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novaursa · 6 months ago

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Where Honor Burns

- Summary: After the tragedy Above the God's Eye, you decided to go to King's Landing, in hope to prevent more bloodshed. Even if it means your death.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Gwanye Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after The Chains We Break. To read all parts in chronological order visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. Also, in this AU Rhaenyra never sized King's Landing.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 017

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs @sachaa-ff

- A/N: you guys liked this so much I've decided to push next part out early again, since I have the entire thing finnished already for some time and I feel unfair to keep it from you, as it's very well recived series. There will be one more part of this posted, then it's done. Enjoy. ❤️

The day dawns with gray skies, heavy with the weight of impending rain, as if the gods themselves mourn what has been lost. You stand at the edge of Dragonstone’s cliffs, fingers tightening around the rough parchment in your hand. The inked words smudge slightly from the salt in the air—or perhaps it is the tears you refuse to shed.

Daemon is dead.

The news is sharp and bitter on your tongue, like ashes. You should feel grief, yet what blooms in your chest is nothing more than an emptiness edged with relief. Daemon’s death severs the last frayed threads binding you to him, a marriage that was doomed from the moment it began. The years of ambition, control, and quiet disdain have left scars deeper than any sword could carve. The day you and Rhaenyra agreed to release Gwayne to Otto—sealed your doom as Daemon’s wife. He never forgave you for that.

The sound of footsteps draws you from your thoughts. Vaeron approaches, his brow furrowed, his usually confident stride hesitant. He’s grown into a fine young man—strong and determined, the fire of Old Valyria running hot in his veins, a fire that no doubt still confused him, born as he was not of Daemon’s blood but of Gwayne’s. The tension between them had only worsened in recent months, yet Vaeron was still the same boy Daemon had taken under his wing, raising him as his own.

“Mother,” Vaeron’s voice is tight, the pain behind it unmistakable. “Is it true?”

You nod, unable to bring yourself to repeat the words. “Daemon and Aemond both perished above the Gods Eye.”

He inhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, full with the silver of his true heritage. “He was a fool to challenge Aemond alone,” he murmurs, but there is no triumph in his voice, only a deep-seated sorrow. Despite everything, Vaeron still sought Daemon’s approval, still yearned for some semblance of affection from the man who had twisted the role of father into something cruel and cold.

You reach out and place a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension beneath his skin. “He made his choice, just as we all have,” you say, your voice soft yet firm. “This war has gone on long enough. Too much blood has been spilled, and more will be if we do nothing.”

Vaeron’s gaze sharpens as he looks at you, the young warrior ready for battle in his eyes, but beneath it lies uncertainty. “What are you planning, Mother?”

You straighten your back, steel in your voice as you declare, “I’m going to King’s Landing.”

The words hang in the air like a thunderclap. Vaeron’s eyes widen in shock, a flicker of fear quickly masked by anger. “You can’t! They’ll kill you the moment you set foot near the Red Keep. You’re the one who crippled Aegon at Rook’s Rest! They’ll flay you alive for that alone!”

A bitter smile touches your lips. “Perhaps. But we cannot keep hiding behind dragons and armies, waiting for a decisive blow that may never come. Rhaenyra has the right to the throne, but we cannot burn the realm to the ground for it. Someone must act before there’s nothing left to rule.”

“Mother, please,” Vaeron’s voice breaks with desperation now. “If not for yourself, then for me. You’re all I have left.”

You feel the sting of tears prickling at the edges of your vision, but you blink them away. You’ve made your choice, and there is no room for doubt. You cup his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin under your palm, and see the boy you once cradled as a babe, a child of love born in secret. “I am doing this for you, Vaeron. For you, and for the realm. The bloodshed must end, and if it is my life that brings peace, then so be it.”

He looks at you, eyes shining with unshed tears, his jaw clenched. “You can’t do this alone.”

“No,” you agree, your voice softening. “But I must be the one to start it.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The wind howls around you, the sea crashing violently against the rocks below. Vaeron pulls away, shaking his head as if trying to ward off the inevitability of it all. “I’ll go with you,” he finally says, determination hardening in his voice.

You shake your head gently. “No, my son. You’re needed here. If things go wrong, Rhaenyra will need someone she can trust—someone with a clear head. You must protect your family, no matter what happens.”

He clenches his fists, trembling as he battles between wanting to protect you and knowing you’re right. “I hate this,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I hate all of it.”

“So do I,” you reply, your voice breaking. “But sometimes, we must do what is necessary, even if it costs us everything.”

You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his brow, and for a fleeting moment, you allow yourself to hold him close, the way you did when he was small, and the world was far simpler. When you pull back, his face is set in a mask of determination, so much like yours when you were younger, filled with dreams and desires that have long since turned to ash.

“Stay strong, Vaeron. For our family. For the future.”

With that, you turn and walk back toward the fortress, your steps heavy with the weight of what you must do. Behind you, the wind carries the sound of your son’s quiet sobs, a painful reminder of all that this war has taken and what it will still demand before it is over.

You do not look back. You cannot afford to.

You have a realm to save.

King’s Landing reeks of decay, the stench of rot clinging to every breath. Gwayne Hightower stands on one of the parapets overlooking the city, the once-proud banners of the Greens fluttering lifelessly in the breeze. His gaze is fixed on the distant horizon, where storm clouds gather ominously, but his thoughts are elsewhere—always elsewhere. No matter how far he tries to distance himself from the past, it haunts him relentlessly, like a ghost that refuses to be exorcised.

It has been months since his return to the capital, and yet every corner, every shadow in this city, reminds him of her. Of Y/N. His beloved, and the sister of the woman the Greens have fought so bitterly to keep from the throne. He grips the stone ledge tightly, knuckles white as he remembers the day he was brought back, humiliated and paraded like a traitor, a stain upon his family’s honor.

He had expected death. He would have welcomed it if it meant sparing him from the hollow gaze of Ser Criston Cole, who had demanded his execution for treason. The memory of Cole’s cold sneer, his self-righteous fury, still makes Gwayne’s blood simmer. The man had practically salivated at the thought of executing him, of making an example out of the “traitorous” Hightower who had saved Rhaenyra’s sister from the flames at Rook’s Rest. He would never regret that decision. Not for all the power, gold, or prestige in the world.

But it was not Cole who held Gwayne’s fate. It was his father, Otto, and his sister, the Dowager Queen Alicent, who intervened, silencing Cole’s demands with a forceful refusal. Yet, they had not been merciful. No, they had allowed the rotting head of Silverwing to be mounted for all to see, a cruel display meant to drive a wedge deeper into Gwayne’s heart. Silverwing, Y/N’s dragon, who had died protecting her—left to wither and decay like a forgotten relic. It was an injustice that Gwayne bore like a festering wound, a humiliation barely concealed beneath the mask of duty.

He shuts his eyes, and her face comes to him unbidden—the softness in her eyes that had never wavered, not even in the face of Daemon’s cold disdain, or the harsh realities of war. He remembers the warmth of her hand in his, the way her voice had soothed the fear in his heart, even when the world around them was crumbling. How could he not have saved her that day? How could anyone expect him to do anything less when it was her life at stake?

The rustle of skirts and the subtle scent of lavender and rosemary pulls him from his reverie. Gwayne opens his eyes, finding his sister standing beside him, her expression unreadable. Dowager Queen Alicent still carries herself with the grace of a woman who has shouldered too much, yet refuses to break beneath the weight. Her once fiery determination has dulled into a cold resolve, a woman shaped by grief and loss, and the endless machinations of court.

“Brother,” she greets softly, her voice carrying the echoes of weariness. “It’s been too long since we spoke.”

He offers her a tight nod, forcing the tension from his jaw. “It has, Your Grace.” The formality is deliberate, a barrier between them. Though they share blood, the distance between them has grown insurmountable over the years.

Alicent’s eyes flicker with something—regret, perhaps?—before she turns her gaze to the city below. “I’ve heard whispers that you’ve been restless of late. The men say you spend too much time brooding alone, staring into the distance as if searching for answers the gods have hidden from us.”

“I am where I am needed, as you and Father commanded,” he replies curtly, unwilling to entertain her probing. He knows what she’s doing. She’s always been good at drawing out what’s hidden beneath the surface, even when he wishes she wouldn’t.

She sighs softly, a sound filled with unspoken words. “You blame us for what was done to Silverwing.”

Gwayne’s grip tightens on the stone again. He doesn’t deny it. “It was a needless cruelty. She was a noble creature who died protecting her rider. Displaying her head like that—it was an insult to the memory of what she represented.”

“An insult, perhaps,” Alicent admits, her tone carefully measured. “But it was necessary. The people needed a symbol, something to remind them of the cost of defiance.”

He scoffs, bitterness curling his lips. “Defiance? Is that what you call saving someone I love?”

The admission slips out before he can stop it, the rawness of his emotions slicing through the air between them. Alicent’s eyes widen slightly, surprise momentarily breaking through her composed mask. But she recovers quickly, her gaze softening as she studies him. “You still think of her.”

“Every day,” Gwayne says quietly, the ache in his chest tightening. “I think of her every godsdamned day, and I regret nothing. You can have me stripped of titles, cast me into the black cells, and I would still choose to save her.”

For a long moment, there is silence between them, broken only by the distant clamor of the city below. Alicent’s eyes are misty as she watches him, her lips parting as if she’s searching for words that won’t come.

Finally, she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. “Love makes fools of us all, Gwayne. It blinds us to what is prudent, to what is wise. I once knew a man who would have risked everything for love, but time and circumstance have a way of teaching us that such devotion often leads to ruin.”

Gwayne meets her gaze, defiance burning in his eyes. “Then let me be a fool, Sister. I would rather be a fool than a coward who sacrifices what is right for what is safe.”

A flicker of pain crosses Alicent’s face at his words, but she doesn’t flinch. “I pray that the choices you’ve made do not bring you to ruin, Gwayne. We’re all caught in this web of power and bloodshed, each of us trying to hold onto what little we have left.”

Her words linger, heavy with the weight of their shared burdens. Gwayne looks away, his heart still tethered to thoughts of Y/N, of what might have been had the world been kinder, had fate been less cruel.

But the world is what it is—a place of suffering, where even the most noble acts are punished and love is a weakness to be exploited. Yet, even knowing that, he would still choose her. Every time.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” Gwayne says after a long pause, his voice thick with resignation. “Daemon and Aemond are dead. The game we’ve all played has grown cold, and soon it will be Rhaenyra or Aegon who claims the last move.”

“Perhaps,” Alicent murmurs, though her eyes are distant, as if she’s looking at something far beyond this moment. “But war has a way of devouring everything in its path. Whatever happens next, we must be ready.”

Gwayne doesn’t reply. His thoughts drift back to Y/N, to her strength and the resolve she must be clinging to now. He wonders where she is, if she’s safe, and if she ever thinks of him the way he thinks of her.

But such thoughts are a luxury he cannot afford. He is here, bound by duty, trapped in a city where his only solace is the memory of what once was—and the unshakable knowledge that he would do it all over again, consequences be damned.

The clouds overhead break, and the first droplets of rain begin to fall. As the chill seeps into his bones, Gwayne turns away from the edge, leaving the ghosts of what might have been behind, even if they’ll never truly leave him.

The streets of King’s Landing are thick with discord, and the air hums with the whispers of the crowds. The cobblestones are slick with grime and spilled wine as people press closer to watch, their eyes gleaming with morbid curiosity. The moment you arrived at the city gates, there was no ceremony, no dignity—only the iron grip of Ser Criston Cole’s men as they dragged you from your mount, jeering insults trailing in their wake.

“Look at the whore! Just like her sister!”

The words sting like poisoned arrows, yet you hold your head high, refusing to break. The crowd surges, pressing closer, feeding on the spectacle of your humiliation. You’ve been paraded through the streets like a common criminal, Cole’s grip never loosening as he drags you closer to the Red Keep, his eyes alight with vindictive satisfaction. It’s clear he’s been waiting for this moment, to claim victory over the woman —Rhaenyra— who once defied him and the family he serves so devoutly.

He stops abruptly before the gates of the Red Keep, turning to the gathered throng with a sneer curling his lips. “Behold! The dragon’s whore, sister to the pretender queen, come to grovel for mercy she does not deserve!” His voice carries, cold and mocking, inciting the crowd further. They howl their approval, eager for blood—yours or anyone else’s. It makes no difference to them.

But you do not bow your head. You meet Cole’s gaze with icy defiance, refusing to let him see how your heart hammers in your chest. The memories of Silverwing’s rotting head flash in your mind, a stark reminder of the cruelty that awaits you here. But you force yourself to stand tall. You’ve faced worse than this.

You’re brought into the throne room, where Alicent Hightower and her father, Otto, wait. Aegon’s absence is notable, but you know the reason. The rumors speak of his broken body, of his delirious cries as the milk of the poppy steals his sanity away. The once-proud king is now nothing more than a husk, a shadow of the tyrant he once was.

Alicent’s expression is tight with a mixture of weariness and caution, her eyes flicking between you and Cole as if assessing the weight of this confrontation. Otto stands beside her, his face carved from stone, every line etched with ambition and ruthlessness. It’s clear they intend to wring every ounce of leverage from this moment.

“You have a great deal of nerve coming here,” Otto begins, his voice clipped, “knowing the crimes you’ve committed against this family and this realm. You crippled the king, threw the Greens into disarray, and now you slink back like a beggar, expecting what? Mercy? Forgiveness?”

You square your shoulders, refusing to cower. “I came to end the bloodshed. How many more sons, brothers, and fathers must die before you realize that this war has no victors? Only ashes.”

Alicent’s eyes darken, the mention of sons clearly striking a nerve. She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can, the doors burst open, and Gwayne strides in, his face a mask of barely-contained fury.

“Enough of this!” he bellows, his voice reverberating through the chamber. He moves to rush toward you, but Cole steps forward, his hand already on the hilt of his sword, blocking Gwayne’s path.

“Stay back, Ser Gwayne. This is not your concern,” Cole snaps, his disdain for Gwayne evident in every word.

Gwayne’s eyes blaze as he turns his glare on Cole. “Not my concern? You dare speak to me of what concerns me when you’ve dragged the mother of my son through the streets like some common criminal? You’ve no right to degrade her like this!”

Otto’s eyes narrow at his son, but his voice remains calm, almost condescending. “You forget your place, Gwayne. This is not a matter for your heart to decide. The woman stands accused of treason, of crimes against the Crown.”

“I care nothing for your accusations, Father!” Gwayne’s voice cracks with the intensity of his emotions. “I will not stand by while you humiliate the woman I love—while you let her suffer when this war has already taken too much from all of us!”

There is a silence that follows his words, thick with the weight of what he’s just confessed. Alicent’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, her gaze softening with a flicker of sympathy as she studies her brother’s desperate expression. She’s lost so much—Aemond to the skies above the Gods Eye, Daeron at Tumbleton, and Aegon reduced to a broken shell. For a moment, her mask of cold resolve cracks.

“What would you have me do, Gwayne?” she asks quietly, almost pleading. “What resolution is there, when every path leads to more bloodshed?”

Gwayne takes a step forward, his voice gentler now, imploring. “Let me marry her. Let Viserys’ refusal be buried with him. If we end this cycle of vengeance, perhaps—just perhaps—we can stop this madness. Rhaenyra’s forces are strong, but even she tires of the bloodshed. The realm cannot survive more of this conflict.”

Alicent’s lips press into a thin line, uncertainty warring with her long-held beliefs. “Marrying her would be an insult to the Greens, to everything we’ve fought for. How can you ask me to allow such a union?”

“Because you’ve already lost two sons,” Gwayne says, his voice raw with pain. “Daemon is dead, and so is Aemond. Aegon is no longer fit to rule. You know it, Alicent. We’re fighting a war for a crown that no one truly wants anymore—not in the way it once mattered. The people starve, the dragons die, and for what? The Iron Throne is a curse, not a prize. Let there be peace. Let us find some measure of hope before it all crumbles to dust.”

His words hang heavy in the air, each one a plea, not just for your freedom, but for an end to the suffering that has stained this realm. Alicent looks away, tears glistening in her eyes as the truth of his words gnaws at her heart.

Otto, however, is unmoved. “You would throw away every gain we’ve made for the whims of your heart? This woman’s marriage to Daemon was a slight to our family’s honor from the beginning. To accept her now would be to admit defeat.”

But before Gwayne can respond, Alicent raises a hand, silencing them both. Her voice is quiet, but it carries the full weight of her authority. “No, Father. Perhaps Gwayne is right. How much more can we lose before there is nothing left worth protecting?” Her gaze turns back to you, and for the first time, you see not just a queen, but a mother who has lost almost everything. “If there is a chance to end this, to save what remains of our families, then we must take it.”

Gwayne exhales shakily, relief flooding his features as he steps closer, his eyes locking onto yours. “Let me marry her, Alicent. Let this be the beginning of something better—something that might actually last.”

Alicent stares at you for a long, agonizing moment, weighing the choice before her. Then, finally, she nods, her voice laced with exhaustion. “Very well. The marriage will be sanctioned. But know this—if this decision leads to more chaos, more ruin, it will be on your head, Gwayne.”

Gwayne bows his head in gratitude, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, Sister.”

Cole steps back reluctantly, anger simmering in his eyes, but he knows better than to openly defy the queen. As the tension in the room finally begins to ease, Gwayne moves to your side, his fingers brushing against yours, a touch meant to ground you both after everything that has happened.

You meet his gaze, the storm of emotions within you barely held in check. This was not the path you envisioned, nor the life you had dreamed of, but it is the one before you now. And perhaps, in this fragile truce, there is a glimmer of hope—for your son, for Gwayne, and for the future you might yet carve from the ruins of war.

For now, you allow yourself the comfort of his presence, knowing that whatever comes next, you won’t face it alone.

The room is dimly lit, the flickering light of candles casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The scent of roses and herbs wafts through the air as the servants bustle around you, their hands quick but gentle as they prepare your bath. You can barely focus on their movements; your mind is still spinning from the events of the day, from the jeers of the crowd to the cold fury in Otto’s eyes. Your body aches, the cuts and scrapes from being dragged through the streets stinging sharply with every brush of fabric against your skin.

When you finally lower yourself into the steaming water, a hiss escapes your lips as the heat bites into your wounds. You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, determined not to show even the smallest sign of weakness. The water slowly works its way into your muscles, easing some of the tension, but your thoughts remain a tangled mess. You think of Vaeron, of what he must be feeling, and of Gwayne—the man who risked everything for you, who still fights for you.

The sound of the door creaking open draws your attention. You glance up, expecting one of the servants, but instead, you see Gwayne. His presence fills the room, his eyes blazing with barely-contained anger. The servants freeze, their hands mid-task, exchanging nervous glances.

“Out,” Gwayne says, his voice low and commanding.

The servants hesitate, torn between obeying their orders and respecting the strict instructions they’ve been given by Otto. But Gwayne steps forward, his gaze hardening. “I said out,” he repeats, more sharply this time.

The authority in his voice leaves no room for argument. The servants bow hastily, gathering their things and scurrying out of the room, leaving you alone with him. The door closes behind them with a resounding thud, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker.

You watch Gwayne as he strides toward you, his expression softening as he takes in the sight of you in the bath. But there’s still a dark fury simmering beneath the surface, a quiet rage barely held in check. He kneels beside the tub, his eyes raking over your body, lingering on the cuts and bruises that mar your skin. His jaw tightens as he reaches out, his fingertips grazing a particularly nasty scrape on your arm.

“They did this to you,” he murmurs, his voice trembling with barely-suppressed anger. “Cole did this to you.”

You can see the guilt in his eyes, as if he blames himself for not being there, for not stopping it before it happened. You reach out and touch his hand, trying to reassure him, but the moment your skin meets his, something shifts between you. The air grows thick with tension, a tension that has been simmering for far too long.

“Gwayne,” you whisper, but it’s all you manage to say before the words are stolen from your lips by the intensity in his gaze.

Without a word, he leans forward, cupping your face with both hands, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. His touch is soft, almost reverent, but beneath it, you feel the tremor of barely-contained desire, of need and longing that has been held back for far too long. He moves closer, and you feel his breath against your lips, warm and ragged.

“I can’t bear seeing you like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t stand knowing what they did to you, how they hurt you.” His eyes darken, his expression raw. “You deserve so much more. You deserve everything, and all they’ve ever given you is pain.”

His words are laced with a desperation that pulls at something deep within you. You’ve both suffered so much, sacrificed so much, and yet, here you are, still drawn to each other with a pull that’s stronger than duty or fear.

