#i couldn’t stop thinking of them and this song

[sanakiras]

PICTURE ME LIKE I PICTURE YOU

PAIRING — kim mingyu x fem!reader

WORD COUNT — 1.2k

SYNOPSIS — mingyu is hopelessly in love with someone who doesn’t love him back, and all that lies ahead is acceptance.

TAGS — unrequited love, fwb!gyu, explicit sexual content

NOTE — just a short drabble i felt like putting out. came up w this while listening to picture you by chappell roan, such a beautiful song, give it a listen !! <3

it’s been dark outside for several hours when mingyu’s kissing every inch of your body. he pushes himself into you with ease, but his touch is light as a feather. gentle.

the pace he keeps is slow, and fuck, you don’t think it’s ever felt this intimate before.

normally he’s relatively talkative during sex — this might be the quietest he’s been in bed so far, save for the grunts and moans working their way out of his throat.

“feels so good, gyu—” you’re half-slurring your words, not missing how his big hand interwines his fingers with yours as he ruts into you, a gesture that breaks your heart.

how can something feel so right yet so wrong at the same time?

of course mingyu didn’t go into this little friends-with-benefits thing with the idea of falling in love with you. hell, it’s the last thing he expected. he wanted something without strings attached but with consistency, a sense of easiness; you turned out to be looking for the same.

but he fell in love with you in a way he didn’t think was possible. to him, it felt like the kind of love you only find in the movies; the kind you can only dream of encountering in real life. it hit him sudden and hard — he didn’t confess to you, out of fear he’d lose whatever bond you have with him.

or perhaps that’s not all there is to it. perhaps he never confessed his true feelings because he knew, deep down, that you’d never reciprocate them.

because you don’t really fall for guys like him. you much prefer guys like wonwoo.

his best friend. his roommate.

the day he first saw it, he was horrified. what was a simple interaction to anyone else, was his worst nightmare. his heart sank in his chest the second he watched you and wonwoo meet from afar — that look the two of you shared was enough.

you’d never looked at him that way.

all that’s been on his mind is your look of brutally honest disappointment when he opened the door to his dorm and told you wonwoo was out. if you’d stood any closer to him, you could probably hear his confidence plummeting to his feet, as well as his heart ripping in two.

the whole ordeal should’ve made him put an end to the agreement you had with him, but he couldn’t do it.

because it’s all he had left of you. the realization hit him like a truck; the moment he’d put a stop to it, you’d no longer be his in any way.

not that you ever really were to begin with.

he’s clinging onto this last piece of you so selfishly, he knows that, but he so much as looks at you and everything he wants to say gets stuck in his throat, his thoughts never seeing the light of day.

an unsettling feeling slowly brews in his ribcage. all he wants is to understand. why don’t you love him? what does his best friend have that he doesn’t?

he might just break on top of you here — would you even care?

maybe you would. or maybe you’d just pity him.

the sound of your whimpering underneath him makes a strange, achingly good combination of heartbreak and lust. he wants nothing more than to dig his teeth into your soft skin, but forces himself not to.

your legs wrap tighter around his hips, pulling him closer to you. it’s you who puts your hands on the back of his neck, kissing him so sweetly that it almost makes him believe you want him as much as he wants you.

what makes everything worse is that he knows you tried. for a little while, you tried to see if you could give him a shred of the love he so desperately wanted to give you.

but you couldn’t.

“i want to love you like that, y’know. i want it so bad, and i tried, but…” you told him last week while slow dancing at a friend’s birthday party, “i just can’t.”

while your head was resting between his neck and shoulder, your bodies rocking side to side to the music together, he looked up at the ceiling to hold back his tears, the corners of his mouth curling downwards. it was admirable, how he held his head high that night.

truthfully, you didn’t expect him to come knocking on your door again after that. you broke his heart — even though you never wanted to — so you wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t want to see you anymore.

but to your surprise, he did come back. he was less cheerful, sure, but it’s as if part of him chose to ignore what you said to him, for reasons you didn’t understand at first.

he needs to accept that you and him aren’t meant to be. perhaps that’s the sole reason he wanted to fuck you tonight.

it almost sickens him how much he wants to beg for you to try again. maybe if you saw him more often, or spent more time together doing whatever you wanted, or if he kissed you even more than he already has — maybe you’d grow to love him in the end.

he buries his head in the crook of your neck, hiding how shitty he feels.

‘cause he knows you won’t love him, no matter what he does or how hard he fights for it.

“i’m close,” he mutters, only momentarily lost in the chasing of his high, “fuck—”

you clench around him with shaky legs, and he shivers at the feel of your nails digging into his skin, hitting his climax right after you.

and it’s then that he breaks. as he lays his head down on your chest, staring at the wall, his lips trembling — he can’t hide how hurt he is anymore.

“i’m sorry,” he chokes out with his face turned away from you, a few silent tears slipping from his eyes in defeat.

with a sad attempt for a smile, you stroke his naked back with your fingertips, your eyes welling up once you feel his teardrops landing onto the skin of your chest.

he’s so dear to you, as loving as a person could possibly be, yet you can’t love him back. a part you hates yourself for it, “i’m sorry, too.”

the sobs are fighting to escape his mouth, but he keeps them quiet, making you almost just as emotional as he is.

“i’ll get over it tomorrow, i promise. i’m sorry.” he whispers, his way of asking if you can stay together like this for just a little while longer.

you just let your tears go with a numb face and strained voice.

“i know.”

eventually, he has no more tears left, and his whole body shudders, feeling himself drift off into sleep with burning, tired eyelids.

he’ll be okay — it’s better like this.

it’s something he’ll come to terms with when he wakes up in the morning.

thank u for reading. please let me know if u enjoyed it x

® SANAKIRAS — do not repost, remake or copy my work in any way whatsoever. translations are not allowed.

[lvrgurlblobbu]

beneath the moonlight

"are you cold? come here."

zayne x fem!reader

⤿ part of snow angel series : )

⤿ cw: MDNI, pre-marriage timeline, fluff, smut, p in v, fingering, cunnilingus, reader in on birth control, reader & zayne's first time having sex

⤿ word count: 4.6k

⤿ synopsis: you and zayne have been dating for a while now, as you spent most of your day at the amusement park, you sure will be spending the rest of the night tangled in his sheets.

ao3.

The sound of your footsteps echoed as you made your way inside Zayne’s house. His house was warm and inviting, a contrast to the cool evening air outside. The faint scent of vanilla lingered in the air, likely from the candles he always kept around. You glanced back at him as he set the bag of plushies down on the couch, his smile soft yet triumphant as if reliving every mini-game he dominated to win them for you.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” Zayne said, his voice low but filled with affection. “I’ll grab us something to drink.”

You nodded and made your way to the couch, your fingers grazing over the bag of plushies. Each one brought back a specific memory from earlier: the laughing fits on the bumper cars, the way you insisted him on riding the carousel with you because you’d never be too old for it, and his focused determination when trying to win the biggest plush at the ring toss.

As he returned, his sleeves are already rolled up and he’s holding two glasses of your favorite drink, he handed one to you before sitting down beside you. The space between you felt insignificant as his shoulder brushed against yours.

“Think they’ll fit on your shelf?” he teased, nodding toward the bag. You chuckled, taking a sip. “I might need to start a second shelf at this rate. You’re spoiling me.”

“And I’ll keep spoiling you,” he replied, leaning back, his gaze locking onto yours. “Seeing you happy makes it all worth it.”

“See? You’re the reason why my whole apartment is going to turn into a plushie stockroom.” You joked and he chuckled, you placed the glass on the coffee table before leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Can I cook?” You asked him and you felt him press a soft kiss on your head, “Of course love, why not?” He responded, “What do you want to cook? I will help you prepare the ingredients and of course with the cooking.” 

“Hmm, I’ve been craving for pasta.” You said before lifting your head to face him, “Do you have any ingredients?” 

“I have some marinara sauce at the pantry, as well as the pastas, you can choose whether you would like spaghetti ones or penne.” He said as he gently brushed your hair before tucking the strand of hair behind your ear.

“If that’s so, I’ll get started then?” You said as you smiled at him, “Alright love, let’s go?” He said as he stood up and offered his hand, you smiled at him before placing your hand above his. Your fingers interlocked as you both made your way to the kitchen to prepare your dinner.

***

The penne pasta is already cooked and you set them aside, you’re currently stirring the pot of marinara sauce you made. Zayne left for a while a few minutes ago, since there was a sudden call from work. 

As you stirred the sauce, you gracefully hum a song to yourself and didn’t even notice Zayne leaning at the door frame as he watched you cooking while wearing an apron, hair tied up, and the sleeves of your shirt rolled up. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling upon seeing you, then he couldn’t take it anymore and he decided to close the distance between you two.

You froze momentarily, the spoon in your hand pausing mid-stir as Zayne’s familiar warmth pressed against your back. His arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“Did I scare you?” he murmured, his deep voice laced with amusement, his breath tickling your ear. You let out a small laugh, your heartbeat slowly settling. “A little. You could’ve warned me, you know.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” he teased, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. His eyes drifted to the pot of sauce you’d been stirring. “Smells amazing. What’s the secret ingredient?”

“You mean besides my amazing culinary skills?” you quipped, turning your head slightly to glance at him. He chuckled, the sound reverberating through his chest. “Of course. That’s a given.”

You rolled your eyes playfully before responding, “It’s a touch of honey. Balances the acidity.” Zayne hummed in approval, his hold on you not loosening in the slightest. “How’d I get so lucky? My girlfriend who cooks, hums, and looks this cute doing it?”

You felt your cheeks heat up as you tried to focus on the task at hand, but with him so close, his warmth and words made it almost impossible.

“You’re distracting me,” you muttered, though there was no real annoyance in your tone. 

“And you’re making it really hard not to kiss you right now,” he whispered, his lips brushing lightly against your temple.

For a moment, time seemed to pause, the sauce forgotten as you melted into the quiet intimacy of the moment, the steady rhythm of his breathing grounding you in his presence. You tried to ignore how his lips are pressed on your neck, the rise and fall of his chest, his heavy breathing and how his grip on your waist tightened. 

You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself as the atmosphere shifted. His closeness was intoxicating, his every movement sending a shiver down your spine. The soft press of his lips against your neck wasn’t helping, and you could feel your resolve slipping.

“Zayne,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “Hmm?” he hummed, his warm breath fanning against your skin. His hold on your waist tightened ever so slightly, and you felt him smile against your neck.“The sauce,” you managed, though your voice wavered. “It’s going to burn.”

He chuckled lowly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “The sauce can wait,” he murmured, his tone teasing yet laced with something deeper. “You’re far more important.” Then the next thing you heard is the sound of the stove being turned off and when you faced him, his lips immediately crashed to yours. 

His lips were warm, urgent, and impossibly soft as they claimed yours, and for a moment, the world around you disappeared, leaving only the heat of his kiss and the way his hands slid up to cradle your face, holding you as though you were the most fragile and precious thing in the world.

Your fingers instinctively clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer, his familiar scent wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. His kiss was filled with passion yet somehow gentle, as if he’d been holding back for far too long and couldn’t stand it any longer.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and both of you were breathing heavily. His dark eyes searched yours, his gaze intense yet tender. You smiled at him before encircling your arms around his neck and you kissed him once more. 

Then suddenly he lifted you up as if you weigh nothing and placed you on top of the kitchen counter, his arm propped onto the kitchen counter for support while the other hooked at your waist. You rested your palms on both sides of his cheeks as you responded to his kisses.

His kisses suddenly went to your jaw and down to your neck. You tilted your head to give him further access, the feeling of his lips feels hot against your skin which is why you couldn’t help yourself. “Z-Zayne..” You whimpered as you felt him nipped at your neck and your hand found his hair and gave it a gentle tug.

However, that tug somehow signaled Zayne. He immediately stopped and he felt like he was doused with cold water as he stared at your half-lidded eyes. “Zayne? What’s wrong?” You asked as he gently shook his head before resting it on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I got caught up with the moment and I–“ He inhaled deeply as he wrapped his arms around you. Zayne’s voice was soft, almost pained, as he whispered against your shoulder, “I didn’t mean to rush things. I just..”

You felt his arms tighten around you, his embrace grounding yet filled with a vulnerability he rarely showed. His heart beat against yours, its steady rhythm betraying the storm of emotions he was trying to rein in.

“Zayne,” you said gently, reaching up to rest your hand on his arm. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m not upset.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his dark eyes searching yours for reassurance. “I don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable,” he said, his voice firm but laced with tenderness. “You’re too important to me for that.”

You smiled softly, your fingers brushing against his cheek in a soothing gesture. “You didn’t. I promise. I trust you, Zayne.” You said as you leaned your forehead against his, before leaning down to kiss him once again. It was slow and passionate, as if you’re letting him know about what you want to happen. 

When you pulled away, he looked straight into your eyes. “Are you sure about this?” He asked softly, “Yes, I am.” you responded as you nodded at him. He hesitated for a moment but when he looked into your eyes, it’s as if gravity is pulling him back to you.

His lips met yours once again, this time it was intense and full of lust. You felt his tongue at your lips, clearly asking for permission in which you quickly allowed. His tongue entered your mouth and you couldn’t help but moan and you felt his lips curled up into a smile. 

“Lets kiss move kiss to kiss my kiss room kiss” You hummed in between his kisses as you encircled your arms around his neck as he lifted you up the counter, and then you instantly wrapped your legs around his waist as he made his way to his bedroom.

When the two of you stepped inside, his strides toward the bed were long and purposeful. He gently placed you down, breaking the kiss as both of your chests heaved from the breathless passion of the moment. His eyes roamed over your face, illuminated by the faint glow of the dim lights—your hair splayed across his bed, your half-lidded eyes, and your swollen lips.

Your cheeks flush under his intense gaze, his eyes roaming over you as if trying to memorize every detail. The air between you feels thick with unspoken words and palpable tension. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your skin.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice low and sincere. His admission sends a shiver down your spine as his hand trails down to rest against your cheek. His thumb gently grazes your lips, his touch soft yet electrifying. Your breath hitches, and your heart pounds in your chest as his eyes lock onto yours, filled with something deeper than desire.

“Are you sure you want to do this? We can stop anytime if you ever feel uncomfortable.” He asked you once again with such gentleness at his voice as he caressed your cheek. “Yes, I want to do this with you, Zayne.” 

He nodded and smiled softly, “Okay, just let me know if you ever feel uncomfortable okay?” You nodded at him before his lips met yours once again, this time it was slow and tender. As if he’s savoring this intimate moment with you. Then his hands began to trace at your curves, and is now resting at your waist. 

“Z-Zayne..” His lips traveled down your neck and he sucked on it, and you’re definitely sure that it will leave a mark but you’d probably worry about that tomorrow. Right now, all of you want is to cherish this moment with your boyfriend. 

He placed hot wet kisses onto your collarbone before he gently unbuttoned your shirt. You suddenly felt a wave of nervousness and tension wash over you as he finished unbuttoning, leaving you on your bra. Your breathing hitched, and your hands instinctively gripped the fabric beneath you, unsure of what to do next. 

Zayne immediately noticed and he looked at you, “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked as he noticed how you breathing got erratic and how you clutched on his sheets. “I-I’m just nervous.” 

He gently took your hands in his, bringing them to rest on his chest. “Feel that?” he murmured, his heartbeat steady beneath your palms. “I’m right here with you. You don’t have to be scared.”

His reassurance was tender, and the warmth of his touch began to melt away some of your anxiety. You nodded at him and he gave you a soft smile, “Undress me as well.” he said as he pressed a soft kiss on your forehead. 

With shaky hands, you began to unbutton his shirt. He noticed your trembling fingers and he immediately place his hands above yours as he mumbled I’m right here. You continued to unbutton his shirt while his gaze remained on your face. Once you’re finished, it revealed his toned chest and there were a few scars on his stomach.

He brought your hand on his bare chest where you can feel his heartbeat. The rhythmic thump beneath your palm grounded you, his warmth and presence slowly easing out your nerves. You couldn’t help but smile at the warm and comforting feeling of his heartbeat against your palm.

“There, that’s my girl.” He whispered as he brought your hands to his lips and he gave it a gentle kiss. “Just relax and allow me to make love to you.” 

Then he quickly discarded his shirt and tossed it somewhere in the room. You also did the same, then you took his hand and guided it at the hook of your bra. He unclasped it and he pulled down the straps and tossed it as well.

His breath hitched at the sight of you, “You’re so perfect.” He lowered his head before he took one nipple to his mouth while his other hand is fondling with your left breast. You arched your back at the sensation. 

“Z-Zayne..Mhm..” You moaned as you felt him lightly bit your nipple, you tugged on his hair which elicited a groan from him which sent vibrations to your breast. He let go of your right nipple with a pop sound and he latched onto the other. 

As he busied his mouth on your breast, his hand wandered down your body, he reached your skirt and with his skillful hands, he unbuttoned it and pulled the zipper. Then, he grabbed it and pulled it down your legs, the sudden action caused you to yelp. 

He met your gaze as he let go of your nipple, he placed a gentle kiss on your lips before he looked at your breast wherein both nipples are swollen, thanks to him. You giggled at him, “What?” he chuckled. “Nothing.” you answered before kissing him in the lips once again. 

He trailed kisses from your neck down your stomach, his fingers are now hooked at the waistband of your panties. He looked at you once again, asking for your consent and you nodded at him. He used his thumb to lightly press it against your clothed pussy. The sudden pressure caused you to moan.

“Damn you’re soaked.” He cursed as he slid your underwear aside to reveal your glistening pussy due to your arousal. “Fuck.” he mumbled before placing a gentle kiss on it. Then a ripping sound was heard and you immediately used your elbow to prop yourself up, “Zayne!” 

“I’ll buy you a new one.” He chuckled before pressing a kiss onto your clit. The sudden sensation made you fall back to the bed once again. 

“Mhmm..Zayne…” you moaned as you felt his tongue licked up your slit. He continued to lap on your pussy, followed by his fingers who’s gently rubbing your clit. “Z-Zayne..” 

You gasped as you felt his fingers at your entrance. You arched your back as you felt him insert two of his fingers and pumped it in and out of your pussy as he continued to eat you out. “Gonna prep you so it wouldn’t hurt that much.” he mumbled and you really couldn’t take much of what he’s saying since you’re already lost in the pleasure that’s building up your core. 

He curled his fingers inside which made you moan a bit louder. “Do you feel good?” he asked you, “Y-yes.. Gods, yes.” you panted as you felt him fasten his pace. “Good, because that’s my plan for tonight. To make you feel good.” 

As he continued the relentless pace of his fingers inside you and the continuous lapping of his mouth against your pussy. You felt your orgasm approaching and you began to tremble.

“Z-Zayne…’m gonna come..” you mumbled as you continued to shake. “Let go for me my love..” he answered and after a few more pumps, you released your orgasm. 

You’re breathing heavily as he removed his fingers inside, you looked down at him and saw how he placed his fingers soaked with your juices inside his mouth. 

Then, he began to unbuckle his pants. You gulped when his hard length sprung free, you’re kinda nervous whether it will fit or not. He then positioned himself between your legs and he leaned down to rest your forehead against his, “Ready?” he asked and you gave him a nod a silent yes. 

With your answer, he slowly inserted himself inside. Due to his size, you couldn’t help but to wince at the pain and stinging sensation. “Love, hey, look at me.” He cupped both sides of your cheeks so that you could meet his gaze, “It’s alright, I’ll let you adjust for a bit okay. We’ll stay like this for a while, hm?” he whispered as he caressed your cheeks.

After a few moments, he felt the tension of your body disappeared and it’s now fully relaxed. “I’m okay now.” you said as you looked at him, “Okay, I love you.” he whispered as he placed a kiss onto your forehead before fully inserting himself inside of you.

“Mhmm…Zayne.” You moaned when you felt his cock fully inserted in your pussy. “Oh fuck.” He cursed as he nuzzled his face at the crook of your neck, you wrapped your arms around him when he began to move, slowly at first. 

“Zayne...” You moaned when you felt his cock fully inserted in your pussy. “Oh fuck.” He cursed as he nuzzled his face at the crook of your neck, you wrapped your arms around him when he began to move, slowly at first.

Zayne groaned softly as he felt your tight, wet heat enveloping his hard cock. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply as his hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh. "Love... you feel incredible," he rasped, voice low and husky with desire.

He began to move, slowly at first, savoring the exquisite sensation of your walls clenching around him. His hips rocked in a steady rhythm, each thrust pushing him deeper, stretching you wider. One hand slid up your side, cupping the soft swell of your breast, thumb and forefinger pinching and rolling your nipple between them.

“Ohh..Zayne mhmm..” you moaned, "Tell me how it feels, Love," Zayne murmured against your ear, hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "Describe it to me. I want to hear you say it." His hips picked up pace, thrusts becoming more urgent, more demanding. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, your moans and his grunts intertwining in a erotic symphony.

