I think I ran out of energy by about ten, and still had the whole rest of the day to go.”

“Oh, Cassian.” He only hummed, and you squeezed his arms tighter, shuffling back impossibly closer to him, and he shrugged limply. His body was heavy and hot against yours, his breathing slowing and shallowing, and you could feel the slip of his hold on the bond as he edged closer and closer to unconsciousness. “We can take the day off tomorrow, just me and you. Stay in bed all day.”

“We can fly out to the flower fields, have a picnic. I’ll nap in your lap, I’ll probably still be tired. I have a meeting with Rhys in the morning, but after that, I’m all yours.” The chuckle you gave was muffled as you kissed his knuckles at your joined hands. 

“You’re always all mine.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

[natsaffection]

Kingdom of Secrets | part I | N. Romanoff

Knight!Natasha x younger!princess!Reader

MINOR DNI!! (18+!)

warnings: age gap (Natasha is 34 and reader 22) spanking, forced Masturbationen, fingering, begging, strap on use (r receiving), rough sex, kinda possessive natasha

word count: 5,3k

A/n: Sorry for the Delay!

1 year later

In the quiet sanctuary of their chamber, the soft glow of the candles bathed Princess Y/n and Natasha in a warm embrace. The air was filled with the delicate scent of roses and the flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the walls. Wrapped in plush blankets, you lay next to Natasha, their fingers intertwined in a silent affirmation of the love that bound them.

Natasha's gentle touch traced circles on your skin, creating a rhythmic dance that mirrored the beating of their intertwined hearts. Her eyes met yours, and in the soft candlelight there was a deep affection in Natasha's gaze that went beyond the bounds of duty.

In the soft glow of candlelight, the room became a place of warmth and intimacy from you. Candles flickered and cast a shadow dance on the walls as Natasha, wrapped in the faintest hint of moonlight, snuggled close to you in the bed adorned with silken sheets.

Natasha's fingers traced delicate patterns on your skin, creating a symphony of sensations that echoed with the tender affection between them. The air was filled with the sweet scent of jasmine, an aromatic embrace that heightened your senses as the two of you shared the silence of the night.

"Natasha," you murmur, your voice a soft melody that harmonized with the flickering candles. "Have you ever imagined what life would be like outside these palace walls? Beyond the fields?"

Natasha's eyes, which looked like orbs of molten amber, met yours with a warmth that went beyond the flickering flames. "I have wandered vast realms, seen sunsets that tint the sky in colors you cannot fathom. And yet there is a certain..magic within these walls. Magic that I have learned to appreciate."

A wistful smile curled your lips as you intertwined your fingers with Natasha's. "Magic, huh? Is it the kind that makes my heart beat faster every time you're around?"

Natasha chuckled, a low, melodic sound that echoed through the chamber. "It's a kind of magic that exists in shared moments, a dance of hearts finding solace in the stillness of the night."

As her laughter mingled with the soft rustle of the curtains in the night breeze, your gaze softened. "You know, sometimes I wish we could escape expectations and just...Be."

Natasha's thumb traced patterns on your palm. "In the quiet moments, we are free to be ourselves, away from the burden of titles and duties."

The flickering candles cast a warm glow on Natasha's features as she continued, "Your laughter, Princess, is a beacon of joy. Within the shelter of these walls, we find a sanctuary where our hearts can speak truths untouched by the world."

Your eyes sparkled with a playful gleam. "Do you think the world out there would understand our truths?"

Natasha's gaze had a depth that reflected the starry night. "The world can be a complex web, my dear. Some may understand it, while others remain trapped in their perceptions. It is the journey of those who seek true connections to unravel the threads."

As you continue to recount the intricacies of palace life and your dreams, Natasha's keen senses picked up the muffled sounds of frantic footsteps and hushed voices from behind the door. Her eyes, normally a picture of calm, flickered with a subtle alertness.

"Nat...," you sigh again, and your eyes twinkled dreamily, "Do you ever think about what might be out there for us?"

Natasha's gaze lingered on the door for a moment before focusing on you again. "Always, my princess. The world is big, full of untold stories and unexplored territories. One day, you may write your own story beyond these walls."

Just as you were about to say something back, Natasha raised a hand, a sign for you to be silent. The distant echo of hurried footsteps and murmured conversation reached a crescendo, causing Natasha to rise from the bed with fluid grace.

"Natasha, what's wrong?" you asked, your brow furrowing in concern.

Natasha's eyes met yours, and a hint of worry softened her features. "There is unrest in the palace, my princess. It seems urgent. Prepare yourselves. I will be back soon."

As Natasha left the room, questions began to swirl in your head. The air felt charged with an unspoken tension, and the flickering candles cast dancing shadows that reflected the uncertainty in your heart. You dressed quickly, your fingers fumbling with the intricate fastenings of your royal robe.

When Natasha returned, her expression was a mixture of seriousness and readiness. "Y/n, the kingdom faces a challenge. Your presence is required among your family. I too have matters to attend to."

You nod, your eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and concern. "What is going on? Why is the palace in such turmoil?"

Natasha's gaze lingered on yours, a silent confirmation of the weight of the unspoken. "I will tell you everything, but now go to your family. Your father will have the answers you seek."

as you, flanked by Natasha, approached your family. The flickering candles cast dancing shadows that seemed to reflect the uncertainty in the room.

King Alistair's eyes met yours, and with a subtle nod, he motioned for you to join him. There was a motherly concern in the Queen's eyes, but the King's stern expression indicated the seriousness of the situation. You frown, your curiosity accompanied by a growing unease.

Turning to her father, you looked to him for answers. "Father, what's going on? Why the secrecy?"

King Alistair's eyes carried a weight that went beyond words. He motioned for you to stand beside him and signaled the commander of the palace guard with a look to address the room.

Commander Alden stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying the weight of somber news. "My King, we have been ambushed. A gang infiltrated our defenses, and their attack was brutal. Several of our best soldiers were killed, and the Holy White Knights were dismembered."

There was an awkward silence in the room, broken only by the distant echo of the castle. Your eyes widened in shock, and your gaze instinctively sought Natasha's. The usually composed knight wore an expression of silent dismay. The weight of the tragedy hung heavy in the air.

"The attackers," he began with a heavy sigh, "used the blades with a viciousness that seemed to pierce the air. Severed limbs, mutilated bodies, the courtyard turned into a canvas of horror."

Your stomach churns at the vivid idea that the once vibrant palace courtyard was now tainted by the brutality that took place there. The metallic smell of blood, the agonized screams of fallen soldiers, and the lingering shadows of malice formed a grim tapestry that settled in your mind.

"Their faces were shrouded in darkness, their movements swift and merciless," the commander continued, sparing no details. "They showed no mercy and left an image that defies description."

Natasha kept her composure, but her eyes betrayed a flare of anger, a testament to the horrors she had experienced. The magpies, the guardians of the realm, ruffled their feathers, their collective presence a silent acknowledgement of the grim reality they faced.

As the commander recounted the calculated brutality, you felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness, and your mind could not escape the haunting images his words painted. The once pristine palace courtyard, where joyous celebrations had taken place, now witnessed the grotesque aftermath of a relentless attack.

"The attackers disappeared into the shadows, leaving a trail of despair in their wake," the commander concluded in a heavy, sad voice. "We managed to capture one of them, but he remains mute."

The king's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and determination. "Did you elicit any useful information from him?" he asked, his voice echoing around the room.

The commander hesitated for a moment before delivering the grim news. "Your Majesty, the prisoner has not spoken a single word. He seems to be wallowing in the darkness of his actions, heedless of the consequences."

There was a heavy silence in the room, broken only by the distant echo of grief. You cast a glance at Natasha, sensing an underlying tension in the knight's calm demeanor.

The king could no longer contain his anger and slammed his fist against the armrest of the throne. "Enough of this madness! If he won't talk, then let him face the consequences for his actions. Impose the death penalty!"

You sit there with a heavy heart, your eyes widened in horror as your father announced the decree of capital punishment. The magpies, the solemn guardians of the realm, moved uneasily, their feathers rustling in the oppressive silence. As the death sentence was announced, Natasha's eyes flickered briefly, betraying a flash of recognition. You sense that Natasha knew more than she wanted to admit, and a twinge of curiosity mingled with the sorrow that weighed heavily on her heart.

"B-But Father...isn't that..." The king's stern gaze met your tear-filled eyes, and his voice, though firm, carried the weight of a sad burden. "My precious daughter, this decision has not been made lightly. It is for your safety and the safety of the kingdom. We cannot allow such darkness to threaten our peace."

The words hung in the air like a mournful melody, a reminder of the tragedy that had befallen the palace. The commander of the guard, his shoulders heavy with the burden of the fallen, continued to recount the brutal details of the attack. The image of the palace grounds stained with the blood of loyal soldiers painted a gruesome picture of loss.

Natasha, standing beside you, maintained a stoic expression, but the slight tightening of her jaw betrayed the emotions simmering beneath the surface. You feel a trembling in your hands, an ache in your chest as the weight of the tragedy bore down on you.

As the king's decree echoed through the room, the magpies exchanged somber glances, their sad eyes reflecting the sorrow on your face. The cold reality of capital punishment hung in the air like a shroud, a stark reminder of the darkness that threatened your kingdom.

The announcement echoed through the kingdom, spreading like wildfire as news of the impending execution reached the ears of the citizens. The atmosphere in the city changed, a whisper of fear and uncertainty lingered in the air.

The inner courtyard, once a place of celebration, was now a sombre stage for the macabre spectacle that was to take place there. The citizens, drawn by morbid curiosity, gathered in silent groups, their faces a mixture of trepidation and curiosity.

The condemned man was bound and hooded and escorted to the center of the courtyard. The cold gleam of the executioner's blade mirrored the grim determination on the faces of the palace guards. Your heart, heavy with conflicting emotions, stood beside your father on the balcony and surveyed the scene.

The king, his voice carrying the weight of authority and sorrow, addressed the assembled crowd. "Citizens of Celestria, today we witness the consequences of treachery and darkness that seek to corrupt our kingdom. In the face of adversity, we must stand united and resolute."

As the king spoke, Natasha's gaze remained fixed on the hooded figure below her. You sensing Natasha's inner struggle, placed a comforting hand on her arm.

The hooded prisoner, a vessel of the shadowy group that had ravaged the palace, knelt in silence. The crowd, held captive by the gravity of the moment, watched as the executioner raised the gleaming blade, its metallic glint casting a ghostly reflection in their eyes.

The king's voice echoed through the courtyard, his words carrying the weight of justice and deterrence. "For the safety of our kingdom, for the lives lost and for the hope of a better future, let this be a symbol of our unwavering resolve."

In the eerie moments before the executioner's blade sank, the condemned man, his voice muffled by the hood covering his face, spoke cryptic words that sent shivers down the spines of those present. His last breath contained a grim promise, a dark prophecy that hung in the air like an unspoken curse.

"The spider will weave its web and devour the threads of your lineage," he whispered, his words echoing around the courtyard. The crowd, already gripped by the solemnity of the event, exchanged uneasy glances at the ominous announcement.

Standing next to your father on the balcony, you could feel a shiver creep down your spine. The cryptic message left an unsettling impression on your mind, and the implications of the prisoner's words cast an ominous shadow over the already gloomy atmosphere.

As the hooded figure's life came to an abrupt end, an oppressive silence reigned in the courtyard. The frightening words echoed in the minds of those present, leaving the unsettling feeling that the shadows once thought vanquished still clung stubbornly to the periphery of the kingdom's consciousness.

The lifeless form of the hooded figure slumped to the ground, a macabre sacrifice to the quest for freedom from the shadows that sought to devour Celestria.

There was a deep silence in the courtyard, the echo of the execution still lingering in the air. Your gaze remained fixed on the lifeless figure below you as you grappled with the harsh reality of the decision you had made to protect your kingdom.

Natasha's hand found its way to your shoulder, a silent gesture of support as they watched the aftermath of the execution. The crowd, now dispersing with a mixture of curiosity and unease, left the court in an eerie silence.

The king, his face marked with solemn seriousness, turned away from the balcony, leaving you to deal with the unsettling words that still lingered in the air. Natasha, sensing the turmoil within you, spoke in a voice tinged with understanding. "Don't let the echo of his words consume you."

You nodded, though the weight of the prisoner's prophecy lingered in the depths of your mind. The magpies perched nearby, their eyes twinkling with an otherworldly wisdom, seemed to take unspoken note of the ominous undertones.

As the palace guards left the courtyard, you and Natasha descended from the balcony. The flickering candles that had once illuminated her chamber now spread a softer light, creating a sanctuary within the walls that protected her from the harsh reality outside.

In the seclusion of their shared sanctuary, Natasha's gaze met yours with a depth that went beyond words. "These are difficult times, my princess. But remember, the strength of a kingdom lies not only in its walls, but also in the resilience of its people."

"What if... what if you teach me how to fight?"

Natasha blinked, thinking she had misheard, "Y/n, your place is not on the battlefield. You are the heir to the throne, and your safety comes first. Training to fight is not suitable for someone of your status."

But you persisted. "But.. I can't stand idly by while others fight to protect me! I want to be more than just a passive observer. I want to be able to defend myself, to defend my family."

Natasha's gaze softened as she traced a reassuring pattern on your arm. "Princess, the weight of a sword is not something to be taken lightly. It comes with a burden, a responsibility. It's not just about skill, but also about understanding the consequences of wielding such power."

Undeterred, you look Natasha in the eye with unwavering determination. "I know, Natasha, but I want to learn. I want to be more than just a princess locked inside these walls. I want to be strong, not just for myself, but for the kingdom."

Natasha sighed, her inner struggle evident. "Becoming a fighter is not a decision you make lightly. It's not about romance or thrills. It's about sacrifice and duty."

You lean closer and whisper, "Natasha, teach me. Help me become someone who can stand by your side, not just behind you."

Natasha, her resolve wavering in the face of your earnest plea, finally relented. "Very well, but remember that the path you choose is not an easy one. It will require more than just physical strength, it will demand resilience, courage and sacrifice."

A little later, the two met again in your room. Natasha had brought two wooden swords and now stood before you without armor.

"Hold your stance, princess," Natasha's voice, a melodic command, guided you through the movements. "The sword is an extension of your will, a guard against the shadows that seek to harm you."

You mirrored her movements, your determination overriding any uncertainty. As the training progressed, Natasha's approach evolved, the thrusts becoming calculated challenges, prompting you to respond in kind. The dance of combat took on an almost hypnotic quality, the exchange of steel becoming a silent dialog between the mentor and the budding warrior.

"Feel the weight of the sword," Natasha's husky voice echoed in the chamber. "It's a kind of dance, an intimate conversation in which every movement speaks a language that only warriors understand."

Natasha's hand, now tracing the curves of your sword, added another layer of tactile connection to the lesson. "Your grip should be an extension of your will. Let the sword become an extension of your own being."

The first maneuvers were deliberate, a dance in tune with the primal instincts awakening between them. Each swing of the blade, a seductive interplay of discipline and desire, unfolded in the soft glow of the candles that seemed to conspire in their shared mystery.

"You're a quick learner, dear." Natasha's voice, a low murmur, sent a shiver down your spine. "But swordplay isn't just about physicality. It's an intimate exchange, a connection that goes beyond the surface."

Their bodies moved in a synchronized rhythm, a dance that spoke of unspoken desire. Natasha's hand, firm yet tender, guided your movements, her touch lingering longer than necessary, leaving an indelible mark on the evening's tapestry.

"Feel the tension in the air," Natasha whispered, her breath brushing your ear. "It's the anticipation, the unspoken dialog between the combatants. Allow it to envelop you."

The longer the training went on, the bolder Natasha's approach became. Swordplay was no longer just about technique, but about the weight of an unspoken connection. The chamber, adorned with the soft glow of candles, transformed into a stage where vulnerability and desire danced in harmony.

Their blades met in a dance of sensuality and skill, the flickering candles casting shadows that played with the contours of Natasha's features. "Allow yourself to feel, y/n," Natasha murmured, her lips inches from your face. "The fight is an intimate affair, a shared journey where vulnerability becomes strength."

Amidst the seductive dance of battle, you found yourself entangled in Natasha's deliberate web of desire. Each calculated thrust, each lingering touch sent a ripple through your senses that betrayed the calm façade she desperately clung to.

As Natasha's hand rested on your back, a touch that lingered longer than necessary, you feel the telltale heat rise in your cheeks. You fight to hide the subtle shivers that Natasha's whispered instructions sent down her spine, a battle you were losing with each passing moment.

"Feel the tension, my princess," Natasha's husky murmur echoed in the chamber, and your attempt to hide your excitement faltered. You parted your lips to reply, but a stuttering breath betrayed the inner turmoil Natasha's proximity caused.

With a smile on her lips, Natasha continued to guide you through the intricate steps of the seductive dance. "You must learn to anticipate your opponent's moves, to feel the ebb and flow of the battle. It's a dance, my dear, a dance where every step carries the weight of desire."

Your voice was a barely audible whisper, trying to match Natasha's playful tone. "I... I understand..."

The air between them crackled with a palpable tension, the unspoken desires hanging in the balance. Natasha's fingers traced deliberate patterns on your skin, a teasing caress that left her wanting more.

"You grasp nuance quickly, my princess," Natasha purred, her gaze fixed on you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. "But there's more to learn, and the night is still young."

Your cheeks flushed with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment, feeling the tension in the air reach a crescendo. You could no longer suppress the playful spark that flared within you and took the opportunity to strike a swift, unexpected blow.

The wooden sword struck Natasha’s face with a loud bang. She dropped slightly to her knees and touched her lips and to your surprise, Natasha's eyes widened briefly before she began to grin. The blow didn't seem to harm Natasha, but rather to amuse her.

You were shocked and dropped the wooden sword and rushed over to her. "By the gods! I'm so sorry, Natasha! I-I didn't mean to..."

Natasha, still chuckling, raised a hand to silence your apology. "No need to apologize, my princess. That was an impressive blow, and I have to admit you caught me off guard."

You're torn between relief and continued embarrassment, couldn't help but join in Natasha's laughter.

"Perhaps I underestimated your skill, Y/n," Natasha joked with a twinkle in her eye. "Lesson learned: never underestimate the unpredictability of a determined student."

As the laughter died down, you gently touched Natasha's face in concern to make sure nothing had happened to her. The soft glow of the candles highlighted Natasha's features, and your touch lingered, a momentary caress.

Natasha took the opportunity and leaned forward with a subtle intensity to capture your lips in a lingering kiss. After a time, she let go and looked deep into your eyes, "What do you think your majesty.. it would only be fair if I could.. hit you too wouldn't it?"

Your eyes widen and you repeat her words in your head, "Y-You want to hit me?" Natasha bites her lips, "Not in the face like you did, princess. But..there are good other places." She moved even closer to you and pinched your butt. You suddenly gasp, understanding what she meant now. Natasha understood by the look on your face that you were getting turned on and turned you around in a matter of seconds and bent you over on the bed. You gasp again as the impact from the soft bed hit you and you look back with a grin, "Princess..you realize you shouldn't like it, right?" She leans over you, her breath right by your ear, "Or am I mistaken?" You think about your answer for a moment, "No..I mean yes..I like it.." Natasha could cum on the spot..she grins and stands back up. She unwrapped your dress so that your cheeks were open to her. She stroked your soft ass with her fingers and suddenly there was a slap.

You fell forward, surprised by the blow. "You're my ruler during the day, princess, but with the doors closed? Oh, you obey me." And another blow, only this time you couldn't keep your mouth closed. "Who would have thought you'd like it like this?" And another blow. You braced yourself for another one, but none came. She reached under your stomach and turned you back to her.

Natasha didn't waste a moment and dropped to her knees, pushing your dress up again, "My goodness, you're leaking." Natasha leaned down between your legs and gently placed her fingers on your pussy. You flinched as she felt you, the sensations she were giving you simply teased and tantalized you.

"Please..." you beg, almost whispering. "Please, can you just..."

Natasha pursed her lips playfully. "Just what? Come on, how am I supposed to know what you want if you don't tell me?"

Your face flushed with humiliation, but you needed it so badly to come. "Please, can you make me...," you swallowed before continuing, "...cum."

"Ah. That's what you want?" said Natasha, as if she hadn't known all along. "You should have said that." With her right hand she slowly stroked up and down. Your rapid breathing told her that you were more than enjoying it. To further stimulate you, Natasha stuck out her tongue and licked you up and down. She noticed how you were reeling and now held you firmly by the hips with both hands and looked up at you, "Do you like that?"

You nodded quickly. You were no longer ashamed, you just had to cum. "Y-Yes..."

And she stopped. She stood up abruptly, took a few steps back to look at you, then jumped on top of you and kissed you. You could still taste the metallic taste of blood on her tongue as she entered your mouth again. She broke away again. "Take this off." she demanded, pulling at your dress. You nervously reached for the hem. "Now." she barked, making you flinch. Awkwardly, you pulled your dress over your head and let it fall to the floor.

Her eyes wandered over your body. You stared down at your feet, your cheeks bright red. "Look at me." she commanded. Your eyes shot up to her. "Sit on the bed." You walked to the bed and sat down. "Take off your panties." She said. You obeyed. You shifted nervously on the bed, feeling vulnerable under her scrutiny.