You don’t know who moves first—whether it’s you or him—but suddenly his lips are on yours, and the dam that’s held back your desire for so long shatters. The kiss is not soft or tentative; it’s fierce, fueled by months of longing and years of denied affection. His hands cradle your face, and you respond with equal fervor, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him closer.

The kiss deepens, turning frantic, as if you’re both afraid that if you stop, the world will tear you apart again. You can taste the salt of your own tears mingling with his as he kisses you with a passion that’s almost overwhelming. Your bodies move of their own accord, and before you know it, you’re both reaching for each other with a desperate urgency.

Gwayne pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his eyes searching yours, filled with a hunger that leaves no room for hesitation. “Let me have you,” he breathes, his voice husky. “Let me show you how much I need you.”

You nod, the words caught in your throat, and he rises to his feet, his eyes never leaving yours as he sheds his cloak and begins to unlace his tunic. You watch, your heart pounding, as he strips away the layers, revealing the body you’ve longed for, the one that’s haunted your dreams. There’s no more hesitation, no more fear—only desire, raw and unbridled.

He steps closer, helping you out of the bath, his hands warm against your damp skin. You undress him as he guides you toward the bed, your hands trembling with anticipation. The kiss is reignited the moment you’re close enough, fiercer now, more demanding. There’s no gentleness this time—only a primal need to feel each other, to claim and be claimed.

When he finally presses you down onto the bed, there’s nothing slow or tender about the way he moves into you. It’s not like the times you’ve been together before, where every touch was measured, every caress deliberate. This time, it’s raw, almost rough, driven by months of pent-up desire and longing. He thrusts into you with a desperation that makes you gasp, your body arching beneath him as you cling to him, meeting each of his movements with your own.

It’s frantic, unrelenting—a tangle of limbs and fevered kisses as you both give in completely to the storm that’s been brewing between you. Every thrust is a declaration, every kiss a vow unspoken. There’s no room for words, only the sounds of your shared pleasure, the feel of his body against yours as he takes you with a hunger that has no end.

You’re both lost in it, in the release of everything you’ve held back for so long. The tension, the heartache, the desire—it all spills out in this moment, leaving you breathless, trembling with the intensity of it all. You give yourself over to him completely, letting him take you in every way you were once denied, and he meets you with the same fervor, as if he’s been starving for you.

And then, in the midst of it all, you reach your peak together, a wave of pleasure crashing over you both. The world narrows down to this single, perfect moment—where there is no war, no crowns or thrones—just the two of you, lost in each other.

Afterward, you collapse against him, both of you breathless, your hearts pounding in tandem. Gwayne wraps his arms around you, pulling you close as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He presses a lingering kiss to your hair, his fingers tracing lazy circles along your back.

“I should never have let you go,” he whispers, his voice filled with regret.

You lift your head, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, the world outside seems distant and unimportant. “You didn’t let me go,” you murmur, your fingers brushing over his lips. “We were both trapped by the choices others made for us. But now… now, we have a chance.”

His grip tightens around you, a silent vow in the way he holds you close. “I won’t let them hurt you again,” he promises, his voice low and fierce. “No matter what happens, you’ll never be alone. Not anymore.”

You close your eyes, letting yourself believe in that promise, even if it’s only for this fleeting moment.

#house of the dragon #hotd gwayne #gwayne x you #gwayne x reader #ser gwayne #gwayne hightower #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd #gwayne x y/n #alicent hightower #otto hightower #ser criston cole #silverwing #rhaenyra targeryan

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mqverick · 10 months ago

Text

red murder || . ｡˚ ✧

mature themes, 18+

blood mentioned, consider yourselves warned

“Shower me in blood, child

Shower me in lipstick.”

·:*────────── ✮ ───────── *:·

A biblical angel. The meaningless chatter of the riches was faintly evident in the atmosphere as you locked eyes with someone, who you didn’t know at all, who had such a striking stare into, not only your weak eyes, but also your entire body. He looked like a biblical figure, an angel perhaps, but there was something about the way he stood, shoulder lazily leaned against the velvet curtain, that pegged him not to be a creature of purity.

No, he was so distinguished and poignant, that it made you forget who you even were. Despite the fact that he was the one boring into your soul, you found yourself inexplicably dependent upon the gaze he’d cast on you, as if your heart would simply get squeezed stopped if he looked away.

Captivating could be another word to describe the façade of the luscious blonde haired stranger, eyes politely stiffed into the pockets of his expensive, elegant coat, decorated by golden buttons that shone under the dim light of the room. His eyes were either gray or hazy blue; either way they drew you in dangerously, causing you to get deeply lost in their shadowy gravitation. You wondered why he was, only for the sake of it, knowing well that the chances of getting to see him outside of the gathering were close to zero. Nevertheless, your insides turned painfully up and down as he kept the eye contact strong as ever, mind twisting at the thought of what he could possibly be thinking about.

Whoever he was, you hoped dearly that he’d have no ability to read minds, otherwise you were as good as gone. You were still young and inexperienced, but that never stopped your imagination. The corners of his lips turned into a slight smirk as he finally looked away, giving you the chance to regain control over yourself and remember how it felt to breathe. Who was he?

You opted to avoid approaching him, dreading the inevitable possibility of fainting upon his aristocratic stance. You walked into the mass of the crowd, fading into the pretentious laughters and snickers, heart beating fast into your chest as you placed your gloved hand over it on your chest, hoping it’d help it get back to its steady rhythm. You found escape in a dark hallway.

You felt dizzy just by the look of a wanderer in a charity ball. You took a deep breath, squeezed your eyes shut to regain your consciousness and let your pupils blur back to their senses. Your chest heaved painfully when you caught sight of his piercing icy eyes glowing into the obscurity of the room. You need to run, a tiny voice rang in your head, but the buzzing sounds of the blood pumping right into your ears was too loud to not cover the challenging warnings of your inner conscience. Your legs stayed frozen in place, blood running cold in your throbbing veins.

He finally approached you, slowly but with steady steps. The limited light blended with his skin, which you could still barely make out as his eyes moved up and down your body. He looked abnormal once again and you wanted to scream from the top of your lungs, but something inside you prevented you from making the smallest sound. You opted for playing it nonchalant.

“Have we met?” you asked firmly, eyebrows knitting together at the soft chuckle he let out.

“I believe not, at least not yet. I’ve noticed you. From across the room you captured my attention,” the curves of his mouth went up slightly as the smirk on his face grew larger and evidently smugger. “Don’t be nervous, my love.”

“Me nervous?” you asked, voice trembling now.

“Indeed you are, no? The way you’re standing here just like you stood back in the main room, all by yourself. Legs weak, the small shake of your knees… I can see it all.” His eyes wandered down your neck, growing particularly fond of the little vein there pump your warm, sweet blood. You followed his gaze, unable to see what he was so fixated on, catching back his attention as you pulled your sleeve higher up the shoulder in a kind of discomfort that you couldn’t really explain.

“What are you?” you found yourself questioning.

Not who, but what. The name and origin of the man did not concern you as much as how he possibly managed to look so pale, yet stand alive in front of you very eyes, with such a pompous demeanor. He chuckled, still intensely gazing at the side of your neck, down to your collarbone, then back at your lips. Shivers ran down your spine, but you kept your calmness, at least on the outside. You slightly tilted your head and waited for an answer, but instead, he gave you a smile.

One that you could not read for the sake of it.

Was he enjoying holding you in the emotional state of mind that you were in that moment, while he stood barely five steps away from you? you pondered quietly in your head, but it was almost as the man in front of you could read every single thought behind that head of yours. Your heart drummed against your chest, you backed away with every small step he took closer to you.

“Don’t be frightened, my love. I mean no harm.”

The tone of his voice and newfound appearance, that you’d truly never seen in any other person before, pegged you to think otherwise. “Quit calling me that,” you gritted through your teeth.

“Fine. Maybe I do mean you a little harm.” He burst out in chuckles the second he noticed your eyes slightly widen at his statement. You were at loss of words — what was so amusing to him?

“What is it that you need from me?” you tried again, but there was nothing you could possibly elicit from him that wasn’t a snarky snicker or stomach aching smirk. Your eyes fogged with fear and an inexplicable desire for knowing him better as you watched him grin the same time your pulse quickened significantly. You took another cautionary step back. He took one forward.

“I want to give you the choice…” he said carefully upon the cell of your ear, long fingers coming up to slightly graze against the skin of your jawline. He lets the sharp edge of his metallic ring barely, just barely, follow the curve of your cheek, causing a thin, white line to form as he pressed with enough force to just see a scar forming, but not letting any blood come out of it. You couldn’t help but feel the sensation of pure bliss to the way he touched your face, even though the voice that urged you to save yourself and run was getting louder and louder by every passing second. “…That I never had. You could come with me, spend the rest of your life by my side, be the companion that I’ve longed for for years.”

Your heart was racing. You were astonished by the choice — half of a choice, you’d call it, since he hadn’t given you the second part of it yet — he’d proposed. You could feel every vein, either thick or thin, pump wildly the blood through it, until it reached up in your brain, blinding it completely from any logic you’d ever owned. “And why shall I be the companion of a man I’ve barely spoken five words to?” you replied sarcastically.

“Because I could take all the pain away. Give you a life like mine… where pain, suffering and death don’t exist. I could make you stronger, faster, smarter, give you all that the world has to offer, that you mortals never seem to seize… or even understand. You could be forever youthful. Just give yourself to me.” Your breath got suddenly stuck in your throat, a look of shock temporarily wrapping around your reddening eyes as you kept them open, momentarily forgetting how to blink.

“And what would happen if I don’t wish for that?”

He looked up, as if mockingly enough for your poor naivety, then swiftly grabbed you by the throat, your voice disappearing instantly. His fingers gripped around the sides and you felt his ring hurting into the skin, but it felt as though he’d cast some sort of spell that could not enable the sense to escape or even speak. “I could take your life away and no one would even come to find you,” he whispered gently in your ear.

Once he removed his hand from around your neck, you could finally start breathing again as the dizzying blur slowly faded away. He looked at you with anticipation, waiting for your reply.

“And how shall you ever do that? I could scream right now and have you be the one lying dead.”

“So blissfully unaware…” he mumbled softly, and like a ray of light, you heard him hiss as something sharp — the hard surface of… teeth… more specifically fangs? — threateningly bordered on the lower side of your exposed neck, which he held with his hand, tilting your head towards the wall that was across from you.

The epiphany hit you so suddenly and quickly that you had to refrain yourself from yelping, now finally out of the state of oblivion you danced around into. A vampire. A vampire, you figured, kept muttering in your hallowing brain in order to genuinely get yourself to pull out of the fanzines of what could’ve been a dreadful nightmare, when it was reality, hard, cold reality splashing into you like a bucket of freezing ice water.

“I’d rather you finish me than make me that loathsome creature of your own,” you struggled to breathe out, nevertheless the voice came out firm and dominant, to which Lestat turned a blind eye to as he moved up closer, invading your personal space and almost having you pinned against the rocky surface of the wall behind you.

“Your wish shall be my command, my child.”

The last thing that you remembered before a soul consuming cloud of darkness covered the bright ability of vision you owned was the faded blur of the vampire kneeling down, as you slowly began to lose sense and control over your own legs and brain. Lestat, as you’d found out his name was, had been sitting by your side on the maroon silky sheets of his own bed, carefully running his long, skinny fingers through your neat locks. The way the lamp on his nightstand shone made your hair look like they were going to catch on fire. The vampire hummed in pleasure as he let his eyes flutter shut for just one second, during which he only came in contact with the feel of your velvety hair that so smoothly rolled around his steady digits. A first blink, then another. You were in a room that you didn’t recognize, nor felt comfortable in. Your pupils were dilated as you awoke from the slumber, sclera pinkish to red instead of white, as if you’d been crying.

Nothing about the setting felt familiar. Your sighting soon got restored and the heart was caught inside your throat when you laid your eyes upon his face, golden hair falling on top of his shoulders, face pale — almost white — but still beautiful; like he was filled with life, as ironic as that may be. Suddenly, you were hit with all the memories that ruggedly formed into your brain before you’d fallen unconscious on him at that ball. You pulled back, your head just an inch from hitting the wall behind as he laughed amusedly.

“Wake up… I’ve waited for so long to hear you speak once more…” he spoke in a gentle whisper that almost felt like a lingering caress on your cheek, his eyes glittering in the dim light. “Wake up, my love.”

Your limbs were somewhat trembling, power of defense against him unknown, as you fought back the urge to scream from the top of your lungs, unable to prevent his next move. There was something about the way he’d sat next to you, all so calm and unbothered, you almost wished you knew what was going on in his mind behind those light blue — almost gray — eyes. It had caused a newfound sense of anxiousness for the unexpected to pit deeply into the curves of your stomach, retinas glossy and puffy as he moved his hand on top of yours. You retrieved it immediately, but the action didn’t seem to dishearten him enough to cut the physical contact with you. Instead, it encouraged him to stomp even further into your space, cold index finger lightly, almost caring, grazing the outline of your chin’s shuddering skin.

It felt rewarding for Lestat; having you in such a state of mind, helpless, completely at his mercy. Your fate depended solely upon him and him only, even if that meant you’d have to beg him to spare you. He had no hostile intentions towards you, though, just simply enjoyed the way the terror entered your body, as you fought against it.

“Don’t be afraid,” he cooed, but you snorted.

“You spoke the same words earlier and here I am, in the house of a stranger, vainly trying to gather back my senses.” The tone of your voice was still on the same line that you’d left it during the first conversation with him at the ball. If Lestat was blind, he would’ve foolishly believed you weren’t frightened by him at all, which excited him.

How was it possible that such a beautiful creature, human amongst humans, had managed to evade his attention all that time? The tip of his thumb padded the side of your jawline softly, rubbing small circles there. “You’re troubled, my dear. I must refrain from my nature if I want to have you by my side, thus you shall not be scared about my actions towards you.”

“And why such kindness, if I may ask?”

Lestat’s eyes lingered on each feature of your face as he drank in the image of you, the woman who had captivated him, as much to the character as to the looks. The hair delicately falling on your shoulders, stopping just before the curve of your breasts, which was deep enough for him to study, every detail of each curve. The fear that consumed you in that very moment, as he sat so close to you, made something in him stir, a hunger that could not and would not be denied.

“Your human nature… it fascinates me.” His grin broadened, his voice thick with desire. He slowly reached out, brushing away the hair on your soft cheek. “The way you perceive things so fiercely, even though death threatens you at every second. Mortality is a curse, my love. I would save you from it. But I have no need for your blood.”

“Oh, Lestat, but you’re a fool, I’m afraid,” you spoke with a satisfied smirk upon your lips. He tilted his head in confusion, still seemingly intrigued nevertheless. “Immortality makes a man miserable. You forget to love and live. And what is the purpose that you’ve brought me here for? Be your eternal companion? I’ll never be yours. Let the years make me your slave for as much time shall pass, but the end of my life will come and find me one day, and I’ll be free again.”

Lestat’s brows furrowed in frustration as he took your words in. “You’re such an ungrateful woman,” he gritted through his teeth, the previous sweetness of his voice now completely gone. There was a small fire burning in his eyes, but that didn’t frighten you either, seeing as you preferred him to kill you in rage rather than sugar talk you with fake desires. Your heart pounded.

“If you don’t let me go on your own terms, I’m going to scream. Kill me for it, if you must, I won’t bring any resistance. I’m giving you a choice.”

The irony of your own choice of words made Lestat’s blood boil. You, a no one human being, had the audacity to twist his words into a joke?

“Scream all you like, my dear. It would serve you no purpose.” And as soon as the sentence left his mouth, you screamed from the top of your lungs for help, eyes watering in anticipation. Lestat got up from the bed, leaned against the wall as he crossed his hands across his chest, waiting.

He watched you with his typical air of amusement as you screamed in terror. Finally, a maid entered the chamber, concern and stress written all over her tired face from the yell that had echoed all the way downstairs. Her poor French accent soon died down her lips as she asked “Ce qui s’est passé?” while looking around for any suspicious actions. Lestat took her by the throat, sinking his fangs deeply into the collarbone as he used the sharp ring on his thumb to cut a small line there open, killing her faster. The blood began to pour down the entire floor, thick, dark and warm. He looked refreshed as he pulled away, throwing her limb body onto the ground as you watched in utter fear and disgust. Not the tiniest hint of a sound was able to come out of you as you covered your mouth in shock, tears rolling down your cheeks. Your entire body felt electrified.

Lestat smiled, savoring your qualm. He came back closer to where you were sat, shaking his head in disapproval. “Look what you’ve caused now… Are you happy with yourself?” You turned to glare at him, flames shooting through your red eyes as he kept trying to hold a laugh back.

“You’re foul! That woman was not involved!”

Suddenly, his face hardened. “I told you no one would come to help you,” he spoke, standing over you, the blood of the maid dripping down his cheek, painting his clothed chest like an empty canvas. “You have no choice but to turn to me, for I am the only chance you have at survival.”

“I loathe you,” you gritted through your teeth.

Lestat couldn’t help but smile at your disdain. He approached you slowly, his eyes moving up your body and then to your neck. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he spoke once more, his voice a whisper. “Good. Use that hatred. Hate me as much as you desire. It won’t stop you from coming to me, it’ll only make the urge stronger.”

You sighed, falling back into the bed as your hands clasped tightly over your eyes, hair messy and unruly as part of you accepted that his words weren’t just a figment of imagination. Somehow, you’d found yourself deeply lost into his midwinter eyes, ebbed ever so gently with cement, accentuated every feature of his sharp characteristics, glistening like stars melted in platinum. You wanted more, just like the way he’d predicted; more of those eyes, of his life, of who and how he turned into a vampire, if he missed his mortality at all, whether or not he enjoyed poetry as much as you did…

Ravishing was a way to put it. Lestat had wrapped you helplessly around his angelic — or was it even demonic? — charm, pulling you in further and further just like core electrons are tightly bound to the nucleus. You wished to escape from the invisible grasp, but you couldn’t.

“Do you miss your mortality, Lestat?” you asked out of nowhere and he looked a bit taken aback by your choice of question. Nevertheless, he came and sat back by your side on the bed, allowing himself to admire the way the silky fabric of your dress had fallen just a tad down your smooth shoulders.

“At times I do…” he spoke without hesitating, his voice a gentle, almost scared, murmur as his eyes fell to the ground. “There are times when I yearn for the sensation of being human once more. I miss the sense of wonder and discovery that comes with being mortal, and the feeling of truly experiencing life for the first time...” He looked back up at you in front of him a faint smile curling on his lips. “You remind me of that feeling, my love. That is why I chose you.”

You sighed in defeat and despair. There was no possible way out of this, you reckoned, just needed to find the will and strength to make amends with what the future held for you.

───

The following night, you allowed him to dress you up in the prettiest dress you’d ever laid upon your body. The burgundy colour and the rich, but delicate fabric fell down your curves so harmoniously that Lestat looked mesmerized by the way it draped over you. He’d complimented your figure as lovely and even though the certain choice of words had given your mind a little dizzy spin, you’d shown zero reaction to him. Instead, you followed him, arm strictly wrapped around his own as you strolled down the dark paths, before he opened the door to a ravishing ball for you. The memories came crashing down like a violent wave of déjà vu, that you so desperately wanted to wash off your mind.

Ironically enough, with your arms entangled, you felt some inexplicable sort of safety. You didn’t recognize any of the people there, but Lestat had promised you a fancy night out, just for the sake of it — and who were you to say no? He narrated the background of the marquess, who was sat royally in the middle of the main hall, two young male servants on each side of where her chair was placed, laughing politely along with her.

“See her? That’s the widow St. Clair. She had that young fop murder her husband,” he whispered lowly into your ear, causing the small hairs on the back of your neck to tingle. You gave him a strange and unconvinced look.

“How dare you speak such words of felony?”

“I can read her thoughts,” Lestat’s voice rang clear, that same soft murmur filling his throat. He looked at you with a playful grin; he enjoyed watching your expressions as you came into realization of the extent of his abilities. He also noticed your sudden freeze, and the corners of his lips broadened. “The thoughts run deep inside a mortal’s mind. They’re so easy to read, and so tempting to listen to,” he whispered. His voice was soft, sensual as he came even closer to you...

“And… and you’ve invaded my thoughts already, I shall presume?” You didn’t need an answer to your own question, already confidently aware of what his reply would be. “What am I thinking of?”