“Zayne.. ohhh mhmm..” you moaned as you clawed at his back due to the building pleasure. He hooked your left leg at his waist which made his cock go deeper inside your pussy. “That’s right love, I want to hear you say my name.” He whispered against your ear as you felt him licked your earlobe and he sucked the sensitive spot on your neck. 

Zayne could feel the heat building between your bodies, sweat beginning to bead on his brow. But he didn't let up, driven by a primal need to bring you both to the peak of ecstasy. “Z-Zayne..” You called out to him breathlessly, he immediately lifted his head to meet your gaze.

“What is it my love? Hmm, tell me what you need.” He whispered to you as he continued his thrusts inside your pussy. “K-Kiss me..” 

His lips curled into a smile as he stared at your lips, “Your wish is my command..” His lips found yours in a searing kiss, tongue delving deep, claiming your mouth as thoroughly as his cock was claiming your pussy. He swallowed your cries of pleasure, feeding off them, spurring him on. 

Zayne drank in every moan and whimper that spilled from your lips, each sound spurring him to take you with greater fervor. His hand tangled in your hair, gripping it gently as his tongue dominated your mouth, claiming you, consuming you, leaving no part of you untouched.

He could feel your body tensing, your walls fluttering around his hard length as he drove into you again and again. You were close, so close to the edge. He wanted to feel you fall, to have you shatter in his arms.

Zayne broke the kiss, his lips trailing down to your neck where he bit and sucked at the sensitive skin, determined to leave his mark on you. "That's it, my love," he panted against your throat, hips never ceasing their relentless motion. "Let it go. Give yourself to me. I want to feel you."

His hand, still intertwined with yours, squeezed your fingers tightly as he felt your body begin to quake beneath him. He knew you were teetering on the brink, ready to tumble into oblivion. And he wanted to be right there with you, to catch you as you fell.

"Come on, my love," Zayne urged, voice low and intense.  You were a moaning mess as you felt your orgasm nearing, you arched your back causing your breasts to make contact with his chest. The sudden friction intensified your pleasure, you scraped your fingers on his hair and slid down to hold on his arms. 

After a few more thrusts, you came but he didn’t stop. His thrusts are now becoming sloppy and faster than his previous ones. Due to the overstimulation you could feel another orgasm building on your core. 

“I’m near my love..” He whispered against your neck, “Where do you want me?” he asked softly, his breath is hot against your skin. 

“Inside..I want to feel you, Zayne.” You whimpered. 

Zayne's heart raced at your needy whimper, desire coursing through his veins like wildfire. He rolled his hips, grinding against you, feeling your walls clench desperately around his throbbing length. "Inside, are you sure?" he asked again huskily, voice dripping with lust. "Yes, I’m on birth control." 

He captured your lips in a searing kiss, pouring all his passion, all his longing into the heated meeting of mouths. At the same time, his hands gripped your thighs, lifting your leg to place in on his shoulder while the other remained hooked on his waist, his hard length nestled between your slick folds.

He began to move, hips rocking in a steady, deep rhythm. Each thrust pushed him impossibly deeper, stretching you exquisitely around his thick girth. The new angle allowed him to hit that secret spot inside you with every drive of his hips, sending sparks of ecstasy shooting up your spine.

"Fuck," Zayne groaned, forehead pressed against yours, breaths mingling in the scant space between your lips. "You feel incredible. So tight, so perfect. You were made for me." He whispered, then his breath became heavy as he feels his orgasm approaching him.

After a few more thrusts you felt his hot seed filling you up, alongside with your third orgasm. Your chests heaving as you chased your breaths, “You okay?” he asked as he cupped your face and rested his forehead against yours.

“Yeah, I’m okay..” you chuckled at him, Zayne smiled softly at your chuckle, forehead still resting gently against yours. He brushed a few damp tendrils of hair away from your face, tucking them behind your ear. "I'm glad," he murmured, hazel eyes warm and tender as they gazed into yours. "I would never forgive myself if I hurt you."

He rolled onto his side, taking you with him, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you close. The movement caused his softening length to slip out of you, but he made no move to leave. Instead, he simply held you, one hand stroking up and down your back in a soothing, comforting gesture.

Zayne pressed a tender kiss to your temple before nuzzling into your hair, inhaling your scent. "That was... incredible," he whispered, voice low and sated. “God, I love you.” 

“I love you too..” you whispered softly. He could feel the sticky evidence of your joining cooling between your thighs, but he knew from experience that it would soon dry. For now, he just wanted to hold you, to bask in the afterglow of your lovemaking.

“Zayne?” you called out to him because you were suddenly reminded of something, “What about our pasta?” 

Zayne chuckled softly at your question, amused by your sudden concern for the abandoned dinner. "Don't worry about that," he reassured you, hand stroking your arm soothingly. "After we get cleaned up, just relax here alright? I’ll heat up the sauce and grab some servings for the two of us."

“Mhm, okay..” you smiled at him, he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your cheek before resting his chin on your shoulder.

“But for now, let me just hold you for a while.” You leaned into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back. The warmth of his embrace wrapped around you like a blanket, soothing and grounding. For a moment, the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you in this quiet bubble of comfort.

His fingers traced slow, lazy circles along your arm, lulling you further into a state of contentment.

“I could stay like this forever,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Zayne chuckled again, his breath warm against your neck. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Minutes passed in comfortable silence, neither of you in any hurry to move. Eventually, he shifted slightly, pressing another kiss to your temple before murmuring, “Alright, let’s get cleaned up.”

You giggled when he gently scooped you up in his arms as he made his way to the bathroom for the both of you to have a nice warm bath. Afterwards, he helped you get dressed in his shirt and he changed the sheets of his bed.

Then, when you’re nice and settled on his bed, he pressed a kiss on your lips, soft and lingering, as if he didn’t want to pull away. “I won’t be long,” he promised, his voice low and gentle, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek before he stood.

You watched as he walked to the door, his figure outlined by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Just before stepping out, he glanced back at you, his lips curling into that familiar, comforting smile that made your heart flutter.

“Stay cozy, alright?” he said, his voice carrying the warmth of someone who cared deeply.

You nodded, the comfort of the blankets and the faint scent of him enveloping you. As he disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen, the sound of his footsteps faded, leaving you in the quiet, peaceful haven of his room.

You smiled softly to yourself, feeling grateful for the little moments like this—the ones that made everything else fade away.

dividers by: @cafekitsune

[solxamber]

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSj1MUa7G/

I feel like this is something my Yuu would sing in the Mostro Lounge

Jealous!Yuu with Azul, Trey and Rook plss(seperate and romantic)

the song is so good omg, I've had it in my head since I saw this req. I've also reinterpretated the req a little bit, hope that's okay!

thank you for waiting so long <3

(also reader is pretty assertive in this)

Azul, Trey, Rook x Jealous! Reader

Azul Ashengrotto

The Mostro Lounge was buzzing, as always. Azul, in full business mode, was the perfect mix of charm and professionalism, pulling strings and striking deals with that silver tongue of his. It wasn’t hard to see why people were practically falling for him left and right.

And you? Oh, you were fuming.

It started with that one overly enthusiastic customer, leaning across the counter, giggling at everything Azul said. Then, a group of students practically lined up to thank him for his "kindness" (which you knew was probably tied to some convoluted contract). The final straw? Some guy who straight-up asked Azul if he wanted to "grab coffee sometime," while twirling his hair like he was in a cheesy romance movie.

You slammed down your empty drink and stood up so fast the chair screeched. Enough was enough.

The moment Azul stepped away from the crowd to retreat to his office, you were on him.

"Azul."

He froze, hand on the doorknob, and turned to face you. "Ah, is there something I can—"

You grabbed his tie and tugged, not too hard, but enough to shut him up and pull him closer. His glasses slipped down his nose as his eyes widened in surprise.

"Listen here, Azul," you started, voice low and firm. "I’ve been watching people fawn over you all night, and frankly, I’m this close to losing my mind."

"I-I beg your pardon?" he stammered, his usual eloquence completely deserting him.

"You know exactly what I mean," you huffed, glaring up at him. "You walk around, flashing that business smile, charming everyone without even trying, and it drives me crazy. When are you going to stop playing hard to get and make me yours already?"

Azul’s face turned a shade you didn’t even think was possible. "W-What?! I… I don’t—"

"You know I belong in your arms," you continued, taking a step closer, making him back up against the wall. "So what’s the holdup, huh? Or do you like torturing me by letting me watch all these people drool over you?"

Azul opened and closed his mouth a few times, utterly speechless. His glasses were fogging up slightly, and his hands hovered awkwardly at his sides as if he didn’t know where to put them.

"You’re jealous?" he finally managed to croak out, voice barely above a whisper.

"Beyond jealous," you admitted shamelessly. "And I’m done hiding it."

Azul’s blush deepened, and he cleared his throat, trying to regain some composure. "I… I had no idea you felt this way."

"Well, now you do." You leaned in slightly, smirking at how flustered he looked. "So? What’s it gonna be, Azul? Are you gonna make me yours, or do I have to endure another night of watching people throw themselves at you?"

He straightened his glasses, avoiding your gaze, but the small, shy smile that crept onto his lips gave him away. "I… would be honored to make you mine," he said softly, then added, "And for the record, I don’t care about anyone else throwing themselves at me. I only care about you."

The sincerity in his voice made your heart skip a beat, and you couldn’t help but grin. "Took you long enough to admit it," you teased, finally letting go of his tie.

Azul chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "I… suppose I have a lot to learn about expressing myself."

"Don’t worry," you said, grabbing his hand and intertwining your fingers. "I’ll teach you."

And judging by the way his blush deepened, he didn’t mind the idea one bit.

Trey Clover

The scene in the Heartslabyul kitchen was one you’d seen countless times before. Trey, sleeves rolled up, apron tied snugly around his waist, calmly mixing batter in a bowl as the scent of freshly baked pastries filled the air. He always looked so perfectly in his element here, like nothing could ever faze him.

Unfortunately, your patience had absolutely been fazed.

"Did you see that? Trey is so cool and kind!"

"I’m thinking of confessing to him this weekend—do you think he likes roses or sweets more?"

The voices of swooning freshmen played on a loop in your mind, fueling the fire in your chest. Everywhere you went, someone was singing Trey’s praises. It didn’t help that he was everything they said and more—charming, steady, warm. He was the complete opposite of Riddle’s strictness, and freshmen flocked to him for it.

But they didn’t get to adore him like that. Not if you had anything to say about it.

you stormed into the kitchen, your footsteps firm and purposeful. Trey, ever composed, glanced up from his work and greeted you with a soft smile.

"What a surprise. I was just about to put these in the oven. Want to—"

"Cut the sweet talk, Clover," you interrupted, marching straight up to him and slamming your hands on the counter. His smile faltered slightly, though the amusement in his eyes betrayed him.

"Something on your mind?" he asked, setting the bowl aside and leaning casually against the counter, as if your obvious fury didn’t rattle him in the slightest.

"Yeah, something’s on my mind," you snapped. "I can’t take it anymore, Trey."

His brow arched slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "Can’t take what, exactly?"

You stepped closer, effectively pinning him against the counter. Your tone softened, but your words carried the weight of everything you’d been holding back. "I can’t take watching people fall all over you. Every day, it’s the same thing—'Trey this,' 'Trey that,' 'Trey-senpai is so perfect.' And now I hear someone’s planning to confess to you this weekend?"

Trey tilted his head, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "You seem awfully worked up about this."

"Of course I’m worked up! I—" You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "I can’t stand the thought of anyone else having you, Trey. You know I belong in your arms, so when are you going to stop torturing me and make me yours?"

For the first time, you saw Trey genuinely falter. His eyes widened slightly, and a faint blush dusted his cheeks. But just as quickly, he regained his composure, his smile softening into something warmer, more genuine.

"So, you’re jealous," he said, his voice laced with amusement.

"Obviously," you muttered, crossing your arms. "And if you knew all along, you’re even more infuriating than I thought."

Trey chuckled, reaching up to adjust his glasses. "I had a feeling, but I didn’t want to rush you. I was waiting for you to say it yourself."

"Well, I’ve said it now. What are you going to do about it?"

His smile turned fond as he reached out, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "I guess I should finally put you out of your misery, huh?"

Before you could respond, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "You’ve been mine all along, you know," he murmured, his voice low and warm.

Your breath hitched, and you felt the heat rising to your cheeks. "You… could’ve told me sooner," you mumbled, looking away.

"Where’s the fun in that?" he teased, though the sincerity in his tone betrayed how much he meant it. "Besides, it was worth the wait to hear you say it so passionately."

"Ugh, you’re a villain," you muttered, though you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

Trey chuckled, pulling you into a gentle hug. "Villain or not, you’re stuck with me now."

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Rook Hunt

Rook Hunt was everything you could want—and everything you couldn’t have. At least, that’s what it felt like.

His poetic words and boundless charm had drawn you in long ago, and you were certain they’d ensnared countless others just as easily. He was magnetic, otherworldly, impossible to ignore. And the way he spoke to people—praised them—was just… who he was. You understood that. You accepted it. But it didn’t stop the burning jealousy from clawing at your chest every time someone looked at him like he hung the moon.

Like today.

“I think Rook might be interested in me,” someone had whispered. “He said my laughter was like a melody carried on the wind!”

You’d laughed it off at the time, acting unaffected as you walked away, but the words echoed in your mind, leaving you restless and frustrated. Of course, Rook hadn’t meant it like that. You knew better than anyone how whimsical and effusive he could be. But it didn’t matter. Every glance he cast, every flowery compliment he offered, made you feel like your claim on him—if you even had one—was slipping through your fingers.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

By the time you found him in the courtyard, you were trembling—not from anger, but from the weight of everything you’d been holding back. Rook stood by a tree, gazing up at the branches with a soft smile, the winter sun casting a halo around his golden hair. When he noticed you approaching, his face lit up, and he greeted you in his usual fashion.

“Ah, mon trésor! How radiant you are today! To see you is to feel the sun’s warmth, even in the cold of—”

“Rook,” you interrupted, your voice tighter than you intended.

His smile faltered, replaced by an expression of mild concern. “Is something wrong, my dear?”

You stopped just a step away from him, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “No, not wrong. Just…” You hesitated, swallowing hard. “I need to say this before I lose my nerve.”

Rook tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes, and the sight of him—so open, so beautiful—made your heart ache.

“I know how you are,” you began, your voice shaking. “I know you love to compliment people, and that’s… fine. It’s part of who you are. But…” You looked away, embarrassed by the heat rising to your face. “I hate the way they look at you. The way they think they might have a chance with you.”

“Mon ange…” Rook murmured, his voice softening.

“I’m not asking you to stop,” you said quickly, meeting his gaze again. “I could never ask you to change that. But I… I want them to know. I want everyone to know that you’re mine.”

There it was. The truth, laid bare between you. Your heart pounded as silence stretched, and for the first time, you saw Rook genuinely stunned. His eyes widened, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came.

Then, slowly, a smile broke across his face—wide and radiant and filled with something you couldn’t quite name.

“Ah, mon amour,” he breathed, his voice trembling with emotion. “You are magnificent.”

Before you could respond, Rook closed the distance between you, his hands gently cupping your face as he gazed at you with a reverence that stole your breath.

“Do you know how long I have waited to hear those words?” he whispered. “How I have longed for this moment?”

Your breath caught, your eyes searching his. “You… you waited?”

“Of course,” he said, his smile softening. “How could I not? You are the one who holds my heart, mon trésor. I could not give it to anyone else, no matter how many compliments I offer.”

The relief that washed over you was overwhelming, and you laughed—soft and shaky, but genuine. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Rook chuckled, his thumbs brushing gently against your cheeks. “And you are extraordinary. Shall we make it official, then? Let the world know that we are one?”

Your heart swelled, and you nodded, a smile breaking across your face. “Yeah. Let’s.”

Rook beamed, his joy so infectious you couldn’t help but laugh again. And as he pulled you into his arms, spinning you around with the kind of exuberance only he could muster, you knew you’d never have to wonder if you belonged in his heart. You were already there.

Masterlist

[scoupsakakitty]

Fan Letter | idol!Dk x reader | fluff

Y/N had never thought much about the contents of the shoebox tucked away in the corner of her closet. It was a relic from her teenage years, filled with old posters, concert tickets, and faded memories of a time when she was just another fan in a sea of glowing light sticks.

But apparently, DK had other plans for that shoebox.

“Y/N,” his voice rang through her apartment as he stepped inside, waving a crumpled piece of paper in the air. His expression was a mix of confusion, amusement, and something else she couldn’t quite place. “What is this?”

Y/N blinked, completely caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

He held up the paper, and her stomach immediately dropped. The handwriting was unmistakable, it was hers. A letter she had written years ago, when she was just a fan who never thought she’d actually meet the man who had inspired her so much. And now, here he was, standing in her living room, holding the very letter she had hoped no one would ever see.

“Where did you even find that?” she asked, her voice a mix of panic and embarrassment.

DK grinned, tilting his head in that way he always did when he was teasing her. “You told me to grab a blanket from your closet, so I might’ve… accidentally opened a box.”

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Seokmin, you weren’t supposed to see that. It’s so embarrassing.”

But DK didn’t seem embarrassed at all. In fact, he looked almost… touched. “You wrote this to me? Like, for real?” He glanced back down at the letter, reading it aloud with dramatic flair. “Dear DK, I don’t know if you’ll ever see this, but I just wanted to say thank you. Your voice has helped me get through so many tough days.”

“Stop it!” Y/N lunged at him, trying to grab the letter, but he was too quick, holding it above his head and out of her reach.

“Whenever I feel like giving up, I listen to your songs, and it feels like I can breathe again. I don’t know how to explain it, but you make everything feel a little lighter.” He paused, his expression softening as he lowered the letter and met her eyes. “You’ll probably never know who I am, but I just wanted to say thank you for being you.”

Y/N froze, her cheeks burning as she tried to think of something to say. “I was young, okay? I didn’t think you’d ever read that. It’s… it’s just stupid.”

But DK shook his head, folding the letter carefully and slipping it into his pocket. “It’s not stupid. Not even a little.”

“Seokmin…” she started, but he cut her off, stepping closer.

“Do you know how much this means to me?” he said, his voice quieter now. “To know that I could make someone feel like that? To know that I made you feel like that?”

Y/N looked up at him, her embarrassment slowly fading as she saw the sincerity in his eyes. “You really helped me,” she admitted softly. “Back then, when I was going through a lot, your voice… it made things feel less heavy. It made me feel like I wasn’t alone.”

DK’s smile grew, and he reached out to take her hands in his. “And now you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

She let out a shaky laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Nope,” he said with a laugh, pulling her into a hug. “But seriously, Y/N, this is one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said about me. And the fact that it came from you makes it even better.”

She relaxed in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. “I still can’t believe you found that.”

“Believe it,” he teased, gently swaying them side to side. “But hey, if you ever want to write me another letter, I wouldn’t mind. Maybe something like, ‘Dear DK, you’re the best boyfriend in the world.’”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re the reason I keep singing,” he replied softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

As they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, Y/N realized that the boy she had written to all those years ago had turned out to be even better than she could have ever imagined.

————————————————————————————-

[bright-side20]

A little Elriel scene inspired by the song 'Each Time' by Tamino. And by the way, if you're still wondering what Azriel's voice might sound like, go listen to this man.

The meadow spread wide beneath the pale light of the stars, a world painted in silver and red. Dark crimson flowers blanketed the earth, their petals glistening with dew. The air hummed with stillness, broken only by the soft rustle of the breeze through the grass.

And there she was, stretched out among the blooms, as if she were a part of the earth itself, born from its sweetest dreams. Elain’s hair spilled over the flowers, her golden waves shimmering like liquid sunlight against the dark. Her dress, soft and flowing, perfectly tracing the curves of her body, the color of deep cobalt, seemed to drink in the faint starlight, its rich hue contrasting beautifully against the dark crimson blooms. She looked like a vision born of twilight, her eyes closed, her lips faintly curved in a smile so serene it made his chest ache.

Azriel stood a few paces away, his boots rooted to the ground as if moving closer would shatter the fragile perfection of this moment. He’d spent centuries yearning for peace, for stillness...but now, in her presence, he knew this was what he’d been searching for.

Her.

“Azriel.” Her voice broke through the quiet, soft. She opened her eyes, and he froze at the sound of his name on her lips...soft, intimate, as if she had reached deep inside him and touched something only she could awaken. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said.

She smiled “You’re not.” She patted the space beside her, an invitation as natural as the way the flowers leaned toward her, as if she were the sun.

He hesitated only a moment before joining her, stretching out on the soft grass. The scent of the flowers rich mingled with hers, wrapping around him in a way that made it impossible to think of anything but her.

They layed there for a moment in silent peace and He hadn’t spoken, afraid to shatter the moment.

It suits her, he thought, this place, this stillness. It suits us.

Yet beneath that peace, something restless burned in his chest. It wasn’t enough to simply lie here beside her. He wanted to reach out, to touch her , to feel the warmth of her skin against his. He wanted to tell her that this...this stillness, this closeness...was his idea of eternity. That no court, no battle, no crown could ever compare to this. That he could spend a thousand years lying here, beside her, and still crave more.