"Lie back on the bed. Spread your legs." You reluctantly obeyed. "Now touch yourself." she commanded. You looked into her eyes, fear creeping up your throat as you fought for control. You closed your legs. It wasn't going the way you had imagined.

She must have read that on your face. She surprised you again and began to undress. You relaxed a little at the gesture. You noticed that she left her underwear on. "Now. Go on." she said, watching you.

Hesitantly, you opened your legs again. She licked her lips and watched you with widened eyes. You stroked yourself tentatively. Your eyes didn't leave hers. "So that's what you do when you're alone?" She asked incredulously. "You can do better than that."

Your cheeks heat up and you move your hand faster. You stick two fingers into your dripping sex. Your eyes darkened with lust. That wasn't enough. You add a third finger and moan softly. "That's enough." She said, crawling onto the bed to hover over you.

Her mouth traveled down your neck and settled on your chest. Natasha pulled your left nipple into her mouth, her tongue tickling you, then she enveloped it with her lips and sucked hard. Your back arched off the bed towards her. She placed her hand on your breast and pushed you back down, then you felt it again.

Your hands clawed into her red curls, not knowing if you wanted to pull her away or pull her closer to you. "N-Nat..." you moaned in ecstasy. Her mouth released your nipple with a wet crack. The tongue in her hand was still circling your nipple. "That wasn't so bad, hmm?" she asked. She smiled up at you.

"There's one more thing I want from you, though, and you're going to give it to me." She stood up and walked into the next room. You looked after her curiously. When she returned, your breath hitched.

"I had something else good...Do you know Sir Stark? A..creative man." She was obviously trying to lighten the mood. However, you were still a little skeptical, "You want..."

"Yes. But only if it's okay with you, of course." You look at her and the fake cock with a strap in her hand. "Why is there even such a thing?" You had to laugh a little and Natasha followed suit, "Well...I guess I and every other person in the situation can be closer to the partner. Aren't you a bit curious too?"

You thought about it again and in the end you nodded. You see Natasha relax and come towards you again. She kissed you deeply again and put on the straps. When she was done, you felt the tip touch your folds and looked down. She pushed you back onto the bed and she crawled on top of you.

"I'd relax if I were you." she warned, and you really tried, but the pain of her penetration made you tense up again. You cried out, tears leaking from your eyes. "You can take it." She encouraged you, thrusting even further into your cramped hole.

"You're so tight, f-fuck." She moaned into your ear. "Please..." you begged. She pulled out of you, causing you to relax, and then thrust into you again. "A few more seconds, princess." She told you hoarsely. Your tears were now falling unchecked. She brought her hand around and stroked your clit. You struggled to concentrate on her hand and the tongue circling there.

"There, that's better." Her velvety voice whispered in your ear. She rode you hard. You rocked forward and backward.

Her hands instinctively moved to your face, bringing you into a deep, passionate kiss. You let out a small whimper when her hands ventured to your breasts, groping them against her palms.

Their kiss became sloppy as she pinched your nipples, causing you to moan. The sound of their skin slapping together, mixed with your deep, ruthless moans of pleasure and her fake cock stuck inside you, brought you to new heights.

She reached beneath her and began to vigorously rub your clit as she slammed into her. "Unnhh... ohh!" You screamed her name as your inner walls clenched around her. Natasha grunted in reply, breathless, she shoved herself deep inside you, sliding in and out so fast as her hands gripped onto your hips, forcing you against her. "Ahh — lOrd, please..!“

She jerked your hips forward and pulled you into her thrusts with more force. She pulled you hard into her pelvis. "I wish I could come inside you, princess..so much." She buried it in your throat, making her come even deeper inside you. "I think..I-I think...!"

Natasha leaned up again and quickened your pace, "You're close, princess?"

Your thoughts were only felt with Natasha. You wanted to say the same thing, but you couldn't.

"Fuck..how far away are you? You really like it, don't you?" Your hands clawed at the blanket to counter Natasha's swings, "Y-Yes! So-So..."

Natasha started to sweat and clawed at your hips too, thrusting into you faster, harder, "Then show me Y/n..Come on..."

Your breathing quickened and a little later the knot in you and Natasha burst. She collapsed over you and fell onto your chest. "Shit..how do you feel?" She could lose herself in the rapid race of your heart. "W-Wow..."

Natasha grinned, "That's right..you were awesome." She said as she looked at you and brushed your hair out of your face.

-

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TAGLIST: @taliiiaasteria @natty-taffy @natashaswife4125 @lifebyinez @aemilia19 @clearcoloredlenses @ragoshmog @dvrkhcld @elenimoris @maggieromanov @thesevi0lentdelights @jayceelynnn

[spectersgirl]

Harvey Specter forgets your anniversary 🙉

I considered taking this in a slightly angsty route but decided I felt like keeping it light so you get this hehe

also I have no idea what to title this so the title is now...

Anniversary

Harvey Specter x Reader

-------

The sun hung low over the New York skyline as Harvey paced the floor in his office, the weight of the day's workload pressing down on him. The day, however, was an important one that he couldn't afford to forget. It was the two-year anniversary of the day he started dating you, the love of his life, and he'd forgotten. In the whirlwind of cases and negotiations, the date had completely slipped his mind. He glanced at the clock, a sinking feeling knotting in his stomach as he realized his mistake.

"Fuck." He muttered, debating what he could possibly pull off at such a late hour.

He considered every possibility on his own before admitting his own defeat and calling in his last resort, his best secret weapon.

"Donna? Can you come in here for a minute?"

Donna appeared quickly in his doorway.

"What's up?" She asked, noting the look of stress on his features.

Harvey sighed, his frustration with himself evident. "Today is my anniversary with Y/N and I completely spaced. I need to do something special, and I need it to be perfect."

Donna smirked softly, having already had the inkling that he'd forgotten. She loved being right.

"Well then it's a good thing that I already made reservations at the restaurant you took her to on your first date and called Ray to have you picked up in about-" She checked the time. "Forty-five minutes to go sweep your girl off her feet. Don't worry, I already called her and told her you weren't out of your meeting in time to call yourself but you wanted to warn her to be ready when you arrived. Oh, and the necklace you told me to order her for Christmas arrived a week ago, so you can give her that too. Top desk drawer."

Relief flooded Harvey's system, never having been so thankful for his secretary in his life.

"Oh my god, you're a lifesaver. I don't know how to thank you"

"Just leave the credit card on my desk in the morning and I'll thank myself on your behalf." Donna said with a bright smile.

"Done. I owe you the whole damn store for pulling this off. Seriously, thank you."

"Of course, Harvey. Anything I can do to see my friends happy, I'm glad to do it."

An hour later, Harvey was knocking on the door to your apartment, a bouquet of the most beautiful flowers you'd ever seen in his hands.

You were dressed in a floor-length, emerald-colored silk gown that Harvey couldn't take his eyes off of when you'd first tried it on, and again now as he stood in front of you in the doorway.

"You look so beautiful, Y/N. Happy anniversary, my love." Harvey said after a brief moment of collecting himself from the sight of you.

You smiled shyly and thanked him, the heat rushing to your cheeks. You were never the greatest at accepting a compliment, something you had learned to work on since meeting Harvey.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind himself before placing a gentle hand on your hip and one on the side of your cheek, kissing you with a passion and care that you'd never experienced with any other man until Harvey.

He pulled away after a few moments, asking if you were ready to head out, and you nodded, grabbing your clutch and taking his hand as he led you out the door.

Soft music filled the air as he led you to a beautifully set table, adorned with more flowers and candlelight. Your eyes widened in surprise, a smile on your lips as Harvey pulled out your chair, his charm and charisma in full force.

The dinner was phenomenal, and you enjoyed your time talking and laughing with Harvey about any and everything. You hadn't seen much of him over the last few weeks, as he had a huge trial going on and from what you understood, it was one of the harder cases he'd ever had. You could tell he was enjoying the night off just as much as you enjoyed him being off.

"Oh! I almost forgot!" You exclaimed, pulling a small black box from your handbag with a bow on top and handing it to Harvey. Inside was a pair of cufflinks, his initials engraved in the gold. He smiled the biggest smile you'd seen from him as he thanked you. He pulled a box of his own from his jacket pocket, presenting it to you. Tears sprang from your eyes immediately when you saw the necklace, knowing full well how much Cartier cost.

"Harvey, I can't accept this! This was way too much."

"Y/N, every penny I spend on you is well worth it. You deserve to have every beautiful thing you can dream of because you're the most important person in my life."

Your heart swelled, and you couldn't help but reach across the table to kiss him.

"Thank you." You whispered, gratitude for him shining in your eyes.

Later that night, he took you back to his condo where you continued the night together, ending up sleepily snuggled by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in Harvey's hand and red wine in yours.

"Remind me to text Donna tomorrow morning and thank her." You said drowsily.

"For what?" Harvey asked, looking down at you.

"For planning our dinner."

Harvey's mouth sat open, shocked.

"Wh- how did you know?"

"I didn't for sure until just now," You said "But I got to thinking, any other time you've planned something you tease me for a week beforehand about how good of a boyfriend you are, you didn't this time and I know you've been working hard so really, it only made sense."

Harvey's heart dropped, knowing he was caught.

"Baby, I'm so sorry." He said, anxiety rising in his throat.

"I'm not upset, don't worry." You said, sitting up now. "I'm just happy you took the time to be with me tonight." You said, reaching out to caress his cheek.

"I'm really trying to work on prioritizing us over work, but this case really took over everything. I promise I won't forget next year and let Donna do all my planning. I'm sorry if I disappointed you."

"You didn't disappoint me Harvey. We could've spent the whole night here doing nothing and I still would've been happy, I just love spending time with you."

Harvey smirked before replying.

"I'll keep that in mind for next year"

[humanpurposes]

Come So Close That I Might See, part ii, Aemond

Desperate to secure her position, Aegon's wife turns to Aemond for help // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x OFC

Warnings: 18+, smut, infidelity, mentions of past non-con, fluff, (cameo from dad!Aemond at the end).

Words: 3300

A/n: pwp but went heavy on the plot. Also available to read on AO3.

Tags: @padfooteyes @darkenchantress @blackdreamspeaks @kezibear143

The dull light of dawn dragged her from a dreamless sleep. The sun hadn’t yet risen, the fire was long dead and Lucia’s bedchamber was cold.

She kept her eyes closed, vaguely aware of a distant birdsong and the noises of the city beyond the walls of the Red Keep. She breathed into her back and felt where it met the mattress beneath her, and as the haze of sleep began to fade she winced at the slight stiffness in her neck and the tenderness between her legs.

Her fingers crawled to the other side of the bed where the sheets were neat, seemingly undisturbed. She was alone then. She opened her eyes, part of her hoping it might not be true. The pieces of her gown were still laid over the chaise, the smell of sweat and sex lingered on her sheets, but any other traces of Aemond were gone.

One night, she told herself. One night and she would allow herself this indulgence for the sake of duty. Duty to her family. Duty to the realm. Duty to her husband. Duty to herself.

She never could have imagined how it might have felt to finally be so close to him, to hold him and feel every part of him. She felt herself fading from the world around her, consumed by the memory of his skin, his sapphire gleaming in the gentle candlelight, the smell of smoke and leather–

“The Queen mentioned your outburst.”

She looked up slowly from her plate of salted pork and eggs, at the three faces looking at her.

The Lord of Casterly Rock sat directly opposite her, his dull golden hair falling limply around a furious expression. Nothing good ever came of her meetings with the Lannisters, not for her anyhow.

Aunt Johanna– Lady Lannister, suited the colours of her husband’s house, red and gold against her Westerling features. Often she was quick to defend her niece, but in the last year her rebuttals of Lord Jason’s usual lectures had become few and far between. Her expression now was soft and unsure as she took small sips of her tea in silence.

“Before this morning’s meeting of the Small Council,” Lord Tyland added. He was a little more put together than his twin, more stately, his hair neatly combed, his scowl more stern than irritated. “She said there was some kind of disagreement with your husband that was only resolved at the intervention of Prince Aemond.”

Lucia held her tongue between her teeth. Aegon’s insults were hardly a disagreement. There was no conflict, it was just… him. She had sat passively for so many years and now rage boiled through her blood.

But she knew her duty.

She took a deep and gentle breath. “As it happens my husband and I have resolved our differences.”

The Lannister twins exchanged a brief look of disbelief. 

“To some extent,” she added.

“How so-”

“I will not be elaborating,” she said, “the state of my marriage may be of concern to you but the details are certainly not.”

She spent the day in her chambers, reading, embroidering dragons into scrap pieces of cloth, picking holes in her bed clothes only to stitch them back together, anything to keep her busy so that she wouldn’t have to think.

But all she thought of was Aemond. 

The invitation to take dinner with Helaena and Martyn Hightower came as a surprise. 

Little Rhaella was thankfully starting to recover from her ailment and was a bright presence. The girl had her father’s brown eyes, but everything else was Helaena’s, the delicate silver hair and dreamy look on her face. Less than two years old and she was running frantically around the room, presenting Lucia with her collection of small wooden animals before she came toddling from the nursery with a dark blue dragon egg.

Martyn started to panic that she might break it but Helaena simply said in a soft and melodic voice, “hold it tight, my love,” and the girl did just that. 

When the hour grew late for the little dragon, Lucia followed Helaena, Rhaella in one arm and the egg in the other, into the nursery. Helaena dressed her daughter herself, fed her a spoonful of honey and a few sips of tea for her throat, and sent her to sleep with Valyrian lullabies.

“It can feel like such a burden,” Helaena said, as they walked back to the dining room, “I was terrified of the whole ordeal, and at the end of my suffering came Rhaella.”

“She’s an angel,” Lucia said as they reached the dining room. A sliver of warm light shone through the door into the otherwise darkened corridor, bathing Helaena’s silver hair and pale blue gown in gold.

Helaena reached for Lucia’s hand and traced her finger over her palms, studying her skin as a scholar studies a book, or a healer studies a wound. “I do not envy your position,” she said. “It is easier with someone you love.”

Lucia tried to swallow but her throat was suddenly dry.

She tried to love Aegon. She still remembered their first meeting, in the throne room, before the court. She might have found him handsome if it weren’t for the distant look in his eyes, and the fact he wouldn’t even look at her.

Despite his initial indifference, he had showered her with affections on the day of their wedding. As they stood before the eyes of Gods and men to recite their vows, she saw only him, violet eyes bearing into hers, and when he kissed her, her fear faded. She allowed herself to hope that the Prince she had married was a man who embraced his duty, who would be kind, gentle and cherishing. He even did away with the bedding ceremony. The marriage would be consummated when she was ready, he said, a promise sealed with a chaste kiss to her cheek.

The first time he visited her chambers was a year into their marriage. He stumbled in as she was readying herself for bed, dragging with him the smell of stale wine and the streets of Fleabottom. She had never seen him in such a state. She had heard whispers, of course, of his exploits and his affections for serving girls, but never had he presented this part of himself to her.

At least he had been gentle when he guided her to her knees and entered her mouth. “A mercy to us both,” he slurred when it was over. He didn’t even seem to find much pleasure from it, just a motion to reach a release, and then he was gone.

“I love my husband,” Lucia whispered.

Helaena hummed to herself. “That’s rather not what I meant, dear sister.”

She frowned, but before she could press her further, Helaena swept into the dining room, singing a lullaby under her breath.

She didn’t care to eat much, save for a few cuts of beef and half an apple cake.

When she returned to her chambers, her eyes fell to a book upon the desk that had no place on her shelves. It was large, an old philosophy text with delicate pages and fraying binding, from Prince Aemond’s personal collection. He had leant it to her some weeks ago, but even after finishing it she had found herself reluctant to part with it. She couldn’t say why, if her interest was in the rhetoric of the Maester long since dead, or the fine calligraphy and illustrations drawn in colourful ink and plated with gold leaf. Perhaps it was the simple act of tracing her hands over the pages Aemond had studied so devotedly, having a part of him with her. 

True, she had found his scar and constant intensity rather intimidating at first, and warmer friendships with Helaena and Daeron, but with Aemond she had found something more innate.

It began with comfortable silence. The library was a wonderful place to seclude herself, escape her husband and the prying eyes of the court, losing herself in tales of history. She had a particular fascination for the Conquest at the time and devoured chronicles of Aegon and his Queens, and their dragons, of course.

She was rather surprised one morning to see Aemond walking towards her reading table. They exchanged few words but mostly she was happy to simply sit beside him. The next day she returned the favour and, eventually, they managed a few formal conversations. 

She lit up the first time he mentioned Vaghar.

“It is remarkable that such a beast of war should remain among us,” she said one gloomy afternoon as rain pelted against the window, so heavy they could not see Blackwater Bay beyond the gardens. “A living piece of history.”

Aemond smiled a little stiffly. “Indeed.”

“How did you first come to claim her?”

But her face fell with regret the moment she asked. By the way Aemond thinned his lips and clenched his fist, she had overstepped a line.

“It was simple really,” he said before she could utter an apology, “I offered myself to Vhagar and she accepted me.”

Her eyes flashed to his eyepatch, no longer fearful, but curious. “Were you scared?” 

“Yes, and I overcame my fear.”

She did not question him further. 

As years went by, Aegon slipped into his cups and the onslaught from the Queen, the Lannisters and every other Lord and Lady of the court began. 

When she retreated to her usual hiding places, the library or the bench in the rose garden, Aemond was always the one to find her, to sit with her in settled silence with that soft expression she dared to think he reserved only for her. 

So it was out of duty she found herself walking through the Holdfast with Aemond’s book under her arm.

There was no guard stood outside his door. She took a shallow breath and gave three gentle knocks.

He understood the moment he opened his door to her. 

They concerned themselves little with the preamble. The book was forgotten on his desk as their lips met. She loved the desperation of it, the way he pawed at her dress and whimpered when she tugged on his hair. 

“I’ve thought of nothing but you,” he uttered between their kisses, “I thought I might come to you tonight… I did not wish to presume.”

Always courtly and composed, it thrilled her to hear Aemond’s voice so breathless and raw. A warmth swelled in her chest, pride and lust, feeding off each other and intertwining until she could hardly form any thought other than him.

He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

She pulled back just a little, resting her thumb over the pillowy pink of his lips. “I cannot stay long,” she whispered, “someone will notice my absence.”

His hands settled on her waist, holding her gently, as though she were something precious, but with a firmness that fuelled her desire. “Let me take care of you, Princess.”

It was quicker than before. He turned her around and brought her to lean against a table, making quick work of hitching up her skirt and pulling down her small clothes.

He groaned to see her desire already dripping onto her thighs, tracing featherlight patterns over her skin and teasing her needy centre. 

And then his hand came around her throat, a delicate hold, but it made her head spin as he inched his cock into her entrance and started to fuck her.

She gripped the edge of the table, unsure of what else to do with herself but moan and make breathy attempts at saying his name. The stretch of his cock inside her, his fingers working over her pearl and his light grunts in her ear, it all felt so perfect.

“Good girl,” he uttered, hot breath sending shivers over her skin “you take it so well for me, Princess.”

“This excites you, doesn’t it? That I’m his and not yours,” she teased.

“I think you like it,” he rasped, driving his hips faster against her rear, pushing himself deeper and deeper until he met that spot that left her body weak. “You need me, to fulfil your duty… your desire.”

If he was intending to tease her it was working. She could feel herself clenching around him, as her pleasure began to rise in her.

She nodded, hardly aware she was doing it. “I want you, Aemond, I need you.”

“Beg me for it. Beg me to paint this perfect little cunt.”

“Please… I want it… I want it…”

She fell against his chest as they came together. She could feel him draining inside her, fucking every last drop of his seed into her as his hand pressed against her stomach to keep her close against him. She gripped his hand and he didn’t seem to mind the crescent marks she left behind.

She savoured the stillness for a moment, the closeness, the fullness of his cock inside of her and the afterglow of her release.

“I meant it,” she said, “I find so little to be happy about. I do not love my husband. I resent my position. I allow myself so little hope.”

Aemond pressed an achingly light kiss to her temple. She leaned into his touch and held his hand a little tighter.

“I just want you,” she whispered.

“You may have me whenever you wish, Princess,” he said, trailing his lips down her cheek before he tilted her head back to meet him in a slow, contented kiss. 

Once she had fixed her small clothes she headed to the door.

“Will you take me riding tomorrow?” She asked.

He raised his good eyebrow. “Riding?”

“To the Kingswood.”

The brow dropped. “Oh.”

“You didn’t think I meant…”

Aemond smirked at his own assumption. “Well, who am I to deny the wishes of my Princess?”

She passed one other person as she walked from Aemond’s chambers, a young maid with a timid face and a bundle of laundry in her arms. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor as she passed the Princess. 

“Where are those from?”

The girl froze, like a squirrel catching sight of a dog. “Pardon, your Grace?”

“These–” Lucia gestured to the white lines, “where did they come from?”

“They are Prince Aegon’s, your Grace.”

“An unusual hour to be changing his bedclothes.”

“They… needed to be changed.”

Lucia sighed. “Has he overindulged himself in his cups tonight?”