His tone was gentle as his own thoughts wandered inside of your mind, listening to the sounds of your consciousness and the things you thought of. “You’re wondering why I’m even bringing you to such a social gathering. You’re contemplating a way to get out of it... but you’re also secretly curious as to what kind of people will be attending such an event,” he leaned into your ear, his breath coming out warm against your skin. “You’re scared, my love. I can hear your heart accelerating in your chest. The faint sounds of your mind wandering into unknown territory.”

Your cheeks grew red and the saliva barely made it past your throat as it slithered down the length of it in a painful manner. He’d read you like an open book and you didn’t even have to speak a word out loud for him to come to said assumption. It indeed terrified you; how he’d been able to invade the privacy of your own mind, how you weren’t and would never be able to stop him from doing such thing, simply because the desire to stay in peace was beyond your power.

Lestat let a small smirk cross over his face as you blushed. He had found it was rather humorous how he could always seem to have this effect on you. “Don’t be shocked. It’s a trick I’ve learned over my years as a vampire. It’s… become something I hold no control over; if I focus on one person too long, I can hear the innermost secrets of their mind, their desires… their sins.”

“Their desires, you say…?”

You couldn’t help the question when it flew out of your mouth, just like a young child yearning for knowledge of its world. Lestat smirked.

“Yes. Even their most intimate desires... it’s quite intriguing to see the depths of the mortal realm.”

“I want to know about your desires, in that case.”

“Is that so?” his low voice was inviting, close to seductive, you beckoned. His eyes momentarily took a glance at your long legs and the way the dress fell over them, before you spoke again.

“It’s only fair since you know my own ones, already. And don’t even dare deny such thing, I know for a fact that you’ve done it.”

“How perceptive of you, my beloved,” Lestat’s voice was still a soft whisper, tracing the outline of the call of your ear, and he stepped even closer to your side. His breath hitched slightly as he took in the scent of your skin, your femininity. His eyes traced down to your lips again, and his own desires came to life. “At this moment, my desires are simple... they include the two of us alone… together... no one else.”

“No one else…” you repeated with a fragile tone.

The vampire’s voice lowered as his eyes wandered down your body once more, taking in the way your chest rose and fell with your short breaths. “I imagine the two of us without the noise of the crowded ballroom. The way that no one else is there to hinder us… our bodies would merge together, with no one around to intrude as, you and I… free to do as we please.” His mind wandered to the possibility of you alone in his room, of what you could do.

“Oh?” you encouraged him to go on, as if less than twenty four hours ago, you hadn’t uttered out that you loathed him. “You’re always so poetic when you want to end up in bed with someone, Lestat? Speak more to me with what we’d do. In this volume of voice… these words…”

You were undoubtedly washed with a sense of newfound arousal for the vampire and it didn’t escape his attention. His voice had grown raspy with the words that poured from him, a certain type of hunger coming over him as you listened.

“I can’t help but wonder about your sudden change of heart,” he chuckled with a smirk.

“I’m weak at this very moment and I’m letting you take advantage of it. We’ll go back to your manor and we’ll have all the privacy we need… we can spend the night alone, together, as you said.”

His eyes were locked on yours as his mind continued to drift away into those lustful desires. He craved you, wanted you in a way that not even his vampire nature could fully comprehend. Your hands curled around the lapels of his silky shirt and you then run your fingers all the way down his body until they clasped around his own hands.

You couldn’t tell how the time passed, finding yourself from one moment to another; from a fancy, loud ballroom, to a oaken, hand carved door that led into a lavish French-furnished bedroom, which you had —oh, so well — gotten used to. There were heavy shades on the window, an almost magical mosquito netting falling across the sides from the bed, like golden tears. You looked around for a moment, trying to help the blur of your thoughts to comprehend that this was beyond a dream reality, that it was life.

Life, as ironic as it might seem.

Lestat walked behind you as he shut the door, step light and slow. He took his time with tracing the outline of your shoulder blades that the dress allowed you to reveal, his index finger gracefully teasing the skin with only the physical contact of the digit and the bit of the nail that stuck out. His breath hitched when his hand travelled lower on your back, right hand coming up to twirl the tip of the zipper playfully, silently asking you for permission for his next move. He’d ordered all the staff to leave, so that when you’d entered through the mansion’s doors, he’d locked it behind them.

He could see you hesitate, not that he cared much about it. It was certain to Lestat that once the silence fell in, you’d come to be too focused on your intimacy with him to think back on your own emotional barriers. His assumptions proved true, once he quickly unzipped your dress and you looked back at him from over your shoulder with parted lips, not complaining, not asking him to stop. His eyes were almost sparkling as the candle light flickered on your pale face.

“Lestat…” you hummed, mostly as a plead.

But he didn’t say anything back, just picked you up in his arms, laid you upon the velvet sheets of his bed and getting on top, his gaze captivating and unnerving, head tilting to the side so that he could plant a trail of wet, sensual kisses all the way down to your neck, his tongue resting against the veins that popped out as you stretched your head backward for better access.

Lestat’s body was pressed flushed against yours, his now wrinkled shirt fallen down midway through his shoulders, revealing his bare chest as his mouth travelled further down, his left hand gripping around your neck. He moaned softly as he tasted the sweet scent of your skin, the feeling of your pulse rising against his own body.

“Please,” his voice was an alluring murmur as he spoke, his thumb stroking your collarbone. He could feel the desire growing within him to posses you, take you as his own. “Let me have you.”

───

You reckoned it was still nighttime when your heavy eyelids began fluttering open. You recognised the sound of a soft snore next to your ear, a pair of still wet and plump lips caressing and tickling the spot right below your earlobe. You slightly rose from the bed, careful as to not disturb Lestat and rubbed your eyes, but you instantly regretted the action, seeing as the chilly weather trapped inside the huge room caused your underdressed body to shiver. You brought the covers close to your chin and appreciated Lestat’s features. His body next to you didn’t offer much warmth, but the just feeling of having him there in such state had your cheeks matching a crimson shade of red. You hummed in pleasure.

You didn’t mean to wake him, nor made any sound to achieve such thing, but somehow, he’d half-opened his stunning eyes. You were still afraid of him, even if it was somewhat there. He smiled unintentionally when he acknowledged your presence, but didn’t say a word.

“This… it doesn’t have to mean anything,” you were quick to speak in a shaky voice. He only offered you a chuckle in response, bringing a hand out to brush the hair that fell into your face back behind your cheek, hugging you closer to his body. You wanted to attempt to feel his heartbeat, but somehow, your own was loud enough to cover any other possibly existing sound.

Lestat pulled the blanket over the two of you and rested the side of his face on top of your head as he laid a gentle kiss on your forehead. You closed your eyes again and he leaned closer, his lips hovering just above yours with his breath being warm and inviting, as if beckoning you to merge with his own body. “Dream of me, my darling.”

───

You poured the second steep and drank out of the fine china cup, noticing the fragrance of the tea. Sweet Vietnamese cinnamon with a hint of floral honeysuckle that began to wrap around your head like the ‘I rivali di se stessi’. You’d really outdone yourself with the tea, finding the variety of herbs and scents in Lestat’s kitchen a joyful surprise to kill time with. You’d woken to the sound of what was almost identical to the pitter patter of sensuous rain on the windowsill. You saw him sitting at the huge, shining black instrument that looked like the sky on a cool summer night, coaxing impossibly soothing and amazing melodies from it. Lestat seemed lost as his fingers flew over the keys like swallows darting in a pond for fish. You sat on the couch across from him and sipped your tea with tired eyes.

“Why’d you stop?” you questioned once the sound was gone and his fingers were just resting on top of his knees. His breath was lost, too.

“You want me to keep playing?” His voice was hoarse and rasped, and he seemed to have lost some of the energy he had when you’d first met him. You pondered the reason, but not out loud.

“Sure.” He began to play again, the same slow, sad melody. You couldn’t help but wonder if it reflected the way he’d been feeling inside. As his fingers strolled through the keys, he looked at you from time to time, almost as if he wanted to say something, but his words always failed him before. “…When did you learn to play?”

“Hm?” He looked away from the piano briefly, his hand not stopping from playing. He didn’t seem to expect the question however, and so he felt a bit taken back. He began to speak slowly, as if he had to think about his answer a little. “My mother taught me how to play. She was a musician and she was very talented. She was a pianist...” He paused to think again. He didn’t want you to know much about his past, especially his human years, but he didn’t want you to think that he was just trying to change the subject either.

“Oh?”

“Yes…” Lestat replied softly, his tone remained steady. “She taught me how to play music, but also helped me understand it. It’s a form of… expressing, even if you can’t physically say it, you play it. Play with your heart, your emotions.”

His hand continued under the same melody, although his voice felt a bit more nostalgic. Still, you watched intently, your eyes following his every movement slightly from over the cup you held against your lips. You’d taken a fancy to the way he spoke sometimes, to his life and past.

“Did you have any family? I mean, besides your mom…” You knew the question was wrong and uncalled for, but it felt as though a burden leapt out from your body as it left your curious mouth. Lestat removed his hands from the instrument and got up. The heart trapped against your ribs was hammering, unable to know what feelings and memories of his you’d just triggered.

“Family?”

“Yeah,” you assured him. He didn’t seem any kin to reply to your question, however. “I’ve run away from mine. Mother held a knife to my throat every time settling down was mentioned amongst the family dinners. Said I’m old enough to convert to a church and become a nun. I don’t particularly care for marriage or any other form of settling down for that matter. I’ve got a free spirit that won’t rest until I travel in every inch of the world.”

You noticed him smile a little, weakly. But you could see him hesitating, hold back, suddenly all stiff. You asked him again about his family, but the only thing you managed to get out of him was a defeated murmur about the story having faded along the line, that it didn’t matter anymore.

“My story is much similar to yours… but it’s a long one, and it’s mostly full of unpleasant memories,” he said softly. Lestat could see in your gaze an unspoken desire to know more of his past, but he couldn’t allow you to witness the ugly side of him just yet. You urged to push him to reveal more, nevertheless, genuinely interested and curious.

“You ran away too?”

“It’s none of your concern to know that.”

His tone raised, frustrated now. You’d hit a nerve, it was certain, but would you risk to upscale his mood, whose limitations you hadn’t explored yet? You simply stared at him as he walked towards the heavy, red and golden curtains, turning his back at you. It wasn’t hard to realise that he couldn’t bare look at you, that if he did, you might’ve taken advantage of reading the raw emotions across his features, a curse that followed him through his early teenage years, up until for all eternity — as the future held to him.

“Whose concern is it then? I don’t see anyone else trapped in this prison of a manor!”

“Prison... prison?!” Lestat heard the comment, and it caused him to feel anger stir inside of him. You didn’t know what a prison felt like, this estate and this mansion was... “This estate is not a prison,” he said harshly, before yanking you by the arm and dragging you across the room in swift movements, all the way down to the basement.

The door that opened to the cold and damp room was torn down, old enough that the woody material on it had lost its brownish colour. Instead, it was a light beige, spider webs all over the rusty metal mechanisms that held it together. He pushed you inside, throwing you with force that caused you to miss your step and fall flat painfully against the dusty ground. He slammed the door behind you as he got in, teeth gritted.

“What the devil is going on inside your sick mind?!” you screamed, getting up back on your legs as you dusted your dress off. Your eyes matched his, sharp, snapping as they glowered.

“You want to live in a prison, yes? Have my blessing in that case,” he responded. You’d insulted him, the place he owned and grew himself up in. He held the door handle shut as he leaned against the door with his back facing it, patiently awaiting for your pleads to let you go. You understood that he wasn’t planning on freeing you any time soon and the anger bubbled within your nerves, matches starting fires in your head and heart. You didn’t mean the words that came out of you in the unfortunate moment, or maybe you did, to some extent, but it still hurt.

“I understand now why the memories of your family must be so unpleasant. No one would want a child like you, so arrogant and selfish. I pity the poor people!” Each letter escaped from your lips with poisonous stabs in Lestat’s heart.

He was stunned as the words reached his ears, hadn’t expected you to resort yourself in such a low place. “Is that so?” He needed to stay mad, slap you, punish you — do something, but all he could bring himself to dwell on were his years as a child, a human. He stared at you, reminiscing every detail, getting to live in his mortal body and soul for one last time as you speechlessly stared back at him, not finding the courage to apologize for the cruel level you’d stooped to. He heard you mutter his name as he almost broke the door in attempt of pushing it open, disappearing into his bedroom and locking himself inside. Ironically, his coffin felt freezing that night.

Lestat had lost the sense of understanding the climate around him a few centuries ago.

───

The next day passed and you still felt shaken. Lestat, with his usual tenderness toward you, had disappeared. Hadn’t spoken one word to you, not even walked in the same direction as you. It was weird how he’d managed such thing, seeing as you both lived under the same roof. The bed of one of the many guest rooms you’d chosen to hid into had been a ghost before your legs. It felt uncomfortable, unwelcoming, unable to hold your presence on it. You spent the night before scribbling drawings on a yellow paper you’d found in one of the nightstand’s drawers, not knowing what else to do with yourself. Twenty four hours being alone in a house with at least more than one lonely person. You took a deep breath and decided you needed to find him, see how he was doing. You’d softened towards him, it seemed, in less time than you’d expected. Your brain was still terrified to accept the idea of it, but the aching inside of your heart didn’t give it any other option.

You walked outside of the room and searched for him everywhere. Yvette told you she’d last seen him go outside. Back upstairs, you heard the soft sound of water running into the main bathroom and curiously walked over, leaning against the door just for a peak. Your mouth dropped and you shrieked loudly in unexpected terror. The bathtub went by the shade of an almost black red, thick, even if it merged with the water. There were bubbles covering the top and Lestat smirking next to it as he took a step closer.

“I prepared a bath for you,” he announced with a smile. You lost your voice along with every other possible function of your system. Lestat looked for a moment, the blood in it did fill him with a certain hunger that he had not felt before. He could almost taste it; the thought of you coming into the tub was almost alluring, he had imagined how you would look in that water... and how you would taste inside that water... he was salivating.

��W—Wh…What did you do?” you asked, your voice trembling, horrified at the freak show.

“What do you think I did?” his words came out with a cold tone, as he stared at you. His face was a bit grim, yet still his eyes were detailed with a certain lust. “You’re going to ask why, I assume. Why did I kill them…? Or why did I bring their blood here?” his voice was full of sarcasm as he spoke, he was making you more confused and scared, but this time, he was not planning to back down to your puzzled feelings and expressions.

“Both… Both!” You felt your knees weaken as you crumbled to the door behind you, the smell of the blood causing vomit to erupt in your throat. He looked at you as you collapsed upon the doorframe, the sound of your gag causing him to smirk a little. You had successfully lost all sense of control, and that was beyond pleasing to him.

“I killed them because I needed fresh blood,” he said slowly, he would not tell you anything more. A step closer, then a hand pointing at the tub, which haunted your soul. “Get in the tub.”

“No. No… no — no — you can’t… you can’t…!” You couldn’t speak. Your eyes were teary and your face had paled and he looked happier than ever. Lestat didn’t want to hear your plead, he didn’t want to hear you beg for mercy. His desire was taking over him, and now that he had killed a few poor slaves in the woods and the bloodlust inside of him had grown in intensity.

“You don’t have a choice.” He then walked towards you, his movements slow and precise. He wished to take what he wanted from you, no matter what you’d do to convince him otherwise. You’d cut deep with your previous words, which never went unnoticed nor forgotten. “I want to shower you in blood, my child.”

His eyes had grown a bright crimson as he got close to you, pulling you into his grip. You thought you were about to pass out, your body limped down on the floor, unable to move or resist. Lestat could feel your weakness, your fragility as you leaned against the door. One more pull and he began to drag you away from the wooden entry. You got more and more ill as the smell got stronger, your mind buzzing as his devious laughter echoed in it. Your throat was closing up and the need for air was growing more immense with your every weak breath. “Why are… you doing this?” you mustered with a middle pause.

“Because of what you said.”

“B-Because of what I… Leave! Let me go!”

You were kicking the air, panicking, trying to run away from him in desperate attempts. He smiled, twirled around your helpless body and hummed the melody of an old Italian song. The tears fell from your eyes artistically, in a way that they almost resembled the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise, your hands clutching on every item possible for a steady grasp that would still his intentions, free you from them. As your ultimate option, you resulted in begging with choked sobs. The pleads caught him off guard.

He couldn’t tell if it was truly fear, or a ploy of some kind to get out of the situation. He was hesitant, yet still had a choice to make, and the limitations highlighted the accident of choosing poorly due to the temper of the moment. He could feel the moisture dripping from your eyes as you begged him not to do this to you, but the hunger for the fright your vocal chords held was still there, distracting him from judging correctly.

“You mocked me…” there was still a hint of anger in his voice, but not the overwhelming kind. In fact, he felt more collected than ever. You’d brought this situation upon yourself…

“This… Lestat, please, please, I want this to end, please…” you sobbed into the comfort of his neck, your arms wrapping around him as they trembled. Lestat could feel you shaking against him as you sobbed. The intensity that he had felt was now fading, a little empathy rising towards you for the first time since you’d insulted him. Your fear made you seem so much weaker, so much more vulnerable, and it made his heart hurt as he looked at you, unfamiliar with this side of you.

He couldn’t stay mad. And he had to let you go.

“You’re making it difficult for me to keep you safe. As much from others as from myself...” he said softly as he loosened his grip on you, his hand holding your arm now was a soft and gentle one. It was not the grip of a killer, it was the grip of a lover. Yet his eyes were a reminder, still burning.

“This… it’s a nightmare, right? None of this happened. The tub… it’s just a nightmare?” you asked him, deluding yourself into a lie that you believed would calm you down. You were still on the verge of passing out, your eyes heavy and swollen as they blinked the remaining tears away.

“Yes... it’s just a horrible nightmare,” he spoke softly as he kept holding onto you, he wanted to lie to you if that meant that you’d start feeling safe around him again, comfortable, that you’d forget all about the tub. He could tell you were still scared, even if you had relaxed a little. He would not allow you to be afraid, did not want you to remember any of this. He only wanted you to remember being safe in his arms.

“I’ll wake up to your bed tomorrow?”

“Indeed.”

“I need to go to your bed…” you murmured under your breath, your eyes half-lidded as he nodded and took you in his arms. Your head rested on top of his shoulder and you couldn’t really tell what was happening around you; what was real and what was not, but in your mind, it mattered no more than a useless piece of information. Lestat carried you all the way to his bedroom and helped you on the bed, as he removed a few layers of clothes of his own. You found the warmth of the scent this particular bed held somewhat comforting, that you weren’t alone anymore. He came up back by your side and stroked your hair as he kept whispering in French, a language that even though you spoke less than fluently, always seemed tricky to understand.

“Tu as un beau cou.” The poorly spoken words grazed just the outline of his vampire fangs as they left his mouth and embraced your throat. Lestat leaned down just a little to place a lingering kiss on the side of your neck, right were your pulse was beating — throbbing — in a way of letting you know that he’d provide you with eternal safety; even from his own self. He cherished the satisfied tiny moans you let out as his promises hugged your soul and sighed. Even with your presence around, his room still felt cold and for a moment he allowed himself to wonder if it’d feel the same way in case he were a human.

“Je sais, mon amour,” he heard you sheepishly reassure him, not understanding in the slightest how you’d managed to do such thing in all your tiredness and corpse-like state. He was the one with the ability to read the mortal mind, yet it seemed like you’d known every inch and depth of his darkest and deepest thoughts since the moment you laid eyes on him. And oh, how he wished you hadn’t. Because Lestat refused love.

He refused the idea of love, thought of it as something miserable and pessimistic, because how could anyone devote themselves so much to a person to forget their own problems and beliefs. Poems, philosophy, theatre, music; they all refused love in a way. The destructive kind.

But his head tilted to the side as he sat in his coffin, watching you descend to sleep, and suddenly he was gone from the world, helpless.

───

“I want to breathe fresh air. Your house is suffocating me,” you’d said to him only a few days later after finding the strength to look him back directly in the eyes like you weren’t afraid. He posed as a danger to you now, after the cruelty with the tub, but you were superior to any of his schemes. The walls suffocated you seeing as he barely let you walk around the town, afraid that he’d lose you, that you’d run away from him.

The sky that night was tranquil. The dark canvas of the it was adorned with countless points of light, like shimmering diamonds scattered across a velvet cloth. The celestial bodies twinkled and glimmered, casting a soft, ethereal glow that captivated the imagination. You always loved to watch the stars, to admire the constellations.