Elain gazed up at the stars, her expression soft. But Azriel couldn’t look away from her. The starlight painted her skin with an ethereal glow, kissed the curve of her lips, and made her seem more like a dream.Her sweet combination of jasmine and honey had woven itself into his senses. He wanted to drown in it, to seal this beauty in his mind forever. Each time again, and again, he thought, desperate to savor this moment.

“It’s beautiful, almost surreal,” she murmured.

He inclined his head in agreement as he replied, “It is.” But he wasn’t talking about Rosehall or the stars. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her, couldn’t stop the tide of longing surging within him.“But nothing this perfect can last,” he continued, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Elain tilted her head, studying him. “Maybe it doesn’t need to last forever,” she said. “Maybe it’s enough to feel it. Even for a moment.”

Her words sliced through his defenses. “It’s always worth it,” he responded.

Her gaze briefly drifted to his lips before meeting his eyes again, and he didn’t know why it thrilled him. “Do you ever wish you could stop time?” she asked.

"Every day," he responded, hating how easily she seemed to see through him.

Her hand moved then, her fingers brushing against his with a touch so light it sent a shiver through him. He barely dared to breathe as her small hand slid to fit perfectly against his scarred one.

“I think I’d stop it here. Right now. If I could,” she said.

“Elain,” he said, her name breaking from him like a prayer...desperate and raw.

She turned fully toward him, her hair spilling across her shoulder . “Yes?”

He stared at her, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure she could hear it. He wanted to tell her everything...that she was the light in his darkness. That he thought of her every waking moment. That he dreamed of her every night. That he would give anything...anything...to be the one she chose. That every moment without her felt like a lifetime lost.

But all he could manage was a broken, “You deserve more than this.”

Her brows knit together, confusion in her gaze. “More than what?”

“More than I can give you,” he said, his voice cracking on the words.

“You’re wrong,” she said softly.

He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “I’m not.”

She didn’t pull away. Instead, he felt her fingers tighten more around his. “Maybe you don’t see it,” she said, “but I do.”

Azriel’s breath hitched. He wanted to believe her. Gods, he wanted to believe her more than anything.

“Elain,” he murmured, her name once more a plea. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” she asked, her voice calm yet insistent.

“Because I’ll believe you,” he confessed. “And that’s dangerous. I can’t...”

Azriel closed his eyes, unable to bear the weight of her gaze any longer. It was too much...the hope in her expression. He let out a shuddering breath, his head tilting back toward the stars.

But then, the air between them shifted.

It wasn’t just the soft sound of her moving closer, the gentle rustle of her dress brushing against the roses beneath them. It was the way her warmth seemed to bloom, creeping over him like the first rays of the sun at dawn. It was the kind of warmth that promised a new beginning, the kind that reminded him what it felt like to truly be alive.

He inhaled deeply in her scent...And then he felt it,the faintest brush of her breath against his lips.

He opened his eyes.

She was so close, her face just inches from his, her eyes searching his. Her breath mingled with his, warm and soft. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat screaming at him to move, to act, to close that impossible gap between them. But he couldn’t. He was overwhelmed by the reality of her, by the weight of his longing.

"Elain…" he whispered her name again, she kissed him, and he knew, in that moment, he was utterly undone.

It was soft at first, tentative, like the brush of a rose petal against his lips. But as she deepened the kiss, her hand pressing gently against his chest, feeling the erratic beat of his heart beneath her palm, Azriel kissed her back, pouring all of his desperate, hopeless longing into that moment. She opened for him, softly moaning as his tongue slid to meet hers, and it was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. Her taste ,sweet like honey lingered on his lips, the most intoxicating flavor he'd ever known. His fingers found her waist, gripping it with a mixture of need and disbelief, as though anchoring himself to the reality of her. She was here, she was real, and even if only in this perfect circle, she was his.

For the first time, he felt alive.

But just as he began to surrender to the moment, the world around him started to fade. The roses danced like ghosts in the wind, the stars flickering and dimming, and the warmth of her touch slipping through his fingers .

“No,” he choked out, a deep, gnawing panic clawing at his chest.

And then, with a jolt, Azriel awoke. His breath was sharp and ragged, the weight of the dream still heavy on him. The cold darkness of his room swallowed him, and with it, the warmth of her vanished entirely.

"Elain," he murmured into the emptiness, and the ache of it...her absence...was enough to break him all over again.

But the memory of her lingered...etched into his soul, a cruel reminder of what he could never have. He felt a shadow stroking his bare shoulder as if consoling him.

His hand moved to his head, fingers threading through his hair as he tried to calm the storm inside him. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, letting the motion soothe the tension in his neck. His gaze fell to the nightstand, where the headache powder and earplugs sat quietly, a reminder of her care. How much longer could he stay away from her? How much longer could he pretend that the cold distance between them wasn’t slowly tearing him apart?

[daryltwdixon]

I want to give Joel Miller a lap dance. Feel his hands all over my body as I grind into him and he moans my name. He'll be begging to be inside me and I'll finally give in and ride him until he fills me up with his cum. That's it. That's the request. (Jesus, it's suddenly hot in here, huh?)

Joel x Reader Happy Birthday

warnings: straight smut MDNI

I listened to I See Red by Everybody Loves an Outlaw while writing

a/n: oh, anon. you did something to me here. I've been thinking about it all day. I took it in a slightly different direction but anyway. another note: I am not the kinda woman who gives lap dances, so this could actually be terrible. enjoy x

It started with the heels. Those fucking heels. You couldn’t say no to them. They were just sitting there on a shelf in the middle of a patrol gone sideways, taunting you.

A rainstorm had hit mid-September in Wyoming, and you and your patrol partner had taken refuge in an old strip mall. The clothing store you holed up in was mostly picked over, but there were still odds and ends for the community back in Jackson—stuff to stock the closet for kids and newcomers.

And then there were the heels. Black, shiny, the kind of tall that bordered on dangerous. They might’ve been ridiculous for patrol, but god, you’d always loved how they looked in those pre-outbreak magazines. The kind of shoes that made women look powerful and untouchable. So, with a “fuck it” shrug, you’d stuffed them into your backpack and thought, Joel’s birthday is coming up anyway.

The idea had snowballed from there. You’d scavenged through the library’s dusty stock of CDs and hit the jackpot: the perfect song. The rest fell into place, one piece at a time, until tonight. Now here you were, standing in front of the mirror, nerves simmering under the surface as you took in your reflection.

The heels did exactly what you’d imagined, making your legs look miles long. The black lace panties you’d picked weren’t the practical kind you usually wore—these were high-cut, with delicate details that felt scandalous against your skin. The bralette matched, sheer enough to leave almost nothing to the imagination, with just enough wire to push your breasts up like a dare. You swallowed hard, heat pooling low in your belly.

To steady yourself, you grabbed one of Joel’s plaid shirts from the bed and slipped it on. The soft, worn fabric still smelled like him—earthy, warm, familiar. The contrast between the shirt and what was underneath made your pulse quicken. It was the anticipation, the audacity of what you were about to do, that left you breathless.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you moved to the living area. Dragging one of the armless chairs from the kitchen table, you placed it squarely in the middle of the room. The boombox was already prepped, the song queued up and ready. With one last deep breath, you perched on the chair and waited.

Waited for Joel to walk through the door.

Joel trudged up the porch steps, every bone in his body aching from patrol. It had been a long one, the kind that left him bone-weary and ready to drop. He pushed the door open, boots heavy against the floor as he shrugged out of his jacket.

“Hey,” he called over his shoulder, voice low and gruff, more out of habit than effort. He didn’t look up, his focus on loosening the laces of his boots, mind already wandering to the promise of a hot shower and a quiet night.

“Happy birthday, handsome.”

Your voice stopped him mid-motion. Warm, teasing, the kind of sound that made him glance up without thinking. He froze, the boot in his hand forgotten as his brain struggled to catch up with what he was seeing.

You were sitting in the middle of the living room, legs crossed like you had all the time in the world. And yet it wasn’t just you sitting there—it was everything else. The heels. The shirt—his shirt—hanging loose over your frame, barely buttoned, leaving enough undone to make his pulse stutter. His eyes followed the long line of your legs, the curve of your thighs, and those damn heels. Shiny, black and undeniably sexy. And then his eyes trailed up, stopping at the curve of her neck, her collarbones, the delicate lace peeking through.

Joel’s throat went dry. He blinked once, then again, like maybe he was seeing things. But no, you were real. You were there. And goddamn, you looked like that.

“What...what’s all this, baby?” he managed, his voice rougher than usual, the words scraping out like he barely had the strength to speak.

You tilted your head, playful and soft all at once, and he hated how it made him feel—off-kilter, like you had all the control in the room. “I told you,” you said, your voice light, teasing but edged with something else. “Happy birthday.”

Joel’s gaze stayed locked on you, his boots still half-off, his body halfway between exhaustion and something else entirely. He shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite himself. “Darlin’, you didn’t have to do all this.” His voice was low, a teasing edge there, but the heat behind his words was undeniable.

You felt your stomach flip, but you held your ground, stepping closer to him until your hands rested gently on his chest. His warmth seeped through the fabric of his shirt, the steady rise and fall of his breath grounding you even as your own felt unsteady.

“I know,” you murmured, your tone soft but steady. “But I wanted to. And you deserve it.”

Joel’s smirk deepened, his hands instinctively finding your hips, rough fingers grazing the fabric of his shirt draped over you. “You sure about that? ‘Cause all I’m thinkin’ is takin’ you straight to our room and thankin’ you proper.”

His words sent a flush of heat through you, but you held firm, giving his chest a gentle push. “Not yet,” you said, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Sit down,.”

He raised a brow, his grip on your hips tightening just enough to let you know he wasn’t fully on board. “Darlin’, I’m not exactly in the mood to—”

You pressed your palms more firmly against him, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Sit, Joel.”

The quiet authority in your tone made his resistance falter. He let out a low chuckle, more breath than sound, and leaned back, allowing you to guide him into the chair. His knees spread as he settled in, his arms resting loosely on his thighs, but his eyes never left you.

“One rule,” you said softly, holding up a finger. You sauntered over to the boombox that had been waiting on the side table, taking your finger and hovering over ‘play’. 

“No touching.”

And then the music started.

Your heart was in your throat by now, pounding in time with the heavy thrum of anticipation in your veins. Each deliberate sway of your hips felt like a challenge, and Joel’s eyes tracked every movement as you took slow, pointed steps toward him.

When you reached him, you placed your hands on his knees, leaning down just enough to let the hem of his plaid shirt ride up slightly. You arched your back, pushing your hips out and rolling them in a way that made the lace of your bra peek tantalizingly through the gap in the shirt. His eyes were locked on you, dark and intent, and when you glanced up, you caught him biting his lip, his gaze riveted to the skin you’d left exposed, as though he was imagining how it might feel under his hands.

With every movement, you swung your hips, each roll precise and deliberate. Your hands slid up to your hair, combing through it as you turned your back on him, walking a few slow, teasing steps away. Your hips dipped low with each step, your movements fluid, your intention clear. When you turned back to face him, your fingers found the buttons of his shirt still hanging off your shoulders. You began to undo them one by one, each step bringing you closer to him until the last button came undone.

The shirt slid from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. You kicked it aside, standing before him in nothing but the black lace he was now openly staring at. Joel’s pupils had blown wide, his chest rising and falling with barely restrained tension. He leaned back in the chair, his arms locking behind his head, biceps flexing as though he was physically restraining himself from reaching out. For now, at least, he seemed willing to play along with your game.

Turning around, you hovered just above his lap, bending forward as you rolled your hips, letting your ass dip and brush teasingly against his legs. Your hands trailed over your own body, mapping the curve of your waist and hips as you moved. The heat of his gaze burned into your skin, and you smiled to yourself before finally lowering onto his lap, spreading your legs as you settled against him.

You leaned back slightly, letting your ass press firmly against him, and you felt it—the undeniable hardness straining against his jeans. Your heart quickened, and a teasing smile curved your lips as you glanced over your shoulder at him. His jaw was tight, his teeth clenched, his dark eyes fixed on the way you moved against him.

Joel let out a low, guttural sound as you bent forward, tracing your hands along the floor, your body folding in half over him. His hips bucked up against you then, a reflex he couldn’t seem to control, and you smirked, slipping to the floor and crawling forward on your knees until you turned to face him.

Sliding your hands onto his knees, your eyes met his as he finally spoke, his voice rough, edged with tension. “Oh, so you can touch me, huh?”

“Obviously,” you murmured, the smirk on your lips daring him as your hands trailed up his thighs. He sucked in a sharp breath, his arms still locked behind his head as though anchoring himself, but his hips twitched up toward your touch. Your hands slid higher, over his chest, as you pulled yourself back into his lap, facing him chest to chest.

Your hands slid to your hips as you rolled against him, each movement slow, deliberate, and purposeful. You thought of all the ways he’d gone crazy for you before, the rhythm that always left him undone when you rode his cock, and you worked it now with an extra swivel, a teasing twist to your hips.

“You’re a nasty little thing, baby,” he muttered, his voice thick and gravelly, like he was speaking through clenched teeth. His eyes zeroed in on the straps of your bra as they slid down your shoulders with every roll of your body. The hunger in his gaze made your stomach flip, and you could almost feel the weight of his restraint, like he was moments away from tearing the lace off you with his teeth.

A soft whimper escaped your lips as you ground harder against him, unable to ignore the growing wetness between your thighs or the way your body clenched around nothing. You pushed against his denim-clad hard-on, slow and deliberate, and watched as his eyes squeezed shut, his head tipping back as though he was holding on by a thread.

Sliding your hands up to his neck and then down to flatten against his chest, you leaned closer, wanting to kiss him so fucking bad, but keeping yourself away. If you kissed him, your resistance would falter, and there’d be no going back.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his head tipping back slightly, his neck arching into your touch as though chasing the warmth of your hands. His breath was shallow now, his chest rising and falling beneath your palms as the tension between you thickened, taut and electric.

You barely catch him breathing your name, a whimper, before he was begging, “Please,”

“Please what, Joel?” you whispered back, teasing, even though your own restraint was slipping. You stood then, turning away from him slowly, your hips swaying in time with his ragged breaths. Bending over, you slid your fingers to the waistband of your lace panties, tugging them just enough to reveal a hint of bare skin, only to let them snap back into place.

His head snapped up, his eyes glued to your hands. “I need—” His voice broke, and he dragged his hands down his thighs, rubbing them as though desperate to release some of the tension coiling in his body. “I need to feel you, baby. Please.”

You looked over your shoulder, your lips curling into a soft smile. “Not yet,” you said, your voice low and teasing as you turned back toward him. You lowered yourself into his lap again, back to his chest and your movements slow, deliberate, savoring every inch of contact as you rolled against him.

Joel groaned again, the sound rough and primal, his hands still locked behind his head as though holding onto the last shred of control. You pressed harder against him, rolling your hips deliberately, savoring the friction of his rock hard cock beneath you. The sensation sent a jolt straight through you, and before you could stop yourself, a soft, breathless moan slipped from your lips.

That was all it took.

Joel’s restraint snapped. His arms moved like lightning, one snaking around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while the other slid up, his large, calloused hand curling around the side of your neck. His grip wasn’t tight, just firm enough to hold you in place, to make you feel completely surrounded by him.

“Breakin’ your own rules, huh?” His voice was a low rasp in your ear, thick with desire and edged with the kind of authority that made heat flood through your entire body. His scruff brushed against the curve of your jaw, tickling and scraping in a way that sent sparks down your spine, every nerve alight. “Makin’ all those damn rules and can’t even follow ‘em yourself.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine as his lips barely grazed the shell of your ear. “You want me to be patient,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin, “but here you are, grindin’ on me, moanin’ like you’re beggin’ me to lose control.”

Your breath hitched, your hands instinctively flying to his forearm where it rested against your neck. His grip didn’t falter, holding you there as his hips shifted beneath you, just enough to press his hardness firmly against your core. The sound that escaped your lips this time was a mix of surprise and need, and it only made his hold tighten.

“You feel that?” he growled, his lips brushing your ear again, the rasp of his voice sending waves of heat through you. “That’s what you do to me, baby. You keep teasin’ me, and I’m gonna give you exactly what you’re askin’ for.”

Before you could respond, his grip on your neck shifted slightly, firm but careful, his other hand trailing up from your waist. “Now let’s see what you’ve been hidin’ from me here, huh?” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous in your ear.

His fingers found the lace of your bra, tugging it down until your breasts spilled free. The sound that rumbled from his chest was almost feral, a deep growl that made heat pool low in your belly. He cupped one of your breasts in his hand, the warmth of his palm making you arch into his touch. His thumb brushed over your nipple, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through you before he pinched and rolled it between his fingers.

You gasped, your back arching further into him, but he wasn’t done. He brought the same hand to your other breast, the calloused pads of his fingers rough against your sensitive skin. He squeezed gently, then let his palm deliver a quick, stinging slap that made you jolt in his lap.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, the sound barely audible over the pounding of your heart. The sting melted into warmth, the sensation sharp and thrilling, and you couldn’t help but roll your hips harder against him, desperate for more.

Joel’s lips found the side of your neck, brushing hot, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. “That’s it,” he growled, his voice rough with need as his hands continued to explore you, alternating between firm, teasing squeezes and sharp, delicious slaps. “Let me hear those pretty noises. Don’t hold back now.”

The way he rolled and teased your nipples made your head tip back against his shoulder, a soft moan spilling from your lips as his mouth found the curve of your neck. His teeth scraped lightly against your skin, making your nerves spark, your hips bucking in his lap.

“You’re so damn sensitive,” he rasped against your neck, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. His hands trailed lower, brushing over your ribs, fingertips grazing your stomach as they worked their way to the waistband of your panties. “Been drivin’ me crazy all night, wearin’ this...all for me, huh?”

You could only nod, your voice caught somewhere between a gasp and a plea. Joel chuckled low in your ear, the sound rough and teasing, as he hooked his thumbs under the delicate lace and tugged it downward, inch by inch, exposing you to the cool air and his burning gaze.

“Use your words pretty girl,” he muttered, his voice full of reverence and something darker, more primal. He shifted beneath you, one hand returning to your waist to hold you steady as the other worked the panties down past your thighs.

“All yours, Joel. I’m yours.” you breathed, hips rolling as his hands worked the fabric slip past your knees, pooling on the floor as his hands returned to your bare skin. He traced the curve of your thighs and pulled them open wider across his lap. The heat of him pressed against your core, and the rough denim only heightened the aching need coursing through you.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you gripped his forearms, trying to steady yourself.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmured, his hands steady and warm as they explored the newly exposed skin. His fingers slid up your inner thighs, deliberate and slow, brushing so close to where you needed him most but never quite touching. The tease was unbearable, your hips shifting instinctively to chase his touch.

“Not so fast,” he growled, his grip tightening on your thighs to hold you still. “You wanted to take your time, didn’t you? You’re gonna sit here and feel every second of this.”

His words made your breath hitch, the commanding edge in his voice sending another wave of heat pooling low in your belly. His hands trailed higher, his fingertips brushing just shy of your center, so close you could feel the heat of his touch but not the pressure you craved.

“Please,” you whimpered, arching back against him, your body practically trembling in his grasp.

“Patience, darlin’,” he said, his lips brushing against your ear again, his voice nothing more than a rough whisper. “I’m gonna take my time with you. Gonna make sure you feel all of it.”

Joel’s hands finally slid higher, his rough fingertips ghosting over the slick heat between your thighs. The barest touch sent a shiver through you, your body instinctively arching into him, desperate for more. He hummed low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck as his lips brushed over your skin.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper. His fingers parted your lips slowly, exploring with a deliberate tenderness that made all the breath in your lungs tighten. “Could feel this pussy on me the whole time. Makin’ a mess of me.”

You whimpered, your hands gripping his forearms as his touch grew more confident, circling your most sensitive spot with slow, teasing precision. The pressure was just enough to send sparks shooting through you, your hips rocking into his hand as your breath hitched.

“Easy now, baby” he growled, his other arm tightening around your waist to hold you steady against him. “Daddy’s gon’ take good care of ya.”

He pressed a finger inside you, slow and deliberate, his thick, calloused touch stretching you just enough to make your head fall back against his shoulder. A low moan escaped your lips, your body trembling as he began to move, each stroke deliberate and unhurried.

“Look at you,” he muttered, his voice full of awe as he watched the way you writhed in his lap. “So beautiful, baby. You feel how good you’re takin’ me?”

You nodded, your words lost to the pleasure building deep inside you. He added another finger, the stretch making your toes curl as his pace quickened just slightly. His thumb brushed against your clit with every stroke, drawing a strangled moan from your throat as the tension in your belly coiled tighter.

Joel’s lips found the shell of your ear, his breath hot and heavy. “That’s it,” he rasped, his voice thick with desire. “Let go, darlin’. Let me feel this pretty pussy,”

His words sent you over the edge, the pressure finally snapping as your body tensed, waves of pleasure crashing through you. You cried out his name, your hands clutching at his arms as he worked you through it, his fingers moving steadily, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure until you were left trembling in his lap, boneless and breathless.