“Quite so, your Grace.”

She thought for a moment. She could still feel Aemond’s seed spilling from her. 

After briefly thanking the maid she walked on, past the corridor that led to her own chambers and towards her husband’s.

Aegon’s room smelled sour, of spilled wine and vomit. She could taste it on her tongue as she breathed. A loud snore sounded from the bed. Aegon was sprawled on his front, his clothes discarded on the floor around the bed. 

The heels of her shoes clicked against the floor as she approached the bed, and he did not stir. She pulled back the covers on one side, and still, nothing.

She chewed on a piece of flesh in her mouth. Part of her thought she might regret this, but if it worked, she might never need to find herself in such a position again.

She undid her gown and removed her corset and shift, leaving them atop a chest by the window. The air was surprisingly warm against her bare skin.

With Aemond’s seed still spilling from her, she slipped into the bed, as far away from Aegon’s unconscious body as she could, though with his arm laying out it was difficult to avoid him. 

She lay there, eyes closed and limbs stiff, and waited for the morning to come.

By the time it did her eyes were sore and she felt as though she had not slept, but she must have fallen asleep at some point because the early light took her by surprise.

Someone needed to see her in order for this to work, either a maid, come to leave the Prince his breakfast, or Aegon himself.

By some miracle of the Gods, the snoring stopped, and his fingers drifted over the skin of her arm.

“Wife,” Aegon muttered into his pillow, “I don’t recall summoning you.”

“Have you considered your memory may be improved if you drank less?”

“I drink just the right amount,” he grumbled, falling onto his back and stretching his arms out in front of him. He rubbed at his eyes, then he stared at her. “Did I fuck you?”

She rolled her eyes and hauled herself from the bed, fully revealing her bare body and the stain in his sheets. That seemed to be enough, and he muttered a crude curse as she started to dress herself.

“Congratulations husband, it only took us five years.”

He would only need to be fooled once. 

As for Aemond she felt no need to deny her desires.

Their encounters in the library became stolen kisses hidden amongst the shelves. Rides into the Kingswood left her with swollen lips, tangled hair and bruises against her back. In every other aspect, their lives became a game, a hand on the small of her back as they walked through the gardens, whispers of sweet nothings as helped her practise her marksmanship, all to tease each other, to see how far they could push each other until one gave in.

They knew to avoid being seen alone after dark. Sometimes he visited her before breakfast, or else she would meet him in the training yard and walk back to his chambers with him. They often found themselves in more formal company, receptions, feasts, tourneys, and there was always a corner to stow away into, a brief moment for them to claim as their own.

Their familiarity did not raise any suspicion, as far as she could tell. Of the King’s children she had always cared less for Aegon than his siblings. Sometimes she thought the faces around her seemed to look at her a little curiously, but she and Aemond had already been friends for years and faced no scrutiny for it.

When she realised their efforts had become fruitful, Aemond was the first person she went to, breaking their usual rule of avoiding each other after dark. They sat together on a settee before the fire in his chambers, his arms around her as she leaned into his shoulder. 

“I’ll protect you,” he whispered, “both of you, until my last breath, whatever may come.”

The labour lasted days, but at the end of it came Jaehaerys.

The whispers of the court were quelled, the Hightowers at last seemed to view her as something more than an inconvenience, and the realm celebrated the birth of a new Prince. A Prince with silver hair and violet eyes, just like his father.

Aemond visited the nursery every day, sitting by the cradle, stroking his finger over the babe’s delicate skin, or simply looking over his face. He read to him too. Lucia laughed at the ridiculousness of Aemond bringing volumes of his philosophy books and reciting arguments of ethics and existence to an infant. But it had some kind of effect, Jaehaerys’ eyes would always go wide at the sound of his uncle’s voice.

Lucia entered the nursery one evening. Aemond was leaning back in an armchair, with Jaehaerys cradled into his chest, their lips both parted and their breaths, fluttering as they slept, in perfect unison. They looked so content and peaceful, her boys. 

Her fingers came to the Valyrian steel band around her ring finger and her heart sank. She had everything she wanted, her son, her Aemond, her position, and it all rested on a lie. 

Even with Aemond’s love and promise of protection, she had never felt so unsure of herself.

[gh0st-author]

mastermind.

Pairing: William James Moriarty x Reader

Summary: What you needed was a chance— an opening. A cause to draw him out, to approach him. But that would be easier said than achieved. Impossible even.

Tags: fluff, a little bit suggestive but nothing much, Liam is a softie

A/N: so i was listening to mastermind by taylor swift and i just realized how much it fits liam, so this brainrot you see here was born. also this is set in america somewhere in those 2.5 years after the billy incident but before they return to london. my thought process was that liam and sherlock were doing some undercover work at this ball. additionally i decided to have Liam keep his eye here man's been through enough...

The moment was like something straight out of a fairy tale. An instant that you can't quite place; a dream that would unravel and slip from your grasp and glide through your fingers if you only tried to look too close at it. Gentle candlelight tracing abstract patterns over the entire hall, making the entire scene seem magical. Delicate music from numerous hidden instruments filling the air with yearning, so beautiful it could make your heart ache. The muffled sounds of secret whispers and the rustling of numerous exotic fabrics joining the cacophony of sounds, not to overpower but to add to the overall mystique and intricacy of the night. And him. Him— this radiant and golden being, akin to an angel, luring you in, stealing your coherence.

Your eyes were on him as soon as he'd entered the room, followed by another dark-haired man who you couldn't make yourself glance at for the life of you. Because doing that would mean taking your eyes off him. Elegant frame gliding through the mass of people, pale golden strands swaying with the movement, awakening an urge in you to trace your hands through them, to find out if they were as soft as they looked.

This feeling washing over you, filling your every cell, clouding your mind more than the glass of expensive wine in your hand, was new. Completely and irrevocably unfamiliar. And that terrified you tremendously. How could one person have such an effect on you, before you'd even exchanged so much as courteous greeting?

He must've felt your attention on him— how could he not when you were burning holes in the back of his head— and his head turned towards your hiding place, the little nook you slotted yourself in as to avoid unnecessary prattle of the ladies around you.

Oh...

You felt as if all of the air had been leached out of the room in that one moment, then instantaneously rushed back in leaving you light-headed. Bewitching. That was the only word adequate enough to describe his face, his eyes. His features were timeless, elegant, touched by the innocence of youth but also impossibly wise at the same time. And when his sharp scarlet gaze connected with your own, what little thoughts you had— however trifle they might've been— evaporated into mist and smoke. Those were eyes that never missed anything, that appeared to gaze directly through your flesh and blood and straight into your soul, seeing every detail, every dirty little secret. Yes, this man was absolutely breathtaking; utterly captivating.

You averted your gaze, feeling exposed and not wanting to stare too hard. This night had just become infinitely more interesting to you. But, despite all of the stars aligning and conspiring to place you in the same room with such a magnetic and compelling presence, you had no conceivable way of conversing with him. In truth, you were only here in the first place because of your cousin, and this ball was nothing more than just a chore to you who was supposed to be her chaperone. You had no connections and no reason to seek him out, no matter how much your heart yearned for it. Even now, you could see his outline floating in the corner of your vision, surrounded by numerous important individuals.

You sighed, and deciding against hiding for now, you smoothed out your gown and abandoned your little nook. It was due time to try to mingle with the dense crowd.

Like his shadow, a phantom, you traced his steps around the room, trying to find an opportune moment to etch just a little bit closer. Wherever you went you glimpsed him from the corner of your eye, always near, but always just out of reach. As soon as one group had finished with him, he was already onto the next. He was everywhere—  anywhere you looked— making your desperation rise. It was a known fact that our psyche worked in contradictory ways; the more one tried not to gaze at something or think of something, the more the mind made them a prisoner of exactly those thoughts. The echo of his silhouette followed you around, always just a tad bit too far away.

Positively exhausted by the constant ongoing battle between your mind and your heart, you retracted back to the faraway corner of the room, choosing instead to behold the art and numerous artifacts nestled there. What you needed was a chance— an opening. A cause to draw him out, to approach him. But that would be easier said than achieved. Impossible even.

Deep in thought, one painting caught your attention. It was a magnificent piece, truly, but you were not able to decipher what exactly about it ensnared you so. It appeared no more extravagant than any other painting in the room, yet you couldn't look away from it. It felt as if it was pulling you in, calling to you.

"Captivating work, is it not?"

The sudden voice to your right made you startle, and you were forcefully ripped away from your mussings. You almost didn’t need to look to know who the person who'd just spoken was. After all, your body was tingling in his mere presence, every cell coming alive simultaneously, vibrating with hope now that he was the one who sought you out first. Unable to resist the magnetic pull, you pivoted to regard the stranger. "I'm sorry?"

"That painting." He flashed you a gentle smile, his unusual-colored eyes regarding you with interest as he approached to stand beside you. "It's a true masterpiece. The artist uses patterns and geometry to create a most aesthetically pleasing piece, painting illusions to trick the viewer into thinking they can actually step into a two-dimensional space. It's rather extraordinary."

His voice was soft and melodic, slightly amused. Your eyes caught at the slight upturning of the corners of his lips as he spoke, unable to look away. It was either that or get lost in his knowing gaze. "Are you an artist?"

"A mathematician, more accurately." You heard a wistful note in his voice. "I used to teach at a university in England, but sadly, I don't anymore." He gave you another smile, this one a little dimmer than his last one. "Some circumstances got in the way. But that is neither here nor there. I take it you are someone's chaperone tonight. If I had to guess, the young lady's over there."

You followed his gaze and saw your cousin a little further away, engaged in a conversation with some friends. How did he know that?  "I am. Thank you for your insightful deduction Mr.–"

"Liam. Call me Liam."

"Liam..." You whispered his name like a prayer on your lips, tasting how it felt on your tongue. "No title? Is it short for something?"

"No... just Liam. Classes and titles mean nothing to me." You couldn't quite read the emotion in his voice as he said that, layers of something more— perhaps dejection— intertwined beneath a calm reply. "And what shall I call you, Miss–"

"Y/N" You held out your hand to him, and Liam, never breaking his eye contact with you, raised it gently to his lips, leaving just a breath of a kiss there.

"Y/N..." He too sounded like he was sounding out your name, familiarising himself with it as if he planned to continue saying it many times more. "The pleasure is mine."

That one touch, that one kiss against your gloved hand, was enough to light a fuse within you. You felt flushed all over, both too hot and wrecked with chills at the same time. You needed to know more about this man. He was like a Venus fly trap, a mystery you wanted to solve, an equation you wanted to assess. "Did you come here alone tonight?"

"I am accompanying my good friend on some business tonight. He is the black-haired individual currently giving us the burning stare." And sure enough, when you followed his gaze, you spied the gentleman in question, the one who followed Liam when he first entered the room, giving you both suspicious glances. Looking at him now, no longer blinded by the brilliance of the mysterious mathematician, he was a handsome individual, tall and all angular features, but that was overshadowed by the arrogant eyebrow he raised at you as if contemplating to terminate your further involvement with his friend.

"Have I done something to upset him?" You haven't even met him, yet he seemed to not be pleased with you.

"No, he's just paranoid. Unnecessarily." Liam narrowed his gaze at him, and they appeared to be exchanging a wordless string of arguments between them, after which the man shrugged his shoulders and flashed you both a sheepish smile, putting his hands in his pockets and turning away to talk to some other nearby attendant. Liam's attention was back on you now. "Excuse his behaviour, he has a lot on his mind tonight."

You, too, had a lot on your mind tonight— mainly, how to slip away somewhere where you could be alone with him, away from the eyes of everyone so you could continue your conversation uninterrupted. Suddenly, a thought permeated the fog in your brain. It wiggled through and lodged itself right in the forefront. An opportunity to get him alone... This was it. If you could use this to your advantage, you could make an unfortunate situation into something worth remembering. "Don't worry. I don't mind—"

You cut your sentence off, bumping into him purposely. Your glass almost slid out of your hand, deep burgundy splashing over his coat. He caught you, a true gentleman, as you widened your eyes and flew into a flurry of apologies, as you quickly set down your— now empty— glass. "Oh my God, I am so sorry! I don't know what happened, I must've been more inebriated than I thought. I'm so sorry!"

Liam was a picture-perfect opposite to your hysteria of movement. He calmly grabbed his coat and slid it off. The dark burgundy stain had bleed through the outer layer onto his white shirt beneath, and he let out a chuckle as he inspected his coat and the stain on his chest for the damage. "Don't worry, it was an accident. Such things happen." He sighed at the coat. "Although, I suppose I can't show myself in front of our business partner tonight like this."

"Please let me do something!" You pleaded, doing your best to show him how remorseful you were. It wasn't all for show, you did feel kind of awful for staining his clothes. "I have a handkerchief, I can help you. Please, follow me." If you fail to plan, you plan to fail— or so they said. Life was about making the most out of unexpected situations, and you were not about to waste this opportunity that had been given to you. You grabbed his arm and tugged him along with you as you slinked by the walls and made your way out of the hall.

You entered the first room you saw— a study, it appeared— and pulled him with you to sit down on the couch. Quickly taking out the handkerchief, you grabbed the coat from his hand and started dabbing the stain. Luckily, his coat was dark, so it wouldn't be too noticeable in the candlelight. All the while, Liam said nothing and just observed you with an unreadable gaze.

"I expected you to be more cross with me," you said after some time, finally daring to glance in his direction. You hoped he wasn't, otherwise, this plan was all for nothing.

That gave him a pause, and he blinked at you, as if you said something unexpected. "I am afraid I don't understand. This was just an accident that could happen to anyone. There is no reason for me to be cross. Were you, perhaps, afraid I would be?" He smiled at your frown, and you averted your gaze back to the task at hand. A contradictory enigma. This coat was of very expensive material, yet he made no complaints. Chose kindness, instead of anger. You were definitely right to get this mysterious man alone, even now you felt the inescapable draw of his presence.

"It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both," you murmured absentmindedly while still gently dabbing away on the stain, doing your utmost to try to get rid of it.

"Oh, you are familiar with Machiavelli's works?" He leaned back, placing his arm on the armrest of the couch and resting his jaw on the back of his hand.

"I've read some here and there. Why? Are you an enjoyer of his books?" You raised the coat up to the light and observed it. This had to do for now until he could get it cleaned.

"I too have read them here and there." His gaze was sharper now, both cunning and amused. It made you shiver— but not unpleasantly, you realized with a start. "I find his takes on the authority and aristocracy most fascinating."

Laying the coat aside, you scooted closer to him, the couch making you all the more aware of your proximity, the dim lights making it all seem more intimate. This close you could even smell a faint tinge of his cologne, mixed with the sharp tang of alcohol you spilled. This turned out to be a perfect excuse to touch him, to feel him. Everything went precisely by design.

Dizzy from the heat of his body, now so close to you, you slowly started to dab at the stain on his shirt. "You truly are an enigma, Mr. Liam, are you aware?" He only continued to observe you with his slight smile, the rising of his eyebrow the only indication that he was listening. Taking that as an invitation, you prattled on. "You seem like someone of noble birth, yet you appear to disprove of the class system and disregard any titles. You seem awfully intelligent, and yet I have not seen your name in any field of research, not even math." You took this opportunity to smooth out his collar, fingers gently grazing the skin of his collarbone. "And you approached me, and were able to accurately ascertain things about me I gave you no indication of." You looked up at him through your lashes, then quickly glanced down again, resuming your attempts at trying to clean up the wine.

You felt him let out a little contemplative hum, as he leaned closer to you. "You are an enigma as well, Miss Y/N. You have followed my every move since I appeared here, yet refused to approach me the entire night. You still don't seem to trust my words, but you have not yet inquired into anything I've said. It is almost as if you enjoy this little game." He raised his hand, and you watched with bated breath as he caught a strand of your hair and twirled it around his finger. "Tell me, is it fun trying to uncover my secrets?"

Hands falling into your lap, the stain and handkerchief long forgotten, you felt light‐headed again. Like a snake dancing to the magic flute, both your body and your mind were charmed, following his every move. This little plan of yours might be working better than you anticipated. If you actually survived until the end of this game, of course, because if he kept looking at you like that, giving you his undivided scrutiny, you doubt you could last. "You followed me here without question as well." You managed to whisper out. "Did you perhaps have some ulterior motives with me too, Mr. Liam?"

He gave a little tug at the lock of hair wrapped around his digit. "I wonder..." His sharp eyes were now unfocused and thoughtful as if he himself couldn't really understand his actions. "Whatever compelled me to do that?"

You glanced at his eyes, then his lips, wondering if this was such a smart idea now. Maybe you shouldn't even be here, shouldn't entertain your wicked thoughts. Your draw to him was too powerful, dangerous even. It felt like too much and too little at the same time as if you could ignite and burn and blaze down to smithereens with a single word from him, drown with a single touch.

At that moment, the door slammed open with a loud creak, cutting off your train of thought. Both of you reflexively jerked back from your compromising position, the moment gone and magic ruined. The room now felt infinitely colder without his proximity, the couch impossibly wide. Your startled gaze fell on the culprit who had barged in so suddenly, finally able to breathe without Liam's cologne tampering with your thoughts. It was him, the man Liam introduced as his friend earlier. He glanced sharply at you both, eyes staying on you for a heartbeat longer than necessary, studying you. Contemplating. You could see the same mysterious intellect you saw in Liam in him, the same razor-sharp mind, the same murky and vague past. His eyes widened imperceptibly as if taken aback by your inspection, then filled with something akin to grudging understanding. Then he swiveled towards Liam and pointed behind him. "Liam we have to go. Work's calling."

A sigh, no louder than a disturbance of air left him, and he rose, giving you a remorseful look. "Sorry, dear. Seems like our time is up. Hopefully, I will see you again one day, under more fortunate circumstances." He quickly donned his coat, adjusting it to best cover up the stain, then with a hurried gait followed his friend out the door.

"I am sure you will." You whispered, as you watched him leave, him only turning back once to shoot you a conspiratorial grin. As if saying to keep what happened here a secret.

Checkmate, you thought. You will be seeing him again, you were sure of that. There was just something about him that sang to you, some kind of kindred warm flame, like fire burning in a hearth. But in his calm gaze, you also caught a glimpse of something else beneath, another fire, blazing hot, ardent, and dangerous. All of it made you even more curious, made you crave him more. You had to arrange a meeting with him again.

You couldn't lose.

Truly, nothing moved faster than time. It was outstanding, mind-boggling, how it seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. And now, two years later, you found yourself with the hard wood of the door of digging harshly into your back as you leaned back to let Liam deepen the kiss. The soft rustling of clothes and your quick breathing were the only sounds permeating the room of Liam's and Sherlock's shared apartment in Brooklyn. Barely any light illuminated your two silhouettes, only the moonlight and a rare street light outside of the window providing any illumination.

Gasping for breath, his lips still chasing yours, you attempted to put some distance between you. "Wait, what about  Sh—"

"Do not worry." He whispered, still eager to continue. "Sherlock is already on his way to London as we speak. So is Billy. No one will bother us."

"That means we have to leave for London soon, too." You gripped his shirt in your hand, raising on the tips of your toes to whisper in his ear. "How convenient that we are free to spend our last night here as we wish." Pulling back, you looked back at him, face full of mirth, lips splitting into a cheeky grin.

Cupping the back of your neck, he gave you one last kiss before leaning away. "Call me an opportunist."

Gently, his hand slid down to your waist as he moved you from the door and laid you achingly slowly on the bed. Your own hands moved from their position on his chest to intertwine in his hair. Soft and exactly as silky as you thought it would be two years ago. On that magical night. A night so much like this. His gaze was soft, and melancholy, as if he too was remembering that time. Most days, you were scarcely able to wrap your head around the fact that so much time has passed and that you've won the affections of such an ethereal being. That you yourself were able to set the wind to your sails that first night, to not just play the role of a pawn, but to be the king instead.

He regarded you in silence for quite some time, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your waist, your hips. His face was unreadable, haunted. "I would ask what you're thinking about, but I'm terrified to know."

He let out a quiet chuckle and rested his forehead against yours. "Oftentimes, I think night is purer than day; it is better for thinking, loving, and dreaming. Maybe I was always meant to dwell in the night, to plot. At night everything is more intense, more true."

"Enough of your philosophy." You grumbled. "If you wish to scheme and think you can do that with Sherlock." Using your hands in his hair, pulled his face closer to yours, your lips barely brushing. "I think, currently, your mouth could be much better occupied."

He gave you a deep kiss, making you forget how to breathe, then bit your lower lip teasingly. "I never scheme. You must be confusing me for someone else" So saying, he chuckled. "But I must admit, I enjoy seeing you so flustered for me."