And that night, Lestat was in a good mood, so even though his reply had been hesitant at first, he’d eventually let you do as you wished. With his hand secured around yours, he’d promised to take you to his favourite place, his hiding spot as a newly discovered vampire, his memory founder. You strolled around the town, walked for what felt like several minutes. The setting was unfamiliar and the thought of getting lost crossed your anxious mind for a split second, but given to the concentration on his face, he seemed to know exactly the roads he strolled through. There was a small forest, one you’d never stumbled upon in all the years you spent in Louisiana, even though you were certain you’d walked past it at least once. The air was chilly and there were no others around in kilometers; just you and Lestat. It was the type of place that many nobles would avoid. It reminded you of the haunted forests your mother would read to you about in the night tales to put you to sleep.

“Here we are. Do you like it?” he asked as he let go of your hand, intertwining his fingers together as his hands fell over his crotch. He looked at you.

“Yeah, a lot actually. How come I’ve never known about this place before?”

“Well…” Lestat explained, “It’s an unnoticed spot. Not many appreciate its natural beauty,” he spoke softly, as he looked around the forest once again. “They’re afraid to come here at night, and they try not to pass by during day as well. I don’t know why, if that’s your next question.”

“And how did you discover it?”

“I used to come here often.” There was no use in hiding that answer. He had been a child who ran away, and during those years where he explored this vast estate, he had found this forest. He didn’t know it was haunted — according to the superstitions — back then, but even now when he was aware of it, he would come here often. He had not left for such a long time. It felt like home.

“By yourself?”

“Yes…” He knew the answer was pathetic, that it gave his longtime loneliness away, and he regretted admitting it out loud. “You know, we’re similar in more ways than just our past.”

Your eyebrow cocked in confusion. “And how is that, may I ask?” Lestat paused for a moment, as your question made him think. That part hadn’t always been so hard when it crossed his mind many nights during sleep. Perhaps it had been the fact that he didn’t have to look at you when he thought about his past, but... now he had to.

“We ran away from it. We both know what it’s like to be alone.”

“But we’re not alone anymore, isn’t that what you’re trying to say?” you listed his words before he could do it himself, your voice weary, tears burning in your eyes, even though you understood that he emotional pressure was more overwhelming for him than for you. He’d opened up to you, just a hint of it, you realised, but you couldn’t know why and it pained you.

“We’re not... I...” he grew unsure, unable to finish.

“I want to watch the stars.”

Lestat’s mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, but remained in that position, looking at you silently, surprised. “We can watch the stars,” he agreed and took you to a more open spot in the forest. It was clearer and there were less trees that would potentially block the view of the sky. The both of you sat on the grass, legs crossed as your eyes focused on the moon.

“Do you have a favourite constellation?”

Lestat thought about it for a moment. there were many stars he had been drawn to over the years, and he had studied quite a lot of them as well. But perhaps, there was one that particularly stood out to him. “Scorpio,” he said softly as he tried to look to see where it was in the night sky. His gaze was focused towards the stars as you spoke again.

“Scorpio? How so?”

“It stung Orion to death. I do the same with humans in reality. Well, drain them to death…” he paused and laid back on the grass, letting his body become one with the somber pasture. His eyes still stood out, even as the pitch black sky made it really hard to find your own step around. “It’s also one of the first constellations I studied.”

You gave him a little smile and carefully positioned yourself next to him on the ground. “I didn’t know astrology intrigued you.” Indeed it felt odd to listen to him speak about his interests, however it created an invisible bond between you. For once, he looked at the stars with company. He wanted to take your hand, show you that this was something he’d never gotten with anyone else, cherish the moment. You felt him do so, eventually, and tried not to react as if to give yourself away. “Can you guess my favourite constellation? But you shan’t read my thoughts.”

“Mm…” he considered. “Cassiopeia.”

“You read my mind,” you simply stated.

“I guessed.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then don’t.” He turned to look at you and so did you. He was holding back from something, it was evident in the way his Adam’s apple bobbled, the way his eyes had a bizarre shine in them that they’d only get before he was about to ask you a question he knew unlocked more and more of him to you, which he both allowed and feared.

“Go ahead,” you encouraged, even though he hadn’t asked anything at all.

“Do you believe in fate at all?” Fate, as in, everything was meant to be in a way. He couldn’t help but think of the idea as you laid down together, in the presence of the dark blue sky.

“I think fate is misery. I don’t understand why it’s got to punish us for things we didn’t even ask for to happen. It kills us all in the mind. But I do believe in it, nonetheless. We’re all its slaves.”

“Why do you believe in it if it tortures you so much?”

“I don’t know. Shouldn’t you ask yourself the same question? Sometimes we don’t have an answer, we just let things be the way they are.”

“I think that what you call misery shaped me.”

“So you’re miserable, then?”

Lestat frowned as the words came from your lips. “No,” he spoke, his tone seemed to grow a bit frustrated. “I most certainly am not miserable, but I just think…” he sighed harshly, he knew what he was trying to say — he just couldn’t explain it properly — and maybe the way you stared at him, waiting in so much anticipation made him lose his track of thoughts along with his own words.

“You want to go back inside?”

He nodded and got up, upset over the fact that the time had been cut off so shortly. He felt strangely warm, as if he’d recently fed enough to cause the blood run through his veins, and he wondered if you’d make him feel that way every time you gave him the slightest hint of attention.

The night was deep and his house hollow as you stepped into it, ready to take your separate ways in the rooms, but the boldness coursed through your neurons as you asked him if he’d like to have a sip of wine first. No, he replied, he wouldn’t wish for one, because wine no longer got him drunk or offered him any form of careless enjoyment. You just sat by yourself near his piano and grazed your fingers over the last four keys. A messy, silent melody came out and for a second, it echoed over the entire room, one, two, three times. You wondered if it symbolized how lonely Lestat was.

It felt gut wrenching, even though you knew he was unpleasant, seeing him have no one in his life. Seeing him know so much about the stars and have no soul to talk with about it. You went into your room and changed into a nightgown. The breeze from the windows made it feathery against your body as it flew a little under your arms when you entered Lestat’s bedroom without making the slightest noise. His coffin was covered; he’d fallen asleep perhaps. You seized the opportunity to give his room a sharper notice.

There was a neat black vase with golden details placed on the dresser, it even had a rose in it. A rose that had lost its bloom; it was just wrinkled, a little yellow—growing to brownish—near the edges, all dried up, dusty and ready to crumble. A soft touch on the back of your neck caused you to gasp as you turned around only to realise it was Lestat, seemingly paler than usual, for a reason.

“Did I disturb your peace of going through my stuff?” he asked, but his voice didn’t sound mad.

“I don’t want to sleep just yet.”

His eyes followed yours until they fell to the rose you were examining. With a swift twirl, he brought it around his fingers and held it in front of your face. “Pour toi, ma chérie,” he whispered with a smirk as you took it and placed it over your chest, right where your heart was still steadily beating.

“Pourquoi le gardes-tu encore? C’est pourri.”

A disheartening sigh followed by a slight shrug of his exposed shoulders. “It symbolizes a lot.”

“Like what?” you persisted. Lestat took the rose from you and rubbed it between his palms as it turned from a dead flower to dried up powder, piled up in a tiny hill on the rug. You couldn’t understand his sudden burst, the frustration within him, but you were very aware of the fact that even the slightly wronged word could snap him. He didn’t reply to the question, either, just paced forward until he reached the bed. You felt the rest of the world move in front of your very eyes in a sped up warp, you laid right below his body, unable to move in resistance. How he got you in that position was beyond your brain to comprehend and for a split second, you wished to scream, but then remembered.

Lestat lowered his semi-opened mouth right above the vein in the spot he’d first noticed back at the ball, right there, an inch upper than the collarbone, pulsing and pounding in such a sweet way that he was unable to resist the image, how it’d taste like if only he allowed his sharp fangs sink in it, have the dark red blood make a mess out of his mouth, feel the nectar drip on the skin, the tongue. Something about it was so romantic, so deep for him, but he couldn’t do it.

“Laisse-moi faire de toi un vampire, mon amour. Laisse-moi t’offrir la vie d’un Dieu,” he murmured into the side of your neck as he placed the most tender and fragile wet kisses upon it, it was the closest he could get to his request anyway.

“No, Lestat, leave!” you panicked, instantly denying. He was under control, or maybe he wasn’t, but taming the lust that grew in him wasn’t such a difficult task, you’d discovered.

“S’il te plaît,” he pleaded, stripping the sleeve of your clothing down your shoulder with his thumb. He was trying to avoid the conversation you so desperately wanted to have about his past, knew that if he tried seducing you, you’d forget all about it and either end up in bed with him or run off scared. Either way it was working. The smirk was displayed proudly across his lips, his breath smelled like a mixture of an expensive fruit based alcoholic beverage and rosemary. You couldn’t tell how your brain functioned at that moment, as Lestat rose closer to your face and stared at your lips, wetting his own with his flushed tongue. He teased you, leaned down as if to kiss you but pulled away the very centimeter his lips were to touch yours and moaned lowly, almost like a ghost of a whisper. He pressed his thumb on your neck and held you tight, then bent down again.

He drew closer, and for a moment, it almost seemed as if you had pulled away. You staring at him with your boring common eyes, nothing compared to his, and then his lips enclosed on yours; soft yet immersive, gentle yet powerful all the same. All there was was the two of you, or one of you, rather, and all he could feel was you.

“Tu ferais mieux de me tuer,” you whinged as his teeth tugged softly at your lower lip in his motion to pull away. His breath got caught as he cocked his head to the side, eyes still lustful and hot. “Kill me, Lestat, since you can’t have me the way you want me to. Kill me like you promised once.”

“I didn’t—didn’t promise anything like that,” he stuttered while kissing your clothed cleavage.

“But I ask for death. Otherwise we shall be this way always, imprisoned in the hope of ‘what if’.”

Lestat stared at you, smiling, becoming a hazy dreamlike vision, then hyperclear. “Ah, but the price is high,” he laughed, sinking back into the scent of your body passionately, wanting to become one with it. You were serious, in a way, and that he knew, but even the slightest thought of staring at your gray corpse would kill him internally for all eternity. He couldn’t possibly…

“We could be both covered in blood,” you suggested again in a strangled moan. You felt his teeth against your skin, he smiled at the dumb images you had to offer in order to wrap him around the strong spell of undeniable temptation.

“You could be mine forever,” he insisted.

“You’re losing me already, Lestat,” you whispered, but he was too caught up in undressing you to hear. Just a few more months, you promised to yourself as you gave in the pleasure of the night.

───

Lipstick, you found, was how falling in love felt.

Starts off in a smooth surface, full of vibrance and colour, but eventually it comes to an end, either that is natural and non-bumpy, simply finishing because there’s nothing more to it except a few smudges—remainings—on the lid that you can’t get rid of, or it breaks in half, violently, with roughness, tears, anger. Just like when you apply lipstick and the bar becomes too soft to stay on.

Lestat had been your lipstick kind of love.

Except you never knew whether you actually truly loved him or if it was the illusion of him that had you so wanderlust and captivated to him. Months had passed, you’d stayed by his side through all the fights, all the murders that followed in his need to feed, the broken glasses and frames. He always ended up showing a bit more to his fragility after every rage, the stronger, the more. He’d grown to be an open book to you, attached, unable to let go, afraid. Vampires could love. And each human sense was triple as intense for a vampire, so when Lestat fell in love, he devoted himself to it completely, loved hard and immensely, never held back or restrained his emotions. Of course, he never said it out loud.

It had been a while since he’d had someone, a person, a real person to hold on to, to caress their hair at night, to whisper sweet nothings to, to just feel like he can be free with and love deliberately.

Nights were so deep and slow, the stars faded away every time his heart beat faster for you. A vampire could only cry once, he remembered he’d once been told (by whom was unimportant).

You were done, you decided. Had suffocated enough, had cut yourself from the world for him and that was the end of it. You had grown rather fond of him, enjoyed having him around, loved kissing him and talking to him, even fighting with him had become familiar, almost in the dream of being a family with him. You saw him sitting over the piano, contemplating. He raised his eyes at you once found around your presence and smiled. You motioned him not to get up and instead dragged your feet exhaustively towards his side, bringing a hand over his cheek, cupping it softly one last time as he obliviously leaned against it.

“You look handsome tonight, Lestat,” you said.

Indeed, he was impeccably dressed, just like always, in such royal clothes, each layer holding a different peel of his personality. Every feature of his face was smooth and calm, bright and pale at the same time, but the surface felt like a fresh painting; exquisite and vulnerable to any touch. It was probably the only time you’d ever seen him gift you with such a genuine, heartwarming smile.

“I’ve been wanting… dreaming of telling you something. For a long time now, I fear,” he began the moment you removed your palm from his face and instead placed it over his hands in his lap. His fingers found yours immediately and interlocked quickly, excitedly. It broke your heart.

“I’m leaving,” you announced harshly and suddenly his thumbs froze against the top of your hands, which he dropped. He felt lightning crackle through his veins and time slowed down. Your stomach had lost no time in twisting into knots, but you put on a façade that said otherwise, showed you off as strong and determined, cold, hollow to any emotion.

He stilled and looked at you with his jaw agape, mouth quivering. You weren’t just saying it, you meant it. You were doing it—he was losing you. Lestat felt his heart clench around nothing at all.

“Have I done something? I’ll give it to you, whatever it is that you need, I promise.”

His hands were now catching yours again, this time in utter desperation, a form to plead and beg. Your chest heaved as you noticed the corners of his eyes well up, retina glossy and wet, as though… no, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—waste his only chance to let the tears go down, because he was sure that whatever he did, he’d fix, there was a way, he knew it, he was sure of it. He’d offered you so many things, for God’s sake! A house, food, clothes, safety, his trust and love, and you were throwing it all away, like you hadn’t stolen his soul and merged it with yours to become one, like you hadn’t reminded him what it felt to be alive again, after centuries of suffering eternity. Because you had been right when you said to him that eternity kills; it slaughters the purity of the heart, fights against hope. It forces you to be alone as you watch everyone you love perish. And Lestat had been there, still was, would always be.

“I told you, Lestat. I’m not your slave. And I can’t do this anymore, I can’t stay here… it’s killing me. And don’t you—don’t you—dare say anything foolish about how you feel about me,” you threatened through trembling lips, fighting back tears the same way he was, except you didn’t know how long you could put up with the pain.

“You all leave me!” he yelled as he got up from his seat, covering his face with his hands as he moved in circles. “You leave me when I need you the most, you want me dead! All of you!” In his rage, Lestat raised his fist and shattered the marble vase that sat on the coffee table next to the instrument, pieces falling everywhere all over the floor, sounding exactly like the way his heart was breaking. And there it was; the first tear.

It fell from his face in a rush, violently hitting the cold ground, burning his cheek on its way down. His only cry, his only pain, all out in the open as he saw his world come crashing down. And what broke him the most was the look on your face, the urge you felt to remain nonchalant, though. Like your heart wasn’t ripping in half either, like you wouldn’t desire him, love him, give him a chance. Like you hadn’t let him kiss you all those nights as a silent way to confess his love for you, no.

“I’m not yours, I never was,” you struggled out.

“I’m yours. Don’t you see it? I would do anything for us, just let there be an ‘us’ for once, I beg you.”

“You just don’t want to be alone,” you breathed as his chest sunk with each breath. “You don’t love me, Lestat, you just love having someone to keep you out of the misery in your endless life.”

“You can’t… you can’t leave me… you can’t possibly believe all that,” he cried as he grasped your hands, but you pulled away, took a step further away from him with each try he made to get closer, to hold you for one last time, because if he ever had you around his embrace at that moment, you’d never be able to let go. You’d leave and Lestat would look for you in the face of everyone he’d kill to feed from with pure hearted and pleasure at the same time, such sickness that drew you away from him. He shook his head in denial, refused to let himself reason as you faded into a memory, or even a long lasting dream he never wanted to wake up from.

“I must…”

“I can’t bear it! Come back to me… when did I even lose you? When did you start to slip from me? I did… I did everything… I confined in you.”

“You needn’t say such things, Lestat…”

“You’ll stay.”

“No.” The answer was final, he knew it. Lestat De Lioncourt, knelt before your very eyes, broken down to the core, unable to get a hold of himself as his fingers weakened and he watched them slowly let go of yours, now holding nothing. He couldn’t hold you, just like he couldn’t hold anyone else in his life, not even himself.

The sun and moon yearned for each other, but time kept them apart. Eclipses would the only brief moments of bliss, when both of you could pretend that death hadn’t rooted into your souls, where Lestat spent the rest of eternity loving you.

FIN.

for my girl @honeymvnt !! this is your insanely late birthday gift, i hope it lives up to your expectations from all the nights we talked about it. love you 🫵🏼🎀

#lestat de lioncourt #iwtv lestat #interview with the vampire #tom cruise #lestat 1994 #lestat de lioncourt x reader #tom cruise x reader #interview with the vampire 1994 #tom cruise imagine #the vampire lestat #vampire #angst #not a good ending #tom cruise oneshot #i hate this #angsty #lestat de lioncourt oneshot

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rivatar · 10 months ago

Text

“Love Bites”

Pairing: Adult!Neteyam x fem!human!reader

W/c: 1.2k

Warnings/content: MDNI smut!, biting/marking, blood thirsty neteyam, a lil somnophilia but not much, established relationship, fingering, demon Teyam

A/n: this is prompt 6 for Pandora’s Bloody Moon, I’m sorry it’s 2 days late, I was so busy this weekend😩 also I’m sorry if it’s not good, it’s def not my best work but still hope you guys can enjoy :)

“I’ll see you tomorrow, paskalin,” Neteyam sweetly bid you goodbye with a peck on the cheek.

“Okay, Teyam,” you softly smiled in return.

He had walked you back to the lab and as much as you both stalled already, it was time to part ways. The upcoming Blood Moon tonight meant an early goodbye for the day. You two have been dating for months now, and the future Olo’eyktan has made it clear he wants to be mates with you, only when you were ready. However, it is not always easy handling your differences between your two species. Like tonight, for example; all the other Na’vi could participate in the night of the Blood Moon but you couldn’t, you’d be ripped apart and possibly killed. So, Neteyam made sure you were safe and sound back in your room in the lab complex well before nighttime settled in. He couldn’t have his little paskalin get eaten by the wolves.

…

Neteyam missed you at dinner but he knew it was for the best. He wanted nothing more than to keep you safe. Safe from the others and even himself. He didn’t know what he would be capable of doing to you. He didn’t even wanna be anywhere near his family, so he set off deep into the forest.

It was now eclipse and the Moon made its appearance. The moonlight made his skin tingle and he watched in bewilderment as his skin faded from azure to a milky gray. Though this happens every year, it never fails to bring an unsettling feeling of not having control over the effects. His breaths quickened and he felt strength and power spread through his limbs, creating the urge to break something. His little bioluminescent freckles turned to red speckles, much like the red irises he now possessed. His brain was processing the physical changes to his body as well as the feelings and urges that flooded his mind. His tongue felt his sharper canines and he thirsted for blood. Not just any blood though, your blood. He imagined your human blood would be much sweeter than anything else here. He knew his right mind was slipping away when his body naturally started carrying him in the direction of you.

…

He forcefully entered the lab and went straight to your room. Opening the door carefully, as to not wake you.

You were peacefully sleeping away, probably having sweet dreams. In the very back of his mind he knew he shouldn’t disturb you— knew he shouldn’t wake you and then watch you be terrified of the way he looked right now. But his instincts consumed him and controlled his thoughts now. He had to have you.

Walking over carefully, he noticed you were wearing a loose tank top, exposing much of your skin. He slowly lifted the cover off of your body and was met with the precious sight of you only wearing panties for bottoms. You were so sweet and small to him, your dainty little night clothes driving him absolutely insane. You were too good to be true in his opinion.

He gently slid his hand over your legs and arms, loving how soft and plush your smooth skin was. You moved some in your sleep, still not noticing him yet. He tried to keep his breathing in control by breathing in his nose and out his mouth quietly.

“So beautiful, yawne,” he whispered admiringly.

He started kneading your flesh, getting extremely aroused by you. He wanted nothing more than to dig his sharp canines into your skin and bite you—hopefully drawing some blood. But he needed you to wake up first so you wouldn’t be scared and flee from him.