He finally slowed, his movements gentle as he eased his fingers from you, his arm still holding you close. He pressed a soft kiss to the side of your neck, his voice softer now but no less heated. “Good girl,” he murmured, his tone full of pride and affection.

Joel’s lips lingered on your neck, his breath still warm against your skin as his hand slid back to your waist, grounding you. The tension between you was electric, your body still trembling in the aftermath of his touch, but the need hadn’t faded—it had only sharpened.

You shifted in his lap, the friction of his jeans against your sensitive skin making you gasp softly. His grip tightened on your hips, steadying you as his lips brushed your ear. “What’re you doin’, darlin’?” he murmured, though his voice was rough, and his hips twitched up into you despite the question.

You turned slightly, your lips curling into a teasing smile as you met his dark, hungry gaze. “Taking care of you now,” you whispered, your hands finding his chest as you pushed yourself upright.

Joel’s eyes followed your every movement as you reached for the button of his jeans, your fingers working with deliberate slowness, savoring the way his jaw clenched and his chest heaved beneath your touch. When you finally slid the zipper down, the strained fabric gave way, and you couldn’t help the way you always were caught by surprise as his thick hardness sprang free, hot and heavy in your hand.

He groaned low in his throat as you wrapped your fingers around him, giving him a slow stroke that had his head tipping back against the chair. “Christ,” he muttered, his hands gripping your thighs, his voice rough and unsteady. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

You smiled, a mix of nerves and confidence swirling in your chest as you lifted yourself onto your knees, positioning yourself over him. His hands moved instinctively to your hips, guiding you, steadying you as you lined yourself up. The heat of him pressed against you, and you bit your lip, slowly sinking down until he filled you completely. You’d never get used to his size, the sheer stretch of him.

Both of you let out matching groans, the sensation overwhelming as you adjusted to him. Joel’s hands tightened on your hips, his grip firm but reverent, as though he was trying to hold himself back from taking every inch he wanted.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, his voice low and wrecked. “Always so fuckin’ good for me. So tight.”

You braced your hands on his chest, your breath hitching as you began to move. Slowly at first, rocking your hips in a rhythm that had his fingers digging into your skin. The way he stretched and filled you sent shivers through your body, and you couldn’t help the soft moans that spilled from your lips.

Joel’s eyes were locked on you, dark and intense as he watched every roll of your hips. You leaned forward, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “Feel good, daddy?”

“Fuck yes,” he growled, his hips bucking up to meet your movements. “Don’t stop, baby. Don’t you fuckin’ stop.”

You didn’t. You rode him harder, the friction and fullness building to a crescendo that had your breath coming in ragged gasps. Joel was unraveling beneath you, his groans and growls spurring you on as you chased the pleasure coiling tight in your belly.

His hands slid from your hips, one trailing up your back to steady you, while the other moved with purpose, his palm curling around the side of your neck. The pressure was firm, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make your breath catch, the sensation sending a sharp jolt of heat straight through you, making you clench around him.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your movements faltering for just a moment before the delicious contrast between his grip and the fullness of him inside you pushed you further. Joel’s dark eyes burned into yours, his expression one of pure control, his lips curling in a low growl.

“You like that, huh?” he rasped, his voice rough and commanding as his thumb brushed lightly over your throat. “Your pussy sure seems to like it, hunny–clenching around me like a fuckin’ vice with my hand around your pretty throat.”

You whimpered, nodding as the tension in your body coiled tighter. His grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you of his strength, enough to make you feel completely at his mercy.

“That’s it,” Joel murmured, his hips bucking up into you as you moved faster, harder, chasing the fire building between you. “Take what you need, baby. Let me hear you.”

The intensity of his hand on your neck, the way he filled you completely with every thrust, and the heat of his gaze locking you in place—all of it came together in a rush of overwhelming pleasure. The tension snapped, and you cried out his name, your body trembling as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over you.

Joel groaned, his own release hitting him as your body clenched around him. His hand remained on your neck, holding you steady as his other hand gripped your hip, anchoring you to him. His voice was low and broken as he growled your name, his body shuddering beneath yours.

As the last tremors faded, his grip softened, the hand around your neck sliding up to cradle your face. His thumb brushed tenderly over your cheek, a stark contrast to the raw passion of moments before. You collapsed against him, your breaths uneven, your heart still racing as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence filled with only the sound of your ragged breathing and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

Then you tilted your head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone before murmuring, “So, a good birthday then?”

His chest rumbled with a quiet laugh, his hand cupping the back of your head as he kissed your temple. “Best damn birthday I’ve ever had, darlin’.”

[midnightdahlias]

Lone Wolf

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summery - Bobby calls you when two hunters seem to need a rescue word count - 2.8k cws - gn!reader, kinda fluff (ig), typical supernatural hunt violence, mentions of weapons, mild language, mentions of injury, lmk if i missed anything a/n - the amount of times i've rewritten this fic-, i do hope you like it though, and as always rebloggs and comments are appreciated. happy reading !

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Driving was the calm between the chaos.

For hunters like you, it was the only time life didn’t feel like one giant nightmare. No claws, no teeth, no windows to get thrown through. Just the hum of the engine, the occasional song on the radio, and miles of open road.

Being a solo hunter? Even better. No one to babysit, no one to lose. It was just you and your thoughts. Peaceful.

...Well. Mostly.

Because, let’s face it, solitude had its downsides. You weren’t a robot. Sometimes, you wanted someone to talk to who wasn’t a bartender or Bobby Singer on the other end of the line. But people were a luxury you couldn’t afford—not when you knew what this life would do to them. You’d already learned that lesson the hard way, thank you very much.

But somedays you’d find yourself working with others, and today was one of those days.

“Hey, Bobby, got a case for me?” you asked, cradling the phone against your shoulder while you tightened the strap on your duffel bag.

“Not a case so much as a rescue mission,” Bobby said, and you could practically hear the grimace in his voice.

“Rescue?”

“Couple of knuckleheads went dark in Chicago. I sent ’em a case, and now I can’t get ahold of ’em. Might be nothin’, but…”

“Better safe than sorry,” you finished for him.

“Exactly.” He sighed, and you could hear the faint clink of a whiskey glass on his end.

“Why me? Don’t tell me I’m your only option.”

“You’re the best shot I’ve got, and you know it,” Bobby said gruffly. “Now, are you gonna help or stand there flappin’ your gums?”

You chuckled. “Yeah, I’m on it. Send me the details.”

The drive to Chicago was quiet, a welcome break from the chaos that usually followed you around. It gave you time to think: about Bobby’s call, about the hunters who’d gone dark, and about how you were the one he trusted to find them. You didn’t mind the weight of that responsibility. If they were still alive, you’d get them out. If not… you’d make sure the job was done. Either way, it was your mess to clean up.

Your first stop was the police station, where the missing hunters were last seen.

Flashing your fake FBI badge, you approached the front desk. “Couple of angets were here investigating some strange deaths. I’m their superior. Mind telling me what they found?”

The officer barely looked up. “You’ll want Detective Hayes. Down the hall.”

Hayes didn’t waste time. “They were looking into some deaths. Real messy ones. Claw marks, missing hearts, looks like a wild animal got to them. Weirdest damn thing.”

Missing hearts. Yep. Definitely your kinda thing.

He handed you the case file. You didn’t miss the way he watched you, like he was waiting for you to explain it all away. Instead, you nodded, thanked him, and left. The morgue confirmed what you already knew—this wasn’t some rogue animal. This was werewolves.

The victims were last seen at a seedy little bar on the edge of town. Sounded like your next stop.

The bar smelled like beer and poor life choices. You grabbed a seat at the far end, where you could see the whole room without sticking out too much. Years of hunting had taught you to trust your instincts, and right now, they were screaming something’s off.

Hours passed without incident. You were just about to call it a night when a hooded figure walked in, immediately drawing your attention. He moved with purpose, scanning the crowd before slipping a small envelope to a woman sitting alone, and walked out without a word.

Because that’s definitely not suspicious at all.

The woman opened the envelope, scanned its contents, then locked eyes with you.

You froze and your pulse quickening. Was it obvious you were watching her? Maybe. Did she seem like the type to care? Also maybe.

Just when you thought she might try and approach you or something, she stood and left without a word.

Again definitely not suspicious…

You waited a beat, and against every bit of common sense you had, you followed her out into the night.

You knew fully well that this could be a trap, but you also knew that this might be the only chance you’d get. You tailed her car at a cautious distance until she turned into an alleyway. Parking just past it, you got out and crept closer on foot.

The alley was dark and silent, save for the faint hum of a streetlamp. You kept your distance as she climbed out of her car, a sleek white sedan.

That’s when you saw it. A black ‘67 Chevrolet Impala parked behind her car.

Your heart stopped. No. Fucking. Way.

Everyone in the hunting community knew that car. It belonged to the Winchester brothers and if it was here, so were they.

Heart pounding, you crept closer to what looked to be an old theater near the alley. The door was left slightly ajar. Definitely a trap, but again what choices did you have other than to follow.

Knife in hand, you slipped inside.

The old theater was in disrepair. Dust covered the seats, and the air smelled of mildew. Yet the stage area seemed oddly intact, as though it were still in use. Before you could explore further, a low growl stopped you in your tracks.

Out of the shadows stepped a werewolf, its eyes glowing an unnatural yellow. You barely had time to react as it lunged at you.

“Of course,” you muttered, diving to the side. Your silver knife caught its flank, but the thing was fast. Claws swiped, catching your arm, but you kept moving, twisting the blade into its chest until it dropped.

Before you could catch your breath, a second growl echoed through the room.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned.

The woman from the bar stepped into the dim light, her face twisted, fangs bared.

“I knew you’d be trouble. You just had to poke your nose where it didn’t belong” she snarled, lunging at you.

You fought with everything you had. Her speed and strength outmatched the first werewolf by a mile. Claw marks tore through your jacket, and pain flared in your ribs, but you pressed on, besides you’d been through worse. Finally, a lucky strike drove your blade into her heart with every ounce of frustration you’d built up in the last 24 hours.. She crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

Panting, you staggered to your feet, surveying the room as you did so and spotted a faint light coming from backstage. You followed it and found the Winchesters tied up and unconscious but thankfully alive. Working quickly, you untied Sam, and began your attempts at waking the younger of the two brothers up.

“Come on Sam, wake up!” you whispered-yelled, shaking him furiously. His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked at you in confusion.

“Who—”

“Hunter. Bobby sent me. We can swap stories later.”

Before you could untie Dean, another werewolf burst through the door.

“Son of a—” you curesed under your breath, turning back to Sam “You handle your brother. I’ll handle him.”

The fight was grueling. This werewolf was stronger and faster than the others. It pressed you relentlessly, forcing you to dodge and counter with every ounce of skill you had. At one point, it pinned you, its jaws snapping inches from your face. Desperately, you reached for your knife, plunging it into its side. The creature howled in pain but didn’t relent.

You tried to reach for your blade again, but the creature had beat you to it and thrown it far out of your reach.

Just when you thought you were screwed, a gunshot rang out. The werewolf collapsed right on top of you.

‘’Ugh, seriously’’ you muttered, annoyed, even though someone had just saved your life.

You pushed away the werewolf, revealing Dean Winchester, awake and armed, smirking like he’d just saved the day.

“I had him,” you panted, brushing dust from your jacket.

Dean grinned, holstering his gun. “I think you mean, thank you.”

You rolled your eyes at him but couldn’t suppress a smile. “I didn’t need saving, but appreciate it anyway.”

You sat up, your body aching more now that the adrenaline was wearing off. Your hands were shaking, but you steadied them, trying not to show how badly you hurt.

You glanced over at Sam, who had just come into the room, taking in the full scene in front of him, his gaze flicking from you to the wolves you had ganked before even getting to the boys. "Did you—?"

You nodded, your muscles protesting as you stood. The reality of your injuries hit you all at once—scrapes, bruises, and a deep ache in your ribs. It wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle, but the exhaustion was creeping in. You’d deal with it later, when you had the space to breathe.

"Yeah, well, Bobby sent me to save your asses," you joked, trying to lighten the mood. "Would’ve been pretty embarrassing if I’d gotten myself ganked in the process.”

Sam didn’t laugh. His gaze was fixed on you, scanning your face, the bloodied scratches on your arm. He was looking at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

"You’re hurt," Sam murmured, his voice softer than you expected.

“I’m fine,” you replied quickly, brushing him off with a wave. “Just a few scratches. Nothing I can’t handle.”

But Sam didn’t look convinced. His jaw clenched, and he took a step toward you. “You sure about that?”

You laughed, a little too sharply. "Mhm. Besides, you should be worried about yourself. Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

You were used to being the tough one, the one who didn’t show weakness. But there was something about the way Sam was looking at you, his eyes filled with concern, that made it harder to pretend you were unaffected. It was sweet, but you weren't ready to let him in on just how much it affected you.

He didn’t answer, just kept looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time. Your heart fluttered, but you shook it off. “Seriously. I’m fine,” you said gently. “We should get out of here. Let Bobby know you two are alright.”

He didn’t answer, just kept looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time. Your heart fluttered, but you shook it off. “Seriously. I’m fine,” you said gently. “We should get out of here. Let Bobby know you two are alright.”

“Wait! I didn’t get your name,” he called out.

You smirked, turning to face him. “That’s because I didn’t give it.”

Sam frowned, but there was a playful glint in his eyes. “Guess I’ll just have to track you down next time.”

“Good luck with that,” you teased, climbing into your car.

As you drove away, the open road stretched ahead of you, peaceful as ever. But this time, you couldn’t shake the thought of a certain tall, hazel-eyed hunter. Maybe working alone wasn’t as perfect as you’d always believed. And as much as you hated to admit it, the idea of a little chaos... didn’t seem so bad.

The hum of the engine mixed with the music on the radio filled the car as you drove into the night, your mind still running a few steps behind, tangled in thoughts of Sam, of Dean, and what came next.

You couldn't help but wonder—was this the last time you'd cross paths with the Winchesters? Somehow, you doubted it.

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masterlist

[v4mpvelocity]

Was it worth it?

pairing: Park Gyeong Seok(player 246) x female reader

SMUT MDNI

Warnings: P in V, unprotected sex (WRAP IT UP), overstimulation, Gyeong-Seok being a munch,

A/N: I hope this ok? i’ve been so burnt out after last night so i wrote this all in one go

The games were over, money split between all of the remaining players. The final vote had been 51:50 to X's, subsequently ending the games. You had left and started over with Gyeong-Seok, the man you met during the games and the man who stole your heart. Paying off your debts, taking your lives back from those who forced you to live in fear.

There was an age difference, a stark one at that. You were only 21 and he was 42, a mature man with a child, some may say that you were wasting your time. Neither of you cared, you were both adults who were in a consenting relationship. Gyeong-seok and you had used the money won from the games to pay for Na-yeons cancer treatment and move into a nicer 2 bedroom flat.

Life was much better now, no debts, no unpaid cancer treatments, no worries about if you can pay the rent this month or be able to put food on the table. The money was a godsend, a lifesaver if you will, but you couldn’t help think back to how you got this money. The countless innocent people who had their lives ripped away from them by some heartless bastards all because they followed the wrong path in life. The games haunted you, from that stupid alarm song to the masks that the guards wore, gunshots, blood. You had enough money to live now, comfortably. Enough money where you never had to work multiple jobs at once ever again, but at what cost?

You didn’t have time to worry about any of that, your main priority was ensuring that your family is cared for and looked after. After all this money allowed Na-yeon to be a kid, do the things she should have been able to do all along. Na-yeon was currently at daycare, providing you and Gyeong-Seok with a rare moment of solitude in the quiet of your home, and you both intended to use it to your advantage.

That’s what led you to where you were right now, on the bed legs spread wide open whilst Gyeong-Seok devoured your pussy where he had been for the past 2 hours. Forcing orgasm after orgasm from your abused flesh. Tongue flicking and circling your sensitive clit, the motions causing the pleasure to hit you in debilitating waves, stopping every so often to press a kiss to your clit before taking it into his mouth and sucking.

Face flushed, body slick with sweat, eyes half closed and mouth contorted into a O as a constant string of whines and moans left your throat. Fingers fucking into you at a wild pace, the sound of squelching echoed throughout the room as his fingers curled inside of you to stroke your sweet spot. Your tight hole clenching around his fingers, you needed more, you needed him.

‘G-Gyeong…nghhmmm…need you….so bad…need you in me’ You whined, tears threatening to spill due to the fact your pussy was so overstimulated but wanted so much more at the same time. Your head was spinning, the room seeming to be spinning with it, all you could hear was the sounds of Gyeong-Seoks muffled moans and the sound of your folds squelching as he fucked his fingers into you mercilessly.

‘You want me in you honey? hm? that what you want baby?’ Gyeong-Seok muttered against your soaked folds, a mix of cum, spit and lube all mixed together causing your pussy to glisten with moisture.

‘such a pretty pussy baby…so fuckin pretty’ He said, wether he was talking to you or to himself you didn’t know, and frankly you were too fucked out to care, even though he hadn’t even put his cock inside of you yet. He always insisted on ensuring that your fully prepared for him, he was thick and long, but you needed him inside you no matter how big the stretch.

Gyeong-Seok pressed a final sloppy kiss to your clit before pulling away, the now lack of the intense sensations that you had previously been feeling caused a whine to come from you.

‘Shhh…Shhh baby….’ Gyeong-Seok muttered, coming up to take one of your perk nipples into his mouth, sucking and circling as he kneaded the other one with his hand. You let out soft moans

Gyeong-seok had you folded almost in half into a mating press position, knees to your chest and thighs spread at an almost embarrassing angle while his cock rammed into you with an animalistic pace. His thick length abusing your gummy walls, making you feel as if your being split in half. His thick tip kissing your cervix with each thrust, filling you up entirely.

You were reduced to a mess, babbling and moaning, unable to string a sentence together without being rudely interrupted with a pornographic moan being ripped from within you. His pace was relentless, hard and rough yet no matter how hard and how rough he fucked you he always managed to ensure that you feel loved, not used.

Your face was tear-streaked, pussy overstimulated after cumming 4 times already, but Gyeong-Seok insisted you had more in you.

‘Oh come on honey…..you can take one more shh..ahh yeah you can’ He muttered in your ear, voice rough and low with lust. Kissing your temple as he began to slam his hips into you harder, your tits bouncing with the force of each movement. Fingers gripping his biceps as if they were the only thing keeping you grounded. You could feel the pressure in your stomach begin to become more prominent, the need to cum almost painful.

‘Please-I…oh fuck I cant…oh fuck i cant ’ You said, the words almost incoherent from your fucked out state. Tears now free falling down your face, the line between pain and pleasure becoming increasingly blurred with every thrust. The overstimulation was intense. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoing throughout the room, your moans and whimpers mixing with his grunts in a cacophony of noise. Gyeong-Seok gripped your chin in his hand forcing you to lock eyes with him, pupils dialated with lust.

‘Come on honey….i’ve got you….that’s a good girl…oh fuck one more baby’ Your hole clenched around his cock, squeezing him deliciously. You could feel his cock twitch inside you informing you that he was close to cumming. Holding out in order to make you cum on his cock again, to see you fall apart all because of him. His movements were raw, not soft, but yet you could still feel every ounce of love he was pouring into them.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a freight train, thighs shaking as a pornographic moan was emitted from you. Gyeong-seok held you close, fucking you through your orgasm. His thrusts had slowed but still held the same force behind them. Juices gushing out around his cock dripping onto the sheets beneath you. Gyeong-Seok followed not long after, his hot sticky cum spilling deep inside you. He pulled out with a soft ‘pop’, his cum leaking from your well used hole.

‘Let’s clean you up honey’ He said, going to the bathroom to retrieve a warm rag. He came back and sat next to you on the bed, kissing your forehead as he gently wiped away the remains of your encounter. Your quivering flesh still overstimulated from the rough fucking, Gyeong-Seoks caring actions a stark different to how rough he had just been moments prior.

‘You okay baby? yeah? good girl’ Gyeong-Seok asked, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. Rolling off of you and pulling you into his chest. Whispering soft praises into your ear as you drifted off to sleep. Whilst the circumstances of which provided you with this life were less than ideal, you couldn’t complain.

[zylokv]

CIGARETTES AFTER... — park jhyo

❝ you’ve got me exactly where you want me, don’t you? ❞

synopsis — a chance collaboration with jihyo leads to more than just chart-topping hits. between late-night studio sessions, unspoken tensions, and a celebration that turns unexpectedly intimate, the lines between professional and personal begin to blur

word count ! — 2.3k

— park jihyo x reader !

genre — oneshot.

the room was dimly lit, the faint hum of the air conditioning barely masking the quiet anticipation that lingered in the air. as you stepped inside, the sharp scent of polished wood and freshly brewed coffee greeted you. jihyo stood near the grand piano, her posture relaxed yet poised, a small notebook cradled in her hands. she glanced up at you with a welcoming smile, her presence radiant without trying too hard.