Well, two could play that game. When his lips traced a path from your kiss-swollen ones downwards to your neck to shower it with countless marks you'll surely have to cover up tomorrow, you decided to entertain yourself as well. "What if I told you that none of this was accidental?" It was nothing more but a breathless whisper, a silky melody in the darkness of the room. His ministrations didn't stop, but you continued, eager to fluster him at least once, even if it meant sharing your biggest secret— a secret that you had sworn you would take to your grave. "Were you aware that the first night I saw you I decided that nothing was going to prevent me from getting closer to you? You were like a blazing flame and me but a simple moth drawn to your brilliance. So I conspired to get you alone." It was getting harder and harder to form coherent thoughts when his kisses felt so hot, almost burning and branding your skin wherever they landed, but you persevered, tightening your hold on his hair and enjoying his slight shudder. "I... purposely spilled wine on you that night." You swallowed against a sudden lump in your throat. "I knew I had to lay down the groundwork if I wanted to catch your attention, knew I had to set it all up like dominoes." A sudden nibble on the junction of your neck and shoulder made you gasp.

"I was aware."

You were so thoroughly distracted by the feeling of his lips on the skin of your neck that it took a few seconds for his words to register, and when they did your whole body froze. "Wait... You knew?!"

You felt his lips pull into a smirk against your skin and he slowly pulled away, his eyes dancing with barely concealed mirth. "Darling, I knew the entire time."

You were rendered speechless. Shock. Disbelief. The feeling of the world freezing in its tracks. That's all you felt as you stared wide-eyed at the man above you. Your body felt weightless and stone-heavy at the same time. What does he mean: "He knew the entire time?"  Every encounter that you two had raced through your mind as you tried to remember if he ever showed any indication of being aware of your little game. There were none. "You're lying," you stuttered out through your suddenly dry throat.

His smirk was downright devious now. "On the contrary, dear. Not only was I aware of your schemes— I was the one who orchestrated them. From the very start, this has been a chain reaction of countermoves on both sides."

"But then-" Every world felt like sandpaper as you tried to make sense of the situation.

"Steering Sherly in your direction under the guise of talking to some aristocrats the first time I saw you, just so I could be in your field of vision the entire night. Purposely asking around about that painting I knew nothing about to start a conversation with you, then letting you bump into me so you could have an excuse to talk with me in private. Accidental meetings. All actions of a desperate man, who had been completely and utterly enamored ever since he first laid eyes on you." Each sentence was followed up with a kiss— to your neck, to your cheek, to the corner of your lips. One of his hands slowly made its way upwards towards your face from its place around your waist. Still in shock, all you could do was lean into his hand when he gently cupped your jaw. "But it was incredibly enjoyable, this little game of ours. I never believed that there would be someone who would go to such lengths for my affections." His gaze softened and he traced your cheek with his thumb. "My sweet, vicious mastermind."

You felt your chest squeeze under the crushing wave of pure love that washed over you. This man— this brilliant, extraordinary, incredible, magnificent, breathtaking man— he was yours. And he had been from the beginning. Or, more accurately, you'd been his. For you weren't the one who had been setting everything up since your first encounter– you were the one being strung all along. Happy tears prickled at the corners of your vision and you couldn't help but beam up at him. "I guess this is checkmate. It's my loss."

With a matching smile of his own, the hand on your cheek then slowly moved down to your chin, and he pulled you into another kiss. You closed your eyes and melted into it. It was painfully sweet— maybe the sweetest kiss you two have ever shared.

Looks like you were no match for the former Lord of  Crime after all.

[littlest-w01f]

Hold

Eris Vanserra x Celastrina (See Celastrina here)

For @erisweekofficial

Eris week 2024 Masterlist

Day 7: Free Day

Summary: It's late at night, and Eris has been busying himself with his work as High Lord, Celastrina provides a much-needed comfort

Cw: Fluff, slightly suggestive

The moon was overhead as Eris sat in his office, on his work desk looking through different scrolls and parchments, Eris sighed heavily, rubbing his temples as he tried to focus on the endless paperwork before him, his glasses going a little crooked. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows across the room, making the stacks of parchment seem even more daunting. Being High Lord had taken a toll on him, all the work, the broken Court he had taken from his horrible father.

A sigh escaped his lips as he turned back to the task at hand, his eyes scanning over yet another scroll detailing the latest disputes within the court. It was exhausting trying to mediate between the warring factions, each one convinced they were right. And then there were the whispers of rebellion, fueled by discontent among the common folk.

He rubbed his tired eyes under his reading glasses, feeling the stress etch lines into his face. Despite his best efforts, the cracks in the kingdom's foundation only seemed to grow wider.

There was a knock on his door and he snapped, "What!"

Celastrina flinched at her mate's tone, "Are you busy, Eris...?" She frowned seeing him work at the dead hours of the night.

"A little busy, yes." His tone was terse, but there was no real anger. He was more absorbed in his work than anything else. "Why are you out of bed, my butterfly?" He softened, watching her, the nightgown she wore. She was beautiful, and the reason he was doing this. To make Autumn equal between High Fae and Lesser Faeries like his mate.

Yes, Celastrina could do whatever in his court, go wherever, because he'd made his people fear his wrath if they even showed a hint of disgust at his mate for being Lesser Fae. But he wanted his in-laws to also be free to visit them and not have to be escorted by palace guards at all times, knowing his lovely mate missed her parents a lot.

She entered the room, closing the door softly behind her. Her multishaded wings twitched nervously as she approached the desk, concern written all over her delicate features.

"I just couldn't sleep," She admitted, biting her lower lip in a way that always managed to distract him. "I missed your warmth in bed..." Her voice trailed off.

Eris looked up at her, taking in her flushed cheeks and wide eyes. He could see the worry in her gaze, and it tugged at something deep inside him. He set down the quill, pushing aside the scroll he'd been reading, next taking off his glasses and setting them down. "Come here, love." His tone was gentle as he gestured to his lap. "Sit in my lap."

She smiled, walking over to sit across his lap and pressing her head in his warm chest, "Mmm... Feels so... Toasty." She giggled in his firey skin.

A contented hum rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her cheek as she nuzzled closer. Eris wrapped his arms around her slender form, holding her close against him. "That's better." His voice was soft, almost a whisper as he brushed a kiss atop her head.

He held her tightly, savouring the sensation of her warm body pressed against his. It wasn't until her giggles filled the air that he realized how tense he'd become. With a soft chuckle, he gave her a gentle squeeze. "You know, I am still busy working…" He kissed her soft wings, making them flutter.

"Really?" She faked a gasp, she'd been learning the art of sarcasm from him. "I didn't know." She nuzzled further into him, sighing as he felt up her wings and back, the touch was soothing.

Eris chuckled softly and kissed her temple before he pressed her against his shoulder. He ran his hand along her back, running his fingers along her soft skin, and stroking her wings lightly. He shifted a bit in his chair and got comfortable. "You are trying to distract me, though, Cela." Eris pointed out, his tone more affectionate than accusatory.

"You don't mind it, do you?" Celastrina chuckled softly, voice teasing, "If you do, I can just go..."

Eris shook his head, his hand continuing its soothing path along her spine. "No, my sweet, I don't mind at all." He leaned forward slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "In fact, I quite enjoy it when you try to distract me. Especially when it involves cuddling with me like this."

His free hand slid up to cup her chin, tilting her face upwards so he could look into her deep kaleidoscope like eyes. "But we both know you're not really going anywhere, are you?" He smiled, a hint of mischief in his gaze. "You're stuck with me, whether I'm working or not. And I'm happy to have you by my side, always."

With that, he lowered his mouth to hers, capturing her lips in a slow, sensual kiss. His free hand moved to one of her thighs, and he cupped her, moving the hand over it, rubbing gently.

You sighed, feeling his warm hand on her cold bare thigh "So... That means you can still work like this."

His fingers ran along her bare thigh, and he smirked as he caressed her and squeezed her thigh. "This way I am a bit more motivated to finally finish this and come to bed."

"And then we can sleep..." She hummed happily, cuddling into him.

"Mhmm…" He replied softly as he shifted her on his lap again. His hand moved from her thigh up to her lower back, and he began to gently rub it up and down a bit. "You know, you are not exactly helping, little mate."

A low chuckle rumbled in her chest as he spoke, his hands never stopping their exploration of her body. "And why is that?" She asked, her eyes wide in amusement as he touched her thighs.

"You're distracting me," Eris groaned, a playful glint in his eye. "But not in the way you might think. You're making me want to forget about everything else and just hold onto you."

He pulled her even closer, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her flush against his chest. "I wish I could just quit being High Lord and spend every waking moment with you." He confessed softly, his voice laced with longing. "But alas, duty calls." He sighed, kissing the top of her head once more.

"I just wanna snuggle." She whispered softly. "You can work with me like this, yeah?"

Eris' arms wrapped around her waist again as he pulled her firmly into his lap. He began to kiss her neck, starting near her ear and making a trail down to her shoulder. "You come in here… acting so very innocent and adorable. Wearing this cute little nightgown, with these stunning wings… You know just how to get under my skin and drive me mad. And then you just expect me to ignore the temptation right in my lap…."

"Work, Eris." Celastrina giggled, slapping him gently to move his head to the papers on the table.

Eris groaned softly as she steered his head towards the papers with her palm, his lips brushing against her neck one last time before he reluctantly pulled away. "Fine, fine. If you insist on being difficult, I suppose I have no choice but to continue working." He grumbled playfully wearing his glasses back, reaching for his quill once more.

As he folded open the parchment, his hand remained firmly planted on her hips, holding her steady in his lap. Every now and then, he would press a soft kiss to her shoulder or run his fingertips along the curve of her waist, unable to resist touching her.

Despite his work, he found himself becoming increasingly distracted by her presence, his focus wavering as he caught glimpses of her face or the enticing swell of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her nightgown. It took all his willpower to keep his hands to himself and not let them wander further south, a sense of peace and contentment that only she could bring him.

"Are you just going to sit in my lap… all cosy and adorable?" His tone was playful, and he ran a hand over the bare skin of her thigh again.

"Yep." She smiled, her head on his chest, playing with his tunic, "Read the boring work papers to me..."

Eris rolled his eyes, even as he complied with her request. "You truly are insufferable, aren't you?" He muttered under his breath, but there was no real heat in his words. Instead, they were laced with affection and amusement.

He began to read through the papers, mumbling the words into her hair as he continued to rub her wings occasionally. He would stop to explain or complain from time to time, mostly the latter when it came to the financial details.

Celastrina didn't really get most of what he said, but she liked hearing his voice, "Oh... Ok, what is that?" She asked, tilting her head slightly to indicate that she wanted to understand what he meant. Eris chuckled softly, shaking his head. He looked down at her, his amber eyes sparkling with warmth and amusement.

"It means that someone isn't being honest with us." He explained, his voice low and soothing. "It's rather frustrating, to be perfectly honest. There's been a lot of deceit recently, and it's making things very complicated for us."

A heavy sigh left his lips as he returned his attention to the parchment, running his finger along the edge before continuing to read aloud. Despite his frustration, he made sure to maintain eye contact with her whenever possible. "...not exactly the best reading, I’m afraid."

"Don't be afraid, it's ok." Celastrina patted his cheek affectionately.

A smile tugged at the corners of Eris' mouth at her response, his heart swelling with affection for her. He couldn't possibly remain angry or frustrated when she was so sweet and caring.

"That's not what I meant, but I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless." He smirked against her neck, and then planted a kiss on it again. He hummed against her skin, still running a hand over the bare skin, and tugged at another strap of her nightgown. "You're very bare under this. I keep getting... Distracted. How am I to get any work done with you sitting in my lap like this, half naked...?" Eris asked, pulling the straps of her dress down further.

"I'm not half naked. You're undressing me..." She pointed out, pulling the straps back up again, though not firmly enough to cover much.

Eris let out a low, rumbling chuckle at her attempt to deflect him, his eyes gleaming with mirth and desire. "Guilty as charged," he admitted, his fingers deftly slipping beneath the hem of her gown once more. This time, he traced the delicate curves of her inner thigh, his touch feather-light yet electrifying.

"I simply can't help myself when it comes to you, my dear." He breathed, leaning in close to nuzzle the side of her neck. "Every inch of you is a siren's call, begging me to explore and worship each and every part of you. You’re just so tempting sitting here, not wearing much... Wearing this little nightgown... You might as well be asking me to bend you over my desk and-" He paused, kissing her nose, knowing she wasn't quite as sexual as him, or High Fae, "How far would you let me to go tonight, pretty?"

Celastrina thought about it for a moment, "Till the woods... Anything further than that is too far, and I don't like it when you go anywhere without me."

Eris chuckled, amused not only by the answer but also by how literal she’d take him sometimes, mostly when she was tired and comfortable, no really thinking. He nuzzled her shoulder and smiled against her skin.

"No, no, I meant... How far would you let me go tonight?" He began to tug on one of the straps of her nightgown again. “How much would you let me do...?”

"Like... With...?" She blushed softly, her cheeks burning pink.

"With my hands, or my mouth, or..." He murmured, his hand began to trail up her bare skin, running up her inner thigh. "Or should I just keep being good and work on my boring things?"

"I'm not really..." She whispered hesitantly, "In the mood for it..."

"That’s alright." Eris gently reassured her and planted several soft kisses on her neck, before he pulled her into a gentle hug. "You know I’m not going to force you, sweetheart, or try to change your mind. I’m just happy to have you in my lap…"

The weight of his arm across her back was comforting and reassuring, and it felt nice to just relax and lean against him. Her eyes drifted shut as she tilted her head back onto his shoulder, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The faint aroma of his cologne and the scent of ink and parchment filled her senses, creating a serene atmosphere that helped calm her racing mind.

He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the closeness between them – the feeling of her warm body pressed up against his, the gentle rise and fall of her chest against his own, the unique scent of her filling his senses, letting himself relax.

{General Taglist - @nox-ceur @lilah-asteria @paleidiot @dee-writes-smut @adalia-jaycee @anarchiii @alwayshave-faith @velarisnightsky444 @minnieoo}

{Eris Taglist- @fxckmiup @slut4acotar @secret-third-thing @shadowsingers-mate @fieldofdaisiies @st4r-girl-official}

{Papillon Taglist - @rcarbo1 @st4r-girl-official}

[the-dork-urge]

Behind velvet curtains || Gortash x Dark Urge || NSFW

SUMMARY Enver Gortash hadn't anticipated encountering Bhaal's chosen under these specific circumstances, but perhaps it wasn't entirely unfavorable. In which Gortash and (F)Dark Urge meet in a brothel. NSFW Word count: 3250

The discomfort of meeting in such a place gnawed at him, where the mingled stench of strangers and prostitutes assaulted his senses with the sharp tang of cheap perfume, sweat, and debauchery.

Her blatant disrespect stung deeply as she summoned him to this locale, where his familiar face couldn't fade into the shadows but instead was exposed openly between the velvet curtains that led from room to room.

As he traversed the space, the prostitutes he encountered between the rooms cast their gazes upon him, yet none dared to utter a word. Perhaps they had been warned, a precaution orchestrated by her. Instead, they silently motioned him forward with slender, muscular arms, guiding him toward the inevitable encounter with her. Despite the simmering anger within him, there was an eagerness to meet her. Bane had only vaguely revealed her form in a vision, leaving the true features open to interpretation. He remembered the picture of them together, but mostly the aura she emanated—an air of deadly devotion encapsulated within the guise of a woman significantly younger than him. As he reached the end of the velvet maze, he was met with wooden door. he saw flickering candlelight spill from the gap underneath the door, and the smell of rich oils. She wouldn't? He wondered. Before he could reach for the doors handle, the door was slowly opened by a servant, clad in dark robes. The mysterious figure bowed as Gortash walked in. His eyes scanning the room. There a figure lay in a bath, submerged underwater. All he could make out was her lush hair, that floated on the waters surface. The water reflected the the light of the candles surrounding it. Another robed figure , emptied a bucket of hot water into the bath. As he noticed Gortash he quickly put the bucket down and scurried out of the room with his dark companion, closing the door behind them. Leaving him alone, with the naked precense in the bath. Enver Gortash's eyes narrowed as he observed the figure in the bath, trying to discern more details beneath the cascading hair as the room's unsettling silence was punctuated only by the gentle sound of water.

When the figure stirred and rose, revealing a dark sheen from washed-off makeup, Gortash couldn't help but acknowledge her beauty. Bane had not prepared him for this.

"I do apologize," she spoke, her voice echoing in the quiet room, as she wiped the water from her face, eyes opening slowly. "Perhaps it was wrong of me not to expect you at our agreed-upon time."

Gortash's expression remained stoic, a mixture of irritation and intrigue. The disrespect he had already felt was compounded by her unpreparedness, bathing in front of him as if his presence was inconsequential.

His response carried a measured tone, "Expectations aside, our meeting holds weight. Disregarding the formalities doesn't bode well for the importance you attach to our alliance. I have very little patience for games." "No games, Enver Gortash. Just a bath, truly" she responded nonchalantly, as if bathing in front of him was the most ordinary act. He glanced at her, noticing the subtle exposure of her breast above the water. His gaze then wandered around the room, perhaps offering her a chance to regain some formality. However, she remained unmoved, and a clenching of his fist betrayed his growing frustration.

"Find a seat, Enver. Do sit down," she instructed.

The absurdity of the situation caught him off guard. Her naked form, the unconventional meeting place – it had all been meticulously planned, he was sure. Now, he found himself grappling with an unanticipated challenge: navigating the awkwardness that churned within his stomach and the subtle stirrings in his loins, all while maintaining his dominance in this peculiar encounter.

Gortash chose to maintain a facade of composure. He found a nearby chair and settled into it, though every fiber of his being resisted the gesture of compliance. "Very well," he conceded, his voice betraying none of the inner turmoil. "Let us proceed than.''

Gortash observed as her hands emerged from the water, grasping the edge of the bathtub as she maneuvered herself into a sitting position. The fragility of her long, slender fingers didn't escape his notice. Yet, despite their delicate appearance, there was an unmistakable air of lethality about them. He couldn't help but wonder how many throats those hands had wronged, how often they had wielded a dagger, plunging it into flesh, slashing and stabbing.

As she shifted, her hands moved to her neck, tucking her hair aside to reveal more of her neck and shoulders. The subtle movement exposed more of her nipples, only to be concealed again as her hair fell back into place. The juxtaposition of her delicate beauty with the potential for violence sent a chill down Gortash's spine.

"First, I must thank you for coming here. We could have met anywhere, yet I felt this place entirely befitting."

"I hardly find a brothel appropriate, except for meetings of the flesh."

"Ah! You are narrow-minded. For what are we but prostitutes to our ambitions? Would you not do anything for your God?"

Gortash's eyes narrowed in response to her words, a flicker of anger dancing within them. "Do not dare compare my devotion to Bane to the actions of a common whore," he retorted, his voice laced with seething resentment. "My loyalty is not a transaction, and my service to Bane goes beyond any petty analogy you seek to draw. I am no prostitute to my ambitions; I am a devout follower, and my commitment is unwavering. Choose your words more carefully."

"There's truth in your devotion, I hear that. But would you not screw the entire world to get what you want? We are but bodies for our master to puppet."

Gortash found himself at a loss for words. He questioned whether her Bhaal would approve of the analogy she drew, or if she merely spoke to probe under his skin. Regardless, it had succeeded. "Your analogy diminishes the depth of our service. We are instruments of power, not marionettes dancing to someone else's whims," he argued.

"Is that not exactly what common whores do?" She pressed down on her hands, lifting herself up from the bath, her knuckles growing slightly white from the pressure of her body. "They engage for pleasure, for power. To be fully in control of their own body and that of someone else, to rule over another entirely. The analogy isn't that far-fetched, right?" Stepping out of the bath, she presented her entire bare form to him. He'd expect Bhaal's daughter to be somehwat monstrous, but that wasn't true. Gaunt and tall, her body remained unblemished, save for a few scars scattered on her arms—none substantial enough to suggest any lost battles.

"Hmm. Perhaps," he spoke, his words escaping him without full awareness.

However, his attention became fully absorbed as he closely observed her. His gaze traced the path of water cascading over her body, flowing from her neck down between her perfect breasts, then dripping further onto the ground as it reached her navel.

"Be a darling and fetch me a towel, please?" she asked.

Her question snapped him out of his trance, presenting an opportune moment to assert himself.

"No, I won't. I won't belittle myself to become a towel boy for Bhaal's daughter," he declared.

She laughed, a chuckle bordering on something louder, and settled down on the edge of the bathtub.

"Very well, we will have it your way."

As Gortash stood his ground, a surge of doubt and uncertainty flooded his mind. What had he gotten himself into? How could he ever propose an equal alliance with her when he felt so thoroughly beneath her thumb? Perhaps, he wondered, this was precisely her intention—to test his mettle, to challenge him to assert himself further and prove himself worthy as an equal.

He sensed her silent dare, urging him not to retreat like a scared mouse at the wondrous sight of her naked form. It was a pivotal moment, a test of his resolve and determination. With a deep breath, Gortash steadied himself, squaring his shoulders as he met her gaze head-on. She smiled at him, gaze unwavering.

"Now that's settled," she said, submerging one of her hands back into the water, her fingers creating ripples. "Perhaps we can now discuss our respective goals."

"That's precisely why I've come here," Gortash replied, deliberately focusing on her hand in the bathtub and the drops of water her movements generated. He averted his attention from her slightly parted legs or exposed chest.

"You summoned me here, so it's only fair if you go first." he said.

"Alright," she responded, lifting her hand from the water and resting it on her thigh. "Father showed me your face. He didn't speak much about anything else, except that working together would be beneficial to my cause. I assume Bane has floated the same idea?"