He softly shook your form, beckoning you to wake up. You slowly stirred out of your slumber and your eyes blinked open—only to see those red eyes staring back at you. You jumped back at the sight of him and gasped.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay baby, it’s me!” He tried to calm you.

“T-Teyam?” You choked out weakly, “You’re n-not supposed to be here” your mind quickly registered.

“I know, I know, and I’m sorry, but I couldn’t stop myself from coming to see you… you’ll have to forgive me for what I’m going to do”

Your body was stiff and your eyes were full of concern for what he meant and what he might do to you in this state. But you slowly nodded as you relaxed some because it was still your Teyam and you trusted him.

“You look so pretty, baby,” he cooed while stroking your cheek tenderly. You smiled in return, still feeling a bit hesitant.

Then suddenly he leaned back down to your thighs and latched his teeth onto one of them.

“Teyam!!!!” You flew up to sit upright on the bed and looked at him. The pain of his canines impaling your skin combined with the pleasurable feeling of his warm mouth overwhelmed the nerves on your skin.

He only hummed and moaned on your flesh in response. You slightly winced, still staring at him in bewilderment. Then he smoothed his tongue over the wound, licking away the blood from the little pricks he made. He pulled back to admire his work, loving how his bite now marked you as his.

“Don’t think I can’t smell you, sevin. You liked it, didn’t you?” He smirked.

You blushed, still feeling confused at the mix of pain and pleasure and how it really did turn you on. You nodded and got out a weak “yeah..”

This only aroused him more. He wanted to see how you’d look writhing under him as he pleasured your pussy while marking other parts of your body. So he lifted your legs up to your chest and slid your panties to the side to see your glistening little cunt.

“Fuck baby. I might have to bite you more from now on,” he gloated.

He slowly pushed a finger into you and you moaned at the sensation, your head already swirling from the intense pleasure he gave you. He started pumping the digit, stating in awe at the mess you made and the loud squelching sounds.

He hovered over you and positioned himself closer to your face, connecting your lips in a needy kiss. You greedily took the kiss, tongues swirling and your lips getting all puffy. He moved down to your neck and latched onto it, pulling out a guttural moan from you. He hummed in the satisfaction of tasting your sweet blood again and it turned him on more, so he mindlessly dry humped your side and the bed, dying to get some kind of friction for his cock.

His efforts made you cum on his fingers, spewing out whimpers and moans in the process. He was still cleaning your neck wound while you were coming down from the high.

It seemed that having a taste of you only made him want more.

It was going to be a long night.

Taglist: @neteyamssyulang @bambithewriter @professional-yapper @property-of-neteyam @hidden-snow @live-laugh-neteyam @nonamevenus @loakstahni @ikeyniofthetayrangi @sugarsong78 @inolaphoenix @strongheartneteyam

#avatar smut #atwow #avatar the way of water #avatar #neteyam #avatar fanfiction #neteyam smut #james cameron avatar #neteyam x reader smut #neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan #neteyam x reader #neteyam x human reader #neteyam x female reader #neteyam x you #pandorasbloodymoon

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biibini · 1 year ago

Note

Perhaps maybe Mizu as a bottom? Whimpering and begging for more. Reader talking her through it and being loving.

nsfw bottom!mizu x top!reader (request)

tags: dom!reader, bottom mizu, eating out, cunilingus, smut, 18+. begging, whimpering, praise, dirty talk, modern au

a/n: requests & posts r gonna be slowed down for now bc of school hahaha hahaha (i have three 3-hr classes back to back in one day im going to cry),,, anyways i'll shut up ab school and start writing with one hand down my pant-

18+ content below!

u and mizu are making out one night in bed one late night

nothing crazy but its getting really heated

usually, u would let her stay on top and continue to mess u up with her fingers

but tonight would be something different

u move as u continue to make out, placing urself on top this time

"Oh, does my pretty girl want to be in control?" Mizu teased, placing her hands atop your hips. Her eyes traced your body starting from your thighs. You feel her hands softly grab your waist, anticipating your next move.

You nodded in response, getting close to her face. You stare deeply into those ocean blue orbs of hers. God, you could get lost in them anytime.

"Please, let me be on top tonight." You proposed.

Mizu couldn't resist your pretty eyes staring at her, almost begging to try something new. She tilted her head in curiousity.

"Okay, baby." Her hands adjusted to your thighs, giving them a small squeeze. "So what are your plans tonight Y/N?"

"Mmm, nothing in particular." Your face inching closer to her face, your lips almost brushing with hers. "I just want to love my beautiful girlfriend."

You close the gap between you two while your right hand gently palms her boxers. Your fingers drag along the thin gray fabric, only to find a small damp spot by her entrance. Still busy deepening the kiss with your beloved, you circle the edges of the wet spot. A moan slips out of Mizu.

When it comes to Mizu and noises, she typically doesn't speak out too much. You would mainly hear her in praises and words. However, your main goal was to change that tonight.

You continued to bring attention the the spot, circling it deeper. Mizu could feel the pads of your fingers dragging the surroundings of her entrance. It didn't help that the boxer fabric dragged along her clit.

God, that fucking underwear. It was the only thing between her and true pleasure from you. If only you could rip it off right now, she thought.

Instead, she threw her head back as you continued, positioning yourself under her. You hear her take a deep breath.

Looking up, you spot Mizu watching your next actions. Her face was practically red yet her eyes glowed blue in anticipation of your next move.

If it wasn't for your mission, you would have torn the boxers off of her and gone to town. However, you decided otherwise. You wanted to hear those sweet moans of her tonight.

No. 'Wanted' wasn't the right word.

Needed.

You paused right in front of her boxers. You come back up, your face still close to her body. Your hand balances you as the other makes its way up her oversized shirt, finding her breasts and giving the left one a soft squeeze.

"Fuck, Y/N..." she moaned.

Not enough, I know she can say more.

Your index finger barely brushes against her right nipple. A small gasp escapes out of Mizu.

Bingo.

As your hand cups her boob, you feel it grows hard against the fabric only a few seconds after. You chuckle, rubbing her nipple in between your thumb and index finger. Another moan slips out, louder in volume.

You check on her visual reaction, only to find her frustrated. Yet her erratic breathing and flushed face proved otherwise. You come closer to her, giving her a peck on the cheek.

"Does it feel good, my love?" you question. There was endearment behind that question, but Mizu could also hear the light teasing tone.

“God, Y/N, it feels so- ah-" she attempts to answer while your right hand now lightly tugging on her right nipple, still rubbing it between tugs. You feel her right hand pet the back of your head, running through your scalp.

"It feels so good, baby."

Her praises were all you needed to keep going.

You deepen the kiss and pull up her shirt impatiently to get a better view. At this point, fuck the fabric. You needed to hear her moan more. You start your journey back down, peppering her neck with kisses.

"Oh does it now?" You question, your voice vibrating against her neck.

"Fuck...", she quietly whines. "Yes, it does- ah-"

You had made your way down to her boobs, now planting kisses on her soft mounds. You lightly start to suck on the soft sides of her breasts, leaving a subtle mark for her to find later tomorrow morning.

"My love is so good." you tease, kissing it once again as your fingers pull on her right nipple again.

No coherent words came out of Mizu. Instead, only moans spilled out of your girlfriend. In response to the pleasure, you feel Mizu's hand against your scalp start to fist up, grabbing a chunk of your hair.

You groan from the light tug. Fuck, this was really hot. Mizu, the typical top, was a fumbling wet mess under your touch.

On the other hand, Mizu's mind was on its way to being fried from pleasure. Her pretty girl was treating her so well, pushing every button.

Well, almost every button. Except the ones covered by her boxers.

You dragged yourself down in between her legs again. The small damp spot from before had grown in size from earlier. A small grin formed as you ran your finger down the middle of the spot. Passing her clit, you feel her twitch under you. You heard a groan in response to the touch.

"Aw Mizu," you say teasingly as your hands gently held her thighs apart, allowing you more room to get closer. "Did you need some attention here?", you say as you ran the same finger down the same spot.

Another moan escapes.

You continued to palm her throbbing clit through the fabric. If the roles were reversed, you would have been begging Mizu for her fingers, the strap, or just anything in you. Circumstances have changed tonight so you wondered how Mizu would react to similar scenarios.

"Shit...", she cursed. "Baby."

Mizu pulled herself up by her elbows, looking down to see the view of u in between her legs. You continue to palm the spot with a bit more pressure. You could tell the fabric being the only barrier between ur fingers and her wet folds was pissing Mizu off.

"Fuck hell, Y/N..." she says.

You hum in response, planting a kiss on her spot. Mizu takes a deep breath in, her mind trying to clear up. Instead, it's filled with lust, almost impatient for your touch.

"Please, baby." she answers.

"Please, what?" You palmed her boxers to find her clit, practically sticking out and throbbing against the thin gray fabric. You circled around it, watching and hearing every moan come out of Mizu.

You watch her throw her head back, biting her lip. Her eyes were already half-lidded, drunk with receiving pleasure from her pretty girl.

"Please eat me out, pretty girl."

You kiss her inner thigh, smiling in delight. You pulled down her boxers to find her wet mess puffy and needy, wanting and waiting to be touched by you.

She takes a peek at your reaction, hoping to watch the scene. She could finally unravel her and feel the pleasure that you had been teasing her with.

Face to face with her entrance, you could feel the heat off of it radiate. You give it a slow lick, finally tasting your mission's reward. Mizu groans, now louder for you to hear.

You feel more liquid gush out, lubricating your tongue with her honey.

"Mmm, s'good for me.", you compliment as your tongue enters slowly. You feel her walls tighten with the sudden entrance.

"Oh god, fuck." Mizu curses, her eyes closed shut. Her mind fully lets herself go, vulnerable under ur touch and waiting for your work to pleasure her even more. You continue to enter your tongue inside her, hoping to hear the volume of her moans increase.

#bes mizu #mizu bes #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu x reader #blue eye samurai #mizu x y/n #mizu x you #blue eye samurai mizu #blue eye samurai x reader #blue eye samurai smut #mizu x reader smut #bes smut #mizu smut #bes mizu smut #bottom mizu #modern mizu #author needs to have sex #god i wish she was real #mizu let me love you

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aspirationalpeony · 1 year ago

Text

Lucky Me

Summary: You and Mel do a little experimenting after she shares a disappointing truth about her past relationships. Content Warnings: Lots of smut. :) This fic is loosely set in the same world as "Finding Beauty," but can be enjoyed independently. AO3 Link

"He wasn't good at it," Melissa says. "Joe. Makin' me come." She blushes.

It's so not her--tough, capable Melissa, fearless and demanding. You touch her cheek, brush a strand of red hair back behind her ear. She hasn't had a touch-up in a while, and there's a streak of gray growing in at her temple. You love that she can be vulnerable with you, admitting these little truths about herself, in words, in body.

"Really?" you say. You have a well, duh moment in your own head: the last time you saw Joe, he interrupted you constantly, derailing your thoughts to tell his own stories, never letting you get to the punchline of a joke. He just feels like a bad lover, inattentive and untrustworthy. Plus, you know the stuff he said to Melissa about her body.

"Yeah." She plays with the band of her smart watch, then leans forward off the couch toward the coffee table, picking up her wine glass. (It's a weeknight, so the liquid inside is grapefruit-flavored sparkling water.) "And 'specially later on, I couldn't get wet, he'd get so frustrated."

"Even though you were telling him what to do?"

Putting her glass back down, she cuts a look at you for the assumption, but it breaks out into a smile, a little sheepish. Your heart does a flip-flop at the sight. "Well, yeah."

Your fingertip traces the shell of her ear. She shivers. You can't believe Joe would get frustrated, impatient, bored of trying to give this woman pleasure. Every inch of her has some private sensitivity: the lobes of her ears, the small of her back, behind her knees, below her navel. Getting to learn these secrets has been the most incredible privilege. And it's been fun.

It's taken her a while to learn to let you, rather than tell you; to give you a chance to explore. She's so used to controlling every moment, organizing her own pleasure and yours. You love when Melissa is the boss, but you also love when she gives up the authority; when she melts into the feeling and lets you be in charge.

"What about Gary?" you ask.

She snorts. "Gary who?" Her mouth twists and she shakes her head, at the question, at herself. "I mean, sometimes I'd take his mustache for a ride, but that's about it. He didn't have, y'know. It." Her eyes flick up to yours again. You haven't missed the way they've been down this whole time, unable to hold your gaze; how her chin is tucked toward her chest, her shoulders up. "It doesn't... Bother you? Talkin' about them?"

You check in with yourself, but end up shrugging. "Not really." You've spent time with Melissa and Joe together, and there's no heat between them, just the friendly chemistry of two people who've known each other half their lives. Gary you did see once, and he looked kind of like an uncooked ham. What is there to be jealous of?

You study her face. She's still pink and a little twitchy. "Does it bother you? You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." You drop your hand to her nape, rubbing your thumb comfortingly along the column of her neck. She sways into you with a sigh.

"I wanna," she says. "Talk about it. I feel like I..." Her lips pinch. "Owe ya."

"No," you say, straightening up. The plastic of the couch creaks with your movement. "Melissa, you don't owe me anything. I want to talk about it if you do, but--"

"Nah, that's--" she shakes her head. "It's not what I meant. I mean, I... It's like, it's a part of... Me. Y'know." She pushes her hair back from her face. "And 'cause I love you, and--" she laughs a little--"cause you're stuck with me, I..."

Your always-active heart gives a tremor, hearing the cautious vulnerability of her voice. You slide your arm around her and pull her in.

"It ain't that big a deal," she says, muffled, lying, against your shoulder.

Even if she can't admit it--your tough-girl sweetheart, not wanting to let her soft heart show--you can. "It is to me," you say, and squeeze her.

You loosen your grip, and she tucks herself against your side. It always surprises you how small she really is. Every day she's like a cat that's making itself big, back up, fur on end, daring anyone to come at her; here she gets to shrink back down, turn back into herself, become your kitten.

"I don't get it," you say after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "It's fun making you come. I love it."

"Lucky me," Mel says, very smugly.

"I sometimes think about--" you stop. This really isn't the moment for your fantasies: yeah, you guys were talking about sex, but not in the dirty sense; it was Melissa sharing something important, something emotional, and...

"Yeah?" she says. Her voice has two registers when she's turned on: airy, almost girlish, usually when you've surprised her, and throaty, a rasp. Now it's that fainter, breathless one. The sound of it sends a tickling frisson down your spine.

"Um," you say, and it's your turn to blush. "I think about... A lot of things."

"I'm waitin'."

You huff an embarrassed laugh. It's one thing to fantasize, another thing to tell the object of your fantasy all about it. "Sometimes I think about," you say, and clear your throat, "how sensitive you are. And I want to know how many times I can make you come."

You can feel the way her breathing speeds up, her body against your side, but she doesn't speak.

"We usually stop at two," you say, "but I think you can take more. I think you can take a lot more. And--sometimes, I think about how little it takes, like, when you're right there. Like I can just breathe on your clit and you'll come. I think about getting you there and telling you 'no.'"

Her breath catches.

"I bet you'd go crazy." You're smiling a little. You touch your mouth, tapping your lower lip, thinking of it. "You'd cuss me out, you'd yank my hair. You'd probably try to finish yourself off. I might have to tie you up to stop you."

"Oh," she says.

You risk a glance at her face. She's looking up at you from where she's leaning against your side, her green eyes glassy, her cheeks pink, her lips parted.

"You like that, baby?" You slide your hand down her back and feel the muscles shift as she moves, pushing herself up, then throwing a leg over you, settling onto your lap.

Having her like this is perfect. She used to hold herself up on her knees, not letting you take her weight, until you got her to understand that you loved the pressure of her body against yours, that there was no such thing as too much of her.

She dips her head and kisses you. It's not a starter kiss, warming you up; she kisses you like you're inside her now, deep and filthy, putting her tongue in your mouth with no foreplay. You groan as her hand cups your neck, feeling the prickle of her manicured nails against your skin.

"You think about me like that a lot?" she asks you when she's letting you catch your breath. The words are low, your faces close, like it's a secret someone could overhear.

"Yeah," you admit. Your hands slide over her hips to grip her ass. She gives an encouraging little motion when you squeeze. "I love thinking about what I could do to you..." Her breath hitches again. "What you'd enjoy."

"You get off on it?"

"Yeah, I do," you say. "I get off on getting you off."

Her eyelashes flutter. She makes a noise like a whimper. You have a flash of inspiration, and before you can second-guess yourself, you take her hand from your neck, the other from your shoulder, and pull them behind her back.

She gasps. It's an arrow of electricity right to your clit. Her eyes open wide, searching for yours, as you gather her wrists into one hand. It's not a very strong grip--she could yank away from you easily--but it pulls her shoulders back and leaves her chest thrust forward.

"Is this okay?"

She nods.

"You have to tell me."

"It's okay," she says. Her voice has dropped into that second register of pure arousal, throaty and low. "It's... It's good."

"Did Joe ever do this to you?" You don't know what makes you bring him up. Not jealousy, but... Maybe curiosity. Maybe wondering if he ever took the time to catalogue Melissa's reactions, to think through what would really turn her on, if he ever gave that much of a shit.

She chuckles breathlessly. "Like to see him try," she mutters. Her blush is traveling down her throat and blotching her chest.

You follow its path to the three buttons at the front of her blouse. You watch her chest start to heave as you work them open with your free hand. They expose the center gore of her bra and a hint of the silky curve of its cups.

You palm one breast roughly, squeezing. She groans. You can just feel her hardening nipple through the layers of fabric separating you. You thumb it, pinch hard, to make sure she can feel it, turning her next moan into a whine.

Her hips rock into your lap, trying to get friction. You lean back to look at her: disheveled, red, her hair spilling everywhere, her lip gloss blurry from kissing.

"You're so fucking sexy," you tell her, voice low, making her moan again.

You'd love to finger her, but there's no lube, and she's in leggings pulled up high over her hips, with not a lot of room between the two of you to get inside them. You slide your hand between her legs and over her covered sex.

She pushes down into your palm, hard, as you nose the tender inner curve of one breast, tracing your lips against the edge of her bra. Pressing through her leggings, you can feel the plump shape of her cunt. You trace those folds down, then up, over her clit.

"Oh, fuck," she breathes as you start rubbing. "Oh, fuck..." She shifts restlessly; you think she might pull her wrists away, but instead she arches toward you, drops her head back, inviting a bite to her throat, which you give. You suck soft skin into your mouth, scrape of your teeth, nibble, move down, find another spot, repeat. You can't leave marks, but there are blotches of satisfying pink where you've touched her.

"You getting close?" You work your thumb against her clit.

"Uh huh," she says, weak and needy. She picks her head up again and there's a lost, fogged look of pleasure on her face as she meets your eyes.

You hold her gaze. "Tell me when you're there," you say. "When you're right there. Okay?"

Her brow creases as she tries to focus. You wonder if she's ever tried to do this before, parsing out stages to her pleasure, or if she's always just gone up and over, never thinking about how she got there.

"I--I--I think I'm--" her voice is wobbly.

You pull your hand away. She whines and her hips jab down toward your lap, seeking a touch that isn't there. You rub her thigh, slide your hand up, over the soft curve of her belly and down to press against her mons; her hips jolt again.

"Fuck you," she says feebly.

You rub your thumb back and forth, far above where she wants it. You know she can feel the contact here in her cunt, a phantom pressure to remind her how empty she is, how close she was.

"More?" you ask.

She squirms and nods. When you give her no response, she huffs a sigh, rolls her eyes, and says, "Yes, fine, yes, more, oh--shit--"

You've found her clit again. You know this time she'll already be sensitive, and she might not be able to tell you when you need to stop. You focus on watching her: the glazed look in her eyes before she shuts them, her parted lips, her frantic breaths, her rocking hips.

You time it; you pull your thumb away. She gives a frustrated cry and squirms in your lap. You take pity and give her a distraction, rubbing your cheek against her breast, finding the hint of her pebbled nipple, the one you neglected before, and biting hard. You feel the elasticity of her bra's cup more than you feel her flesh, muting the sting of your teeth, but it makes her keen.

"You've got no fucking clue how hot you are," you tell her. You bite again and tug, drawing out another delicious sound. "I haven't even taken your clothes off. Look at you. I want to do this to you forever."

Your thumb at her clit again, this time so lightly it barely counts. "You want to come, don't you?"

Her wrists twist in your grasp, but don't pull away. She says, all breathless, angry bravado, "What do you think?"