"you made it," she said, her voice carrying warmth and ease, like you’d known each other for years.

you shrugged, pulling the strap of your bag off your shoulder and setting it down on a nearby chair. "couldn't exactly say no when the jihyo asked for a collaboration," you replied, your tone teasing yet sincere.

her laugh was soft, a little shy, but it carried the kind of confidence that came with knowing she deserved the compliment. "flattery works, but i’m hoping your skills do too."

you chuckled, pulling out your laptop and a pack of cigarettes from your bag. glancing at the ‘no smoking’ sign on the wall, you slipped the pack back into your pocket, but not before jihyo noticed. her lips quirked into a faint smirk.

"bad habit?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"occupational hazard," you replied, settling into the chair across from her. "helps me think."

jihyo nodded, setting her notebook down on the piano and taking a seat beside it. "so, you listened to the demo?"

"yeah," you said, opening your laptop and scrolling through your notes. "it’s good—great, actually. but i think we can push it further. make it... rawer."

"rawer?" she repeated, her brow furrowing slightly. "how so?"

you leaned back, studying her. "the lyrics— they’re personal, right? i can hear it in your voice. but the production? it’s too clean. too polished. if we strip it down, let your voice carry the weight, it’ll hit harder."

jihyo was quiet for a moment, her eyes locked on yours as she processed your words. then, she nodded slowly. "i see what you mean. but... being that vulnerable? it’s a little intimidating."

"it’s what makes it real," you said, your voice low and steady. "people want to feel like you’re singing to them, about them. give them that, and they’ll never forget it."

she smiled, a small, genuine curve of her lips. "you’re good at this."

"i try," you replied with a smirk. "so, let’s hear what you’ve got so far."

jihyo moved to the piano, her fingers brushing over the keys before she began to play. her voice filled the room, rich and emotive, each note carrying a weight that made you stop and really listen. she sang with a vulnerability that was rare in this industry, and for a moment, you were completely caught up in the sound.

when she finished, the room fell into a thick silence, the kind that only follows something extraordinary.

"damn," you said finally, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. "you weren’t kidding about this being personal."

jihyo laughed softly, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush. "yeah, well... it’s kind of terrifying to put it out there."

"that’s how you know it’s good," you said, standing up and moving toward the piano. "but let’s work on the arrangement. the melody’s strong, but i think we can strip it back even more."

the two of you spent the next few hours tweaking the song, your ideas bouncing off each other in an easy rhythm. jihyo was sharp, quick to pick up on your suggestions and add her own twist. it was rare to find an artist who was not only talented but also collaborative, and you couldn’t help but admire her even more for it.

at one point, you stepped outside for a quick smoke break, needing a moment to clear your head. the night air was cool against your skin as you lit a cigarette, the flicker of the flame briefly illuminating your face. you took a slow drag, the nicotine settling your nerves, before exhaling a plume of smoke into the dark.

"thought you might’ve bailed," jihyo’s voice came from behind you.

you turned to see her standing in the doorway, her arms crossed and a playful smile on her lips. "needed a minute," you said, holding up the cigarette. "bad habit, remember?"

"so you keep saying," she replied, stepping closer. "but i have to admit, you’ve got a certain... charm about you."

"charm?" you echoed, raising an eyebrow. "coming from you, that’s saying something."

jihyo laughed, the sound soft and melodic. "don’t let it go to your head."

"too late," you said with a grin, taking another drag before stubbing out the cigarette on the wall. "ready to get back to it?"

"always," she said, her eyes meeting yours briefly before she turned and headed back inside.

as the night wore on, the atmosphere in the studio shifted. the professional boundaries blurred ever so slightly, the late hour and shared laughter creating a quiet intimacy. jihyo’s guard slipped just enough for you to catch glimpses of the woman behind the idol—the one who was just as passionate and driven as you were.

by the time you wrapped up the session, the song had transformed into something raw and powerful, a reflection of the connection you’d built over the course of the night. as jihyo gathered her things, she turned to you with a small, grateful smile.

"thanks for pushing me," she said softly. "i think this might be the best thing i’ve ever worked on."

"that makes two of us," you replied, your voice equally low. "same time tomorrow?"

she nodded, her eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary. "yeah. see you then."

as you watched her walk out of the studio, a faint smile tugging at your lips, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of something much bigger—both professionally and personally.

-----

the studio became your second home over the next few weeks. every day brought a new dynamic between you and jihyo—playful teasing, heated debates over arrangements, and those rare moments of unspoken understanding when the music seemed to create itself. despite the long hours, neither of you ever seemed to tire of the process. it felt more like art than work, and with jihyo, the energy was infectious.

she was a perfectionist, often caught pacing the room or scribbling new ideas in her notebook while humming under her breath. but there was also the side of her that laughed loudly at your terrible jokes or playfully scolded you when you teased her about a missed note.

“you’re worse than the trainers,” she huffed one evening, plopping down on the couch beside you. she crossed her arms, a mock pout on her lips, but the glint in her eyes betrayed her amusement.

“you hired me for my ears, not my tact,” you shot back, leaning back with a smug grin. “besides, someone’s got to keep you on your toes.”

“oh, and you think that’s you?” she challenged, sitting up straighter, her gaze narrowing.

“i know it is,” you replied smoothly, holding her gaze. the tension lingered for a beat too long, and she looked away, laughing softly to break the moment.

“you’re impossible,” she muttered, shaking her head, but her smile remained.

-----

on the day of her solo pre-release, jihyo was a ball of energy. she flitted around the studio, double-checking mixes and fussing over the smallest details. you watched her from the corner of the room, cigarette perched between your fingers, the faint haze of smoke curling upward.

“do you ever stop with that?” she asked, pointing at the cigarette as she crossed her arms.

“do you ever stop worrying?” you countered, taking a slow drag before stubbing it out. “the track’s perfect, jihyo. you’ve done everything you can.”

she sighed, running a hand through her hair. “i know. it’s just... what if it doesn’t connect? what if i—”

“hey,” you interrupted, stepping closer until you were standing right in front of her. “it’s going to connect. because it’s real, and it’s you. trust me.”

her eyes softened, and for a moment, the confident leader she usually projected on tv was replaced by someone far more vulnerable. “thanks,” she said quietly. “i needed to hear that.”

“anytime,” you replied, your voice equally soft.

the release was a massive success. jihyo’s solo dominated the charts within hours, her name trending worldwide. the celebration was planned quickly, the members of twice insisting on a gathering at their dorm. you arrived late, your schedule delayed by another session, but the noise and energy of the party hit you the moment you walked through the door.

“finally!” nayeon exclaimed, dragging you into the living room. “we were starting to think you’d bailed.”

“never,” you replied with a grin, glancing around for jihyo. she was by the drinks table, chatting animatedly with momo and sana, a glass of wine in hand. her eyes met yours across the room, and her smile brightened in a way that made your chest tighten.

“you’ve got competition,” nayeon teased, following your gaze. “jihyo’s been talking about you non-stop.”

“noted,” you said, smirking as you made your way toward her.

jihyo greeted you with a raised glass, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol and excitement. “look who decided to show up!” she said, her tone teasing but warm.

“had to make an entrance,” you replied, handing her the small gift you’d picked up on your way. “for the star of the night.”

she opened it eagerly, revealing a personalized notebook with her name embossed on the cover. “you didn’t have to,” she said, her smile softening as she ran her fingers over the cover.

“i wanted to,” you replied simply.

-----

the celebration had been a roaring success, laughter echoing through the walls of the private venue. twice’s voices carried energy and excitement, jihyo at the heart of it all, glowing with pride from her successful solo debut. you had stayed by her side most of the night, quietly content with seeing her bask in the recognition she deserved.

but as the party wound down, you both found yourselves stepping out onto the balcony, the cool night air a stark contrast to the warmth of the room you’d left behind. jihyo leaned against the railing, her smile softening as she stared out over the twinkling cityscape.

“needed some air?” you asked, your voice low.

“yeah,” she said, turning her head to you. “it’s a lot... in a good way. but still, a lot.”

you pulled out a cigarette from your jacket pocket and lit it, taking a long drag before offering it to her. her eyes flicked to it, hesitating.

“does it help? is that your only guilty pleasure? what else?” she teased, but there was a curiosity in her tone.

“smoking,” you sarcastically replied, taking a drag. “but you already know.”

“besides that,” she said, rolling her eyes but smiling. “something... less self-destructive.”

“you,” the word slipped out before you could stop it, and you saw her freeze for a moment, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink.

“you’re drunk,” she said, but her voice was softer, her eyes not meeting yours.

“not enough to lie,” you replied, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. “jihyo, you’re... incredible. on stage, in the studio, here... it’s kind of hard not to notice.”

she looked up at you, her expression unreadable. “you’re bold when you drink,” she said finally, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“maybe,” you admitted. “but that doesn’t mean i don’t mean it.”

“jihyo,” you started, but the way she turned to face you fully stopped you mid-sentence. the soft glow of the city lights outlined her features, her expression open but unreadable.

“what?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

you didn’t answer with words. instead, you leaned in, testing the waters with a touch—a hand brushing her waist, your lips ghosting over hers. her breath hitched, and for a split second, you thought she might pull away. but then she leaned in, her hands finding their way to the lapels of your jacket, pulling you closer.

the cigarette fell from your fingers, forgotten as her kiss deepened, her lips soft but urgent against yours. the taste of smoke lingered between you, mingling with the sweetness of her.

the balcony’s quiet became your cocoon, shielding you from the world beyond. her fingers tangled in your hair, your hands gripping her waist, the kiss growing hungrier with every passing moment.

when you finally pulled apart, her chest rose and fell rapidly, her lips slightly swollen. she laughed softly, the sound laced with disbelief and something deeper.

“you’re... something else,” she murmured, shaking her head.

“is that a good thing?” you asked, your voice rougher now.

she didn’t answer, instead pulling you back in for another kiss, her smile pressing against yours.

-----

the air between you two was electric, charged with anticipation. every time your eyes met, a spark seemed to jump between you, igniting something deeper. she was close now, just a breath away, her lips hovering, tempting, as if asking you to bridge the gap.

“you’re killing me with that look,” she murmured, voice low and almost teasing, her hand resting on your chest, fingers tracing the outline of your shirt. it was the smallest of touches, but it sent a wave of heat through you.

you smirked, leaning in slightly, your lips brushing against hers in a soft, slow kiss. the heat of it spread like wildfire, burning through any distance that remained between you. her hands found their way to your neck, pulling you deeper, a subtle command. you responded, matching the urgency in her movements, your hand sliding down her back, feeling the warmth of her skin through the fabric.

the kiss grew hungrier, more intense. each brush of her lips against yours was like a spark, setting off a chain reaction. you both leaned into it, letting the kiss deepen, your lips pressing harder as your bodies drew closer. there was no space left between you, just the undeniable pull that seemed to guide every movement, every touch.

your breath quickened, your hand finding the small of her back, pressing her even closer, your heart racing as the air between you thickened with the promise of more. she gasped against your lips as your fingers trailed down, grazing the curve of her waist, feeling the heat radiating off her skin. her touch was soft but insistent, hands slipping beneath your shirt, fingers tracing the contours of your chest.

“you sure know how to make a girl lose control,” she whispered between kisses, her breath warm against your skin.

you chuckled, the sound low and full of meaning. “maybe I’m just getting started,” you teased, your voice rough with desire.

her hands slid up to your shoulders, pulling you toward her, closing the distance even further. her lips parted for a moment, as if she was about to say something, but instead, she kissed you again, more deeply this time, her tongue teasing at your lips. you responded immediately, your hand finding its way to her hair, pulling her closer, fingers tangling in the strands as you lost yourself in the kiss.

the room seemed to disappear around you, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the heat of the moment. everything about this felt right—the closeness, the shared desire, the unspoken connection that had been building for so long.

you slowly broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, your foreheads resting together as you both breathed heavily. the silence between you was comfortable, full of promise. she smiled, a slow, seductive curve of her lips.

“you’ve got me exactly where you want me, don’t you?” she murmured, her fingers trailing along your jawline.

you grinned, your thumb brushing over her bottom lip. “you have no idea,” you whispered back, your voice thick with anticipation.

-----

later, when the night had melted into the early hours of the morning, you found yourselves tangled together in your room, the aftermath of passion leaving you both breathless. the intimacy lingered as you reached for another cigarette, lighting it with a shaky hand.

jihyo propped herself up on one elbow, watching you. “you really are full of surprises,” she said, her tone teasing but warm.

you exhaled a plume of smoke, offering the cigarette to her once more. this time, she didn’t hesitate. she took it, her lips brushing against your fingers, the act feeling far more intimate than it should have.

the two of you shared the quiet moment, the cigarette passing back and forth as the first light of dawn began to creep through the curtains. neither of you spoke, the silence filled with an understanding that didn’t need words.

when the cigarette burned down to its final ember, she leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “don’t ever stop surprising me,” she whispered.

“so... this changes things,” she said, her voice raspy.

“only if you want it to,” you replied, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“i think i do,” she said, leaning in for another kiss.

and with that, the night faded, leaving behind the memory of smoke, laughter, and the beginning of something neither of you could quite name yet. ----

a/n — just jihyo smoking... lol i wrote this last night having been inspired while out with friends.

[badasoneandonly]

𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘞𝘈𝘙𝘋𝘚 𝘉𝘌𝘊𝘒𝘖𝘕 𝘙𝘌𝘉𝘖𝘜𝘕𝘋

Summary:

Hwang In-Ho’s world shatters when he finds Y/N, the woman who tethered him to humanity, dead after jumping from their apartment building. Cradling her lifeless body, he’s consumed by grief and guilt, realizing too late the depth of her pain.

𝘎𝘌𝘕𝘙𝘌: ANGST, SUICIDAL, SAD LOVE,

A/n: this is my first time writing a fanfic so pls let me know what you guys think ^_^, and i recommend to listen to the music to get urself into the mood ^_^

The whiskey sat untouched on the table, its amber liquid reflecting the dim, flickering light of the room. Hwang In-Ho slouched in his chair, staring blankly at his phone. Y/N’s name flashed at the top of his screen—a message sent hours ago, its words haunting him.

“Goodbye, In-Ho. I hope you find peace one day.”

He should have called her. Replied. Anything. But what could he say? How could he pull her back from the same abyss he was barely surviving himself?

The sound of sirens shattered his thoughts.

Red and blue lights illuminated the room, casting eerie patterns on the walls. In-Ho’s brow furrowed as he moved to the window, peering down at the commotion below. A crowd was gathering outside the apartment complex across the street. Paramedics hurriedly unloaded a stretcher while police cordoned off the area.

Something in his chest tightened—a premonition he couldn’t shake.

He grabbed his coat and rushed out the door.

---

The air outside was cold and sharp, biting at his skin as he pushed through the crowd. Whispers reached his ears, fragmented and chilling.

“Someone jumped.”

“From the top floor…”

“She didn’t even scream.”

In-Ho’s heart pounded in his chest, a sickening dread spreading through him. He pushed forward, his breath catching when he saw the scene unfold.

A lifeless body lay on the pavement, surrounded by medics and officers. The sheet covering it was already stained with blood.

And he knew.

He knew before his eyes even registered the familiar outline of her figure, the dark hair spilling from beneath the fabric.

“Y/N.”

The word left his lips as a broken whisper. His legs moved on their own, carrying him toward her despite the voices shouting for him to stop.

He fell to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he lifted the sheet.

Her face was pale, her eyes closed as though she were merely sleeping. But the stillness of her chest, the absence of her warmth—it struck him like a blade.

“No,” he choked, his voice cracking. “No, no, no.”

He gathered her in his arms, cradling her broken body against his chest. Tears streamed down his face, falling onto her hair as he rocked back and forth, his sobs echoing in the cold night air.

“You promised me,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “You promised you’d fight. That you wouldn’t give up.”

His grip tightened, his forehead resting against hers. “Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you let me help you?”

But he already knew the answer. He had seen the pain in her eyes, the way it had consumed her like a fire. He had felt it himself, the weight of a world that demanded too much and gave nothing in return.

“Somewhere along the line, I lost my way…”

The lyrics played in his mind, a cruel reminder of the song they had once listened to together. Her favorite song. A melody that now felt like a requiem.

The crowd around them blurred, their murmurs fading into white noise. All that remained was the broken girl in his arms and the unbearable ache in his chest.

“Baby,” he whispered, his voice cracking, “both arms cradle you now". He whispers the lyrics in your ear providing comfort to your now dead body rocking it back and forth.

His tears fell freely as he held her, rocking her gently, as though he could lull her back to life. But the warmth never returned.

And in the cold, empty night, Hwang In-Ho broke completely.

Tags: @warlabels @kimeungun114 @xcinnamonmalfoyx

[maryaandmorevna]

A Song of Swan and Dragons IV.

Ao3 link

Summary: Following Princess Rhaenyra as one of her ladies-in-waiting, Arianne Swann was woefully unprepared upon arriving at the Red Keep.

No scroll or tome could have captured the astounding amount of gossip that thrived within the Targaryen court. For a mere lady like her, it felt as though she had made a catastrophic blunder before even having the chance to place her pieces on the board.

Yet, if she allowed her heart to guide her—especially toward the man it had chosen—Arianne believed she could endure anything and emerge triumphant. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon would one day be king, and though her father often said that hope was a fool’s errand, she dared to dream she might one day be his queen.

If only his boor of an uncle would stop tormenting her.

Chapters: 4/? (47,745k)

Warnings: safe for now, canon-typical sexism, the story will get progressively darker and will include explicit content, canon character death(s), dubcon, noncon, it's war folks

Tagging my dear @lacebvnny, hope you like it! Our poor Arianne in this one.

I., II., III.

IV. Izula

"People do not see you, They invent you and accuse you." - Helene Cixous

(Arianne)

.

Clumsy as Seven Hells.

Arianne knew that as long as she kept blinking she might be able to keep tears at bay. They itched, those translucent droplets gathering between her dark lashes.

Prince Aemond offered her one last icy glare before he stalked through the crowd and out of her eyesight.

Her breath lodged underneath her throat.

Out of all the insults in the world, he spat that she had no grace.

Her house prided itself upon it. A swan was...above all, a paragon of grace.

Arianne's clammy hands trembled - she wished to fade into the walls rather than stand in the middle of the banquet hall, surrounded by the joyful crowd of lords, ladies, and courtiers.

Clumsy.

A blight that has no grace and does not belong here.

The low and venomous voice burned through her skin and permeated her flesh.

Less than a tavern wench.

What could she have possibly done to Prince Aemond for him to bestow her with so many insults?

For a moment, she imagined that they had found the mutual language, that they could be cordial, but he threw it right back at her face.

Hateful, hateful, hateful, hateful twat!

"Arianne, are you alright?" Jace came to stand right by her when she took too long to respond to his offered arm. He carried a certain, familiar warmth with him, and the concern bleeding through his tone made her flutter her eyelashes bashfully.

"I'm fine—" Arianne started, but her words faltered, her voice trembling just enough to betray her.

Did Jace think she was without grace? L-like a tavern wench.

Her bottom lip quivered.

She was an embarrassment to her House.

"What happened?" He asked, his dark brows furrowing.

Arianne brushed her palms down her dark skirt, her pinky finger getting stuck against the embroidered feather. The mere attempt to repeat what the One-eyed Prince uttered would have her succumb to hysterics.

Jacaerys Velaryon tilted his head up, gaze knifelike as he followed his uncle leaving the hall and vanishing into the passageways.

"Did he say something to you?" He asked again, his tone colder now.

Arianne pressed her right molars into the inside of her cheek.

'Only that I was clumsy as hell and that no one would accept me as your queen.'

"No… no, of course not," she murmured, though her voice lacked its usual strength.

"He just said he didn’t care about a rematch."

Figures moved around them as another dance began. Jace gently pressed his fingers on her forearm and slowly guided her to safety.

A servant offered her a goblet from the golden tray and she gladly took it. The wine was heady, a blend of dark cherries, ripe plums, and spice—perhaps cinnamon or clove—lingered at the back of her tongue.

"That’s all?" Jace attempted again when she met his dark chocolate eyes over the rim of her chalice.

Arianne nodded, unable to commit to words. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth, not when the sting of Aemond’s insults still made her stomach churn.

"You do not belong here."

"Clumsy blight just like your grandmother - how much does he pay you -"

She realized it wasn't just the words but the way he’d looked at her—like she was fragile, inconsequential, and utterly beneath him.

Besides, what was he insinuating with that? What would they pay her for?

She drew her brows together.

Her company?

Her...her...her... Arianne coughed against the back of her hand, scandalized.

Did he think she was a courtesan?! How preposterous, her family would've disowned her if that were true!

Her mother would have dragged her by the neck to some remote sept and given her to silent sisters - insisting their newly acquired novice be canned for her sins.

Her father -

Arianne's stomach lurched.

Father would consider her dead from that moment on.