"Something similar, yes," he admitted. "A promise of complete rule over Baldur's Gate, but only if I'd make use of your influence."

"Twisted, really, how we have our own grand solo ambitions, yet only truly achievable with someone else. Torment and tease." she added.

Bane had shown her a vision of their figures side by side, gazing down upon Baldur's Gate as rulers, connected in more than just ambition, in spirit. Torment and tease, indeed.

"Perhaps we should just listen to our gods and find common ground upon which to build this relationship," she spoke, slightly parting her legs.

He recognized her tactic, to make him say no and flee until their next encounter, always one step ahead, because he was too afraid now. But he would not be tormented and teased any longer. Clearing his throat, he rose from his chair and turned away, prompting a quick response.

"You're not leaving, are you?" satisfaction and victory laced her voice.Gortash remained silent as he took off his jacket, hanging it over the chair he had sat upon before.

"No. I suppose it's best we start this alliance as equals." He slowly turned around, playing with the laces of his blouse, slowly pulling them apart. He noticed how suprise glazed over her eyes for a fleeting moment, but long enough for him to notice. She nodded as she stood up from the bathtub, slowly walking his way. ''I suppose that's ideal,'' she tutted knowingly, placing her wet hands on his chest, helping him open his laces, before pulling the fabric over his head. She grazed her eyes over his exposed upper body. Over his tummy, the hairs on his chest and the silver scars that adorned his skin. She let her hand glide over his chest, than settle at the hem of his pants. He quickly adjusted to the coldness of the water dripping down his own skin now. ''I could work with this.'' she smirked, hooking her fingers behind the fabric. Yet he stopped her. Took her seemingly fragile hands in his and moving them away. She allowed him, momentarily amused by his display of dominance, as he pinned her hand between his legs and hers while working on removing his clothes himself.

As he exposed himself, his semi-hard member brushed against her stomach as they stood there. She tried not to be easily stirred by its size, but she couldn't help swallowing as her eyes drifted downward.

"And now what?" she teased, stepping even closer to him, pressing his cock between their bodies, feeling it slightly twist against her skin. "What can the chosen of Bane possibly do to make himself my equa—"

Suddenly, his hand shot up, seizing her by the neck and bringing her to a standstill, a breath escaping from her mouth. She hummed against the grip around her neck, the vibrations palpable in his palms. Of course, she reveled in this.

With his other free hand, he reached between her legs. Despite the struggle to breathe, she made room for his hand, willingly opening up to him.

As his hand found its place between her legs, she felt a surge of anticipation mingling with the tension of his grip around her neck. It was a paradoxical sensation, the tightening of his hold adding to the thrill of surrender.

She arched slightly against his touch, a silent invitation for him to explore further. The air around them crackled with an electrifying intensity, each moment hanging in suspended anticipation of what would come next.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he began to explore, his fingers tracing the contours of her most intimate places. Despite the constraints of his grasp, she responded eagerly, her body instinctively yielding to his touch. In that moment, they were both acutely aware of the power dynamics at play, and both knew how fast it could shift.

Her hand, which had slipped from his grasp, now found its way around his throbbing cock. It pulsed beneath her touch as she dragged her nails along his shaft, eliciting a shiver of pleasure from him. Gortash's grip on her neck loosened slightly in response, a silent encouragement for her to continue.

It was the opportune moment for her to seize control. As she wrapped both of her hands around his member, tugging it slightly too hard on purpose, he hissed in pain for a moment until he saw that it elicited a smile from her. Then, she softened her grip and let the wetness of his precum guide her as she moved her hands up and down his lenght, teasing him with each stroke.

The pain of her initial grip gave way to a heady rush of pleasure as she expertly manipulated him, her touch igniting a primal hunger within him.He struggled to maintain his composure, torn between the desire to assert his dominance and the intoxicating allure of surrendering to her control. With each movement of her hands, she pushed him to the edge of his restraint, teasing him with the promise of ecstasy.

But Gortash was not one to be easily ensnared. With a growl of determination, he seized the moment to reclaim his power, his own hands moving to grasp her firmly by the hips. In a swift motion, he pulled her closer, their bodies pressing together in a heated embrace. He thrusted his hip uward, the tip of his member finding her entrance. He pushed onward, untill his member settled into her warmth. A groan escaping from both of there lips, as she stretched on his cock.

Suddenly, she bit down on his shoulder, a retaliatory gesture aimed at asserting her own dominance. Her teeth sank into his skin, but Gortash remained unmoved, his resolve unshaken even as he felt the sharp sting of her bite.

Instead of recoiling, he welcomed the sensation, finding a strange pleasure in the mix of pain and pleasure. Her actions only served to fuel the intensity of his rutting, giving her no time to adjust to his cock, as he thrusted without holding back. His hands moved to the nape of her neck, where he found her wet hair. Taking it in his hand, he pulled her head down, eliciting a wonderful scream from her lips.

"I pray they'll forgive us," she smirked between the pain, her slender neck exposed. "For our transgressions." She chuckled until the very moment he let go of her hair. As suddenly as he released her, he withdrew from her, and she groaned at the sudden emptiness. When she met his gaze, he could only describe her visage as that of a wild animal, ready to be ravaged and to ravage in return. Perhaps this was truly what being a Bhaalspawn was about—pushing the boundaries of violation to their limits.

Taking a step back, he left her completely unsatisfied, with no more flesh to sink her teeth into. "Oh no," she scolded him, her fist clenching in the same manner he had once done himself. "We are not done yet. Not truly equals yet."

"Oh, I think we are done here," he replied, his cock still pulsing without anyone wrapped around it, gleaming with both of their wetness. Yet as he spoke those words, he realized something.

He would be denying himself of his carnal pleasures as well. She could simply step back into the bath, envision his cock, and finish the job herself. He had a long way home to go, and he wasn't sure if he could control himself for so long.

"Come on, then. Finish. Only then are we done," she said, her tone conveying both proposition and urgency, as if this were part of a ritual that they had to work through together.

Was this not what Bane wanted? To have him rule over her body and spirit, to have total control, to make the little Bhaalspawn turn and twist under him? Then he remembered her words from earlier, how he had diminished himself to a total whore. Yet those words felt hardly as heavy as the fire that settled into his loins, threatening to boil over soon. So he approached her again, like a predator, moving in on it's pray. He grabbed her upper arm and forcefully turned her around, moving her to the edge of the bathtub. than she pressed his large hands between her shoulder blades and guided her downward. Her cheeck resting on the cold porcelain, the side of her face ever sligthly in the water. ''Dominate me,'' she cried out as his hand moved between her legs. He moved closer, prodding his cock between her ass cheeks, teasing her asshole for a moment. He wondered what she would feel like. A yelp of anticipation left her mouth, so he moved further downward instead, pushing his cock into the her familiar warmth again, ready to reclaim his dominance over her once more. Every inch of his member was met with a delicious friction, intensifying with each thrust. The sounds that filled the room were a mixture of their heavy breathing and the wet, rhythmic sounds of their bodies moving together. With each thrust, there was a soft squelching noise as their flesh met, punctuated by her occasional moans of pleasure and his deep, guttural groans. The water in the bathtub sloshed gently against the sides.

As their passion reached a fever pitch, he pushed her head beneath the water's surface. Bubbles escaped from her lips, mingling with the soft splashes of water. He held her there just a moment longer, then released his grip, allowing her to resurface and take a breath. As she emerged, gasping for air, he stroked the hair out of her face before dunking her head in again.

Exhausted, he slowed his pace, his member raw, red, and gleaming. He was almost there. Pulling her from the bathtub once again, she sputtered from the water in her lungs, turning around to face him. Her makeup was now fully washed away, revealing even yet blushed skin, with eyes ever so eager to continue, yet gasping for air nonetheless. He continued slowly, his hands gripping the flesh of her ass.

And then, as if a dam had burst, he came undone. With a primal roar of ecstasy, he released himself into her, his body convulsing with pleasure as he emptied himself completely. She shuddered underneath him, their collective ecstasy echoing through the room.

As Gortash slipped out, she fell to the cool tile floor, his seed dripping down her legs.

"Now that I know you can handle me,'' she spoke through a husky whisper, ''I think we could work together just fine."

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 72

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 72: Ill Tidings

AO3 - Masterlist

Rhaenyra settled herself on the edge of her son’s bed, admiring the exquisite craftsmanship that depicted a dragon majestically ascending the bedpost, its tail artfully coiling around it. The creature seemed to perch atop the structure like a vigilant guardian watching over the bed’s occupant, its eyes fashioned from rubies that glinted, casting a protective gleam. The intricate detail of the carving gave life to the dragon, making it appear as though it could leap into the air at any moment. 

With a gentle motion of her hand, she swept Luke’s dense, dark hair from his pallid forehead, her fingers caressing him with the tenderness only a mother could provide. She caught herself reminiscing about the days when his hair curled playfully, lending him an mischievous, cheeky appearance, particularly when his grin widened in excitement. 

Their return to Dragonstone had been anything but easy for the boy. Despite the heavens being clear and the ocean’s temperament calm, Luke had been severely afflicted. The ghost of greensick had clung to him, bleaching his cheeks of their usual pink vibrancy and replacing it with a sickly green pallor. Every wave that collided with the ship’s side seemed to send spasms through his delicate frame as sickness seemed to curl in his stomach. 

His younger siblings had fared better with the sea’s capricious nature, but traveling with young children, particularly those just beginning to explore the world on unsteady legs, brought its own set of challenges. 

Now, Luke rested on the bed, its fine silken linens forming a sharp contrast with his pale complexion. Candlelight danced across his face, illuminating beads of sweat that made his skin glisten. Damp locks of hair adhered to his forehead, and a visible tiredness pressed upon his features, dimming the usual spark in his blue eyes to a mere flicker of their former vibrancy. 

With a hard swallow, Luke expressed his doubts, his voice a mere fragile quiver, “How can I ever be fit to command a fleet of ships as the Lord of Driftmark if merely boarding one turns my stomach and persistently ails me?”

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, her fingertips tenderly sweeping through the damp locks, her touch lingering on his skin, wishing to soothe his worries away. Her fingers gently descended to his cheek, offering a tender caress, filled with compassion for the boy. 

“Oh, sweet boy,” she spoke, her eyes sparked with a sliver of amusement, “No one is forged into greatness overnight. You have much to learn, give yourself time. And no one expects you to fill out Corlys’s shoes while he still wears them.”

“But if he were to… not make it…” Luke’s voice waned into silence. The weight of such thoughts clouded his eyes, the dark circles under them speaking of the strain of restless days spent at sea. 

“Luke…” With a soft shifting of her position, Rhaenyra made herself more comfortable, mindful of the unborn child nestled against her ribcage, making its presence known in the shortness of her breath. The whisper of her gown against the silken linens filled the quiet room, as she sought a momentary relief from the gentle but persistent pressure. 

“I’m not cut out to be the Lord of the Tides,” Luke murmured, his head shaking in denial. A visible cloud of fear and apprehension enveloped him, pulling at his features, casting a shadow over him. “Grandsire was the greatest sailor to ever live. And I get greensick before the ship even leaves the harbor.”

“Lord Corlys stands apart from others,” Rhaenyra responded. “I’ve had the privilege of knowing him for years. His resilience is unparalleled, outmatching even those half his age. Believe me, a mere ailment won’t be his downfall. He has much to teach you, and you’ll have ample time to learn.”

“If he dies, I will have to take his place,” Luke countered, his eyes burning. “I can’t be lord of the Tides–I–I don’t want Driftmark, it should have passed on to Ser Vaemond… I will ruin everything.”

“We don’t choose our destiny, Luke, it chooses us.” Rhaenyra once more brushed his hair from his brow, a tender gesture amidst the tension. As Luke turned his face away in an act of petulance, there was a distinct undercurrent of exasperation in his movements, a defiance fueled by fear. 

“Grandsire let you choose whether you’d be his heir,” Luke persisted, pushing himself up to lean against the headboard, a stubborn defiance etching his brow. “You told us so.”

Rhaenyra drew in a measured breath, her gaze sweeping over her son noting the turmoil within him. His expression mirrored the tumultuous seas' relentless waves crashing against the cliffs beneath their castle–a sight all too familiar to her, evoking memories of her own moments of doubt and fear on the edge of her own destiny. 

“And would you like to hear the truth of it?” Gently taking Luke’s hand in hers, she sought his eyes with her own, ensuring he felt the sincerity in her words. “I was frightened. I was… four and ten. Same as you are now. I wasn’t ready to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The thought of wearing the crown was overwhelming. It was a responsibility I felt unprepared for, but… it was my duty.”

She paused, allowing her confession to sink in. “And, in time, I came to understand I had to earn my inheritance–I had to prove myself worthy of it.”

Luke’s expression tightened, a visible tension as he bit his lower lip and looked away, his voice wavering as he whispered, “I’m not like you.”

“In what way, sweet boy?”

“I’m not so…” He hesitated, his eyes flickering around the room, avoiding direct contact as though ashamed–and perhaps he was when he finally admitted, “Perfect.”

A gentle warmth bubbled up inside her chest, a fond amusement at the words of her son. Her smile widened as she leaned forward, her hand gently sweeping his hair back from his forehead. She drew him closer, pressing her forehead against his in a moment of reassurance, then left soft kisses on his cheek. Her thumb stroked the blush that spread across his skin. “I am anything but… My father looked after me, and helped to prepare me for my duties. Your mother will do the same for you.”

“I’m not ready for the responsibility, but I will try and make myself worthy of it,” Luke admitted, his spirit evidently lifted, if only a little, by her assurances.  

“We have years, sweet boy,” Rhaenyra said, “Now, try to rest and get some sleep.”

Luke nestled back into the comforts of his bed, his hand absently rubbing at his eye while he stifled a yawn. His eyelids seemed to grow heavier by the moment, slowly succumbing to the inviting embrace of sleep. Rhaenyra continued to smooth his disheveled hair with gentle strokes, leaning down to plant a loving kiss on his forehead. Despite his growing frame, in her eyes, he remained her precious little boy. 

With the utmost care, she began to lift herself from the bed, her movements delicate to avoid waking Luke from his peaceful slumber. Standing beside the bed, she paused, taking a deep breath while her hand instinctively cradled the swell of her belly. It seemed the child within her, too, was asleep. 

Despite offering unwavering reassurance to Luke, Rhaenyra couldn’t shake a persistent unease about Corlys’s wellbeing. Such uncertainties, however, she would keep buried, hidden from her son. It would only worry him if he knew that she was worried. The path of succession had been set for all the kingdom to know. Whether or not he felt ready for it, the burden of leadership would fall to him upon Corlys’s death. Her deepest hope was that when the time came for him to carry the mantle of Lord of the Tides he would be ready.

Wandering the dimly lit halls of Dragonstone, the intermittent light from torches guided her way. Occasionally, beams of sunlight broke through the grand windows, casting a warm, golden glow over the ancient stone corridors. 

Upon her arrival in the great hall, her attention was immediately captured by the sight of Daemon, seated near the vibrant hearth. The play of light and shadow across his features revealed him deep in thought, seemingly adrift in a private ocean of contemplation. 

Her gown whispered against the stone floor as she moved closer, her presence breaking the hush that filled the room. Ascending the stairs to his side, she spoke with a blend of softness and authority, “Luke finally rests, though uneasily.”

Daemon hummed, shifting his gaze from the flames to her as she approached. 

“He’s troubled by the thought of ruling Driftmark,” Rhaenyra continued, “And more so by the prospect of commanding the fleet from the deck of a ship.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his features, dispelling the heaviness of contemplation entirely. He extended his hand, inviting her to draw nearer. “It seems it will be sooner than later that he becomes the Lord of Driftmark.”

With a teasing nudge against Daemon’s shoulder, Rhaenyra playfully scolded him, her tongue clicking in reproach. Daemon’s hand, those of a weathered warrior, was tender as it encircled her wrist, drawing her near. He tenderly pressed his forehead against the swell of her expecting belly, his hands gliding over the contours of her hips with a touch that was loving. She responded by lovingly cradling his head, weaving her fingers through his hair. There was a certain reverence in his actions, an adoration not just for the child she carried but for the act of creation itself. 

“He feels unprepared,” Rhaenyra confided, “Believes he is not up for the task. He even mentioned that Vaemond might have been a better choice.”

“Vaemond?” Daemon’s response was laced with disdain. “He was nothing but a sea slug, dreaming of grandeur beyond his merit. By staking a claim on what was never his, he dishonored his brother and their house. My daughters hold a stronger right to the seat of Driftmark than he ever did–and Lucerys more so.”

“His hesitation is not without reason,” Rhaenyra remarked, her voice tinged with weariness. Luke’s sensitivity to the rumors of illegitimacy had always been more pronounced than with Jace or Daenera. Growing up shadowed by accusations of bastardy had been challenging, a challenge only intensified by the Hightowers’ readiness to openly oppose them. While Jace shouldered the malicious gossip with unwavering resolve and Daenera with indifferent defiance, Rhaenyra knew that Luke found the weight crippling–more so, as he thought himself unworthy of Driftmark.

“Luke is the blood of the dragon,” Daemon asserted, his gaze lifting to meet hers. “By right and by choice, he is Corlys’s successor. He will carry on the Velaryon name, whether he shares the blood or not, and with Rhaena as his wife, his children will carry on the name both in right and in blood. He is the heir, he cannot deny his rightful claim.”

“He is aware of this, yet I fear that Vaemond’s outright accusation has unsettled him,” Rhaenyra responded, a gentle rebuke in her tone as her fingers grazed his neck softly. 

A sigh escaped Daemon, his frustration momentarily visible, though he restrained any verbal expression of it. “Vaemond’s challenge ended with him, as did his claims. Viserys has made his position known, unequivocally. If the Sea Snake was to succumb to his wounds, Luke would ascend to the lordship of Driftmark whether he is ready or not. Rhaenys yet lives–”

“Rhaenys might have consented to the betrothals, but her affection for us is hardly warm.”

“We needn’t have her affection,” Daemon said. “Rhaena will be the Lady of Driftmark and Baela will become Queen. It’s reasonable to assume she’d be inclined to protect this union and support Lucerys, should he step into his role as Lord of Driftmark. Under such circumstances, he’d be surrounded by allies prepared to impart the knowledge he lacks. He’s still young, but I have no doubt he’ll grow into his role. He’s bound to gain his sea legs some day.”

“I certainly hope so,” she responded with a light laugh. “Otherwise, he might find himself leading from atop a dragon instead of a ship.”

“The better choice,” Daemon drawled, a subtle smile on his lips. “Laenor excelled in dragon-mounted combat during the war. It earned him great respect among the men. However much he doubts it, he will come into his own.” 

With a sigh of contentment, Rhaenyra allowed herself a moment of peace, her eyelids closing as she rolled her neck, easing the tension. 

“Given a choice,” she reflected, her tone light and wistful, “I, too, would choose a dragon over the confines of a litter or the swaying of a ship.”

Daemon’s answering hum, deep and resonant, was a wordless concord, acknowledging both the sentiment and the shared experience they held. “After such an exhaustive journey, you ought to rest here for the night. King’s Landing can wait until dawn.”

Rhaenyra’s lips parted, ready with a rebuttal, “I gave Alicent my word–”

“The hag can wait,” Daemon sharply cut her off, his features settling into an annoyed scowl, his disdain for Alicent barely concealed. “Your health is the priority.”

Their exchange was suddenly interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, the rhythmic clatter of armor breaking the tension in the room. A figure, cloaked in the gleaming white of the Kingsguard, approached them. “Good day, Princess.”

Rhaenyra’s focus shifted from Daemon to the knight standing before them with an urgent expression on his face. “And to you, Ser Lorent.”

“Princess Rhaenys has just arrived on dragonback. She urgently requests an audience with you and Prince Daemon,” Ser Lorent informed, his tone imbued with a sense of importance. 

Rhaenyra exchanged a glance with Daemon, an unspoken current of concern passing between them. Recognizing the gravity of the moment, she gave Ser Lorent a nod of acknowledgement, a silent command to proceed. The knight bowed respectfully, then turned to usher in the newly arrived guest. 

The unexpected presence of Rhaenys cast a palpable sense of foreboding throughout the room, the atmosphere charged with anticipation as thick and ominous as a dense morning fog. The Northerners hold to the adage ‘dark wings, dark words,’ yet one could only wonder what importance was ascribed to messages delivered on the wings of a dragon. 

Rhaenyra, lowering her voice to a whisper fraught with apprehension, confided in Daemon, “Could it be that… he has truly succumbed?”

Daemon responded with a subtle, assured shake of his head. “The old Sea Snake is made of sterner stuff. A mere blood ailment wouldn’t be enough to claim him.”

Rhaenyra harbored her doubts, why else would Rhaenys be here?

As the grand doors creaked open once more, their echoing sound filled the expansive hall. The quiet that followed was slowly engulfed by the wind’s relentless currents outside, which at times rose to a haunting howl as it wound through the castle’s ancient battlements. Over time, the sound had become as familiar as the walls – unnoticed until silence magnified its presence, making it seem as though the elements themselves were voicing their dissent. 