"I think I could stop right now." She gasps, though you don't stop gently rubbing her clit. "Even though I want to make you come. And after that, I want to take you upstairs and eat you out. I want to suck on you and get you all over my face. I want--"

"Oh, shit, I," she says weakly, her hips starting to twitch.

Realizing, you say, "Just from this?" She's really almost there again? "Fuck, you're incredible. Should I stop?"

"No," she whines.

"You want it harder?"

"Yes!"

You give her what she wants. Finally, she pulls her wrists out of your grip so she can grab your hand and shove it fully against her cunt, letting her ride your palm to her orgasm. Melissa's always noisy, but this time, she's loud, the sound of her desperate cry huge in the living room.

"Oh, fuck," she says faintly as she sags down onto your lap. "I, oh..."

"You did so good," you murmur to her and rub her back, grateful to have both hands again. She buries her face in your neck and clings to you, breathing hard. She mumbles something. "What, baby?"

She picks up her head a little. "I said, 'yeah, you too.'"

It makes you snort. It's a funny mix of tenderness, affection, and gratitude you feel, knowing that even after an orgasm that took her like a runaway train, she'll still make sure to remind you of your place. Can't ever get too smug around Melissa.

You trace a hand up and down her back, finding the hem of her blouse and rucking it up so you can touch her bare skin underneath. She's hot against your palm and it makes you sigh.

"You want to go upstairs and keep going?" you ask, mouth against her ear.

"I wanna recover first," she says blearily. "What the hell was that?" She sits up a bit in your lap and you have room to reach around her and pick up her water from the table.

"A little taste," you say.

She brings the glass to her lips and sips, eyes narrowed, watching you the way kung fu heroines watch their enemies, prepared to bust out their fists at any moment.

"Of what I've been thinking about," you add. You rub her lower back. "I think you liked it."

"I think you gotta be crazy to get off on somebody not letting you come," she says, then scowls. "Which I guess makes me crazy."

"I guess it does." You can't smother your smile. "You're okay, though?"

"What do you mean? I came, didn't I?"

"I mean, sometimes emotions can get weird," you say, "after doing that kind of stuff. You get a lot of hormones and chemicals in you and they can make you feel..." You shrug.

"You got a lot of experience with 'this kind of stuff'?" Now her gaze is accusing. "You been holdin' out on me?"

"No, not a lot of experience. A little, maybe." You hold her hips, rubbing your thumbs over their soft curves. "A little experience. And a lot of things I want to do to you."

Her whole body shudders. She reaches back to put her water down, then loops her arms around your neck and kisses you. It's her post-coital kiss, lazy and loving, the hunger more muted.

"Gee," she says breathlessly when you part, and repeats herself, a grin curving her lips: "Lucky me."

#melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #sorry for any editing mishaps... i just really wanted to write but WIPs were a struggle!#so fired this off very quickly #i hope you can enjoy even though it's quite short/slapdash

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formulawolff · 5 months ago

Text

ii. eighteen minutes - t.w.

pairing: reserve fem driver!reader x toto wolff

word count: 2.5k

warnings: morally gray individuals, slow burn, sexual content (intercourse), allusions to sexual content, cursing, marijuana use, references to alcohol use, lots of power imbalance, questionable boss x employee dynamics, light toxicity, slight controlling tendencies from toto

a/n: here’s the second chapter of my new baby. i really like the direction of this fic & i hope y’all do too. also, i really wanna clarify and say that the reader, toto, and max are NOT supposed to be good people. they are supposed to be written as people who have flaws + make mistakes. i hope y’all enjoy! <3

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･｡ﾟ☆:

“look at you! come on now, do a little spin for me.”

sucking in a breath, you swivel on your heel, turning in a tight circle. lewis nods in approval, his tongue swiping along his lower lip.

“who knew a fire suit could look so good on someone? if you’re not careful, you may have quite a few drivers in your dms later. me included!”

“stop,” you hiss through gritted teeth, “it’s a little tighter than i would like in some areas.”

lewis’ lips purse, the british driver eyeing every inch of the suit, “that’s not necessarily a bad thing–”

“could you stop harassing our sweet girl?”

george strolls through the entrance of the garage, arms folding over his chest. lewis rolls his eyes, mouth forming a pout as george plucks a strand of hair from your right rib-cage, “how come you get to be that close?”

“because i don’t sexualize her every five seconds,” george mutters, shaking his head, “how are you feeling? nervous?”

“nervous?” a dry laugh erupts from the base of your throat, “i’m clenching my cheeks right now. i’m afraid i’m going to shit myself.”

“it’ll pass,” george shrugs, “soon the adrenaline will kick in and you’ll be fine. don’t stress yourself out too much. it’s only qualifying.”

“it’s only my first qualifying in formula one,” you counter, wiping your slick palms on your suit, “it’s only my debut as one of the few female drivers in a male-dominated sport. it’s only the first time the other teams will get to watch me drive and–”

“you just want to look good for red bull,” lewis waves a hand, “don’t act all coy over there. we’ve seen your interviews. we know you have an interest in joining the dark side.”

“the dark side?” you arch a brow, “what does that mean?”

“you’d be under the helm of christian horner if you went over to red bull,” george exhales, his hands settling on his hips, “that’s a no-no in the mercedes handbook. so, we refer to it as the dark side.”

“oh,” a slight wave of shame blazes within you as you sense the subtle scrutiny radiating off the british drivers as they pick you apart, anticipating your response, “i just wanted to showcase my capabilities, that’s all.”

“there’s no harm in that,” lewis whistles, “after all, a lot of seats are up for grabs. several long-term contracts for drivers are going to be up after the season. 2025 is going to be one interesting year. that’s for sure.”

“indeed,” george nods, “not a lot will change around here though. i’ll be sticking around. so will lewis.”

at george’s statement, you notice the way lewis tenses up, almost freezing in place. yet, he loosens up the moment another individual enters the paddock, the driver bearing a meek smile.

“howdy, toto!”

“guten morgen,” the team principal is almost cold, showing no emotion as he approaches the three of you, “i assume the two of you briefed our little hase on our strategy for qualifying this weekend?”

“yep,” lewis dips his head, “she’s chomping at the bit to get a hot lap in!”

“ah!” the team principal’s head turns in your direction, a smug smirk now apparent, “is that so?”

fuck you, lewis hamilton. fuck you big time.

“yup!” you swallow thickly, shifting in place, “i’m ready!”

in reality, there was nothing more than you wanted in that moment to be in max’s arms, snuggling against his chest as his hands roamed, rubbing gentle circles into your back.

as much as you shunned those feelings that bubbled to the surface whenever he was near, there was one thing that you could not deny.

he knew how to make you feel safe.

and god did you wish he was at your side, your fingers intertwined together. even the sound of his voice was enough to soothe your nerves.

if only he was here right now.

if only.

due to the nature of formula one’s guidelines, in order to replace george, you would have to participate in at least one of the practice sessions on the track. which, since qualifying was considered a practice session, you would be given the okay to compete. however, there was the more petrifying aspect of it all.

qualifying determined the grid.

if you did not perform, then mercedes would be at the bottom of the grid, fighting their way to the top in order to earn points. if you did not manage to snag a position in the top ten, then you would not earn any points.

and no team wanted zero points.

especially at the beginning of the season where a high-caliber team like mercedes wanted to make a statement.

so, it was up to you to set that tone.

to prove that you were not only a worthy competitor, but also that you were capable of earning points.

talk about a pivotal point in your formula one career.

a point which would hopefully last more than eighteen minutes.

hopefully.

“all right,” toto clears his throat, placing a hand on your shoulder, “come with me. we’re going to go on over to the car. i’m going to have you meet with bono, marcus, and james. they are going to give you a little insight about the new upgrades to the car, along with some adjustments we’ve made since sakhir.”

“sounds good,” letting out a shaky breath, you follow the team principal’s lead, dipping your head to fellow members of the crew as they wave, circling around you like vultures. they appear eager, poised to pounce at any given moment. with every passing second, the tension in the air thickened, a buzz beginning to grow among the garage.

of course, they were talking about you.

this was the first time you were going to be behind the wheel of their car. the car that they had worked tirelessly on over the course of weeks, if not months. the car they had poured all of their passion, their energy, and their resources into. the car that required numerous donations and sponsorships to build, craft, and perfect.

a car that was worth millions.

and it was up to you to ensure that the car came out unscathed, without a single scratch or dent.

some pressure that was.

and god, was it starting to weigh on your shoulders.

“before you speak to the team, i need to tell you something.”

you pause, cocking your head, “yes?”

toto leans forward, his mouth hovering merely millimeters by your ear.

“don’t fuck this up, hase. the moment you get behind the wheel of that car you are going to do one of two things for me. one, you manage to qualify in the top ten for tomorrow. or two, you crumble under the pressure and crash the car.

if you crash the car, you’re fucking done. you will never step foot inside brackley ever again. i will release you from your contact the very moment you make it back to the paddock. so don’t fuck this up, yeah? i’m sure you don’t want to lose your cushy little lifestyle in the reserves.”

a shiver courses down your spine, fear bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as he towers over you, wearing a sickeningly smug grin. however, that terror only lasts a second, dissipating as retaliation takes over. it’s fiery and hot, your jaw clenching as your fists form tightly wound balls.

“fuck you,” you manage to spit out, “fuck you, toto wolff.”

“that’s exactly what i wanted to hear,” he coos, breath hot as it fans against your ear, “good girl.”

“fuck you,” you sneer, “if you utter so much another word to me, i’m crashing the fucking car.”

toto wolff couldn’t help but let the satisfaction course through his veins as you glower, folding your arms tightly against your chest as you make your way over to the huddle of engineers and crew. you were almost stomping, your steps a little louder than usual.

he had you right where he wanted you.

tensed up, fury filling you to the brim. your brows pinched together with dismay, a frown etched across your features. the toes of your shoe tapping away against the floor, itching to feel the wheel beneath your fingertips. impatient as ever, the fear of loss mixed with the desire to win creating a dangerous yet lethal mix.

a loaded gun, merely seconds away from firing.

to toto, this was necessary.

this was the only way he was going to make you a champion.

you see, toto wolff made no mistakes.

he was a calculated individual, carefully plotting and carrying out every single move when it came to the decisions made by the team. no detail, no matter how miniscule or trivial was finalized without his permission. no contract was signed without his presence. no calls were made without his knowledge.

so, the decision to replace george with the reserve driver for the first grand prix was not a decision that was made lightly.

in his eleven years at mercedes, the team principal had witnessed it all. with eight constructors’ championships, seven driver’s championships, and a stake in the team, toto was a dominant force in the world of formula one. he had seen his fair share of controversies, faced backlash from the media, and harbored his secrets.

although he thought he had seen just about everything there was to see in formula one, that all changed the moment he saw your face.

that was the exact moment in which toto wolff’s entire world came to a screeching halt.

that was the moment in which he knew he had to have you.

he knew he needed you at mercedes.

no matter the cost. no matter the stakes. no matter the risk.

he had lewis hamilton to thank for that.

it all happened one race weekend in zandvoort. toto could recall the memory perfectly, down to the exact minute. he could remember the way lewis was toting you around, your arm entwined with his. it was in the garage, as lewis was giving you a tour, showing you around a little bit, introducing you to a few prominent members of the team.

at first glance, toto was under the impression you were just another fuck for the british driver, another innocent girl that fell victim to the bachelor’s charming ways.

that all changed when lewis introduced you as the prodigy of prema racing, the one who shattered records and obliterated barriers.

the next world champion pf formula two. that was, if you played your cards right.

the next face of the mercedes team, if toto played his cards right.

as fate would have it, you did earn that title.

in turn, that achievement ended up changing the trajectory of your life. it opened up numerous doors, more than you ever thought were possible. brands reached out to you through social media, inquiring about sponsorships. fans praised you across social media, stating that you were a trailblazer for the world of motorsports.

most importantly, it opened the door to formula one.

you had toto wolff to thank for that.

with the help of lewis, he was the one who got the ball rolling on your contract. he was the one who took a chance on the hot-headed, bratty driver. he was the one who called you, inquiring if you wanted to sign a two-year deal with mercedes. you would be in the reserves, but you would be on the team, nonetheless.

although you were not the first or second driver sitting in a seat, toto was well aware of the potential brewing within you.

which, was partially the reason why you were competing today.

he wouldn’t have made the call if he did not believe in you.

as you slip into the car, he lingers at the helm of the control panel, sliding on a pair of headphones.

“one, two, radio check. hase, can you hear me?”

your voice, so sweet and delicate, floods his ears, “i can hear you, toto.”

“good, good,” he tuts, “okay team, let’s have a good qualifying, yeah?”

as the remainder of the crew finish the check, the team principal’s gaze fixates on the reserve driver. her helmet was a little too big, but he could make out her lashes as they fluttered, her head bobbing along as the team buzzed about, ensuring that everything was in perfect order.

a member of the crew flashes toto a thumbs up, signaling that it was time.

“all right hase,” with every fiber in his being, the team principal fights a grin as you mimic the wave of a princess, a gloved hand rotating back and forth as the car lurches out of the garage.

“es ist zeit zu gehen.”

the second you sailed on to that track,, your foot pressing on the gas, any doubt or fear dissolved, replaced by nothing but pure, electrifying adrenaline.

“all right ms. reserves,” marcus’ voice seeps into your right ear, “let’s see what you can do.”

when it came to qualifying, all it took was one lap.

one singular lap to prove yourself.

and by god, that’s what you were going to do.

you were going to prove yourself that you were more than just a body in the reserves. you were going to prove to the world of formula one that you were dominant on the track, just as you were in formula two. you were a world champion.

the only woman in your sport to ever accomplish that magnificent of a feat.

one of a kind.

the longer you were on the track, the more you realized how your body longed to be behind the wheel. the bells and whistles of the car came easily to you, really. natural, even. just as you had practiced in the simulator.

your reflexes were sharp, on point with every turn of the chicane. your feet rotated back and forth between the gas and brake with ease, almost as if they had a mind of their own, like they knew this circuit by heart.

before you knew it, you were sailing back toward the pits, to the mercedes garage. the chatter of the radio was almost like white noise to you, as you had paid no mind to the voices that filtered in and out of your helmet. part of you felt a sense of guilt for not listening to the engineers or crew. although, at the end of the day, you were the one driving the damn car.

coming to a halt at the garage, you pit, flipping the visor up. members of the crew swarm your car. yet, the only one you really make out is toto. with his broad stature and powerful aura, he was truly hard to miss.

the team principal leans over, one hand resting against the halo of the car.

the other taps your helmet, the corners of his lips tugging into a broad smile.

for the first time, you make note of his dimples. how they soften his chiseled features.

and for the first time, you can’t help but notice how gorgeous toto wolff is when he smiles.

“congratulations, hase,” a chuckle rumbles in his chest, his hand lingering on your helmet.

“with the fastest lap on the track, you’ve made it to the second session of qualifying.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･｡ﾟ☆:

taglist: @sweetjellyfishland @ts1m1kas @bxuzi @racecardilfs @bblouifford @justacornerofmybrain @irishmanwhore @noooway555 @sleutherclaw @okdokeygryssel63 @jeannealicette @marknolee @allyisalright-blog

#toto wolff x reader #max verstappen x reader #toto wolff #formula 1 #f1 #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #toto wolff x you #max verstappen x you #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 fanfiction #toto wolff fanfiction #toto wolff fanfic

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lorelovinglunatic · 7 days ago

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Each member of the Batfam has a signature color except for Tim and I’m tweaking out about it.

In age order:

Alfred (Agent A) Pennyworth is white. (Ha ha yes literally) but also he’s clean and somehow manages to be classy even when splattered in blood. Also his hair.

Bruce (Batman) Wayne is gray. Bro is the night but he’s also not born to it. He’s as close of an imitation to darkness as someone who is still undeniably hopeful can be.

Kate (Batwoman) Kane is red. But in a lesbian way. Bordering on the magenta in the flag.

Barbara (Oracle) Gordon is orange. Yeah it’s probably because of her hair. Also it’s a brassy orange. She’s strict and intelligent but also funny. Idk man

Dick (Nightwing) Grayson is blue. Royal blue. Predictable ik, but he’s predictable. He’s a (not-so) reformed crash out and I think he deserves his peaceful blue that’s also just a little too bright to really be peaceful.

Cassandra (Black Bat) Cane? Black. Actually silent. All the training of Bruce without the white, quiet joy and domesticity of being raised by Alfred. Is the night. The opposite of Bruce, who chose to emulate the night when suited up, she is cursed to be it even out of costume because of her upbringing.

Jason (Red Hood) Todd is red. Not the bright red of his Robin days, but not too much darker. The blood he’s spilled mostly absolved by his later actions and his realization of his manipulation by Talia, but still staining his conscience.

Steph (Spoiler) Brown is purple. I mean the costume is literally purple, but she’s also just chill like that. She’s funny and pretty much does anything for the plot. She’s so purple to me.

Tim (Red Robin) Drake is ???. He’s not really red despite it being in his name. I can’t figure out what color aligns to him, especially because imo he hasn’t really had his own identity. Jokes about him being the Replacement hit hard when you realize that just like the rest of the Robins, barring Dick, he didn’t have a strong emotional connection to the suit. Tim arguably had more of one than other robins, from his stalker days and idolization of Batman and Robin, probably in third behind Jason “Robin makes me magic/literally haunted by his own younger Robin self” Todd. Then, just as he’s getting his footing being Bruce’s kid after his parents die, Bruce disappears and the mantle is passed on to Damian. So he becomes Red Robin because he still doesn’t know who he is without being Robin. And then writers mostly forget about him, sticking him with being Red Robin indefinitely and also eternally 17 because they can’t b bothered to give him any decent character development. So I don’t know what color fits him and it’s really very upsetting because he’s a very interesting complex character and should get one. Anyways

Duke (Signal) Thomas is yellow. Yeah it’s his suit color and also he can literally manipulate light, but he’s also the literal embodiment of the color. He’s arguably the most normal of any of them, and a practical ray of sunshine compared to most of the family. He’s also the only one working the day shift.

Damian (Robin) Wayne is green. No, I don’t know why. In some comics he wears more green than other robins, but in others he’s exclusively in red, gray, and black. Every time I think of him in his league wear I think of it as green, but it’s not, it’s gray or black. I don’t know why he’s green, he just is. He’s feral and loves animals which gives me forest green energy but he’s also terrifyingly trained and in control which gives me army green energy. He’s a green somewhere between the two.

Anyways they all have a color except for Tim and I’m really sad about it thank you

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sweetsugarcakes · 3 months ago

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Sneaky Makeout headcanons with tylee and azula and a !MS/O while on duty or looking for the avatar

sneaky makeout headcanons

Ty lee and Azula

[slight nsfw]

Ty lee

💗 You and team azula were trying to find the avatar and his gang. Since you and Ty lee have always been out, it’s been a while since you two had any sort of affection

💗you always initiate to sneak off and go make out somewhere

💗her cheeks would turn red as she’ll look at you with a confused and nervous look. “We can’t Azula will get mad” she always says as she felt a little anxious since she knows how Azula is.

💗you everytime reassured her it’ll be fine and you two wouldn’t get caught. she would eventually give into the idea because she wanted it too.

💗you two would sneak off and you could tell she was a bit nervous you start off by caressing her cheek and rubbed it with your thumb to relax her a bit

💗she knows how to kiss. She’s the best kisser, her lips are soft and she just knows her ways. She knows exactly what to do.

💗you always gently pushed her back against something as she clutched onto your shoulders and chest not letting go.

💗 Your lips on hers, your hands wandering around her body and your tongue exploring her mouth would drive her crazy

💗she always wanted to keep going and want more, but you two would hear azulas voice calling out. Eventually you guys would have to break apart leaving both of you breathless.

💗after it was done she gave you the same look with her gray eyes as she smiles. “We need to do that more often.”

Azula

💙shes always the one that pulls you away from everyone.

💙she doesn’t care where it is if she wants to make out with you in public than you two will. She would always say, “[Name] come here now!”

💙she would makeout with you if she got jealous of something. Like one time in ember island when Ty lee got all the boys attention on the beach and Azula wanted that too, she wanted male attention which obviously wanted you to drool over her like that.

💙she also does it to relieve stress and puts it all out in the kiss.

💙she didn’t know how to kiss at first so when she was a forceful with her kissing you taught her which now once she got the hang of it…you were in trouble

💙she always loved taking control but she never complained too much when you take over. She loved to be pleased and wanted to feel all of you

💙eventually you two would stop only if Azula wanted too. If someone called out and you pulled away she’ll grabbed your cheeks and say “Did I demand you to stop?”