Her grip on the goblet tightened, the warmth of the wine doing little to ease the chill coiled in her stomach.

Arianne cursed herself silently for lowering her guard around that malevolent arse and then cursed him into Seven hells, before remembering that cursing was a sin.

'Forgive me Maiden, but truly I do not think you would find Aemond Targaryen palatable either. I think you'd sooner remove his uppity head from his shoulders than let him prattle.'

Ser Galladon he was not.

Jace studied her, the flush of crimson bedecking her cheeks, the tight frown her full lips were settled into - his gaze searching.

'Tavern wench! Tavern wench! How dared he? 'Arianne scrunched her nose - she'd been nothing but courteous! She sought his forgiveness and what did she receive in return? More insults!

The fires of the Freehold, she’d beamed, as though the topic alone could bridge the chasm between them. As though Aemond Targaryen, with his jagged dagger of a tongue and demeanor that would put the Night King to shame, might soften at the shared reverence for their ancestors’ triumphs.

Foolish.

"Naivety, daughter," Her father had tried to lecture her — though clearly in vain —

"is a weakness—one that others will exploit without hesitation. To speak openly, to trust too readily, is to lay yourself bare to a world that feasts on vulnerability."

How could she have let herself believe, even for the briefest of moments, that he might see her differently? Just because she wished it so — because he'd be her uncle by marriage if her dreams came true.

Aemond hated her—clearly hated her. The way he looked at her, with that unnerving pale gaze, piercing through her armor, leaving her flayed and exposed.

"Did my mother put you up to this?" Jace crossed his arms, the movement pulling the fabric of his doublet taut over his broad shoulders. His cape, fastened at one side with a brooch shaped like a dragon in mid-flight, cascaded down in heavy folds of deep crimson velvet.

"My prince?" Arianne blinked, startled.

"Did she ask you to speak to him? To any of them?" he pressed, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "To get close, to learn what they’re planning? Because if she did—"

"Jace," she interrupted, her voice breaking through his rising anger. Arianne batted her lashes in an attempt to clear her mind.

"Gods, no. Nothing like that." She shook her head and took another sip. A thunderbolt charged through her nerves — but his mother had asked her to speak with Lady Tarth! Which she failed to do!

She'd been conversing with that foul boor all night! Arianne returned her chalice to the table lest it slip from her perspiring palms.

He'd appeared there out of nowhere! How was she supposed to breach decorum by ignoring him?! She hadn't managed to gauge Lady Tarth's opinion on the Court welcoming a debate on an already settled succession matter.

"Ah... do not waste thoughts on my uncle then, even his own brother finds him unpalatable. " Jace declared, waving his arm.

 A glint flashed in his eyes of molten umber, and he chuckled.

When he spoke again, his voice was tinged with something whimsical.

"Shall I remind that spiteful cur that he cried to his mother over a silly pig in the Dragonpit?"

Arianne pressed her hand to her lips, stifling a giggle. She shook her head as if to seal the conversation.

She would not think about Aemond Targaryen and his wicked words, at least not until she could cry it out in the safety of her chambers.

Yet her mind could not, would not, quiet down - it tumbled and twisted so vehemently that the hall's music, voices, and pleasantries were but a quiet whisper.

"It’s her ladyship’s decision," Aemond had snarled, his fervid gaze locked on her with a torridity that made her stomach churn.

Why had he said that? If he despised her so thoroughly—why would he pretend to leave such a choice to her? What if she had decided to walk the inner courtyards with him? He'd have to suffer clumsy Arianne the Tavern Wench even more than he already did.

 Would he have laughed openly to her face if she accepted his invitation?

To humiliate her further?

To remind her how little she was suited to hold any position at court, let alone that of a Queen?

Or—her breath lacerated her throat—he had truly meant it and she scorned him by refusing?

Something tumultuous, something that made her chest tighten and her skin clammy invaded her mind.

No, that would be ridiculous. She pushed the thought away as she knew nothing of men or their peculiar behaviors. They were creatures of whims, mother would often say.

However, if a man wanted to spend time with a lady he wouldn't call her someone's mistress.

It would be absurd.

Utterly, veritably unsound.

Was he the only one who thought her frivolous with her honor?

Her thoughts pivoted suddenly, uncomfortably, to Jace.

" She will be my betrothed."

Arianne blanched, eyes widening as it dawned on her. Her eyes flickered to her handsome, curly-haired prince who had been, thank the gods, distracted with sipping his wine.

The tips of her ears tingled.

Jace had said it earlier, so plainly, as if it were an inevitable truth.

No, she couldn't hope. Hope is a fool's errand, her father always said. Jace only said it...well, because of Aemond...that... But...but..., Arianne pulled on her embroidered sleeve so tightly, she could feel the stitching holding onto fabric for its dear life.

A terrible sort of heat suffused her face, the words settling over her like a cloak too heavy to bear.

"Jace, you..." she began, her voice diminishing as she took him in now, beautiful and princely, his warm eyes set on her.

Arianne tried again, her words stumbling over themselves. "Earlier, you—"

"I am leaving!" Luke's voice cut through her attempt, rendering it inconsequential. He stormed past them, face flushed from anger or something else - Arianne could not know.

Jace sighed, his attention drawn away. "Luke—"

"No!" Luke snapped, his voice cracking from the frustration. "Don’t. I’ve had enough of this place, they are all muttering behind our backs—"

Arianne sucked in her bottom lip, glancing at the crowd from where Prince Lucerys escaped. So many green doublets in Targaryen court. Too many green gowns. Hightower green.

"Luke," Jace interrupted, his tone calm but firm. "We’ll leave together. Just wait—"

Luke pushed past them, muttering under his breath, his shoulders stiff with anger.

Jace turned back to Arianne, his large eyes brimming with something apologetic.

"Let me handle this," he rasped gently. She nodded, unable to say anything else. How awful she must be, selfishly caring about her betrothal when Luke could have his whole life upended if the Crown gives weight to Vaemond Velaryon's accusations.

Jacaerys lingered for a moment, then strode after his brother, his crimson cape trailing behind him in a sweeping arc of fire and blood.

Arianne stared at her half-empty cup, her posture rigid, her pulse racing steadily up her neck. The weight of Jace’s words earlier struck her again, and she pressed her lips together, her hands trembling faintly.

Her heart seized.

Betrothed.

Should she write to her father again? Or her Aunt Johanna?

She'd written to the black swan of Lys more often after settling in Dragonstone, the fear of her lord father finding out diminishing with such distance from Stonehelm. Johanna already knew from her last letter that she would be in King's Landing by now.

'Aunt Johanna would know what a man thought. From Lys to Asshai, men had fought for her favor.'

Arianne surveyed the spacious hall for any sign of Lady Tarth's gray updo yet her luck seemed to have run out - the old lady was nowhere in sight. With another curse upon Aemond's name, she relented and decided to retire for tonight.

A knight she did not recognize offered to escort her but she politely declined - she had memorized her way to the Holdfast.

Her handmaid was still awake, giving her evening prayers to the Seven.

Arianne let her untie the lace bindings at her back with no protest and dressed herself for bed. The unadorned, linen chemise shimmered faintly under candlelight. It clung to her form, falling loosely to her calves, as gentle as a breeze.

"Out with it." Miriam crossed her arms, copper hairbrush in hand, once her young Lady Swann quietly sat to have her hair loosened from the tight hold of the braids and brushed.

Arianne's eyes found her maid's reflection in the brass mirror. Miriam's hair was pulled back in a neat chignon of warm sunflowers and her thin eyebrows were narrowed.

"What do you mean?" Arianne pursed her lips.

She'd been so careful to avoid precisely what she imagined was now brewing.

Were her thoughts and secret pains truly so legible?

Her mother had been right in picking Miriam to watch over her, for nothing escaped her notice.

"If you think you'll be Queen you are simpler than I thought..."

A tremble of discomfort passed through her lower back.

Mayhaps, she was simple because Aemond somehow guessed - no, knew - she'd spent countless nights ruminating on those same premises.

It was a plain syllogism really.

She was Saera Targaryen's granddaughter.

Saera was the worst of the Conciliator's children. Nefarious. A clawed harlot.

Therefore, Arianne had that same taint. It poisoned her blood and made people doubt her good graces.

'I need to be above suspicion. Better behaved, as pious as the Queen, then maybe...'

"You're awfully docile. No argument?" Miriam replied with a raised brow, her voice laced with disbelief.

"You're not even trying to grab that fat book and weasel out of - " She waved the brush in the air.

"-my butcher's hands."

Arianne had to huff at her wording.

Her maid had been as gentle as she could but brushing Arianne’s wavy mass of maple-brown hair was unpleasant because it always got tangled. Always.

The knots seemed to multiply with every pass of the brush, like a wild thing refusing to be tamed.

Miriam had learned long ago not to take offense to the occasional wince or gasp from her lady, and to barrel through her refusal to have it done before going to bed.

"Miriam," Arianne whispered softly at last. She swallowed thickly around the weight in her throat. Her fingers twisted nervously in the folds of her chemise because she knew her maid was poring over her reflection in the brass.

"Do you think I have no grace?" She wondered, unwilling to meet Miriam's keen eyes.

The other woman stilled, hairbrush resting lightly in her palm. Arianne knew her handmaid was trying to see her better, but her gaze just wouldn't leave her knees.

"You are a daughter of House Swann." Miriam offered at last.

Her fingers deftly seized one of Arianne's heavy curls, smoothing it between thumb and forefinger.

"Grace Above All. How could you not have it? It is in your blood."

"I am a rotten fruit then." Arianne muttered bitterly. "One-winged swan. Maybe I was swapped in the cradle. Something is wrong—"

"Where is this coming from?" Miriam cut in and crossed her arms.

"I am clumsy," Arianne confessed, her voice catching as she finally met her maid's eyes in the reflection.

"It's unbecoming. Laughable."

Her breath quivered.

She had collided with Jace before during turns and he waved it off, but now - What if he were to arrive at the same conclusion? Clumsy Arianne Swann. Who'd marry her? Certainly not a Velaryon prince.

One other prince found her so unbecoming he wanted her gone from court.

Aemond snarled that she did not belong there.

"My lady," Miriam replied, with a slight raise of her brow, "if you're fishing for compliments at this late hour—"

"I am not!" Arianne snapped, furious heat tickling her cheeks.

"I really...what was father thinking, sending me to Dragonstone? I'm not..." She faltered, her fingers twisting harder in the chemise.

"My grandmother didn't belong here, how could I?" The question left a hole in her ribcage. What Prince Aemond had said gnawed at her insides, because what if it were true — what if she truly was ill-suited for all this?

"You're nothing like her!" Miriam argued with a surprising fierceness.

"She -"

"I know." Arianne cut in, her voice quieter now, the words weighted down by the obsidian stones of Stonehelm.

Miriam sighed, brushing a stray curl back into place with a tenderness that belied her brusque tone.

"Well, you are as comely as she was."

Arianne's nose scrunched.

Her thoughts flew to the image of her grandmother she conjured in her mind from stories—fabled Valyrian hair that shone like woven starlight, cerulean eyes so piercing they could freeze a room. So, so charming supposedly — when she wished to be.

Arianne had none of it.

Her eyes, mossy green like her father’s, had somehow managed to persist through generations of Swann sons and daughters, stubborn and unyielding against both dark browns and palest of blues.

Her father took after Saera in everything else, much to his chagrin.

His hair, a dazzling white-gold, caught the light like the finest gossamer. He carried himself with an almost dragon-like grandeur, and Arianne often thought that if he’d been given a dragon, many would have mistaken him for a true Targaryen prince rather than a scion of an old Andal house.

After beholding the Old King's portrait, she was rather surprised at how much his grandson — her lord father — resembled him.

Yet, if she ever mentioned it to him, he would have septa whip her palms with a thin birch branch.

"I highly doubt that." Arianne shrugged noncommittally. She adjusted the tiny horses on the lapis-lazuli board before her, trying to feign disinterest.

"I just wished to know if dancing was truly a requirement for a lady's luck with marriage prospects."

Her lips pursed into a pout as she fixed the misaligned pieces. A light horse's value is two-thirds of a heavy horse's. It is one of the most versatile pieces. If she had not accepted the exchange and pursued Aemond's with an elephant...

"I’ve seen her portrait, you know," Miriam said after a pause, her voice quieter now, almost conspiratorial.

"Before Lord Swann had it removed. You favor her."

Arianne’s head turned, and she afforded Miriam with a sharp, incredulous look over her shoulder.

"Well, thank the Seven," Miriam added quickly, raising her hands in mock defense, "—it is only her lovely face you inherited and not her temperament. You are not an evil cow like she was, my lady."

"Miriam!" Arianne gasped, though the corners of her mouth twitched with the threat of a smile.

"It is the truth! You'd think being so pretty would make her kind, but she had all the older serving girls beaten if anything displeased her. And everything displeased her in Stonehelm. My mother told me and she does not lie."

Arianne’s fingers paused above the bronze elephant.

Even among her kin, Princess Saera's reputation was far from flattering. Beauty and high birth had done little to soften her temper or foster any measure of humility.

The older members of Swann's household had spoken of her sparingly, but what they said painted a picture of a woman whose beauty was matched only by her cruelty.

Arianne often found herself wondering if her grandfather loved his Targaryen princess. She had been his wife, but, according to her father, Princess Saera was hoisted on him without much room for debate.

She had not even been a maiden when they wed.

King Jaehaerys had taken the life of a man who deflowered her and forced her to marry after that debauchery.

She abandoned her son when she decided to leave for Essos. My father — then only a babe.

Now her name lingered in her family’s history like a shadow, dark and unwelcome.

"You are an awful flatterer, Miriam," Arianne said finally, her voice tinged with dry amusement, breaking the heavy silence.

"I practice," Miriam quipped, her grin flashing.

"Now, enough of this. I need to brush your hair. Gods know it will tangle into a viper’s nest if I don’t."

Arianne sighed dramatically, leaning back into the chair with exaggerated resignation.

"So, I look like the most hated woman in the Seven Kingdoms, and I have the grace of a tavern wench. What merciful gods—"

"Your embroidery is also atrocious, must I remind you." Miriam tutted, hiding her grin behind the copper hairbrush.

Arianne’s lips parted in a scandalized gasp.

"I take it back, you—"

"But," Miriam interrupted again, her voice softening. "you are courteous and kind, and quick-witted besides. I am certain everything will turn out well."

Kind. 

The word did nothing to assuage her distress. Kindness was one of those virtues her father considered a demerit.

Arianne winced as the bristles caught a knot in her waves.

"Being kind does not help me here. I'd rather dance well, sing, and be more like Rhaena." She uttered morosely.

While Arianne's introduction to the Red Keep was as successful as Rhoyne's war on Valyria — courtesy of that evil one-eyed demon, Rhaena Targaryen thrived.

The Hightowers' contempt for Prince Daemon did little to dim her effortless charm. If she were not already promised to Lucerys Velaryon, she would have to chase suitors away with a sword.

She glided along the marble while dancing — engaging in conversations and settling debates — with a poise Arianne could not help but envy.

Jace too, seemed to possess an innate penchant for diplomacy, as though he had been born with the ability to weave alliances.

Even if they muttered behind his back about his dark curls, not one of them could call him an unworthy heir.

Miriam sighed, releasing the strand of her lady's hair she had intended to brush. She set the torture device down deliberately, her hands folding in front of her.

"If you truly lacked any grace, do you think Lord Donnel would have a stack of letters as tall as you, all asking for your hand?"

Arianne huffed.

"It’s my dowry," she replied with a faint shrug. "Not me."

"It is not your dowry," Miriam's huff bled with exasperation.

Arianne’s lips twitched as if to argue, but Miriam pressed on.

"Besides," she said slyly, long fingers curling around the copper brush.

"Prince Jacaerys fancies you."

Her response drowned in the fierce rush of blood, her eyes widening.

"She will be my betrothed."

The beating muscle in her chest billowed turbulently. She couldn't - wouldn't dare hope.

Alas, Arianne's disobedient, grasping heart could envision it. 

Jacaerys Velaryon taking his mother's name.

Jacaerys Targaryen, the first of his name, getting crowned, his eyes as dark as storm-tossed waves.

Jacaerys holding her hand and helping her sit on the saddle. Securing them with belts. The air whips at her cheeks as Vermax soars ever higher.

Their wedding feast - his cloak on her shoulders.

Jace feeds her their marital bread, and she smiles, and smiles, and smiles, as Queen Alysanne's golden crown decorates her head.

Pain flared from her left temple as bristles caught in another tangle of her luxuriant chestnut curls.

"H-how would you know?" Arianne sputtered, pinching the bridge of her nose. 'What foolish, nonsensical dreams.'

 They would be old before supplanting his mother as King and Queen. Princess Rhaenyra had years ahead of her, gods willing.

"He’s never said anything like it," She added, voice trembling from the echo of the valyrian response he gave to Aemond.

Miriam's hand stilled, her brush pausing midair.

Arianne peered at her maid's exasperated visage.

"Because I am not blind." The older woman declared levelly. One of the burning wicks gave a few last flickers of warm light before dying in a pool of molten wax.

Arianne shook her head, her voice dropping into a resigned whisper.

"Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. It won’t be his decision."

Because father was right. Princess Rhaenyra might not wish to ally with them through Jace, but rather one of her younger sons.

Lady Swann furrowed her brows.

Joffrey, Aegon and Viserys were just boys and she was a woman grown. Besides, it was rotten luck to marry anything less than a firstborn son — her father would not have it. 

He would prefer giving her to Bryen Caron even, she imagined. It did not matter that he was one of the Carons, a simpleton or that he lost half his teeth in a brawl because he was Lord Royce's eldest son. Heir to Nightsong. If she were to wed him, Arianne knew it would be her blood one day inheriting everything — her firstborn son by Bryen. 

If she were to wed Prince Joffrey Velaryon, their sons — Lord Donnel Swann's grandsons — would inherit...nothing. 

No, father would absolutely not have it.

Jace was Rhaenyra's heir, and no simpleton. If she could marry him, if only...

If gods could be merciful for once, because she liked him and her father would be proud of her — marrying the best firstborn son in the kingdom. 

His grandsons would inherit the Iron Throne.

Arianne placed the bronze dragon in front of teal king, isolating him. Her imaginary opponent would suffer a defeat in three. It irked her, the fact that if she had not exchanged her light horse, she might have won against Aemond Targaryen. 

But it did not matter that she liked Jace.

Jacaerys Velaryon and her both were little more than tools for lucrative bargains and enterprising alliances. He, something of a rarity, a coveted tool of pure valyrian steel, an heir, and she — a common one of plain iron, just another noble lady awaiting her father's decision about the remainder of her life.

Miriam tilted her chin up with the tip of her index finger.

"Princess Rhaenyra seems fond of you." Her voice was as soft as a goose pillow, and Arianne knew she merely wished to soothe her ache.

Yet, the words tightened around her throat like feral hands. 

Princess Rhaenyra expected her to have done what was ordered.

Tears welled in her eyes, so, so full of salt.

She tried to blink them away, but the dam broke before she could stop it.

"She won’t be after tonight," Arianne whispered, her voice cracking.

How was she to explain that she tried conversing with Lady Tarth, when Aemond Targaryen and his venom soured the older woman's mood?

Aemond.

His name had an acrid aftertaste.

Like a curse.

"Mayhaps everything would turn out well if you'd say your prayers for once." Miriam rolled her eyes and spoke no more, intent on detangling her lady's hair for bed.

Prayers helped no one. She ought to strengthen her position like bolstering catapults with a heavy-horse.

With a soft, nearly imperceptible groan, Arianne stood up once her handmaid concluded she'd suffered enough. She lifted a hand to her forehead, rubbing it as if trying to push away the ache that settled there.

The bed appeared irresistibly soft.

Arianne gathered the Fires of the Freehold into her arms and shoved the plush covers aside when Miriam's firm grasp caught her shoulder.

"Do not even think it! You need rest!"

"But only one paragraph-" Arianne insisted, her knuckles paling with the effort to resist her maid's seizure of precious tome.

"Your lack of sleep is why such calumnies weight on your mind, my lady. Give me the book and go to bed."

She huffed, and with a glare, relinquished The Fires. Arianne burrowed beneath the covers, throwing a few pillows to the floor in an unladylike form of protest.

"I do not have to listen to you, you know. I'm your Lady." She muttered.

Miriam snorted and doused the candles.

.

.

.

The hour of the nightingale came with the first, thin rays of sun. Arianne tossed in her bed, reluctant to leave the warm comfort of it.

More so since she had a task at hand. To find Lady Tarth in the Great Hall during the morning assembly. She will somehow have to juggle it with picking out silks for Princess Rhaenyra's new gowns. Her belly was growing larger by the day, as was the babe in it.

Younger princes also had to be escorted to their lessons, but Arianne hoped Lady Massey could cover for her.

'I won't be able to see Jace before supper.'

Knowing her maid would be knocking soon enough, she dressed herself in a simple woolen dress of rather pale pink.