Rhaenys entered with determined strides, her footsteps echoing a steady rhythm on the stone. Her riding gear, reminiscent of battle armor, hugged her figure, its deep crimson leather designed to mirror the scales of her dragon, Meleys. The riding leathers were complemented by iron shoulder guards, lending her an aura of indomitable strength. 

And perhaps that, in itself, was what sowed the seed of dread within Rhaenyra. 

“The Princess Rhaenys Targaryen,” Ser Lorent declared with a formal tone, stepping aside to let Rhaenys pass. 

“Thank you, Ser Lorent.” With a nod of gratitude from Rhaenyra, the esteemed Kingsguard discreetly withdrew to the edges of the room, blending into the shadows as Rhaenys advanced to stand before the elaborately carved table of Westeros. Her searching gaze swept across its surface, then finally settled on Rhaenyra, her expression grave. 

“Princess Rhaenys,” Rhaenyra began, her hand instinctively moving to caress her belly, “might we hope for news of Lord Corlys’s recovery–”

“Viserys is dead,” Rhaenys cut in, carrying a sharpness that seemed to penetrate the very essence of Rhaenyra. 

The ground seemed to falter under her feet, her breath caught in her throat. Rhaenyra felt her heart pause, a momentary halt in its rhythm before it plummeted, becoming as dense and immovable as a boulder lodged within her ribcage. The shock of the words was so profound, so utterly disorienting, that for a fleeting moment, the world itself appeared to bend, leaving her suspended in a state of disbelief. She struggled to reconcile the news with the world she knew as her eyes locked on Rhaenys, a crease of confusion forming on her brow.

Rhaenys spoke again, her tone imbued with a shared sorrow and pressing a sense of urgency, “I grieve this loss with you, Rhaenyra. My cousin, your father, possessed a kind heart.”

With every step Rhaenys took towards her, Rhaenyra felt an overwhelming sensation, as though each footfall carried the force of a tidal wave poised to shatter her resolve, her composure fraught. The space between them closed, bringing into sharp focus the solemnity etched into the woman’s features. 

“There is more,” she uttered, words that seemed an attempt to soften the devastation she had yet to reveal. 

A profound sense of dread engulfed Rhaenyra, her heartbeat escalating to a frantic rhythm, as if it sought to escape the prison of her chest. The air around her thickened with an impending sense of despair, each breath she took shallow as the world seemed to press in around her. She battled the surge of tears that prickled at her eyes and the swell of fear that threatened to drown her. 

What more could there possibly be? Deep down, Rhaenyra knew what was to come, though she fiercely hoped to be proved wrong – she clung to this sliver of hope with a desperate tenacity, only to have it cruelly torn from her as Rhaenys spoke again. 

“Aegon has been crowned his successor,” Rhaenys revealed, her voice steady yet laden with the weight of the news she bore. This revelation struck Rhaenyra with the force of a physical blow, each word a heavy chain adding to the grief she already bore. 

A visceral, sharp pain tore through Rhaenyra, as if claws made of steel were shedding her insides. A soft, involuntary sound of distress slipped past her lips as she clutched the swell of her stomach, feeling another sharp stab shoot through her. She rubbed her stomach, attempting to soothe the pain and as the initial wave of agony subsided, she mustered the strength to look up at Rhaenys again, her face etched with devastation. 

“They crowned him?” She managed to utter, her voice a fragile echo of its former strength, no more than a mere whisper. 

In the dim light of the room, her gaze found Daemon, his figure slumped in a display of utter desolation. As he raised his head, a raw, youthful vulnerability surfaced in his voice, reminiscent of a boy grappling with the loss of his brother. “How did Viserys die?”

Rhaenys regarded Daemon with a slight lift of her brow, a subtle expression of surprise at his question. After a brief pause, she responded with measured words, “I could not say.”

“How long ago?” Rhaenyra inquired, urgency sharpening her tone as waves of panic and sorrow began to surge within her. The memory of their last farewell to him was hauntingly fresh; they had left with promises of a swift return. 

“Three days past, perhaps four. I was made a prisoner in my quarters while the Queen made her preparations.”

At this, Daemon’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles whitening with the force of his grasp. “Viserys has been slain.”

“Alicent demanded you declare for Aegon.”

“She did,” Rhaenys answered, a note of pity in her tone.

Rhaenyra felt a gentle sway of disbelief, a tightening in her throat as the stark reality of betrayal bit at her senses, igniting a painful burn within. The taste of hope, once so sweet and alive, now turned vile and rotten in her mouth. Betrayal, though not unfamiliar, never ceased to shock with its bitterness. She had foolishly believed that the fractures in her relationship with Alicent could be mended, that the closeness they once shared could be reclaimed. Yet, this egregious act of disloyalty had shattered such illusions, tearing open scars that had barely begun to heal. 

A sharpness took root in her gaze, as her perception of Rhaenys teetered on shifting. 

Rhaenys seemed to realize this and continued with a firm tone, “I refused her.”

“And yet you are alive,” Daemon observed, the remark carrying a note of skepticism and accusation. His nature was to preempt, to approach others with caution and a measure of distrust – to demand loyalty and respond to any measure of disloyalty with the cold precision of a blade, and if not that, then with firm condemnation. His circle of trust had always been tightly drawn, extended to only a few. And with the death of Viserys, that circle had shrunk. The notion that his brother would depart this world without a final farewell seemed an especially cruel jest. 

“The High Septon crowned Aegon in the Dragonpit,” Rhaenys elaborated, moving closer to Rhaenyra, the movement catching her attention as she struggled to reconcile with the magnitude of the betrayal she was hearing. The pain she felt was visceral, as though someone was tearing at her insides, wrenching her very soul. She barely managed to stifle a cry of agony. 

Rhaenys pushed forward with her account,  “I witnessed it myself just before I fled on Meleys.”

“They dared crown him before the masses?”

“So that the masses would see him as their rightful king–”

“That whore of a queen murdered my brother and stole his throne,” Daemon spat venomously, his anger as palpable as the crackle of the fire behind them and the howl of the wind outside the walls. “And you could have burned them all.”

“A war is like to be fought over this treachery, to be sure,” Rhaenys admitted, her tone steady in the face of Daemon’s fury. “But that war is not mine to begin. I only rushed this warning to you out of loyalty to my husband and my house, and out of love for Daenera.”

“And what of Daenera? Was she able to flee as you did? Is she here?” Another surge of pain coursed through her, as if clawing at her very being from within. Her heart ached, wrenching with worry and fear for her daughter at the possibility–of the likelihood that she was ensnared within the walls of King’s Landing while all of this unfolded. The sight of sympathy in Rhaenys’s eyes – a look tempered by years of her own losses and hardened by the chill of enduring grief – sent a fresh wave of panic through Rhaenyra. It felt as if fear seized her heart, squeezing it with a merciless force. The sharp pain left her gasping for air, her fingers clawing at the table’s surface in a feeble search for stability. 

Her voice grew more insistent and desperate as she demanded answers, “What has become of my daughter?”

There was a moment’s pause, a hesitation from Rhaenys that seemed to stretch into eternity before she finally spoke, “She stood with the Greens as they crowned Aegon… And… They announced her betrothal to Aemond.”

Rhaenyra’s reaction was immediate, a sharp intake of breath as her fingers clenched around the table’s edge. Briefly, she screwed her eyes shut, battling the surge of fear that threatened to overwhelm her and the sharp, distinct pain twist within her like a blade mercilessly opening her up. 

“She sided with the Greens?” Daemon’s incredulity was palpable, his tone imbued with a sense of betrayal as keen as the sword he wielded. 

“Yes, she–”

“She has forsaken us! Betrayed us for the sake of those vipers!” Daemon sneered. 

“No,” Rhaenys countered firmly, seeming to take a moment to steady herself against the tide of Daemon’s fury. “Like me, she was held captive, and she made an attempt at escape–one that I had hoped she was successful in, until I saw her on the stage. The Hightowers understand the significance of her presence, and it is of my belief that they coerced her into a show of support.”

“But you cannot be sure,” Daemon sneered. 

Rhaenys’s demeanor hardened, “She was ready to meet her end with the Greens, urging me to unleash Meleys fire upon all of them.”

“You should have,” Daemon retorted sharply, his gaze fierce and unwavering, eyes burning with rage. 

Rhaenys held his gaze, her resolve unshaken. “War is not mine to begin, and certainly not at the expense of Daenera’s life. If you want war, you will have to start it yourself.”

Locking onto Rhaenyra with an intensity born of urgency and concern, Rhaenys shifted her gaze. “I only rushed this warning to you out of loyalty to my husband and to my house. The Green’s are coming for you, Rhaenyra. And for your children. You should leave Dragonstone at once.”

The air seemed to thicken with tension following Rhaenys’s admonition, the words echoing ominously in the chamber. Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table, her knuckles whitening with the grip. Her heart thrummed wildly against her ribs, a chaotic melody of fear and stress, as the matter of the threat coiled in her stomach like a serpent. 

Without another word, Rhaenys turned, her movements deliberate and somber, as she walked towards the doors. 

The heavy echo of the warning lingered, a palpable presence in the room, as Rhaenyra remained motionless, save for the rapid rise and fall of her chest. And suddenly, a sharp, unyielding pang of pain lanced through her, drawing an anguished cry from her lips. The cry echoed, a haunting sound of sheer distress that bounced off the smooth stone walls. The tears she had fought so hard to keep back, dripped from her lashes as she instinctively wrapped her arms around her pregnant belly, a protective gesture amid the torrent of pain – accompanying this agony was a chilling fear, sparked by the sensation of unexpected wetness seeping between her legs. 

Trembling, Rhaenyra reached down, her hands unsteady as she lifted the fabric of her gown. Her fingertips grazed the wetness, tracing the chilling trail it left on her skin. When she looked at her fingers, the sight that greeted her was one stark, horrifying truth: they were smeared with a vivid red of fresh blood. 

She drew in a shuddering breath at the realization of what this meant, “The babe is coming.”

Daemon’s response was immediate and instinctive; he let go of his sword, the sound of metal meeting stone barely registering as he swiftly moved to his wife’s side. The clatter of his discarded weapon was lost to him as he kneeled beside her, offering her support as she began to falter, clutching the table for stability. 

“Summon the midwives, immediately!” He commanded Ser Lorent, glaring up at him as the knight quickly withdrew to do his bidding. His gaze fleetingly locked with Rhaenys’, the worry within her eyes unmistakable. Nevertheless, he quickly redirected his attention, brushing aside any further interaction with her as he concentrated solely on Rhaenyra, his concern for his wife eclipsing all else.

Feeling Rhaenyra’s fingers clutching him, her grip tightening in a desperate search for stability, he guided her arm around his neck and swiftly lifted her up. One arm supported her legs while the other encircled her back, ensuring she was held with care yet firmly enough to provide the support she needed. 

As he made his way to their private chambers, the seriousness of the moment bore heavily upon him. Each step echoed ominously through the corridors, Rhaenyra’s labored breathing filling the silence between them. Her heartbeat, rapid and strong against his chest, served as a harrowing reminder of what was at stake. Having already faced the profound loss of his brother, the thought of facing another loss so soon – that of his wife and their child – was unbearable.

Daemon had traversed this path before, an experience he hoped never to repeat. As he gently placed Rhaenyra on their bed, the fine embroidery and the silk bedding contrasted starkly with the direness of the situation. Rhaenyra’s eyes, awash with a tumult of pain and fear, wandered over her stomach, her fingers lightly drawing circles in what seemed like a feeble attempt to offer solace to their child within. 

“What are you going to do?” She inquired, extending her hand to intertwine with his. Her hold was at once delicate and determined, and in her gaze he found an unvoiced entreaty for assurance, for something to hold onto amid the uncertainty.

“All I can do,” He assured her with sincere resolve. “Prepare for what comes next.”

A wave of pain then seized Rhaenyra, her expression twisting in torment. Witnessing this, Daemon felt his heart tighten, as if caught in the merciless grip of a storm, each surge of wind poised to hurl him into oblivion. 

A sense of powerlessness gnawed at him, which could only give way to frustration and restlessness. In the midst of this helplessness, a fierce rage kindled within him, craving for something to burn against. It was a harsh realization – that while he could confront his enemies on the battlefield, in the confines of these walls, there was little he could do. This vulnerability, this inability to act, was an adversary unlike any he had ever faced or would ever face. It was in this powerless fury he found himself ensnared, surrendering to the blaze of his indignation. 

Drawing a deep breath to steady himself, he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to Rhaenyra’s sweat-slicked forehead. “Umbagon kostōba ñuha jorrāelagon”

Stay strong, my love.

Rhaenyra leaned into the comfort of his touch before permitting him to pull away, seeming to understand that he could not stay.

Daemon stepped back, casting a final, solemn look at the midwives who had gathered to assist his wife. With a nod of acknowledgement, he entrusted them with her care, his mind shifting towards the tempest brewing beyond the castle walls.

The looming prospect of war bore down on him, a burden both familiar and oddly comforting in its clarity of purpose.

Moving through the winding corridors of Dragonstone, Daemon was enveloped by the grandeur of the ancient fortress. Carved from the same stark, imposing rock that formed its foundation, the castle was a testament to the enduring legacy of his ancestors. Stone dragons coiled around pillars, their sculpted eyes catching the flickering torchlight, casting shadows that seemed alive, moving with the flames. The pervasive scent of the sea filled the air, a salty reminder of the island’s isolation and strength. 

These halls whispered of bygone eras, of dragons and the bloodline of House Targaryen – a lineage now under siege. 

Daemon’s ascent up the spiral staircase, which twisted upward as if reaching for the heavens, opening up into a corridor which finally led to the Maester’s chambers. Crafted from aged oak and adorned with iron dragons, it stood as a barrier to the knowledge held within. Gathering his resolve, Daemon knocked firmly, the sound resonating through the silent corridor, a clear call for counsel in the face of what lay ahead. 

The moment Daemon pushed the door open, he was greeted by a surge of warm air and the comforting smell of wood smoke. Maester Geradys, with his maester’s chain clinking softly, stood before him. Initially, there was a trace of warmth in the old maester’s expression, a stark contrast to Daemon’s grim visage. However, as the maester fully registered Daemon’s presence, his welcoming smile faded into a look of concern. 

“My brother, the King, is dead,” Daemon announced, finding the words filled with resentment. 

“Where have you heard such a thing?” Maester Geradys’s questioned, a confused frown deepening the line between his brow. “I haven’t received–”

“Rhaenys arrived on dragonback, directly from King’s Landing,” Daemon explained impatiently, moving into the herbally scented room as Maester Geradys stepped aside to welcome him in. “The Hightowers have seen fit to usurp Rhaenyra and have made a show of crowning Aegon as king.”

“By the gods…” Maester Geradys placed his hands on the surface on his desk, the gravity of the situation seeming to sink in. “This… This is an act of treason! This is preposterous! This–this will surely lead to war.”

Maester Geradys, seemingly overwhelmed by the prospect, staggered slightly before sinking into the chair behind his desk. “My prince, what would you have me do?”

Daemon’s response was swift and decisive, urgency treading through his composed delivery. “We’ve been taken by surprise, that won’t happen again. The Hightowers may have seized a momentary advantage, but it’s the last they will gain from us. Send words to our allies nearby, call for an assembly. We’ll need Lords Celtigar, Staunton, Massey, Emmon, and Darklyn. Inform them that their Queen summons them for their counsel. 

“The ravens will be sent without delay. With favorable winds, our allies will arrive at dawn on the morrow,” Maester Geradys assured him, quickly grabbing the quill, the maester’s chain jungling with the movement. “I will also send word to Driftmark, in the hopes that when Lord Corlys recovers, he will be informed and set sail.”

“Once you’ve dispatched the ravens, make haste to Rhaenyra,” Daemon instructed, his voice laden with a sense of pressing need. “It seems the news of her father’s passing and the treachery has brought on labor.”

At this, Maester Geradys snapped to attention, his reaction a mix of alarm and readiness. In his rush, the inkwell was knocked over, sending a cascade of ink across the desk, staining the parchment below. “But the time is not yet right. It’s too early.”

Daemon brushed aside the maester’s words, making his way towards the exit, but the clinking of chains and Maester Geradys’s call stopped him. “And the fate of Princess Daenera?”

Pausing at the threshold, Daemon’s silhouette framed against the door. “She remains in King’s Landing. We assume she’s been made a hostage.”

The Maester’s complexion visibly paled at the implications, a somber understanding flashing across his features. With a grave nod, he conceded, “I will reach out to your friends and allies for any information they are willing to impart.”

“I will patrol the skies until our allies arrive, and ensure that it remains ours,” Daemon declared. “The guards will be informed to keep vigilant, we do not know if the Hightowers decide to strike now that we know.”

A sense of grim satisfaction welled up in Daemon, a resonance with the imminent conflict that felt natural to him. Warfare was a realm in which he thrives, a domain of clear rules and brutal honesty that the Hughtowers would soon learn was perilous to invoke. Exiting the maester’s chambers, he encountered Ser Lorent and Ser Brandon Piper, the captain of the guard, their presence a reminder of the duties that lay ahead. 

As they moved down the serpentine steps of the Sea Dragon Tower, heading back to the heart of the castle, their footsteps resonated against the ancient stone, a drumbeat to war’s looming overture. 

“Increase the watch on the ramparts and keep an eye on the seas,” Daemon commanded, his voice embodying the essence of leadership. “We’ll be sending out ravens. Lord Celtigar, Staunton, Massey, Emmon, and Darkly will be joining us. The Hightower’s next move remains unseen. If Otto Hightower is as callous and honorless as I believe him to be, he will be sending men to cut our throats in our sleep. Treat any unknown faces with caution; detain and interrogate if you must.”

“Understood, Your Grace.”

Turning to face them squarely, Daemon’s expression was one of stern resolve. “Rhaenyra is the Queen now, and her safety is paramount, as is the protection of her heir, Jacaerys.”

The men nodded solemnly.

“Will you be with the Queen, now that she has gone into labor?” Ser Brandon Piper asked, his voice cautious and hesitant. 

Daemon gritted his teeth. “I will patrol the skies.”

It was the only thing he could do.

Returning to the great hall, Daemon adjusted Dark Sister, picking up the sword from the floor where he had left it to carry his wife to their bedchambers. Its cool steel provided a familiar, reassuring presence. An undercurrent of restlessness stirred within him, akin to the fervor he’d felt during his campaign in the Stepstones, particularly when he had received his brother’s missive announcing reinforcements. Back then, he’d been eager to demonstrate his independence and capability to conclude the conflict he had refused to acknowledge. 

Drawing Dark Sister from its sheath, Daemon allowed the blade to catch the light, its dark steel shimmering ominously. The weapon’s edge was unparalleled in sharpness, its rippled dark metal having tasted the lifesblood of countless foes. It was not merely a sword; it was a legacy. It had safeguarded the House against traitors, usurpers, and all who wished its downfall. Now, it seemed destiny called upon it to fulfill its purpose once more. 

With a fluid motion born of countless battles, Daemon twirled the sword, taking a moment to appreciate its craftsmanship before sheathing it once again. The thought of the Hightowers daring to usurp what belonged to the Targaryens ignited a fierce resolve within him. They would soon learn the folly of provoking the wrath of the dragon. 

Convinced of the Hightower’s guilt in Viserys’s demise, Daemon believed they had orchestrated the slow erosion of what set above the Targaryen house from all others. They had poisoned his brother’s mind against his own blood to consolidate their power. Years of manipulation had estranged him from Viserys, and now with his death, they robbed them of any chance for reconciliation. Despite Viserys’s weaknesses, he was still his brother, one he would have defended against all threats, including those from within. If only Viserys had placed as much trust in Daemon as he had the Hightowers they wouldn’t be where they were now. 

A fierce sense of anger burned within him, spreading through his veins and amplifying his restlessness. Clenching his teeth, he made his way towards the doors, and before he could emerge into the corridor, Jace’s voice cut through the air. 

“What is happening?”

“I don’t know,” Baela answered him, her voice tinged with confusion. 

“I saw Meleys on the beach,” Rhaena added. 

“Rhaenys is here?”

As Daemon stepped through the doors, converging on their little gathering, their gazes immediately locked onto him, quickly followed by a barrage of questions. 

“What has happened?” Jace pressed, his brow set in a firm, albeit confused line. 

“Is it Corlys?” Baela interjected, with Rhaenya further inquiring, “Is that the reason for Rhaenys’s visit?”

Faced with their eager demands for answers, Daemon responded with a weary hum, “Come with me.”

Daemon moved through their midst, his grip on the sheath unyielding, acutely aware of the worried and inquisitive stares that seemed to bore into him, an almost tangible sensation against his skin. The air hung dense with a palpable sense of dread, reminiscent of the ominous anticipation of watching a storm gather strength over the ocean. Dark clouds, vast and threatening, seemed to loom on the horizon, and it was as if the world held its breath, waiting for the inevitable deluge that the growing storm promised to unleash. 

With swift, deliberate steps, Daemon guided the children into Luke’s chambers, determined to unite them for this discussion. The sudden entrance roused Luke from his slumber, his hair disheveled, framing his face as he squinted, seemingly perplexed and irritated by the abrupt disturbance. As Daemon urged then to gather on the bed, Luke’s expression twisted into a confused scowl, filling the air with questions. 