💙although she’ll have a little shame if Ty lee or Mai caught you two. They never did but if they were too she’ll blush and get all defensive immediately denying it

💙sometimes her lipstick marks would be on your lips which she’ll just chuckle and wipe it off you

💙after it she’ll be flushed for hours always playing the enjoyable memory in her mind

#atla #avatar the last airbender #atla azula #atla ty lee #azula x reader #ty lee x reader #azula #ty lee #azula headcanons #azula headcanon #ty lee headcanons #ty lee headcanon #azula smut #ty lee smut

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icaruspendragon · 3 months ago

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I got tagged in one of those "get to know me" tag games back in 2021 and I wanna see how 2024 me's answers compare!

2021:

1. Nickname: berk

2. Zodiac: Gemini

3. Height: 5’4

4. hogwarts house: it’s been years since I last took the test, but Gryffindor

5. Last thing I googled: yellow wallpaper. The short story haha.

6. Song stuck in my head: movement by hozier

7. Number of followers: 1021

8. Amount of sleep: 4ish hours recently

9. Lucky number: I don’t think I have one but my favorite is 27

10. Dream job: something where I get to help people

11. Wearing: mom jeans, black turtleneck, gray quater zip for the university of Mississippi chapter of delta gamma. Thrift store finds, ya know?

12. Favorite author: Kurt Vonnegut

13. Favorite instrument: cello

14. Aesthetic: someone once told me that I looked like “every kind of lesbian.” So whatever that means.

15. Favorite song: uhh, currently it’s probably “would that i” by hozier

16. Favorite animal noise: kitty cat purrs

17. Random: today at work some lady told me that everytime she comes in she looks for me because I make the best drinks. I haven’t stopped smiling bc of that :’)

2024:

1. Nickname: berk, professor alpha

2. Zodiac: gemini

3. Height: 5’4

4. hogwarts house: once again it's been years since i last took it, but my result that time was slytherin

5. Last thing I googled: "how does a pipe bomb work? I'm not gonna make one I'm just curious /gen"

6. Song stuck in my head: nothing at the moment, but according to receiptify my top ten most listened to songs for November so far are:

man or muppet - jason segel, walter

blue sky & the painter - bastille

marie & polonium - bastille

intros & narrators - bastille

eve & paradise lost - bastille

red wine & wilde - bastille

seasons & narcissus - bastille

fratelli d'italia - this is the italian national anthem lmao

the rattlin bog - seamus kennedy

nobody's soldier - hozier

7. Number of followers: 14,841

8. Amount of sleep: not enough

9. Lucky number: my original answer still stands. big fan of 27 still, too.

10. Dream job: I don't dream of being a laborer, but I still very much want to something that helps people.

11. Wearing: biker shorts and a 2024 gran premio dell'emilia romagna crewneck. welcome back princess diana

12. Favorite author: opal_bullets of ao3 fame

13. Favorite instrument: banjo

14. Aesthetic: on a spectrum that goes from academic queer to refined-button-up bisexual

15. Favorite song: it changes somewhat often. my all time favorite is icarus by bastille but my current is the don reno version of feudin' banjos

16. Favorite animal noise: when my cat groans like she's a blue-collar dad whose long day at work and just wants to decompress in his recliner

17. Random: I was very brave and also very sexy and I decided to go back to school after dropping out at the end of my senior years four years ago and I registered for classes this week and I am not going to let myself self sabotage and quit before I've even started because of anxiety-driven-fear-of-the-unkown-control-issues because it's okay to be scared. you just can't let that stop you and I'm done letting it stop me !!!

#long post #personal #this was kinda fun ngl

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transformers-spike · 6 days ago

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This is kinda a questionable question but I figured who else to ask other than transformers-spike. What are cybertronian spikes like? Are they also metal? Or are they a different material and softer than the rest of their body? Since they’re still aliens and not just robots that’s something that keeps me up at night. Is it possible for it to have a silicone feel? Is it surprisingly organic for an overall mechanical species. Same question for valves. What do you think they’re like? Is it metal? Does have multiple metal moving parts on the inside that contract during interface? Or are the functional base mechanics metal but have some sort of softer material coating for pleasure. Is the color and look of spikes and valves dependent on their paint jobs or most similar to a part you’d find in a car (where it’s just gray metal? Would it be closer to a how a human’s look or are they more wild looking? Considering they’re not human. But then again we do have similar features. Or is it a some will have closer resembling spikes and valves to humans while others don’t situation? Does the type of mech you are affect how it looks? Are spikes and valves customizable? Detachable spikes? Do they have special features like vibrating?

Lmao this is a fantastic question! Well-explained too. @drunkeninlovesailor says she wants to kiss you on the mouth for this, anon.

I've mentioned part of these headcanons in Blueberry Drizzle featuring best boy Knock Out. I'll split my ideas between two categories. TFP and TFA. TFP (at least per my headcanons) has spikes technically made of metal, but metal as in whatever the hell transformers are made of (Transformium?), including dermamesh and protomatter. Dermamesh is what the valve lips are made of (giving them a chewy and softer consistency), but it also covers the spike (especially the tip to protect it, while the rest of the member has a lighter coating). However, the internal casing is made of protomatter, which is way more durable. I assume the surface texture is more akin to silicone? But it also depends on the bot. Ridges are a thing as well, and with only a thin dermamesh cover, they irritate human genitals if lubricant isn't used, they can even mutilate them if the interface is too rough and no lube is used. Valves produce a huge amount of transfluid for this reason alone, and they're extremely durable (as in the dermamesh cannot be easily pierced and the valve structure can withstand almost any impact. Valves have pistons controlling their inner walls. This helps them stretch quite a bit to accommodate spikes - and quickly go back to their normal state after interface. Of course, they clamp down during overload. I assume the insides of the valve are made of dermamesh, probably "puffier" compared to the outer lips. Usually there are multiple layers of gummy-like bristles inside of the valve. They can both stimulate and be stimulated in return. TFP in particular has the wildest-looking interface arrays. Every bot is so unique by design, I wouldn't be surprised if almost every spike/valve was different. The color depends on the bot's natural mesh, but it can also be whatever. I personally like making them alien-like in design, so as long as its phallic-shaped it works. They can also get pretty wild, like Dreadwing and Skyquake having knots. Biolights are pretty common, but some frame classes (like the miners) don't have them (and Megatron's spike went from grey and red to grey and purple because of the dark energon he already consumed in the books - yes i guess unicron can change the color of your dick don't ask) Yeah I assume frame types may have specific spike traits in common, but it's not always a guarantee. TFA to me has add-ons. Aka their initial form of interface was through messing with hypersensitive wires. Extremely messy to deal with since transfluid was being produced inside of their frames, and putting important wires back was complicated and even dangerous if you fucked up enough times. Nowadays they've morphed into installing more "Organic-like" interface arrays, where the transfluid their frames produce is being rerouted to their their valves/spike. So on Cybertron you can change your array however you want. Still sticking to something generally phallic in shape though. Decepticons however have met more alien species since their exile, which means the slowly developing interface-market at the time got even wilder. Sky's the limit. Blitzwing with a tentacle dick, Blackarachnia with an ovipositor - no one can stop them! Also bots can change up their spikes like jewelry so... the features can get pretty wild depending on your budget . The best part tho is being able to choose the size. Everyone can interface with everyone

#headcanon hour #transformers prime #valveplug #maccadam #tfp megatron #dreadwing #skyquake #tfa blitzwing #blackarachnia #transformers animated

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novaursa · 3 months ago

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Legacy (union of fire and gold)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Just a reminder how events of this story differ from the canon.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: homecoming

- Next part: by his design

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The day dawned overcast, with a pale, muted light casting a gray hue over the city as the bells of the Sept of Baelor tolled, echoing throughout King’s Landing. The streets were lined with onlookers, commoners and courtiers alike, whispering in anticipation of the union about to take place. News had spread quickly, tales of the Targaryen princess returned to the capital and soon to be bound to the most powerful lord in Westeros. The marriage of a lion and a dragon—an alliance many had once thought impossible.

The Sept itself was adorned for the occasion, candles flickering in every alcove, their soft glow illuminating the vast marble hall. The high arches soared above, casting an almost ethereal light across the space as the silent sisters moved through the aisles, their white robes sweeping the floors in solemn reverence.

You stood in the antechamber, waiting for the ceremony to begin, your heart steady but your mind a storm of thoughts. The gown you wore had been chosen carefully, a testament to your heritage as well as a nod to the new life you were stepping into. The fabric was deep crimson, almost black in certain lights, shot through with threads of silver that shimmered faintly as you moved—a tribute to the colors of House Targaryen as well as House Lannister. The gown’s neckline was modest but elegant, dipping just enough to reveal a thin, intricate necklace of Valyrian steel, a rare piece that had been salvaged from the relics of your family. It rested cool against your skin, a silent reminder of the bloodline you carried.

The sleeves were long, fitted tightly down your arms before flaring at the wrists, each cuff embroidered with delicate silver dragons coiling around golden lions. The waist was cinched with a slender belt of red and gold, inlaid with small rubies that glinted like fire in the dim light. Your hair had been swept up, held in place by delicate silver pins shaped like dragon wings, with a few tendrils left to frame your face. You’d refused a veil; this was no ordinary marriage, and you would meet the eyes of every witness with your own head held high.

As the silent sisters moved to open the door for you, a figure approached—Ser Barristan Selmy, his white cloak a stark contrast to the richness of the ceremony’s decor. He regarded you with a warmth that softened the lines of his face, a faint smile touching his lips.

“Your family would have been proud to see you today,” he murmured quietly, his voice steady. “I know they would have been.”

You nodded, offering him a grateful smile, but said nothing. The memories of your family weighed heavily on you, but this day was one of duty, of survival. You took a steadying breath as the doors to the Sept opened, revealing the crowd of nobility that filled the pews. Each head turned, and whispers began to ripple through the hall as you entered.

Ahead, Tywin stood waiting at the altar, his posture as commanding as ever, dressed in rich red and gold that seemed to amplify the severe lines of his face. His expression was impassive, though his eyes met yours with a piercing intensity that was both reassuring and possessive. The High Septon stood beside him, adorned in robes of white and gold, his hands folded before him as he waited to perform the rites.

You moved forward with steady steps, feeling the weight of every gaze upon you, each step a deliberate, measured acceptance of the path you had chosen—or had been chosen for you. As you neared the altar, you caught a glimpse of Cersei in the front row, her expression a tightly controlled mask of resentment and bitterness. Beside her, Joffrey watched with a cruel smirk, his eyes glittering with an amusement that made your skin crawl. Sansa was seated a few places away, her eyes wide, filled with something close to awe and hope as she watched you.

The High Septon began the ceremony, his voice solemn and resonant, echoing through the hall as he recited the ancient vows. His words seemed to fade into the background as you faced Tywin, your eyes locked on his, each of you a picture of calm control amidst the ceremony’s grandeur.

“Do you, Lord Tywin Lannister, take Lady Y/N of House Targaryen as your lawful wife, to have and to hold, to honor and protect, from this day until the end of your days?” the High Septon intoned, his voice formal.

Tywin inclined his head, his voice strong and unyielding. “I do.”

The High Septon turned to you, his gaze solemn. “And do you, Lady Y/N of House Targaryen, take Lord Tywin Lannister as your lawful husband, to have and to hold, to honor and protect, from this day until the end of your days?”

You swallowed, the weight of the vow settling over you as you answered, your voice steady. “I do.”

The High Septon lifted his hands in blessing, and the audience fell silent as he spoke the final rites, joining your hands together in a ceremonial binding. The feel of Tywin’s hand over yours was firm, unyielding, his grip a silent promise that left no room for uncertainty.

“With this union,” the High Septon proclaimed, “House Targaryen and House Lannister stand as one. May the Seven bless this bond, now and forever.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd as the ceremony concluded, and Tywin leaned in, placing a chaste but possessive kiss on your forehead—a public gesture of claim, a declaration to all present that you now belonged to him.

The bells of the Sept tolled once more as you and Tywin exited the altar, arm in arm, each step echoing through the hall as you faced the court together. The nobility stood, bowing as you passed, each of them aware of the significance of this marriage, the union of two great houses brought together by fire and ambition.

When you reached the doors, they opened to reveal the courtyard filled with onlookers, each one craning to catch sight of the newly wed couple. Tywin’s gaze was fixed forward, his grip on your arm as steady and unrelenting as his own sense of purpose. This was his victory, his triumph—and now, it was yours as well, even if it had come at the cost of your past.

The crowd cheered as you descended the steps, and the sound grew louder as you made your way toward the Great Hall, where a grand feast awaited. The tables were laden with the finest dishes King’s Landing could offer—roasted boar, honey-glazed fruits, thick stews and freshly baked bread, each dish arranged with meticulous care.

You took a seat at the high table beside Tywin, your gaze sweeping over the hall as you settled into your new place. The nobility began to fill the room, each one eager to partake in the feast, to toast to the union of fire and gold. The sounds of laughter, music, and clinking glasses filled the hall, the air thick with the scent of wine and spices as the night began.

You kept your gaze steady, a quiet resolve in your expression as you prepared to face what lay ahead. This was your new reality, your new path. And as the feast began, you knew that whatever challenges awaited, you would meet them head-on, just as you had met the vows you’d taken that day.

The hall was alight with celebration, filled with the sound of laughter, clinking goblets, and lively music. Nobles from across the realm raised their glasses to toast your union with Tywin, each vying for favor, some more genuine than others.

At the high table, you sat beside Tywin, who remained as composed and impenetrable as ever. His gaze swept over the crowd, his mere presence commanding respect, if not fear, from those who dared approach.

Not long into the feast, you noticed a figure making his way over to the high table, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips: King Joffrey. His golden hair gleamed in the torchlight, and his green eyes held a glint of malice barely concealed behind a play of princely decorum. He stopped in front of you, giving an exaggerated bow that was more mockery than respect.

“Lady Y/N,” he drawled, his tone dripping with insincerity. “Or should I say, Lady Lannister? My, my… congratulations are in order, I suppose.”

You inclined your head, meeting his gaze with a calm, steady expression, refusing to rise to his bait. “Thank you, Your Grace,” you replied, your voice polite but cool. “It is kind of you to offer your well wishes.”

Joffrey’s smirk widened, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. “Yes, I imagine it must feel… different, being back in King’s Landing after so long. Such a shame, really, that you had to spend all those years in the North. But then, not everyone can be so… fortunate as to live here in the capital.”

You held his gaze, letting a faint, knowing smile play at the corners of your lips. “Indeed, Your Grace,” you replied smoothly. “But I’ve found that those who endure hardship often come out stronger for it. And King’s Landing, as I recall, isn’t without its own… challenges.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Joffrey’s face, and you saw his hand twitch as though he longed to wipe that smile from your lips. Before he could retort, Tywin’s voice cut through the tension, cold and commanding.

“Enough, Joffrey,” Tywin said, his tone laced with steel. “This is neither the time nor the place for your petty provocations. Show respect or be silent.”

Joffrey’s smirk faded, and he flushed with anger, but he dared not defy his grandsire. He cast a sharp look at Cersei, who was watching the exchange with narrowed eyes, a mixture of irritation and helplessness on her face.

“Mother,” Joffrey snapped, turning on his heel. “It seems I am unwanted here.”

Cersei stood, a warning in her gaze as she took her son’s arm, steering him away. “Come, Joffrey,” she murmured, her tone firm but placating. “You have guests to attend to.”

As they left, Tywin’s gaze remained fixed ahead, a faint look of satisfaction in his eyes. “That boy would do well to remember his place,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

Moments later, you noticed another familiar face approaching, and this time, your heart lifted with genuine joy. Sansa, dressed in a soft gown of light blue that brought out the gentle hue of her eyes, approached tentatively, her expression filled with a mixture of awe and warmth.

Rising from your seat, you extended a hand, and she took it gratefully, allowing you to pull her into a gentle hug. Tywin said nothing, merely casting a brief glance in her direction before returning his attention to the festivities.

“Sansa,” you murmured, your voice soft, filled with the affection of long-lost family. “It’s so good to see you.”

She pulled back, her gaze brimming with warmth. “And you, Lady Y/N… or should I say, Lady Lannister?” she teased lightly, her voice barely above a whisper.

You offered a gentle smile. “I think for you, Sansa, ‘Y/N’ will do just fine.”

Guiding her a little farther down the hall, away from the prying ears and eyes, you found a quieter corner where you could speak more freely. Once you were sure no one would overhear, you turned to her, an apology already forming in your eyes.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner,” you said softly, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “I had hoped to speak with you before all of this began.”

She shook her head, her gaze filled with understanding. “I know… I understand. Everything has been so chaotic.”

A shadow crossed your face as you recalled the recent tragedies. “I heard about your father, Sansa,” you whispered, your voice laced with sympathy. “I am… so deeply sorry. Lord Stark was an honorable man.”

Sansa’s eyes welled up, and she quickly looked down, her voice barely a murmur. “Thank you. It’s… it’s been difficult.” She glanced up at you, a flicker of hope in her gaze. “But having you here… it’s like having a part of Winterfell again.”

You smiled gently, squeezing her hand. “Then perhaps I can be that, in some small way.” Leaning closer, your voice dropped to a near-whisper. “And Sansa… I saw Arya.”

Her eyes widened, her breath catching as she gripped your arm. “Arya? She’s… she’s alive?”

“Yes,” you replied softly, your gaze warm and reassuring. “I saw her, briefly. She was dressed as a boy, keeping herself hidden. But she’s alive, and she’s strong, just as you’d expect her to be.”

Tears gathered in Sansa’s eyes, and she stifled a small, choked laugh. “That sounds like Arya,” she murmured, her voice filled with a mixture of relief and longing. “Thank you… for telling me.”

You brushed a hand over her arm, giving her a look of quiet assurance. “She’s out there, Sansa. And she’s doing everything she can to survive. Just as you are.”

Sansa nodded, composing herself as best she could, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips. “Thank you, Lady Y/N. You don’t know how much this means.”

You shook your head. “You don’t need to thank me, Sansa. Just remember, I’m here for you.”

She gave a final, grateful nod, her gaze filled with gratitude as she glanced back toward the high table. The weight of everything unsaid lingered between you, but the connection you shared was unbreakable, stronger than any marriage or alliance. And as you both returned to your places, the sounds of the feast washing over you, you felt the quiet strength of family—a bond that would survive the walls of the Red Keep and beyond.

Returning to the high table, you slid back into your seat beside Tywin, feeling the weight of the hall settle back over you. The brief conversation with Sansa had brought a sense of warmth and familiarity—a small reminder of the bonds that had shaped you. But now, as you glanced at Tywin, that warmth turned to steel, a reminder of the duty you now carried.

Tywin watched you with that piercing gaze, a subtle gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. He gave a slight nod, as if approving of your composure. For a moment, he was silent, his attention seeming to linger on you a moment longer than usual.

“You handled yourself well,” he said, his tone low, barely carrying over the noise of the hall. “The nobility are already whispering of you. They’ll see you not as some relic of the past but as an ally to House Lannister.”

You met his gaze, reading between his words. His approval was visible, but there was something else—a faint softness beneath the iron, something almost akin to pride. His voice, though guarded, held a trace of something warmer, something almost close to affection.

"Thank you, Lord Tywin,” you replied, letting your own tone carry a subtle warmth. “I’m merely living up to the role I’ve been given. And, I must say, I find myself… intrigued by it.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, almost imperceptible but enough for you to notice. “Good,” he said, his gaze softening, just for a moment. “The strength to endure is as important as any alliance. I expected nothing less of you.”

The hint of pride in his voice surprised you, leaving you momentarily speechless. Before you could respond, a familiar voice interrupted, loud and already tinged with the effects of a fair amount of wine.

“Ah, Father!” Tyrion’s voice carried a note of barely restrained amusement as he approached, goblet in hand. His eyes were sharp with mirth as he took in the sight of you and Tywin seated side by side. “I trust everything is precisely as you envisioned? After all, I took such great pains to ensure every detail met your exacting standards.”

Tywin’s gaze turned to Tyrion, a faint flicker of irritation flashing across his face, though he maintained his composure. “It will suffice, Tyrion. I see you managed not to make a mockery of the occasion.”