Its sleeves, long and flowing, were adorned with a fine, white embroidery that danced in subtle patterns along the edges, adding a touch of grace to the otherwise modest garment.

She tied a ruby-red silk girdle around her waist. It was Myrish, of pristine quality — its sheen catching the light with each movement, and Arianne adored how the ends of the sash cascaded over her hips. The crimson-painted fabric originated from Tyrosh, where sea snails producing the color were abundant.

The door creaked open, and Miriam entered without a word.

She raised an eyebrow at Arianne's choice of attire but made no comment.

"Has my father written to me?" The young Lady Swann yawned, sitting immobile as her handmaid's fingers deftly braided the hair over the crown of her head.

"I will go and check if any ravens came for you, my Lady."

The single braid kept the hair away from Arianne's face, looping behind her ears like a delicate headband.

The rest cascaded freely down her back.

When Arianne left her chamber the Holdfast was rather empty, save for other ladies scrambling to fulfill their duties. She caught the flash of green once she passed the corridor leading to royal suites.

The Queen?

Alicent Hightower was rushing — clad in an exquisite emerald gown, she passed Rhaenyra's youngest lady-in-waiting without a glance. Beside her walked a knight of the Kingsguard. Arianne curtsied but by the time she looked up they were paces away from her already.

"Delicate situation in the prince's chambers—"

The rest Arianne could not hear because the Queen rounded the corner and disappeared.

She was rather dismayed because she had hoped the most important woman in the realm would have remembered her from last night. Arianne practiced her introduction to perfection, and even, if briefly, managed to speak to Queen Alicent. She was from Oldtown! The most wonderful town in the Seven Kingdoms! The Conclave conducted their meetings there, and the library - the grandest in the Realm! The Hightower itself is the tallest structure ever built!

Arianne asked if she had ever been in the Citadel and the Queen merely smiled. "Rarely I am asked about the Conclave and my House. But no, women are not permitted inside."

Alicent dismissed her gently, as people waited in line to speak to the current ruler of the Seven Kingdoms in all but name, and Arianne was overcome with a soft sort of melancholy.

When she was a slight girl of eight, her mother said the same thing after Arianne had professed she would love to marry a Hightower boy because then she would go live there and read all the books in the Citadel.

' "Lord Hightower does not rule over the Conclave, little pearl. The Maesters choose who can enter."

"Then I will become a maester, mother." She scrunched her nose in childish determination.

"Silly, girls cannot be maesters. They cannot go to the Citadel." Her brother Robb, eleven of age and golden-haired, pinched her cheek.

"Never?"

"No, sweetling." Her mother patted her head. "Only the good Queen Alysanne was granted entrance."

Arianne drew her brows together.

"Then I could become a Queen one day." She declared, much to her mother's chagrin.

Her brother guffawed and chucked a wooden toy at her.

"A Queen of froggy ponds only—" '

The Great Hall was full of murmur — the courtiers forming an endless sea of silks and velvet. The morning sun filtered through the high windows, casting long beams of light that made the polished stone floor gleam.

The stained glass fascinated Arianne, depicting flames in the warmest ochre, the dragons with scales of darkest coal to ivory.

'The white one must be Meraxes.'

She spied Rhaena Targaryen close to one of the gargantuan columns, not far from the throne. She was conversing animatedly while several ladies nodded along with her every word. A young knight seemed to have acquired stars in his eyes as he glanced shyly at the silver-haired daughter of Laena Velaryon.

Taking a breath, Arianne made her way toward Rhaena, weaving through the courtier clusters with a quiet, deliberate determination. A caustic pang of envy almost made her hesitate.

When she finally reached the small circle of conversation, she smiled nervously.

"Arianne," Her friend beckoned her close, and a woman Arianne was certain was one of the Roxtons side-stepped to allow her in.

The others in the group, seeing Rhaena’s welcoming gesture, gave nods of acknowledgment, some of them even offering polite smiles.

"Have you met my dearest cousin, Lady Swann? The Keep's cyvasse champion." Targaryen princess introduced her. Arianne blanched at her choice of words, they were hardly cousins, and she was hardly a champion.

Prince Aemond held that informal title, she had asked around.

Of course, he did. Hateful prick.

"Rhaena," Arianne began, her fingers straightening down her ruby belt. “if I might speak with you in private for a moment?”

Rhaena’s smile faltered only slightly, the faintest edge of surprise crossing her face.

Someone cleared their throat.

The others clearly didn’t appreciate being brushed aside, and Arianne could sense their collective annoyance.

“Oh,” one of the ladies murmured, her voice dripping with a subtle, masked irritation. “How… important, I wonder, that Saera's granddaughter requires private conversation.”

Several nods erupted around the group.

"Is she marrying into Boltons with those colors on her?"

Arianne groaned inwardly. It was important! She had no time for idle chitter-chatter.

The corner of Rhaena's lovely mouth curved into a smile — with just a touch of feigned disappointment.

“Ladies, I do hope you will forgive me. I am terribly needed elsewhere.” She inclined her head apologetically before her gaze returned to Arianne.

“Of course, Arianne,” Rhaena linked their elbows and let the Swann girl lead her away.

“I’m certain these lovely ladies will continue their discussion in my absence.”

Arianne hurried through the mass of people, trying to decide where they might speak without interruptions. They exited the Great Hall before she pursed her lips.

"How do you do it? So easily?" Arianne sighed, eyeing Rhaena from the corner of her eye.

"Do what?"

"The court thing." She clarified as they descended the first staircase. "They all like you."

Rhaena giggled, a charming tinkle of sound.

"Well, I don't ask for privacy when everyone is starved for gossip. It reflects poorly." She squeezed Arianne's arm before they both greeted several of King Viserys' dignitaries.

Once at a safe distance from prying ears, Arianne groaned.

 "I hate gossip." Her free hand brushed over her roseate skirts.

Especially when it is directed at me. Bolton? What would she do all the way up North?

The corners of Rhaena's eyes crinkled, lashes fluttering in what one might consider a mild amusement.

They turned the corner, entering the spacious corridor that opened into a long loggia. Between the columns, the view of the lush greenery of the castle grounds gave Arianne's heart a tug.

They seemed to stretch for miles, full of pebbled paths and old trees.

Stonehelm had well-cared-for grounds as well, her mother considered their beauty a reflection of her work as the Lady of the House, but they were perhaps one-third of the size.

One of Arianne's earliest memories entailed her older brother shoving her into the fish pond before running away. His palms have been raw red for weeks from the lashes he received as a punishment.

She pulled at Rhaena's crimson sleeve lightly, not wanting to damage the brocade.

"I need your help." She whispered, pretending to peruse the detailed tapestry on the nearest wall.

Yet her breath caught mid-thought, her eyes widening. 

'Wait a moment, are those people bare...?'

The tapestry's scandalous display—a swirl of figures entwined in unmistakably Essosi decadence—left her blinking, her cheeks heating in quiet horror.

She quickly averted her gaze to the stone floor underneath their feet, a sudden and oppressive flush of mortification entering her mind — were those things she would have to do with a husband? The septa said a woman is supposed to lie down and not think about it, but those women weren't lying down, they were on hands and knees and the men — the men —

Would Jace do that to her?

Her vision spun.

"Arianne," Rhaena laughed lightly.

"I think our castle in Pentos would've made you faint. These are rather tame—"

"They are naked!" Arianne quaked, nudging her friend towards the stone bench nestled against the outer columns, safely distanced from those sinful textiles.

"Can you help me, Rhaena?" Her tone was laced with an urgency born of desperation.

"I need to speak to Lady Tarth and last night...well, your cousin Aemond interrupted me and it was...tense. W-would she talk to me again?"

Rhaena tilted her head, her expression poised somewhere between curiosity and suspicion.

"So that is what you were doing with that thief." She flicked her moonlight strands behind her shoulder.

"I wasn't doing anything with him." Arianne retorted quickly, her face flushing deeper.

'Only one dance, after which he proceeded to compare me to a Tavern Wench and found me lesser. Rude twat!'

Rhaena's cheek twitched.

"Hmmm," she murmured, as if deciding whether to let the matter drop. "Let us see what we can do. You do know Lady Tarth plays cyvasse, don't you?"

Arianne blinked.

"No...she does? H-how do you know?"

Rhaena sighed, the sound reminding lady Swann of her mother when she'd caught her sneaking cakes from the kitchens.

"Ser Edric Wylde told me." Her brows, as pale as gossamer threads narrowed at Arianne's confused stare.

"Can you imagine he has twenty-seven younger siblings? And an older brother, Jarlon." She added, tone decorated with the slightest of reprimands.

"You asked me how — by speaking to people more, making them feel important. Men are honestly...they would talk until the end of time if they thought their voice impressed a woman. One of my tutors always emphasized the art of speaking as essential as wielding a sword."

Arianne deflated, peering down at the couple promenading along the grounds. What tutors? She had her septa and castle's maester.

"Speaking of Edric," Rhaena continued smoothly. " his younger sister told me my dragon-pilfering cousin followed you into the gardens that night."

Arianne's throat seized.

"W-who?"

"Aemond." Her friend clarified levelly.

"So, what is happening? I am warning you, Arianne, if you're gonna fancy a man who stole my mother's dra—"

"That is utterly insane," Arianne interjected, her tone sharp with disbelief.

'Fancy Aemond?!'

The thought itself was enough to make her innards twist.

She might as well fancy a Skagosi cannibal.

"I haven't even seen him, so how would I know if he went to the gardens?" The lie left her lips hastily, escaping her clamped throat. The last thing she needed was for anyone else to find out she kicked a prince in the shin and acted in a manner unbecoming of a lady.

Arianne's verdant gaze, in an attempt to avoid Rhaena's, landed briefly on one of the tapestries.

The naked male was kneeling between the woman's legs. 'W-was he kissing her womanhood?'

Her mouth dried.

There were stories, gossip, about Prince Aegon's proclivities, but a brief, and very, very torrid thought made her palms clammy — she'd wondered if that loathsome paragon of vanity ever did engage in carnal indulgence like the bodies — pale as ivory or golden as the sun — depicted here.

The concept itself, of a man like Aemond on his knees sent a strange jolt to the bottom of her belly.

Arianne wondered what could make the man commanding the greatest military power in the Seven Kingdoms - Vhagar - kneel.

Then again, Targaryens were quite strange with their customs.

Her nails bit into her palm violently and she turned back to Rhaena.

'Evening prayers would do me well.'

"Please, help me. I do not want to disappoint Rhaenyra." Arianne's voice softened, the plea woven into her words unmistakable.

Rhaena studied her for a few moments, before relenting.

"Alright. Let us find her first."

She stood up and fixed her exquisite gown made of vermilion brocade. Two young women spoke in hushed tones until they reached the main corridor.

For once, Arianne sensed her luck returning, because Lady Tarth appeared on the stairs leading toward the Great Hall, her mood evidently buoyant.

"Just allow me to speak first, Arianne,"

Rhaena urged into her ear.

.

.

.

Arianne was beaming.

She couldn't even control the light skip to her steps as she returned to Holdfast. Lady Tarth had not held last night against her, and more — Rhaenyra would be pleased with what Arianne had learned.

The older woman thought Lucerys Velaryon was Lord Corlys' chosen heir. He should inherit Driftmark.

This could not have turned better for Arianne.

She hurried to Lady Massey's room to help with the silk delivery. The lingering warmth of her conversation with Lady Tarth left her feeling oddly jovial, a rare sense of triumph settling over her. If she thought on it, the Lady of the Evenstar Fall was rather nice company.

They conversed about the famous cyvasse game between King Jaehaerys and Lord Rogar Baratheon.

Lady Tarth appeared to be impressed by her commentary of the game.

"The trebuchet could've negated the King's spearmen. Had Lord Baratheon noticed the dragon was pinned, he could've trapped the King's king. Death in four."

Lady Tarth had tilted her head at that, her dark eyes glimmering.

"A sharp observation, my dear. A few would dare voice it."

The Lady of Evenstar even lamented, half in jest, that all her sons were already wed. "If they weren't, I would gladly welcome a clever mind like yours into my household."

It brought an influx of warmth to Arianne's cheeks.

Her heart tittered in hopes that Princess Rhaenyra would see her in a similar light.

Arianne knocked on Lady Elinda Massey's door, her incisors biting into her lower lip. 'Gods, let it be Jace, please, please, because if not —

If not him, then who, and whoever it was, they could hardly match the prestige of a future king — Jace, her curly-haired Galladon of Morne.'

Marriage loomed ever large on the horizon, not as a choice but as a certainty.

Father had all but said so — she would be married by the year's end. Eight and ten almost, it was nigh-time.

The only reason he had waited this long was because of Jacaerys Velaryon. 

"You are my only daughter, Arianne — my pearl beyond price. I would see you flourish."

If not Jace, then Lord Paramount, she supposed. Father would not settle for less. Not for Bryen Caron. Not for old Lord Horpe.

Arianne hoped he had not meant to offer her to the dreary North, even if Cregan Stark was allegedly handsome and her age. Besides, why would Lord Cregan even want a southron wife?

Her lips twisted into a wry smile at that.

How ironic that she could pin a dragon or corner a king on the board regardless of her opponent, but remained so helpless when it came to plotting her own future.

Just as she raised her hand to knock again, the door creaked open to reveal a rather disheveled Elinda.

"Arianne," She said, her tone hushed and hurried.

"I was looking everywhere for you. But I couldn't find you so..."

“What’s wrong?” Arianne asked, a lilt of unease in her voice. It must have been something of importance, because Lady Massey rarely lost composure, her blue eyes always reminiscent of calm seas.

“The Library’s custodian came by, and…” Elinda hesitated, her expression tightening. “Well, he seemed furious. He had two Septas with him.”

Custodian? What possible —

Arianne felt her pulse quicken, her stomach sinking.

“What?”

“They went to your chambers.”

The words hit her like a thunderclap, her mind scrambling to make sense of them.

'Gods, oh gods.'

Without another word, she turned and rushed toward her chambers, her heart pounding louder with each step.

As she approached, she could already hear the commotion inside.

“You!”

The custodian’s voice, sharp as an executioner's blade, rang out the moment she came into view.

Arianne's palms grew damp.

She swallowed.

His wrinkly face was flushed, and his pointed index finger trembled with outrage.

The door to her chambers stood wide open, and from within, she could hear Miriam’s voice raised in protest against the clipped tones of a woman.

“How dare you steal a tome of such rarity from the library! To think your ladyship even involved a prince in it!”

Arianne halted just outside the threshold, her body locking tightly as her heart plummeted.

'The Fires of the Freehold!

What? How... How in the Known World did he —'

A jagged tightness clogged her throat.

'How could he know? Jace...'

Arianne's lungs refused to expand.

She could not get Jace in trouble!

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to curtsy and step inside, her movements wooden and jerky.

"There she is!" A plump woman, adorned in the simple, gray robes of a Septa pointed a finger at her.

"You'd be wise to offer an explanation for how this came into your hands!"

The taller Septa clutched The Fires of the Freehold against her chest as though it were the crown jewels, her face a mask of disdain.

"I just...borrowed it to read." Arianne felt as though somebody else possessed her body and spoke because she could not. 

"I didn't steal it!"

“Thief!” the plump Septa spat, her voice burning like a birch strike against flesh.

'Seven help me!'

“No, no, no, that is not true!” Arianne protested, waving her hands desperately.

“I would have returned it after I finished!”

"Confess it to a Septon and pray the Gods forgive you this foul sin, young lady." The taller one intoned coldly.

"And your princess has already been informed."

Arianne’s vision blurred, her heart lurching violently.

'Rhaenyra knows?

Oh no,no,no,nonononono —'

Her mind reeled, trying to piece it together. She hadn’t told anyone about the book. Jace and her alone know so... 

No one, except—

"I am reading The Fires of the Freehold now. Have you read it?"

"Of course. But all known copies, all six of them, are here or the Citadel. How did you get your pretty hands on the tome?"

She froze.

Aemond.

Her stomach clenched painfully, her thoughts spiraling into chaos. The betrayal burned like dragonfire, scorching her from within.

Aemond.

Aemond.

Her chest tightened as white-hot anger whirled inside her vessels, mingling with the iron in her blood. 

He offered to help her translate it! Only to...Arianne, you idiotic girl — how could you even tell him —

Aemond.

Arianne curled her fingers.

Aemond — gods curse him and his name.

It had to be him.

It was not her, and it was certainly not Jace.

She dug them so deep into her clammy palms that it hurt, but the pain felt distant - almost insignificant against the reality of the situation.

They told her princess.

She will be sent away. Punished.

Father will —

It was unbearable. The humiliation.

She glanced after the two women as they exited her chambers.

If she explained it to Rhaenyra, then maybe...

Miriam just stared at her, unable to find the right words. Arianne could not fault her for it, because her own throat was rendered useless.

She walked out and followed a corridor until it turned left towards the royal suites. Princess Rhaenyra would not — she would not send her away, would she?

Arianne’s heels clicked softly against the stone floor as she blindly passed several handmaidens and guards. 

Why? How could he do this to her? She did not even finish translating the massacre of Quarlon's entire army under the walls of Norvos. The scouring of Lorath!

What had she done to provoke this cruelty? She replayed their conversation about Galendro's work, searching for the moment she had erred so egregiously that he would do this. Was it because she rejected his offer?

How petty! Could a Prince be so spiteful?

Did he not say they were even now? Arianne scrunched her nose. One day she would make him pay for this humiliation — knowing damn well she could not do so now, he was a Prince, but one day - when she weds the Crown Prince — she would make Aemond Targaryen regret it. She would find the thing he cherished most and deprive him of it.

As if Princess Rhaenyra would ever accept her hand for Jace after this, she thought morosely.

Arianne halted outside the large, double doors.

The torchlights along the corridor danced on the carved dragons etched into the wood, their eyes gleaming like rubies in the dim light.

They were slightly ajar and she frowned — Where were all the handmaidens, servants, and ladies-in-waiting?

Then, voices spilled through the crack, low but unmistakable.

"Ah, the maesters." Prince Daemon's voice was a drawl, his disdain palpable even through the thick oak. "Of course. It is they who keep him… addled on milk of the poppy while the Hightowers warm his throne."

"Rhaenyra, if you would see him without it, almost blind with suffering."

Arianne blinked. That voice — the Queen's?

She realized with a jolt that she was eavesdropping. Her fingers hovered near the doorframe, but her feet refused to retreat.

What if they spoke of her transgression? Would Queen Alicent press Rhaenyra to send away her unruly lady-in-waiting? Her cheeks burned at the thought.

"Oh, Alicent, I have no doubt it was… an act of the purest mercy, but tell me, for the King’s suffering, did the maesters also prescribe the removal of Targaryen heraldry and the installation in its stead of various statues and stars?" Prince Daemon snarled.

A barely audible sigh of relief escaped Arianne's lips.

They were not speaking about her mishap with the book.

The silence fell for a few uncomfortable seconds and then the Queen's voice lifted again, all steel and iron.

"The emblems of the Seven serve only to guide us on an uncertain path. To remind us of a higher authority."

"Speaking of authority," Rhaenyra interjected. "what is the Crown's decision regarding Vaemond Velaryon's brazen insult?"

"Insult." Alicent intoned.

"The King's Hand has sent a letter to Driftmark. Ser Vaemond is entitled to petition His Grace to consider this matter."

"When?" Rhaenyra pressed.

"A moon from now," Alicent replied smoothly, her tone betraying no hint of emotion. Or perhaps the heavy wood hid it from Arianne.

"The Books of Law and the Seven’s mercy grant time for the preparation of petitions and evidence."

'A moon? If father reached Griffin's Roost, he should be here by then as well.' She sent a letter there just days ago.

A flicker of hope ignited in Arianne's chest, only to be swiftly doused by cold dread.

A bout of nausea churned in her stomach—not for fear of punishment over the book, but for what one whole month might mean. More than enough time for Rhaenyra to come to an accord with Princess Rhaenys, which would mean —

it would not be her who would marry Jace.

"And with the condition my father is in, who will sit in judgment of my son’s claim on his own inheritance?" Princess Rhaenyra’s voice pulled Arianne from her spiraling thoughts.

"That would be me, " The Queen replied evenly, "and the Hand."

Arianne caught the faint sound of Daemon scoffing, though the noise barely carried before Alicent’s voice sliced through once more.

"But be assured, the Father is just and commands me to forget the accusations you have hurled in this room today."

'What accusations?'

She scarcely had time to process the words before the door creaked, and Alicent swept out, her green skirts rustling.

Arianne's breath breath hitched as the Queen’s sharp gaze fell on her, so utterly unreadable. Hastily, she dipped into a low curtsy, her head bowed in deference.

"Your Grace," she murmured.

For a moment that stretched unbearably long, Queen Alicent stood still, her silence heavy as a drawn blade. Then, with a faint, almost imperceptible nod, she turned on her heel and glided down the corridor like a specter, leaving Arianne to rise on trembling legs.

She swallowed thrice before knocking on the halfway-open door.

Inside, Rhaenyra’s voice was the first to answer. “Arianne,” she sighed, her tone laced with a weariness that only served to deepen the tension in Arianne’s chest.