Jace, Baela, and Rhaena joined Luke on the bed, excluding a blend of impatience that bordered on childish petulance. Daemon’s hand clenched tighter around the sheath of his sword, his eyes meticulously assessing each of them–the determined glint in Jace and Baela’s eyes, Rhaena’s measuring gaze, and Luke’s growing confusion that seemed to slowly grow into apprehension. 

“Viserys has passed,” Daemon told them, his voice measured as he let the information fall around them. The room fell into a profound stillness, a silence so dense it seemed tangible until it shattered under the weight of their barrage of inquiries. Their voices merged into a cacophony of confusion and worry, leaving Daemon scarcely a moment to interject. 

The news of his brother’s death was surreal. He felt as though he should have known, should have felt his death as keenly as the loss of a limb, but there was no such sensation, just a hollowed echo of memories and the pain of not having been there.

“Has mother been told?” Jace pressed, perched on the edge of the bed with a tension that suggested he might leap to action at any second. Beside him, Rhaena’s unease was palpable, her frown deepening as she speculated, “Is that the reason for Rhaenys’s presence?”

Interrupting, Baela sought more clarification, “So, Corlys lives?”

Her question barely hung in the air before Jace speculated about their mother’s new role, “With Viserys gone, that means that mother is Queen now.”

Luke, struggling to shake the weariness in his tone, voiced his concern, “Are we to return to King’s Landing then?”

“Has something happened with the Hightowers?” Rhaena asked and was then quickly followed by her sister's voice, seeking the reasons for the heightened vigilance of the guards, “Is that why the guards seem so on edge?”

“Does that mean we have to sail back to King’s Landing?” Luke asked apprehensively, seeming to already dread the journey on the waves. “Can’t I take Arrax instead?”

“If mother is Queen–” Jace started, but Daemon had reached his limit with their relentless questioning, not allowing him to get a word in.

“The King is dead, and the Hightowers have usurped the crown,” Daemon declared, his voice cutting through the chaos, decisively silencing the room with the finality of his words. “Aegon has been crowned King.”

This revelation hung in the air, leaving a stark silence in its wake as the significance of the situation began to dawn on them. 

Rhaena’s voice was laced with a tremble, betraying her understanding even as she posed the question, “What does this mean for us?”

“War,” Daemon replied succinctly. His voice was firm, brooking no room for doubt. “We’ve sent ravens to our closest allies; they should arrive by dawn. Until then, I will be patrolling the skies. I will not have us be caught unawares should the Hightowers decide to strike.”

His statement was more than a declaration; it was a reassurance of his readiness to protect them, a promise of vigilance in the face of a looming threat. 

“This is treason!” Jace declared, his voice thick with scorn. Frustration etched a deep furrow between his brows, his expression darkening as he leaped to his feet. “They have no right!”

“Sit down,” Daemon instructed, his patience wearing thin. 

“We should take our dragon’s to King’s Landing,” he argued, fueled by a righteous fury on his mother’s behalf. “Demand their submission or remove their traitorous heads. With Caraxes, Syrax, Vermax, Arrax, and Moondancer, we can force them into bending the knee. We cannot stand idly by while they steal our mother’s throne!”

Daemon’s response was measured, despite his own desire for immediate action. “Much as I share your urge to reclaim the throne, rash actions will not serve us now–”

“But we have more dragons than them!” Jace interrupted.

“We need to gather our forces,” Daemon countered calmly. “The number of guards we have are insufficient to protect the castle, much less against an assault from the Hightowers should they choose to attack us now. While we wait for our allies, we need to defend Dragonstone – and protect your mother, our Queen…”

Daemon allowed his words to sink in before he continued, “The unexpected news of Viserys' passing and the subsequent usurpation has hastened your mother into early labor. While she is abed, and we wait for our allies, we must remain here.”

“She is going to be fine, right?” Luke’s voice hung heavily in the air, pulling the tension taut as worry settled on them. 

Daemon hesitated, his eyes lingering on Luke’s anxious expression, a mirror to his own internal worry. He found himself at a loss for comforting words. The danger of childbirth was well-known, its risks amplified under the circumstances of this premature and abrupt labor. As if to underscore the severity of the situation, their mother’s cries of distress echoed through the castle corridors. 

“The master is with your mother now,” Daemon said, offering some semblance of reassurance amidst another distressed cry reverberating down the hall. “She is strong. Stronger than many give her credit for.”

“What of Daenera? Was she able to flee King’s Landing alongside Rhaenys? Is she here?” Rhaena inquired, concern etching her features. 

Daemon’s response was heavy with implication. “Daenera was unable to make her escape. She was at the coronation – she stood with the Hightowers in an apparent show of support–”

Before they could all erupt into yells, Daemon decisively held up a finger, silencing them before they could ever finish their sentences. “For now we are to assume she has been made a hostage.”

Jace’s reaction was immediate, his statement underscored by the nodding agreement of Baela and Luke. “We cannot just abandon her there. We need to devise a plan to rescue her.”

“And how do you propose we execute such a plan?” Daemon challenged, feeling the twist of exasperation and frustration in his chest. “Shall we take to the skies on our dragons and storm King’s Landing, leaving your mother undefended? Do you plan to threaten the destruction of the Red Keep to secure her release? Should Daenera indeed be their hostage, they’d likely end her life rather than return her to us. If we want your sister back, we must be clever about it.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Jace demanded, his frustration as palpable as his fear for his sister. 

“For the moment, patience is our only recourse,” Daemon responded, his tone laced with understanding. He saw a reflection of Ser Harwin Strong in Jace’s fervor–equally headstrong and impulsive, with a fierce need to protect his loved ones. Yet, Daemon also recognized that Jace would likely arrive at the same pragmatic conclusion. “You will attend to your studies and continue your training. Help me patrol the sky if you must. 

“You want us to proceed as though nothing has happened?” Baela countered apprehensively, a tightness of disbelief around her mouth. 

“What else can you do?” Daemon answered, drawing in a weary breath. “In tales of war, they seldom mention the waiting, but wait we must.”

Rhaenys made her way along the corridors of Dragonstone, her footsteps echoing against the ancient floors, each sound magnified in the silence of the stronghold. The light that streamed through the grand windows bathed the hallway in a brilliance that no flame could ever mimic. Yet, despite the sunlight, shadows clung stubbornly to the crevices, creating pockets of darkness that seemed almost alive. 

A call broke the quiet, “Grandmother!”

At the sound, Rhaenys paused and directed her gaze towards the source.

With a sense of urgency, Baela advanced towards her, the folds of her dress catching the light streaming through the windows, making the beads adorning it shine like tiny stars on a red sky. Her silver hair spilled wildly over her shoulders, reminiscent of her mother’s–she was an echo of her.

“I’ve just been informed,” Baela began, her tone laden with significance. The brevity of her statement left no room for doubt; the news she referred to had undoubtedly made its way through the castle, propelled by the urgent tidings Rhaenys had delivered not long before. This news, now spreading like wildfire through the corridors, was further fueled by the haunting, distant sounds of Rhaenyra’s labored cries, resonating with a foreboding echo throughout the castle.

“We must collect Rhaena and leave Dragonstone at once,” Rhaenys told, her voice tinged with a determination that matched the unease that seemed to chase at her heels. She wished to escape Dragonstone, to retreat to the safety of Driftmark and take solace there. She had no inclination to be swept up in the brewing storm, nor did she wished her grandchildren to be ensnared by it. “A storm is coming, we must leave before it ensnares us all in its tempest.”

“And go where?” Baela countered, her posture unyielding as she faced Rhaenys. 

“To the safety of High Tide–”

“High Tide won’t be safe,” Baela interjected sharply. “The Greens will assume we’ll declare for Rhaenyra.”

“High Tide is safer than Dragonstone,” Rhaenys contended, her voice treated with desperation. High Tide wasn’t just another castle; it was her home, a place where they could be safe and fortify against the gathering storm of war. With Corlys making his way there, its walls promised not just safety but a strength to stand against what was coming their way. Dragonstone would be swept up in the brewing tempest before long–if it hadn’t already. 

Baela, however, stood firm, her resolve unshaken by the plea. “If war is coming, it is coming for all of us. We cannot hide from it.”

“I’ve suffered too much loss, Baela!” Rhaenys snapped, her voice trembling as she locked eyes with Baela, the pain in her gaze as palpable as the sunlight that flooded the room. “I cannot endure another.”

Her confession laid bare the depths of her dread, a mother and grandmother haunted by the specter of loss, pleading for a reprieve from the specter of further despair. 

The memory of receiving Daemon’s letter, bearing the devastating news of her only daughter’s death, remained etched in Rhaenys’s heart, a scar that refused to heal. The anguish had been so overwhelming that she had found herself crumpling to the floor in front of the hearth, her sobs echoing in the cold chamber as the warmth from the gire failed to touch her grief-stricken form. Concerns for her health had summoned the maester, who feared the sorrow might break her heart so completely it ceased beating. Yet, her heart persisted, continuing its relentless beat, each pulse a reminder of her loss. 

In the days that followed, a stone coffin, painstakingly sculpted to resemble Laena, was commissioned from the finest mason within the Seven Kingdoms–and yet, it had not resembled Laena as she remembered her. Rhaenys could still recall the icy touch of the stone as she laid her hands upon it, the chill seeping into her bones, mirroring the void Laena’s death had left in her soul. 

Corlys had remained by her side, a silent pillar of strength, having seen men perish in the whims of war. He grieved Laena like the loss of his blood–and she grieved her as only a mother could. 

Corlys had made the decision to bar Rhaenys from seeing their daughter being enclosed within the casket, sparing her the torment of those final images. Instead, Rhaenys clung to the last memories of Laena–her vibrant smile and the color of her cheeks from flying, a juxtaposition to the unyielding coldness of the stone that held her body. Laena had been laid to rest in the depths of the ocean, joining the lineage of their ancestors, and not long after, her brother would join her in that silent, watery embrace. 

The loss of her son had shattered something deep within Rhaenys, a break that time could not mend. A pervasive fear, previously unknown to her, had begun to grow, watered by the harrowing memories of discovering his body. The scent of charred flesh, the sight of a face so consumed by flames that all features were obliterated, leaving behind nothing but blackened skin and empty eye sockets.The acrid smell of burning flesh lingered in her nostrils, a cruel reminder, rekindled with every whiff of smoke that crossed her path. 

And unlike Laena, there was nothing of Laenor left in the world. There was nothing to remember him by, no echo or trace of him in others. His absence was a void, an erasure so complete it was as if his essence had been wiped from existence. This absence, this nothingness where once there was laughter, love, and life, perhaps cut the deepest–a son who vanished as though he had never been at all. 

Baela moved closer, her expression softening, her voice gentle yet imbued with an underlying strength. 

“I am a dragonrider,” she declared, tracing the lineage of fire and resolve of those who came before her, “like my mother and father, and you.”

In Baela’s gaze, a fierce determination ignited, reminiscent of the blazing heart of a dragon’s breath–intense, unwavering. And as she spoke, her conviction seemed to resonate through the hall, echoing the ancestral call to arms. “If the Greens wish to usurp our Queen’s throne then they must be answered in fire and blood.”

In that fleeting moment, as the echoes of Baela’s words lingered in the air, Rhaenys saw not her granddaughter before her but a reflection of her own daughter. It was as if a piece of her soul burned brightly in Baela. Laena had had the spirit of a dragon–fierce, resolute, and as untamable as the beast she rode. Her essence was marked by an indomitable will and a fiery heart, traits that now lived on in Baela. 

“Do you think I jest?” Baela’s challenge came with a frown, her face etched with seriousness. 

Rhaenys’s smile was tinged with a bittersweet joy–a reflection of the sorrow of loss and the sweetness of love. “I just glimpsed my daughter in you, the first time in years…”

Baela blinked in astonishment at the depths of Rhaenys’s admission, momentarily caught off guard by the bluntness of it and the image it painted. A bloom of pride and confidence seemed to grow within her as she stood up a little straighter. 

“Laena would have been proud of you,” Rhaenys continued, her pride evident despite the sorrow that laced her words. “And so am I. But this conflict isn’t ours.”

“Mother would have us stand our ground and fight,” Baela said, her determination softened by an underlying tenderness.

“She would,” Rhaenys conceded, fighting back her tears and steadying her voice. “Yet, you’ve yet to grasp the full horror of what war means–the destruction it brings, the price it exacts.”

Baela’s response was sharp and carried the weight of conviction. “I understand what would happen if we don’t fight. Should we falter, our Queen will be usurped, perhaps even slain, and her children with her–Jace, Luke, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys would all meet the same grim fate. And us, we would spend our days looking over our shoulders, forever beneath the heel of the Greens, condemned to a life devoid of significance or security.”

Baela moved closer, her face a blend of empathy and unwavering determination. “My fate is entwined with Jace’s. As his future queen, this usurpation by the Greens threatens not just Rhaenyra but also Jace, and by extension, me.”

Rhaenys looked down as Baela gently took her hands, the warmth of her touch a stark contrast to the cool air of Dragonstone. 

“If we do not fight for those who we love, then what do we fight for?” Baela implored, her question cutting to the heart of the conflict. 

Rhaenys’s gaze lingered on her granddaughter. With a heavy heart, she acknowledged the resolve in Baela’s eyes, offering a solemn nod. “It is not my place to commit the forces of House Velaryon to this cause. However, I shall remain here on Dragonstone. I stand with you and your sister in spirit and, should Rhaenyra seek my counsel, I will offer it. But I will not take up arms. This battle is not mine to fight.”

A shadow of disappointment passed over her granddaughter’s face, prompting Rhaenys to gently cup her cheek, her touch tender, conveying a silent entreaty for understanding. “You are wise beyond your years, and brave. You will be a great queen.”

Baela’s expression softened under her grandmother’s comforting gesture, momentarily leaning into the warmth of her hand. However, it wasn’t long before a hint of apprehension crept into her demeanor.

“Father mentioned you saw Daenera.”

“Yes, I saw her.”

“He told us she stood with the Greens…”

“She stood with them,” Rhaenys confirmed, her voice carrying a note of resignation as she withdrew her hand. “But I do not believe that she had a choice. As I fled on Meleys, she cried out, imploring me to engulf them in flames, fully prepared to embrace her own demise.”

Rhaenys’s thoughts were a tumultuous sea, recalling the harrowing chain of events over the last days. She had been jolted awake by a scream–a sound so filled with agony that it was barely more than a whisper, yet potent enough to wrench her from her sleep. The raw anguish in that cry had sent a shiver down her spine, prompting her to try and leave the room, only to find her door locked from the outside. The screams had receded down the hallway, diminishing into an eerie silence, until a faint, muffled voice penetrated the wood and stone barriers of the walls. Daenera’s voice. 

She had sincerely implored the gods for Daenera’s safety, hoping they would aid her in her escape. And then she saw her standings among the Greens as they crowned the usurper king. 

In the throes of her escape from the Dragonpit astride Meleys, her deepest wish was to rescue her granddaughter. But the one-eyed boy wrapped his arms around Daenera, refusing to let her go. His determination had been clear in his gaze–a resolve that wouldn’t falter, not even under the threat of dragonfire. Daenera had understood this too. She had called out to Rhaenys, not for rescue, but for retribution, a plea to end it all in flames. The resignation and desperate yearning for release in her granddaughter’s eyes were a vision of both courage and despair, deeply etched in Rhaenys’s memory. 

And yet, Rhaenys couldn’t bring herself to do it. 

The choice to unleash destruction, even at Daenera’s behest, was a burden too grievous to bear. 

Rhaenys held firm in her convictions, refusing to cross the line into becoming a kingslayer or, far worse, a kinslayer. The conflict engulfing them wasn’t hers to ignite or extinguish. 

And the thought of subjecting Daenera to the same fate her children had suffered – to be consumed by flames – was unbearable. The haunting image of her granddaughter reduced to a charred corpse, her bright blue eyes liquified leaving dark hollows of despair where they should have been, as her children had been, was a specter she could not face. 

“We must retrieve her,” Baela’s voice broke through her thoughts. “We can’t leave her at the mercy of the usurpers.”

Rhaenys allowed herself a moment of closure, her eyelids shutting briefly as if to ward off the painful reality before opening them again, a newfound resolve hardening within. “Daenera is brave and clever. She will find a way to survive this ordeal, of that I am sure. Just as I once was, she is now a hostage, a pawn in their grand scheme. The Green recognize the value of keeping her alive, and they will exploit her situation to undermine Rhaenyra’s resolve. If Rhaenyra values the life of her daughter, she will yield to their demands.”

“Rhaenyra cannot afford to give in to them,” Baela countered.

“If she doesn’t, it may very well cost her daughter’s life,” Rhaenys said, her heart heavy. “And it will certainly start a war.”

[llondonfog]

For a painful soulamte au, what if the Dawn Knight was Lilias soulmate? And to make it more painful what if Dawn knew that Lilia was his soulmate somehow and still went to war with the fae because he couldn't stand to go against the family who raised him

Not a soul knew, except for Leia.

Leia knew because she knew everything about him— the leash of loyalty around his neck, the weight of despair upon his shoulders, the mark of his soulmate tattooed like a harbinger on the inside of his wrist.

Leia knew, and loved him for it all the same.

You are a knight, she would remind him on those moonless nights, delicate features as solemn as a saint as she laid her hands against the haunted hollows of his face, as merciful and sweet as her namesake. You are the only one out of them all who has the right to call himself so. What greater sacrifice have you given to my father, to our family, than the cost of love?

He loved her, too.

Her effortless charm and wit were always happy to fill his awkward and stoic silences, and she never shamed him for his reserved nature. She was a princess, born and raised to be a queen, and it sat right inside his heart that she should realize such a vision. Her kindness to their people, her kindness to her traitor of a knight— too kind, to allow him even into her arms and bed when his nerves fail him and the shadows creep in.

It's what he feels, when he places his hand on the swell of her gown, the gentle life growing inside of her: their child, steeped in kindness.

A tragic beginning that can only lead to a tragic end.

Leia is the only kindness that he's ever known, and the irony is not lost on him that she is not his soulmate, nor is he her own. She does not speak of the mark blurred and faded on her skin, and she does not press him for explanation when he disrobes for her and only her, and the bat in flight unfurls its wings upon his wrist.

She does not need to, for they both know whose standard he bears, whose symbol lays a claim that would spell betrayal and doom for his fate.

He lies there within the shelter of her embrace, her slim fingers weaving through his golden hair, and he wonders what manner of mark lies on the fae general's wrist. He wonders if it is of a gleaming sword raised to strike, or a loathsome owl, talons curled, both prepared to rid the fae of his heart and gift it to the enemy's feet. It must not be obvious, because the fae has never reacted to his presence beyond the expected vitriol to their immoral crusade. And each time that they meet, the gratitude of a coward lances through his veins for the sake of the helmet obscuring his expression— it is your eyes that give you away, Leia had murmured to him, her own dark and forgiving as they glitter in the candlelight. Your truest emotions lie within them, crystal clear and as unclouded as the brightest dawn.

He does not deserve her unshakeable belief, for he feels like the muddiest of waters, choked with debris and tainted by waste.

He does not deserve her, and as he clutches at his wrist in the night, nails all but digging into the taut flesh as if to pull the bat from his skin—

He knows that he does not deserve the general either.

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

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

Chapter Fifty-Two

In the very early hours of the next morning, Aemond's chambers were bathed in a soft, muted light. The remnants of the night's passion lingered in the air—a disheveled bed, a flickering candle casting a warm glow, and the faint scent of the previous night’s intimacy. The hearth, now reduced to glowing embers, whispered of the fading warmth that had filled the room.

Maera slowly awoke from her slumber, her green eyes, reflecting a mix of contemplation and contentment, gazed around the room. The brown curls of her hair, interwoven with a single silver streak, messily framed her face, a visual testament to the activities of her wedding night.

It didn't take long for her to realize that Aemond was still holding her, her head nestled against his chest. As she lay there, the weight of their consummation settled in her thoughts. She knew there had been a subtle shift within herself, a transformation that went beyond the loss of her virtue. Once friends, then enemies, then allies again, their relationship had traversed a complicated path, leading them to this pivotal moment of being husband and wife.

Careful not to stir too much and ruin the tranquility of the moment, Maera subtly breathed in her husband’s scent- the perfect blend of dragon smoke and leather, with a subtle hint of sweat and sex from their first night together. Her eyes then began to wander, tracing the faint white hairs that adorned his chest, mirroring the shade of his long silver hair. He sat slightly upright against his pillows, holding a red leather-bound book in the hand that was not wrapped around her, the single candle on his bedside illuminating the pages so he could read it.

His lean and muscular physique was evident against the flickering candlelight, from the defined contours of his torso to his arms, one of which was wrapped around her, fingers lightly tracing up and down her arm. There was almost an uncertainty to it, as if he did not know what it meant to be gentle, intimate, despite the rough caresses he had bestowed upon her the night before.