Tyrion raised his goblet in a mock toast, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “High praise from you, Father. I shall cherish it.” He turned his attention to you, his smile widening. “And as for you, Lady Y/N, I do hope my arrangements have been satisfactory. It was quite the ordeal to bring King’s Landing up to par for a Targaryen-Lannister wedding. One can hardly imagine the stress.”

You matched his grin, letting a glint of amusement show in your eyes. “I daresay you succeeded, Lord Tyrion. The feast is exquisite, and I confess I’ve never seen a hall so thoroughly adorned with lions. Though I imagine it’s less about my comfort and more about making a statement.”

Tyrion laughed, clearly pleased with your wit. “Ah, perceptive as well. My, my, Father, it seems you’ve made an excellent match. A woman who sees the truth behind all the finery.” He raised an eyebrow, giving you an appreciative nod. “Quite a feat, Lady Y/N. I can only hope my efforts haven’t gone entirely unappreciated.”

You inclined your head, playing along with his jest. “On the contrary, Lord Tyrion. I’ve found your touch to be both charming and… pointed. King’s Landing certainly knows who reigns here.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted between the two of you, a glimmer of something like amusement, though he hid it well. “Perhaps, Tyrion, you’d fare better showing less charm in your wine and more restraint in your presence,” he said, his tone clipped but lacking its usual severity.

Tyrion merely chuckled, entirely undeterred. “Ah, but Father, what is a wedding without a bit of wine and wit?” He leaned in closer to you, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “After all, Lady Y/N, you’ll soon find that in this court, a sharp tongue can be a most valuable ally.”

You smiled, meeting his eyes. “A lesson I learned long ago, Lord Tyrion. Though I’ll admit, it’s refreshing to see it wielded so… skillfully.”

Tyrion laughed, clearly enjoying your exchange. “And here I thought I might have to work to keep you on your toes. It seems, Father, that Lady Y/N has a mind of her own.”

Tywin’s expression remained impassive, though you could sense his approval as he studied you. “A mind put to use in furthering our family, I trust.”

Tyrion raised his glass once more, a gleam of amusement in his eyes as he looked between you and Tywin. “Indeed. A toast, then, to our union and to the surprises yet to come.” He grinned, bowing his head in your direction. “And to you, Lady Y/N. May you continue to be every bit as sharp as you’ve shown yourself to be tonight.”

With that, he gave a small, mocking bow and moved off, blending back into the crowd, his laughter carrying over the music as he raised his glass for another drink.

As you watched him go, Tywin’s gaze lingered on you, the hint of approval in his eyes once more. “You handle him well,” he remarked, his voice low. “Perhaps even better than I expected.”

You smiled, letting your gaze flicker toward him. “I’ve found that wit is a language, Lord Tywin. And I’ve learned to speak it well.” You paused, choosing your next words carefully. “I believe I’ll find my place here, as I have wherever fate has taken me.”

Tywin regarded you in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable, though his eyes held a trace of something warmer, perhaps even respect. “Excellent,” he said, his tone softer, almost approving. “Then perhaps this is where you’re meant to be.”

You held his gaze, a silent understanding passing between you as the noise of the feast rose around you.

Tyrion moved through the bustling hall, goblet in hand and a lightness in his step that came only after a certain amount of wine. He spotted Jaime leaning against one of the pillars near the edge of the festivities, his face thoughtful as he observed the high table where you sat beside Tywin. Tyrion approached, raising his goblet in a silent greeting.

“Enjoying the spectacle, dear brother?” Tyrion asked, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he joined Jaime.

Jaime’s gaze didn’t waver from the table, his expression thoughtful, almost nostalgic. “I was just thinking,” he murmured, “about how strange it is to see her there. Lady Y/N… sitting beside Father, wearing Lannister colors.” He shook his head slightly, a faint smile playing at his lips. “I remember when she was a girl, wandering these halls. Back then, she moved through the Red Keep like she was born to it, like it was her domain.”

Tyrion took a long sip of his wine, studying his brother’s expression. “And now?”

Jaime chuckled softly, though there was a hint of bitterness in his tone. “Now… she’s a guest in her own home. She’s not the same as she was, but she still carries herself with that Targaryen pride.” His gaze flicked to Tywin, then back to you. “It’s strange, seeing her beside him. Like fire and stone.”

Tyrion nodded, his gaze shifting thoughtfully as he watched the high table. “A strange match, to be sure,” he mused. “Though it seems they understand one another in a way that few could. A meeting of wills, perhaps.”

As they spoke, Ser Barristan Selmy approached, his white cloak trailing softly behind him. He inclined his head to both brothers, his gaze lingering on the high table with a look of quiet pride.

“Ser Barristan,” Jaime greeted, a glint of interest in his eyes. “Admiring the new Lady Lannister?”

Barristan nodded, a faint, almost wistful smile touching his lips. “I am,” he admitted, his voice carrying a rare warmth. “It’s a relief to see her alive and well. She was… always a light in these halls. Her family’s pride and spirit lived through her, and it’s heartening to see she survived.”

Tyrion tilted his head, intrigued. “You almost sound proud, Ser Barristan,” he remarked, his tone playful but curious.

Barristan’s gaze softened as he watched you, his expression almost paternal. “I am proud,” he replied quietly. “To see her here, despite everything. Princess Y/N survived when so many of her kin did not. But I can’t help but feel sadness too.” He sighed, a shadow passing over his face. “She’s separated from her family, from the brother she loved and the sister she never met. A Targaryen alone in a city that once belonged to her blood.”

Jaime’s gaze hardened slightly, his expression sharpening. “She’s no longer a princess, Ser Barristan,” he pointed out. “Lady Y/N is a Lannister now, by marriage.”

Barristan’s expression didn’t change, his voice steady as he replied. “Titles are given and taken by men, Ser Jaime. Blood, however, is eternal. She was born a princess, a Targaryen. No marriage can change that.” His gaze shifted to Jaime, a subtle challenge in his eyes. “Even now, sitting beside your father, she holds more claim to the Iron Throne than any in this hall combined.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, watching the exchange with interest. “A bold statement, Ser Barristan,” he murmured, swirling the wine in his goblet. “One that I suspect would be poorly received by certain parties in this room.”

Barristan’s eyes held firm, unwavering. “The truth doesn’t change to suit the comfort of others,” he replied, his tone measured but resolute. “She is the last of her line, the daughter of a king. That is not something even Lord Tywin can strip from her.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking back to you as you sat beside Tywin, poised and composed, your Targaryen heritage evident even in your Lannister colors. “Perhaps not,” he conceded quietly, though his voice held an edge. “But claiming the throne and ruling are two different things. And she seems… content with her place.”

Barristan’s gaze softened as he looked at you. “Perhaps. Or perhaps she’s merely playing the game, biding her time. That’s what a true Targaryen would do. Endure and rise, against all odds.”

Tyrion chuckled, taking a long sip of his wine. “Well, I can certainly drink to that,” he said, raising his goblet in a small salute. “To fire, and to survival. Qualities, it seems, our new step-mother possesses in spades.”

Barristan inclined his head, his gaze lingering on you, admiration and loyalty etched into his expression. “She’s her family’s legacy, as much as she is her own,” he murmured. “And I, for one, am grateful that legacy endures, even in these halls.”

The lively atmosphere of the feast was beginning to settle as goblets emptied and platters were slowly cleared. Laughter and music filled the hall, though an underlying unease lingered in the air, an anticipation that rippled among the guests. As the night wore on, Joffrey rose from his seat, a sly, mischievous grin spreading across his face. He raised his goblet, calling for attention.

"Well, now that we've all had our fill of wine and merriment," he drawled, his voice carrying across the hall, "it's only fitting we send the bride and groom to bed, don't you think?" His smirk widened, and he gestured theatrically toward you and Tywin. "After all, what would a wedding be without a bedding ceremony?”

The hall fell into a hushed silence, a murmur rippling through the guests as they turned to look at you and Tywin. The flicker of amusement on some faces hinted at their eagerness to indulge in Joffrey’s suggestion, but Tywin’s expression remained unreadable, his gaze fixed coldly on his grandson.

The young king leaned forward, his grin growing sharper, relishing the moment. "Come now, Grandsire. Surely you don’t mind allowing the court a bit of sport? I’m sure Lady Y/N would love to be escorted to her marital bed in true royal fashion.”

You felt a flush rise in your cheeks, your stomach tightening as the weight of every gaze settled on you. But before you could respond, Tywin’s hand gripped yours firmly, grounding you, his touch unyielding.

With a single, cold glance, Tywin silenced the murmur in the room. "There will be no bedding ceremony tonight," he stated, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable authority that cut through the hall like a blade. “This is a matter of dignity, not sport. And I expect the court to respect that.”

Joffrey’s face twisted in irritation, his eyes narrowing. His pride had already been bruised earlier, and he was clearly in no mood to back down. “But it’s tradition,” he argued, a petulant edge creeping into his voice. “The people expect a show, a proper send-off. Surely, Grandsire, you wouldn’t deny them that?”

Tywin’s gaze turned icy, his grip on your hand never loosening as he rose from his seat, standing to his full height as he regarded Joffrey with a look of utter disdain. “Tradition,” he repeated, his tone laced with contempt. “Is not an excuse for vulgarity, Your Grace.”

Joffrey flushed, anger sparking in his eyes as he clenched his goblet tightly. “I am the king,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “And I think I’ll decide what is or isn’t vulgar.”

Before he could continue, Cersei rose quickly, placing a calming hand on Joffrey’s shoulder, her voice soft and soothing. “Your Grace,” she murmured, her tone placating, though there was an underlying edge of desperation. “Let us not ruin such a joyous occasion. Your grandsire only wishes to maintain the dignity of the court.”

Joffrey shook her hand off, his gaze fixed stubbornly on Tywin, his face red with frustration. “I am not a child to be chastised in my own hall,” he spat, glaring at Tywin. “You do not command here, Grandsire. I do.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t waver, his gaze steady, cold, and unyielding. “Then act like a king, Joffrey,” he said, his voice low but filled with steel. “A true king commands respect, not indulgence.”

The hall fell into tense silence, every eye fixed on the standoff between Tywin and Joffrey. For a moment, it seemed as though Joffrey would argue further, his chest rising and falling with barely contained rage. But under Tywin’s relentless gaze, his confidence faltered, his resolve wavering. He looked away, muttering under his breath as he took his seat again, his face twisted in humiliation.

Cersei exhaled quietly, her expression a mix of relief and simmering anger as she settled back into her seat beside her son, casting a sidelong glance at Tywin that spoke volumes.

Tywin’s attention returned to you, his hand still firmly gripping yours as he turned, addressing the guests in a final, dismissive tone. “The feast is over. The court may enjoy the remainder of the night as they see fit. Lady Y/N and I will retire.”

Without waiting for a response, he drew you to your feet, guiding you away from the high table. His grip was steady, possessive, a silent reminder that he had claimed you, that tonight, you would not be subjected to the mockery and spectacle Joffrey had intended.

As you left the hall, the noise of the feast faded behind you, replaced by the quiet footsteps echoing through the stone corridors of the Red Keep. Tywin’s silence was as unyielding as ever, his gaze forward as he led you through the winding passages, his presence a wall of unbreakable resolve.

Finally, as you neared your chambers, he spoke, his voice calm, his tone laced with something you could almost mistake for gentleness. “This is your night, Lady Y/N,” he said, glancing down at you. “And no one—not even a king—will take that dignity from you.”

You met his gaze, a flicker of gratitude and perhaps even warmth in your expression as you nodded. “Thank you, Lord Tywin,” you replied softly, feeling the weight of his protection as much as his authority.

He didn’t respond, merely nodding as he continued forward, guiding you into the privacy of your chambers, where the rest of the night awaited you—without the eyes of the court, without the mockery of a bedding ceremony, and with only the silent understanding between you and the man who now, irrevocably, held your future in his hands.

As the heavy doors of your chambers closed behind you, the sounds of the feast, of laughter and music, faded away, leaving only silence in their place. The faint light of candles cast a warm glow over the room, illuminating the rich tapestries and the faint gleam of polished silver in the dimness. You could hear the soft clicking of your jewelry as you began to remove the more intricate pieces, each one a reminder of the ceremony, of the role you had stepped into today.

Tywin moved to unfasten his cloak, his motions slow and deliberate. The silence between you grew, thick with unspoken words and expectations. He caught your gaze in the reflection of a nearby mirror, his expression impassive, though his eyes held a glint of steel.

“Do you know what is expected of you, Y/N?” he asked, his voice low but firm, carrying an authority that left no room for hesitation.

You met his gaze steadily, nodding as you removed a bracelet, feeling its weight slide from your wrist. “I do,” you replied, your voice calm, though there was a trace of quiet defiance there. “I am well aware of my duty, Tywin.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of approval mixed with his usual severity. “Good,” he replied. There was a beat of silence, and then, his tone became almost matter-of-fact, his words carefully chosen. “You understand, then, that I have no clear male heir for Casterly Rock. Jaime’s oath binds him to the Kingsguard, and I would sooner see Casterly Rock crumble than pass it to Tyrion.”

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. “Yes,” you said, lifting your gaze to meet his. “That particular… predicament has been common knowledge since my first time at court. The succession, or lack of it, has always been a concern, hasn’t it?”

A flicker of something crossed Tywin’s face, a momentary shift in his expression. He looked away, his hands pausing briefly on the golden clasp of his ceremonial cloak before continuing. “Indeed,” he replied, his tone taut, controlled. “It has.”

As you removed the last of your jewelry, a thought crossed your mind, one that lingered at the edge of this silent conversation. “Then why wait so long to address it?” you asked, your voice soft but curious. “Why didn’t you… find a solution sooner?”

For a moment, Tywin was silent, his back turned as he removed his cloak, laying it across a nearby chair with precise care. The question hung in the air, unanswered, but his silence spoke volumes. There was a slight stiffness in his stance, a subtle shift that hinted at something unspoken, something deeply personal, though he would not allow it to surface.

He turned back to face you, his gaze colder, more focused, as though he’d shut down any hint of whatever sentiment had momentarily slipped through. “This is not the time for speculation, Y/N,” he replied, his voice as unyielding as iron. “You have agreed to this union, and you know your role in it.”

With that, he moved to unfasten the buttons of his doublet, his movements precise, measured. His gaze lingered on you, a silent command as he spoke. “Undress yourself,” he said, his voice low, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.

You met his gaze, feeling the weight of his authority but also recognizing the power you still held. You began to undo the fastenings of your gown, your movements as calm and deliberate as his own, feeling the layers of fine fabric slide from your shoulders and pool at your feet. The air felt cooler against your skin, a reminder of the vulnerability and duty that now lay between you.

Tywin’s gaze remained steady, a flicker of something akin to satisfaction in his eyes as he continued to remove his own attire, his gaze unwavering as he observed you. There was a quiet intensity in his stance, as he guided you to the bed.

The cool night air of the room barely reaches you, as Tywin’s weight starts pressing you down into the silken sheets. His gaze is steady, his hands firm yet surprisingly gentle as he guides you beneath him. There’s a glint in his eyes—something raw, something primal. You’re all too aware of the closeness between you, of his warm breath as he hovers just above, taking in every detail of your face.

Tywin’s hand moves between you both, adjusting as he positions himself. You feel the pressure as he presses forward, the unfamiliar stretch drawing a sharp, stifled yelp from your throat. His expression doesn’t soften—no, Tywin Lannister isn’t the sort of man to show tenderness in moments like this. But his eyes close briefly, and a low, rumbling exhale escapes him, something between pleasure and satisfaction.

When he begins to move, his pace is deliberate, calculated. His breaths, warm and shallow, mingle with yours as his mouth hovers just near enough to feel the brush of his lips on yours without fully meeting. Each motion is purposeful, and he watches you, every flicker of discomfort and pleasure written across your face. His hand comes up, fingers threading through your hair, holding you close as his body presses deeper, filling you in a way that sends ripples of sensation down your spine.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, his voice like gravel, both commanding and restrained. You meet his gaze, feeling yourself yielding under the weight of it. His thumb strokes along your cheek in a rare gesture of softness as his movements grow a fraction more urgent, his rhythm deepening.

The ache in your body slowly melts away, replaced by a growing, unfamiliar pleasure. Small sounds escape your lips, and you sense the change in him as he takes them in, each soft moan seemingly driving him further. His mouth hovers near your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as he murmurs, almost as if to himself, “You’re mine now, truly.”

Your hand rises instinctively, finding purchase on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as your body adjusts to the rhythm he’s set. “You didn’t need to send me North for that, Tywin,” you manage between breaths, the faintest hint of defiance lacing your words.

A smirk tugs at his lips, a rare crack in his composed facade. “It was necessary,” he says, his voice steady even as his own breathing grows heavier. “Winterfell kept you safe… untouched, unspoiled, exactly as you should be.” His words settle over you, a possessive edge to them that sends a thrill down your spine. It sounded almost like a confession.

As the pace quickens, any response dissolves into breathless gasps, the friction of his movements drawing forth pleasure in waves. You arch against him, feeling the tightness between you, the way his hands press into your sides, urging you closer with each thrust. His hand slips down to your waist, securing you firmly as he drives forward, every part of him focused on drawing out every sound, every sigh.

The sensation builds, your body yielding to his with every motion, every glance, the sound of his breath mingling with your own until there’s nothing else—only this connection, this raw and unspoken understanding between you.

As he finally stills, the silence in the room settles around you both. His eyes are still on you, a lingering intensity in his gaze as he brushes a stray pale strand of hair from your face, his thumb resting briefly against your cheek.

“You’re mine now,” he repeats, quieter this time, as if sealing a promise with each word.

Tywin remains within you, his presence filling every space, grounding you beneath him. His weight and warmth press down, possessive, as he settles himself closer, his hands still resting on either side of you. His gaze sharpens, fixing on you with a commanding steadiness, yet there’s something more—a shadow of restrained intent.

“You understand, of course, that you’ll be expected here often,” he begins, his voice low, each word crisp and certain. “Until you are with child, my needs in the bedchamber will be met… regularly.”

You don’t flinch, don’t look away; instead, you meet his gaze with equal resolve. “I’ve told you already how I know my duty, Tywin,” you reply, a calm edge to your voice. His expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something in his eyes—just the faintest flicker of acknowledgment, of approval. You continue, your voice soft but unwavering, “But I am more than that.”

A rare silence follows your words, and you watch as his jaw tenses, a flicker of something that almost resembles surprise crossing his features. His fingers brush down your arm, lingering, and for a moment, Tywin seems almost… caught, suspended in a gaze that feels somehow intimate, yet distant. His eyes search yours, calculating, introspective, as though weighing every word, every glance. There’s something in his expression—something unspoken, raw, and real—that betrays a hint of what he might not dare to say aloud. Perhaps he’d imagined this moment more times than he would admit, even to himself.

You feel his hand tighten gently at your hip, and his voice comes, low and rough, the barest hint of a softened edge. “More than that… perhaps.” He leans down, his mouth lingering just above yours, close enough to feel his breath. “But I am not a man who permits sentiment to cloud his purpose. You are here because you serve that purpose. You are mine, in name and blood.”

There is a pause, one weighted with the tension between you, the undeniable pull beneath the surface of his words. “But understand,” he continues, his tone dipping as his eyes trace your features, “you are not some idle decoration or a tool. If you wish to be ‘more,’ then prove it. Show me what more means to you, and perhaps… I’ll allow it.”

His words hang between you like a challenge, his gaze penetrating, unwavering. And as his fingers brush your cheek, there is a finality to his touch, a promise that neither of you will speak aloud but feel all the same.

“You know well enough,” you murmur, your voice steady and unyielding, “that I am more than that. And if I am yours, then let it be known that you are mine as well. I will not be merely the mother of your heirs.”

A rare, subtle smirk pulls at his lips, and he lets out a breath, something between resignation and faint amusement. “Bold words,” he replies, his voice softening ever so slightly. His gaze intensifies, locking onto yours with a fierceness that borders on admiration. “Perhaps that boldness is what drew me to this arrangement after all.”

His lips find yours, a kiss as demanding as the man himself—hungry and consuming, yet just gentle enough to hint at a restraint he rarely affords anyone. When he finally pulls back, you feel his thumb brushing over your cheek in the barest hint of tenderness before his gaze hardens again, as though the moment of softness never existed.

“You will come to know your place here,” he says quietly, but there is an understanding in his words, a promise that, while unspoken, settles deeply between you both.

In this silence, his hand lingers on your skin, a shared recognition passing between you—one that speaks of purpose and strength, of duty and the rare, guarded understanding that neither of you may ever speak aloud.

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