Maera quietly observed the tiny scars from countless sword practices etched across his chest, stomach and arms, each one telling tales of battles fought and victories earned, a tapestry of a life lived with purpose. Beneath the sheet that covered his lower half, the glimpses of his abdomen and the V-shaped muscles running from his hips to his pelvic region hinted at the strength that lay beneath the surface.

Her stirring had disrupted the peace, capturing Aemond's attention before he turned his gaze toward her. For a while, neither of them said anything. Instead, Maera took the time to really study his face with an attentive gaze, as if to familiarise herself with it. His contoured and chiseled features spoke of regality, with a sharp nose adding to the overall distinguished impression. His single violet eye, filled with depth, was complemented by the mesmerizing sapphire that occupied the other socket— something Maera was glad he had decided not to cover up again in her presence.

Aemond’s long straight silver hair, once braided on his scalp, now hung loosely, framing his face and adding a touch of untamed allure to his regal appearance. The strands caught the ambient light, creating a subtle play of shadows that danced across his features.

Maera allowed her finger to trace little lines across his broad chest, her voice carrying the remnants of sleep as she asked, "How long have you been awake?"

"About an hour," he replied, his expression unusually soft.

Propping herself up on her elbows, Maera remarked, "You always were an early riser, even when we were children." The words held a touch of nostalgia, a small reminder of the passage of time and the enduring connection between them. As she looked towards the chamber windows, seeing the gentle light filtering in, Maera could feel his gaze on her, wandering across her naked form. She felt a quiet satisfaction from this, a subtle blush gracing her cheeks.

Wanting to obstruct his view in a teasing manner, Maera brought the sheets up to cover her breasts before sitting up fully, the movement causing a twinge of pain in her lower region, a tangible reminder of the maidenhead that had now been broken. The discomfort, however, was not unwelcome. In her mind, she likened it to the muscle pain she experienced after sparring sessions with her brothers—a sensation that, though uncomfortable, signified effort and progress.

Aemond, seemingly sensing her discomfort, responded to her comment with a thoughtful hum, closing his book and placing it on the bedside table. He then reached out and began drawing patterns on Maera’s lower back, the featherlight touching causing goosebumps to form. The Prince sighed deeply before posing a question that lingered in the air. "Why do you think I asked to train with you at dawn?"

Maera looked over her shoulder at him, her curiosity evident in the arched eyebrow, speculated, "To avoid any prying eyes and being reprimanded, perhaps?"

Aemond then sat up fully beside her, moving her brown locks aside to begin peppering slow soft kisses on her shoulder, adding a layer of tenderness to the the air filled and the promise of shared mornings to come. Maera then felt him smirk against her skin as he contradicted her assumption.

"It was so I could spend my first hours with you," he declared, a sentiment that painted a familiar picture of the Aemond from their shared past. The revelation drew a genuine smile from Maera, a glimpse of the Aemond she once knew—a mixture of compliments, sincerity, and comfort.

And yet, she could not help but revert to their most recent method of interaction, playfully quipping, “Is that all it took for you to be nice to me? To allow you to finally bed me? Gods, usually you are much more cruel.” She then felt the familiar sensation of Aemond lightly biting her shoulder, the sting a welcome reminder of the night before, making her smile with a gasp.

The Prince, his tone taking on a suggestive edge, replied, "I can be cruel if that is what you desire." With a firm touch, he then grabbed Maera's chin with his finger and thumb. Bringing her face closer to his, he made a suggestive comment that hung in the air. The ghosting of his lips toward hers hinted at an imminent kiss, the charged atmosphere between them creating a sense of anticipation and shared desire.

The intimate moment between Aemond and Maera was abruptly interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. The Prince, visibly frustrated, huffed before commanding, "Enter."

The chamber door swung open, revealing first the young maid that Maera had met the previous night. She curtsied gracefully, little golden curls tumbling from her cap as she bowed her head, before attending to the now extinguished hearth.

Thena, with rosy cheeks and a beaming smile, entered shortly after, curtsying to the couple. Maera, happy to see her loyal servant, exchanged a brief but warm glance with her maid. The presence of a familiar face in the midst of her now forever changed life served as a comfort and strength that Maera would learn to adjust to her new role in due course.

After bidding them good morning, Thena addressed Aemond first, conveying the summons to the small council chamber, where they were to discuss the financial intricacies of the ongoing war effort. Aemond, though perturbed by the interruption, acknowledged the news with a nod, preparing for the responsibilities that awaited.

Shifting her attention to Maera, Thena began, "Princess," a title that still felt unfamiliar. “Lady Wylde and Lady Tarbeck have invited you to break fast with them and the young Wylde Lords before their departure from King’s Landing.”

A tinge of sadness lingered in Maera's eyes at the prospect of her family's imminent departure, but understanding their duties, she nodded, a mix of melancholy and acceptance.

Duty and obligation were constant companions in the life of royalty, and Maera couldn't help but marvel at how quickly the bubble of her new marriage seemed to burst. The contrast between the intimate moments shared with Aemond and the swift return to their duties left a bittersweet taste, a poignant reminder of the intricacies and sacrifices that came with being a noble, let alone a Princess of the Realm.

With a resigned exhale, Maera cast a smile at Aemond before begrudgingly leaving the bed. Swiftly, Thena draped a robe around her, guiding her to the dressing table, where Maera sat in order to be readied for the day, starting with the maid attending to her hair. The brown curls, mostly left down, framed her face, while two front strands were carefully pinned away. The routine felt like a familiar dance, a ritual of preparation for the day's duties.

In the reflection of the dressing table mirror, Maera saw Aemond rise from the bed. Taking a moment to thoroughly gaze at his lean, naked form, she couldn't help but smirk. She then watched him be attended to by the young maid, who laid out this clothes whilst Aemond placed his eyepatch over his face and put on his smallclothes.

His attire was the same usual look; a black leather doublet, trousers, and boots adorned by a thick black leather belt with a golden dragon buckle, a regal ensemble befitting his Targaryen lineage. The young maid then delicately brushed his long silver mane before tying it in a half up-half down style.

So entranced by her husband, Maera scarcely noticed Thena's skillful hands dressing her. When she finally turned her attention to her own reflection, she couldn't help but marvel at the exquisite dress adorning her. It was a garment of superior quality, a stark contrast to anything she had ever worn before.

The dress, mostly black, featured intricate gold embroidery along the off-shoulder sleeves. Voluminous black skirts cascaded elegantly, and at the center of the bodice, a golden dragon broach added a touch of royal flair. From the elbows hung black chiffon, resembling veils that added a touch of ethereal grace. Maera felt a mixture of awe and gratitude, as the attire marked not only her transition into the Targaryen family but also a newfound sense of regal elegance.

From across the room, Aemond's voice resonated, “Issa ābrazȳrys,” My wife, The words, a blend of affection and admiration, painted a blush across Maera's face, the connection between them deepening in the shared moments of the morning routine. With a sense of duty, Aemond then grabbed a large black leather book and a few scrolls from his writing desk. He made his way to Maera, standing before her, the weight of responsibility etched in the lines of his face.

Uncertainty clung to Maera as the prospect of separation loomed so soon after their wedding. It seemed unjust, as if they deserved more time to revel in the simple pleasures of being newlyweds. Yet, duty held sway, and Maera, stubborn in her own way, refused to admit that the day's parting would weigh on her. Seemingly sensing Maera's apprehension at their impending separation, Aemond gently grabbed her left hand. Bringing it to his lips, he grazed a kiss upon it, right next to the gold and sapphire ring he had gifted her. His gesture, a silent reassurance, elicited a glance from Maera, their eyes meeting in a moment of shared understanding.

With a smirk, Aemond whispered in a suggestive tone, "Kostilus koth gūrēntan nykeā ñuhoso naejot baririon skorkydoso olvie ao ozmijegon issa tolī,” Perhaps you could find a way to demonstrate how much you have missed me later. His seductive High Valyrian made her stomach fill with butterflies, but before she had the chance to reply, the Prince sauntered out of the door, his books and scrolls tucked under his arm. Maera breathed out a laugh, shaking her head at his attempt to toy with her yet again, but thankful for the secret banter as it provided distraction and promise for when they reunited.

With a spring in her step, she departed from the Prince’s chambers shortly after and made her way to her father’s chambers, where her family awaited her, bar Lord Jasper who would be diligently attending to his usual responsibilities. Reaching the rooms, the guards bid her a respectful nod before opening the doors for her, revealing a scene of mixed aftermath.

Maera found her stepmother and Faran slumped over their meals, clearly suffering the consequences of the night before. Lady Wylde's loosely braided blonde hair hung casually as she nibbled on some toast, attempting to nurse her ailments. Meanwhile, Faran held his head in his hands, the aftermath of a night of revelry apparent in his disheveled appearance. The irony of the moment was not lost on Maera, who noticed the contrast between the regal atmosphere of Lord Jasper's chambers and the aftermath of the family's festivities.

Luthor, on the other hand, stood at the window, looking out thoughtfully at the Keep's gardens, a glass in hand. His contemplative stance suggested a man deeply absorbed in his own musings, the surroundings of the Red Keep providing a backdrop to his introspection.

Meanwhile, Sabine pottered about the chamber, her movements purposeful and efficient. She served her husband, Lord Adrian, a plate of food with a smile, her subtle baby bump peeking out from her blue and silver dress. Lord Adrian affectionately patted the bump once she finished serving, exchanged a tender moment with his expectant wife.

Amidst the activity, Sabine's smile widened as she spotted Maera. She curtsied gracefully to her, a clear demonstration of Maera’s newly elevated status, before embracing her sister tightly, a clear expression of happiness for Maera evident in the warmth of their shared sisterly bond.

“You are practically glowing, sister,” Sabine smiled, reciprocating equal joy from Maera.

Luthor, in his characteristic sarcasm, interjected, “You can spare us the details of your coupling, Maera, lest you induce me to vomit.”

Maera arched an eyebrow, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips as she retorted, "But brother, this is my chance to pay you back for all the… adventurous tales of yours that I had to overhear." Her gaze shifted to Sabine, excitement gleaming in her eyes. "Sister, I must tell you about when my husband used his tongue on my…”

“Hells no!” Luthor shouted, clearly unamused, before walking to the table, snatching a bread roll and hurling it at Maera. The roll made contact with her dress, prompting her to pick it up and retaliate. Laughter bubbled between them as she playfully threw it back, watching it bounce off Luthor's head.

Lady Wylde, still nursing a hangover, groaned and pleaded for some decorum. "Can you two not behave with a modicum of restraint?" The request, delivered with a hint of exasperation and a tiny smile, highlighted the chaotic energy that filled the room, a blend of sibling banter and an atmosphere of affection and camaraderie among the Wylde family.

House Wylde gathered around a table to share breakfast, laughter and banter weaving through the air like a familiar melody. The clinking of cutlery and the muffled sound of joyous conversations painted a picture of a family enjoying a shared morning routine. All the while, servants moved in and out of the chambers, efficiently packing the family's belongings in preparation for their departure.

As Maera watched her family, a subtle ache settled in her chest, knowing how much she would miss these moments. Sabine and her husband sat close, sharing giggles and affectionate glances. Faran, with newfound enthusiasm, regaled them with tales of the many young ladies he had conversed with at the wedding. Luthor added a touch of sarcasm, speaking of his potential misery when he wedded the daughter of Lord Borros Baratheon.

Lady Wylde, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and affection, spoke about the children who awaited them upon her return. The family continuously filled each others plates, indulged in some pale wine and reminisced about childhood memories and the memories that would be made upon their return to Rainwood. Maera, while appreciating the warmth of these moments, couldn't shake the realization that the responsibilities of her new life meant she could not engage with her family as often as she would like.

As the maid announced the readiness of the carriages, a pang of sadness tugged at Maera's heart. Still, she masked her emotions with a painted smile and offered to accompany her family to bid a proper goodbye.

In the castle grounds, two carriages awaited the family, one for Sabine and her husband, the other for the remaining members of House Wylde. The sunlight danced on the stones, casting a warm glow across the scene as servants bustled around the carriages, ensuring everything was in order.

Maera bid each of her family members farewell with a mixture of warmth and lingering sorrow. She embraced and kissed her stepmother on the cheek, taking in the sight of Lady Wylde's blonde hair and turquoise cloak. Maera then pointed to a dark wooden chest on the back of the carriage.

“For my brothers and sisters, my Lady. Some toys and books and letters. Please, ensure they get them, and tell them I love them very much.” Her Stepmother smiled warmly and nodded in response. With a graceful step, Lady Wylde entering the carriage, a sense of separation loomed.

Squeezing Faran tightly, Maera took in the details of his mousey brown hair, scratchy beard, and grey eyes. "Behave yourself," she urged, a mixture of sisterly concern and humorous affection in her voice.

Faran, with a sarcastic twist, replied, "I will, Princess," and theatrically bowed, before Maera playfully nudged him toward the awaiting carriage. The exchange carried a blend of sibling banter and an underlying sense of love and connection.

In a tender moment, Maera stood before her other elder brother and fixed his brown cloak, smoothing out the collar to ensure it sat comfortably on his neck, meeting his gaze filled with melancholy. Her smile, though, carried reassurance as she affirmed, “If I can survive my betrothal, brother, then you most certainly can too.”

Luthor sighed, his eyes reflecting uncertainty, and voiced his concern. "But what if I do not like her? What if she makes me miserable?"

Maera smiled at him gently. “You must at least try, Luthor. Give her a chance, as I have with Aemond.” She saw the uncertainty cross his face before she added, “If it becomes too much, I will send for you. I am sure our father or Aemond could find a use for you." The promise lingered in the air, a sisterly vow to support him through any difficulty. A appreciative smile touched Luthor's lips as he embraced Maera tightly before stepping into the awaiting carriage. The bond between siblings, though changing, remained strong in that fleeting moment.

Turning to Sabine, Maera placed a hand on her sister's stomach, a gesture laden with significance. "The next time we meet, you will be a mother," she stated, a shared excitement for the upcoming chapter in Sabine's life.

Sabine arched her eyebrows in response, accompanied with a smile. “And perhaps, Maera, you too shall have a babe in your womb soon enough, making me a proud Aunt.”

Maera laughed, shaking her head, "I hope the Gods grant me a little more time before that happens."

As touching as the moment was between the women, there was an emptiness looming over them, a space that should have been filled by their other sister, who Maera had not seen in such a long time.

Expressing her concern, she admitted, "I cannot help but worry for Wynni. She should have been here, for the wedding.”

Sabine, attempting reassurance, suggested, "You always think of the worst possible outcome, Maera. Perhaps she is simply focusing on being the Lady of Hornhill."

Maera dismissed this with a shake of her head, insisting, "Even if that is the case, it is not like Wynni not to write, or be distant."

Taking Sabine's hand, Maera brushed her fingers across the knuckles, a gesture of both connection and concern. "I will write to Wynni again," she affirmed, her eyes reflecting determination. Turning to Sabine, she asked, "Will you do the same?" Sabine nodded, her response carrying the weight of their shared concern for their absent sister.

Lord Adrian then appeared at Sabine’s side, offering a hand to his wife, and a respectful bow to Maera. As she watched them walk away, Lord Adrian assisted Sabine into the carriage before getting in after her. The appreciation filled Maera as she observed how he cared for her sister, a silent acknowledgment of the happiness that Sabine had found in her new life. The carriage door closed, separating them physically but leaving an assurance of familial bonds that would endure the distance.

The carriages pulled away from the courtyard, the clip-clop of hooves gradually fading into the distance, leaving Maera alone in the stone walls of the Keep. As she stood there, a mix of emotions enveloped her. While Maera knew that this would be her life once she married, and she felt fortunate to be wed to Aemond, whom she already knew, a sense of sadness lingered. The uncertainty of when she would see her family again cast a shadow over the departure, a reminder of the sacrifices and changes that came with her new role as a Targaryen princess.

In the wake of their departure, Maera felt a profound shift within herself. The realization settled in that she now fully belonged to House Targaryen and had to fulfill her role as a Princess of the Realm. The weight of duty and the expectations that came with her position added a layer of solemnity to her thoughts, signaling the beginning of a new chapter in her life—one that required her to navigate the complexities of royalty with grace, resilience and caution.

Notes: hello yall! Sorry I’m being so shit at uploading, I’m taking on a load of extra shifts cos I’m poor af. But yeah, bye bye to the Wylde’s.

Tags: @blue-serendipity @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @shesjustanothergeek @watercolorskyy

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[this-is-ris]

Ris- Five Character Associations

Thank you for the beautiful Yein content and tag @iron-sparrow! this was such a wonderful exercise to do for my bnuuy ♥ and I'm eager to see more! Trying not to overlap tags, so anyone else who wants to join in please do! » EMOTIONS/FEELINGS

love hope safety grounded curious

» COLORS

green brown lavender baby blue indigo

» SCENTS

forests worn tomes flora wood honey

» OBJECTS

journals gleaner’s coat fresh cut flowers blue crystal necklace traveling pack

» BODY LANGUAGE

bright eyes studying features gentle fingers raking through hair tall and attentive ears heartfelt embrace hand placed over her heart

» AESTHETICS

dried petals pressed between pages in a journal fresh dew kissing the tendrils of a fern warm flickering candlelight starlight and a full moon peeking through forest canopies stack of fluffy strawberry covered pancakes

[reaper2187]

Ningguang x female reader

In the bustling harbor of Liyue, where the aroma of spices mingled with the scent of the sea, Ningguang stood at the highest point of the Jade Chamber, gazing out at the horizon. Her elegant figure was silhouetted against the setting sun, her mind preoccupied with thoughts of Liyue's prosperity and safety. Yet, amidst the responsibilities and concerns, there was one thought that lingered more persistently than the rest: Y/N.

Y/N, a traveler who had captured the heart of the Tianquan herself. Intelligent, courageous, and kind, Y/N had become an integral part of Ningguang's life, both personally and in her work to maintain Liyue's stability. The two had met during one of Y/N's adventures, and what had started as a chance encounter blossomed into a profound connection.

Ningguang sighed softly, her usually stern and composed expression softening as she thought of Y/N. She turned away from the window, her robes rustling as she made her way to the chamber's grand staircase. As if on cue, a gentle knock echoed through the chamber.

"Come in," Ningguang called, her voice steady and welcoming.

The grand doors swung open to reveal Y/N, her eyes lighting up as they met Ningguang's. She stepped inside, the flickering candlelight casting a warm glow on her features.

"Ningguang," Y/N greeted, her voice filled with warmth and affection.

Ningguang's lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. "Y/N. It's always a pleasure to see you. Come, sit with me."

They walked together to a plush seating area adorned with luxurious cushions and a low table set with fine tea. Ningguang poured a cup for Y/N, her movements graceful and practiced.

"How was your day?" Ningguang asked, handing the cup to Y/N.

Y/N took a sip, savoring the rich flavor before responding. "Busy, but fulfilling. I helped some merchants resolve a dispute at the market and assisted the Adventurers' Guild with a particularly troublesome commission."

Ningguang nodded, her eyes never leaving Y/N's face. "You always manage to bring order wherever you go. It's one of the many things I admire about you."

Y/N blushed at the compliment, her heart swelling with affection. "Thank you, Ningguang. That means a lot coming from you."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Ningguang reached out, her hand gently covering Y/N's.

"Y/N," she began, her voice softer now, "I've been thinking a lot about us lately. About what you mean to me."

Y/N's breath caught in her throat. She looked into Ningguang's eyes, seeing a rare vulnerability there. "Ningguang… I feel the same way. You've become so important to me. More than I ever imagined possible."

Ningguang's grip tightened slightly, her thumb brushing over Y/N's knuckles. "I want you to know that whatever happens, you have a place here. With me. In the Jade Chamber, in Liyue… in my heart."

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes as she leaned in, her forehead resting against Ningguang's. "And you have a place in mine. Always."

Ningguang closed her eyes, savoring the closeness, the intimacy of the moment. "I've always been cautious with my heart, Y/N. But with you, it feels right. It feels like home."

Y/N smiled through her tears, her free hand coming up to caress Ningguang's cheek. "You've given me a home too, Ningguang. In more ways than one."

They stayed like that for a while, basking in each other's presence, the world outside forgotten. Eventually, they pulled apart, though their hands remained intertwined.

"Stay with me tonight," Ningguang whispered, her eyes pleading. "Let's forget about the rest of the world, just for a while."

Y/N nodded, her heart pounding with love and anticipation. "I'd love nothing more."

They spent the evening together, sharing stories and laughter, the bond between them growing stronger with each passing moment. As the night deepened, they found solace in each other's arms, the weight of their responsibilities and the world's demands fading away.

In the quiet intimacy of the Jade Chamber, surrounded by the soft glow of lanterns and the gentle hum of the night, Ningguang and Y/N found a sanctuary in each other. Their love, forged in the fires of adventure and adversity, was a beacon of hope and joy, a testament to the power of connection in a world that often seemed overwhelming.

As they drifted off to sleep, wrapped in each other's embrace, they knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together. For in each other, they had found not just a partner, but a kindred spirit, a love that transcended the ordinary and touched the very essence of their souls.

And so, under the watchful gaze of the stars and the serene calm of the Jade Chamber, Ningguang and Y/N dreamed of a future filled with love, adventure, and the unbreakable bond they had forged.