'Mother grand mercy to your humble daughter, Maiden guide me —'

Adjusting her silken girdle, Arianne stepped into the room.

She lowered herself into a graceful curtsy before both Rhaenyra and Daemon.

“My princess,” she addressed Rhaenyra with the utmost respect, then turned to Daemon, offering the same courtesy.

“My Prince.”

Rhaenyra studied her for a moment, then nodded, her expression unreadable.

“You may rise, Arianne.”

Before she could proclaim and insist how terribly sorry and repentant she was, Daemon’s voice cut through the silence, as biting as the frost.

“They said my aunt Saera stole jewelry from her mother, Queen Alysanne.” He shot Arianne a glance, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“You steal books. Quite the downgrade, if I must speak plainly.”

Arianne stiffened, gaze cast downward. 

Well, if mocking was her punishment, she should be thanking the Seven.

Aemond's foul grin flitted through her thoughts. She realized there was a certain similarity, a likeness of sorts, between him and his uncle, The Rogue Prince.

Except, she highly doubted Daemon stalked around reporting people for sneaking books out of the library.

Rhaenyra shot the Prince a sharp, warning look, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Let me speak with her, Valzyris." (Husband.)

Daemon raised a pale eyebrow but inclined his head, stepping back. He sat in one of the armchairs and crossed his arms.

Arianne’s breath caught in her throat as the words tumbled out, almost as if she had no control over them.

“I swear I didn’t steal it!”

"I would never steal anything!"

Her voice cracked, desperation creeping into the edges of her words.

“I just borrowed it! Please forgive me! It was a misunderstanding—"

Daemon, a glint of curiosity in his eyes, shook his head and snorted.

“Who did you anger enough to have them report you?” He shrugged with feigned innocence.

“Everyone sneaks in there all the time and—"

Rhaenyra glared at him sharply, her eyes narrowing with a warning.

Daemon raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, his expression shifting to one of mock defeat.

"Very well, Your Grace," he muttered, then turned and exited the room, clearly deciding to leave the matter to his wife.

Rhaenyra took a long breath, turning back to Arianne with a tiredness to her gaze.

“You are quite adept at following the rules, even at your detriment sometimes. I know you didn’t steal it.”

Oh.

Arianne blinked, the weight of the words grounding her in relief.

Thank the gods —

"Because my son borrowed it for you."

A candle flickered between Arianne's breaths.

Her heart twisted.

She cleared her throat, before shaking her head.

"Prince Jacaerys would not —"

"Oh, he would." Rhaenyra flicked her hand dismissively. She leaned back into the cushioned chair, sharp eyes poring over her lady-in-waiting.

Arianne did her best to keep her trembling hands steady — clasped together in front of her stomach. A sliver of dread tickled her spine.

“And I think I know why,” The Crown Princess continued, her tone pensive.

"He is overly fond of you."

Arianne paled.

She dared not raise her gaze to meet Rhaenyra's.

Fond of her?

How could it be that the one thing she wished to hear more than anything now sounded so damnable? So sinful? So uncomfortable?

Because Arianne knew, or at least, she had an inkling, that Rhaenyra was not going to entertain the idea of an alliance born of an infatuation. Less so, if it incited her firstborn son  — her heir — to act unruly.

Rhaenyra studied her for a long moment, her expression inscrutable.

"I will not pretend there isn't," The future Queen paused, perusing the embroidery decorating her sleeves.

"A consideration about a betrothal." Her eyes, now murky as the riotous seas, met Arianne's fearful green ones.

She swallowed yet again.

“But until such time,” Rhaenyra declared, hands resting on her swollen belly.

“I expect you not to encourage him.”

The seas pulled her under. Arianne's face reddened. She was not, was she? 

Her mother had told her the same day she had flowered to behave with care. "Men will look at you, daughter — and some of them will look at you differently now. They'll want what belongs to your future husband. A virtuous lady must never instigate such aspirations."

 “Your Grace, I would never—”

Rhaenyra raised a hand, silencing her.

“Dragon’s blood runs hot, Arianne. I know it better than most. The Hightowers might whisper treason about his parentage, but he is my son. A Targaryen. He will go after what he thinks he wants.” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

“Surely, you must understand the trouble this… fondness could bring. Jacaerys is my heir. He will one day sit on the Iron Throne. His heart belongs to the future of the Seven Kingdoms."

Arianne’s heart twisted, shame and disbelief surging within her. She itched to say so many things — that she considered the future, that she would never bring him trouble, that her heart belonged to it too.

Yet, she could not.

She could not utter any of those things. Tears welled in her eyes.

"I swear Prince Jacaerys had nothing to do with this." The lie tumbled from her dry lips.

Father is going to be so furious with her. How dare that hateful prick ruin her life?! Oh, if she could strangle Aemond —

Before the silence could stretch further, the door to the chamber flew open with a thud.

“It was me, Mother!”

Arianne's long-lashed eyes widened.

Jace burst into the room, still clad in his training tunic, his dark hair in disarray.

Rhaenyra turned sharply, her brows lifting in surprise at his abrupt entrance. He breathed loudly, his chest rising and falling as if he had run the length of the castle to be here.

Green met brown and Arianne's pulse upsurged to her ears. She glanced down first, unable to do anything else under Rhaenyra's stare.

Scarlett heat enveloped her cheeks.

Jace stepped in front of her, as if to shield her.

“Do not blame lady Arianne,” he addressed his mother, though Arianne could not see his expression.

“I borrowed the book for her. It was my idea.”

He is making it worse. Her gallant prince.

While her heart melted at his words, her head knew better. This would only give weight to Princess Rhaenyra's concerns.

His hands were clenched at his sides, his shoulders drawn taut as though bracing himself for a storm.

Rhaenyra’s face shifted as she took in her son's eagerness. She regarded him for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line, before she spoke, her voice calm but heavy with authority.

"Leave us, Arianne."

Arianne curtsied stiffly, her face ashen as she slowly retreated. Still, she dared not meet Jace's tender gaze.

She could still hear the faint murmurs from within once shutting the heavy door behind herself —Rhaenyra's controlled diatribe, Jace's desperate pleading.

But none of it reached her as she stumbled away, her thoughts a whirlpool lapping at the inside of her skull.

Arianne had barely taken a step before the tears overwhelmed her eyes, blurring the corridors before her.

She leaned against the cool stone wall, sobbing.

She had not even told Rhaenyra about Lady Tarth — not that it mattered now. Rhaenyra was disappointed in her.

With her behavior. With Jace's behavior.

'Oh, gods, I'll never read any book ever again.'

 Arianne gnawed on her bottom lip and instant regret flooded her veins. 'Please, just not the books. Leave the books. I didn't mean it.'

Her hands trembled as she wiped furiously at her face, but it only made the tears fall harder.

Arianne slowly made her way through the Holdfast. The weight of Rhaenyra's words crushed her.

Betrothal was possible, but, but, but —

'What would father think?'

Her legs almost gave out and she had to steady herself lest she fall down the polished staircase.

The very idea of him knowing about this, knowing of the whispered accusations and the suspicions cast upon her…

'Stranger take Aemond Targaryen!'

 If a word of this were to reach her father—if he even heard a whisper about the borrowed book—he would never forgive her.

He held onto grudges as if they were treasures.

She could plead her case walking barefoot from the Wall to Sunspear and it would be to no avail.

The punishment would be swift, and cruel, and final. Would he marry her off to some old minor lord to put an end to her folly? Some distant, distant noble she could never stand, a man old enough to be her grandfather, shackling her to a life she couldn’t bear? Or perhaps he'd take harsher measures, thinking it a failure of her upbringing. 

Silent sisters would await her.

Oh, she'd rather run to Essos like Saera once did.

To Lys, to Aunt Johanna.

She would take her in, Arianne knew. But she would truly be dead to her parents then — their hearts would shatter to learn their daughter had become a lyseni whore.

'Would Rhaenyra write to them about this? Maybe she would not? No one else seemed to even know but her, Custodian, and those septas.'

Arianne rubbed her teary eyes with the back of her hands.

She hurried, crossing the narrow hall and the three ladies seated on the wooden bench. The Queen did not seem to even mention her, she was there to discuss the petition for Driftmark.

Arianne pressed her eyelids tightly together, wishing desperately for the weight to lift, for the tears to stop.

There was nothing to do but wait.

Oh, how much she loathed powerlessness.

If only she could hide somewhere, anywhere, just until this awful sobbing stopped. Her face must look blotchy and ugly from crying.

Arianne continued walking, looking for one of the gardens. She might hide under a pear tree or a rock until the end of her days.

She disappointed Princess Rhaenyra. She couldn't imagine a worse thing happening now.

' W-what if she really writes to my father?'

She hurried along the colonnade, its archways opening into the inner courtyard.

'Father would not forgive this.'

Arianne could see it — a simple carriage without much comfort to send her back home. She'd have to travel the Kingsroad for a month before reaching Stonehelm in disgrace.

Her father would tell her she had no one to blame but herself before giving her hand to Lord Horpe, or even worse, one of the Carons.

If Jace truly fancied her — and she hoped, hoped, hoped it so —

even if everything went to ruin, he could steal her away on Vermax and wed her and —

oh, the infamy! She would never dare!

To even think about it, what unabashed sin! 

Wicked Arianne. 

Saera's granddaughter in truth.

They could put her on some morally abhorrent tapestry —

Arianne felt her legs tangle and before she could steady herself, her right knee met the cold, stone floor with a resounding thud.

Ouch.

She shot up back to her feet so quickly that the air spun around her.

She at least managed to keep herself from yelping or cussing — which would be utterly unladylike.

'H-how embarrassing.'

Her eyes darted toward the corridor, and she released a small huff of air when she realized there was no one coming in her direction.

"Your education should've included walking it seems."

Arianne's head snapped to her right and her muscles stiffened.

Prince Aemond Targaryen was leaning against the column, his lithe arms crossed.

'Him! Him, gods curse him! W-where did he come from?'

"Your Grace."

She muttered levelly, her fingers curling into fists.

Arianne's first instinct was to flee all the way to Mossovy.

Her heart, however, lurched, rightful wrath towards the silver-haired Targaryen spilling in torrents into her blood.

It wasn't the wry taunt about her clumsiness, it was the abominable crime of taking The Fires of the Freehold from her!

Of ruining her life! She ought to kill him where he stands!

Arianne wished her eyes could pierce through him as she stared. He seemed to have come from the training courtyard by the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. A few shorter strands of his silky hair, pale as the pearl, were strewn across his temples.

Arse!

She couldn't even accuse him. She had no proof, but somehow, she knew it in her bones that it had been him who slandered her to the Custodian.

'She did not steal a book! Jace borrowed it for her.'

In mere moments, Arianne was overwhelmed with all sorts of sinful thoughts about Aemond Targaryen's untimely demise. She would pray to Father to make him suffer, to Warrior to make him a craven, and to the Crone to send an illness his way!

To Stranger itself, to make his rotten heart suffer!

How could he deprive her of a book she told him she stayed up all night reading?!

He in question, merely clicked his tongue at her and hummed.

"Does crying prevent you from curtsying properly? I am a Prince of the Realm."

Arianne sniffled and wiped at her face furiously.

"I am not crying!"

Aemond fixed her with his shrewd, icy eye before drawing himself to his full height.

She observed how his shadow stretched to almost meet hers.

"I do wonder what is it this time, Lady Swann." He stalked toward her, his sturdy dark boots thudding softly against the stone floor. The rhythmic sound seemed to echo her volatile heartbeat.

"One of your suitors decided he'd rather pursue an honorable woman, mayhaps? Or your payment was less than what you'd—"

"Yet I do not find my crying important enough for a prince of the Realm to wonder about it." Arianne retorted, digging her nails deeper into her palm, almost yelping at the pain.

It did keep her grounded when she wished nothing more than to become a swan and peck his remaining eye out.

'Payment? Payment for what? Just w-what was he insinuating again?'

"Humor me," Aemond said, his voice a dark purr of a sound.

Arianne glanced up, observing the high collar of his training tunic rather than his face. She cleared her throat and wiped her hands down her roseate skirts.

"I am Princess Rhaenyra's lady-in-waiting, not your fool." The harsh response made Aemond's blood thrum. So, Lady Swann was avoiding his gaze.

The muscle in his jaw ticked.

Arianne decided it would be for the best that she absconds quickly, lest she truly try to maim him again. 'He would deserve it! Her princess now considered her bad influence on Jace.'

"Your Grace." She dipped in a quick, low curtsy — her knees ached from it, and dashed past him, her skirts swishing around her legs.

Aemond caught up to her in two strides and blocked her way, his arm extending like a gate across her path.

"You forget yourself, woman." He snarled.

"You are mine-whatever-I-decide you are."

"Have you any manners at all?" She shrieked, rather startled by the harshness in his usually melodious voice.

He ignored her outburst and continued, chuckling nastily.

"How is your progress with The Fires of the Freehold going? Did the bastard translate you the scouring of Lorathi islands?" Aemond's defined lips peeled back to reveal his white teeth.

'You evil, evil arse!'

"I know no bastard. And it is going fine." Arianne gritted out.

Aemond's ivory eyebrow lifted.

"Truly? Here I've heard a different tale, Lady Swann." He taunted, his face settling into feigned wonder.

"That they've confiscated the tome from you."

She must've drawn blood from how forcefully she was pressing her nails into her own skin.

'Heard the tale? He mocks me.'

Lady Swann could scarcely believe a prince could be so wicked to not only do it but to torment her over it. Was he still angry over her earrings? She apologized!

Could he think she scorned him last night?

What despicably cruel retaliation, then! Arianne concluded — because now she might never get to read it. Only six copies existed in the Seven Kingdoms. Four were locked inside the Citadel, and now she'll never be allowed to peruse the two housed in the Royal Library.

 'Oh, shivers take him, if he truly branded her a thief over some wounded pride of a man.'

She had been nothing but polite!

"You've heard it true," Arianne uttered stiffly.

"Some awful miser told the Custodian I had the book."

Aemond's one, cerulean eye widened.

"An awful miser?"

He tilted his head mockingly. "Or just someone with respect towards the laws and rules that keep our Realm from descending into chaos?"

Arianne had to exert a significant effort not to laugh at his badly performed act of a righteous man.

"And does Your Grace agree with him?"

She glanced at the deep, darkened scar decorating his left cheek.

"Naturally."

"I wouldn't have dared hope otherwise." Arianne's mouth widened into a brittle smile and she curtsied, hoping it was for the final time. 

It was him, and she will not forget it!

Rather than to risk another bout of unladylike violence, she turned around.

So what if she had to walk all the way back and confront Miriam about her utter disgrace — it seemed a superior choice than to argue with the evil boor himself.

She wouldn't even refer to Prince Aemond by a name anymore, he'd earned his special title. He was evil boor from now on.

"You should be aware though," He tutted after her, in tones cool and sharp as valyrian steel.

"Those misers will know shall your pretty head try to loot the royal library again."

Loot?

Heat surged through her chest, rushing to her face as indignation overcame her. She peered over her shoulder at the tall dragonrider.

Aemond ran his tongue over his incisors and hummed.

"You've never seen the dungeons, have you, my lady Swann?"

Arianne shook.

How dared he? How dare he speak to her this way, as if she were some common thief, as if her desire to know more was a crime?

Her breath hitched, her muscles locking as she tried to suppress the insults threatening to erupt.

Aemond Targaryen was a blight. He was as ill-behaved as her grandmother had been. Only he hid it better, the capable swordsman, the studious prince, the Queen's favorite son — oh, how blind those courtiers were!

He was sent here by some Stygai demons to ruin her life.

Arianne knew the best way to proceed would be to apologize again, much as it pained her lady's heart. Profess her regret for whatever it was that earned his enmity and bide her time.

One day, when Princess Rhaenyra becomes Queen and Jace the Crown Prince - and she his Crown Princess - Oh, she'll find Prince Aemond the best seat to watch her, graceless bird, become Queen among Dragons, and then she'll exact her revenge. Even if holding grudges was a sin.

Her bottom lip quivered.

Even if it was strategically the most sound approach she could not do it.

She would sooner die than be Aemond's supplicant after what he had done to her.

Her father would sooner let a pirate ship carry her away like it did his cousin Johanna, than to hear she humiliated herself in front of a Targaryen.

A certain something curling around her spine —her pride—would not allow her to walk away from his taunts.

Not this time.

She was a lady of a noble house, her father a Lord of the Marches and her grandmother a princess herself!

Arianne whirled around, the strands of her chestnut hair bouncing with the force of her movement.

The fiery glare she fixed on him could have scorched dragonhide.

"I know this awful miser is you!" she snapped, her voice acidic and unwavering despite the tremor in her hands.

Her words reverberated in the corridor, something that startled even herself. She stomped back toward him, her chin held high. Arianne flicked the heavy curl that had fallen over her shoulder back with her hand — Aemond seemed to follow the motion with his pale eye.

She thrust her finger out in an accusatory jab.

"You told the Custodian I was reading Fires of the Freehold!"

The words were flung like arrows, her voice tinged with the sting of betrayal. She only told him about it because he claimed they loved the same books.

Arianne could feel her pulse thundering in her ears, fueled by the righteous wrath that consumed her.

She’d been humiliated, shamed, and stripped of her dignity—all because of him!

"You malevolent arse!"

Her outburst echoed against the columns. Arianne took in a sharp breath, it sizzled inside her lungs. Oh, Seven! 

Her cheeks reddened, and her eyes burned with the unshed tears of frustration.

Aemond stood there, unflinching, his condescending grin deepening, and that infuriating gleam of amusement in his blue eye only stoked her fury further.

She wanted to scream at him, to lash out more, to do anything that might make him understand the depth of her outrage.

He made her look wicked in Princess Rhaenyra's eyes.

Aemond’s delight was immediate and utterly insufferable, a sardonic chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest.

He shifted slightly — one leg stretched brashly forward, fingers tracing idly the pommel of his sword.

The leather strap of his eyepatch caught a sliver of sunlight as if it too mocked her.

"Hontes drējī pykagon perzys issa." (A bird is a spitfire, indeed.)

He muttered it more to himself than her, his lips twitching as though savoring the observation.

Arianne's nostrils flared.

The infuriating ease with which he dismissed her anger was enough to set her blood to boil.

"Rya nopāzma!" (Go to hell.)

She hissed rabidly, remembering all the valyrian insults Luke, Rhaena, and her learned one rainy afternoon.

For the most fleeting of moments, something in Aemond's eye glimmered, disbelief passing through his features.

"My, my what a foul mouth you have—"

"Your deed garners no respect, Your Grace!" she interrupted sharply, stepping closer, emboldened by her fury.

A mistake, in hindsight.

Aemond moved too quickly for her to react, his hand darting out to grasp her wrist with a downright frightening precision.

The heat of an unexpected touch rooted her in place, her breath lodging in her throat.

His grip was firm but not bruising, the strength of his fingers pressing into her skin just enough to hold her there.

Arianne could suddenly not think, hyper-aware of the bared skin of her wrist and the way her blood trashed underneath it — meeting his.

It was utterly improper—by all laws and morals of gods and men—and her mind raced with the implications.

Would he harm her? Kill her? B-break her wrist?

Dread cascaded down and around and through her spine.

No one had ever — well her brother did hit her when they were younger but that had been different. She hit him too — but Aemond could, if he wished, and who'd punish him for it?

He has a dragon — she gulped — no, not just a dragon, he has Vhagar.

Arianne willed herself to remain calm.

For a man of his rank, a Prince, to seize a lady in such a manner...

It bordered on scandalous.

Her gaze snapped to his hand, then to his face, and she felt her pulse mutinying vehemently against the confinement of his grasp.

Aemond's expression was unreadable, his pale eye burning with an intensity that seemed to bore straight into her.

"Unhand me, Your Grace," she demanded, her voice low and strained.

She twisted slightly, testing his hold, but his fingers did not falter.

"What do you imagine would happen if everyone disregarded rules and laws like you, Lady Swann? Hmm?" He crooned, a dangerous undercurrent racing beneath the words.

Aemond leaned closer, his breath warm and steady against her skin.

"If men took what they wanted like you did?" The grip around her wrist tightened briefly.

Arianne gulped, her free hand trembling at her side. She wiped it against her skirts. The proximity was unnerving, the heat of his presence coiling around her like an unwanted tether.

"I did not take it, and your grace knows it! Prince Jacaerys borrowed it and happened to give it to me." She stammered.

Still, he held her, his thumb brushing against the inside of her wrist as if testing her pulse, gauging her reaction. The gesture was both intimate and unsettling, a deliberate breach of decorum that urged her to demand a release and flee.

"B-besides," Arianne continued despite the uncomfortable tightness of her vocal cords. "If men only wanted to read books, I do not see what is so wrong with that. No one is hurt by it. You cannot compare it to raiding-driven subsistence where men just plunder peaceful settlements for land and food."

Her words were hurried, as if she could will the moment to pass faster.

Aemond's hold on her lingered — his fingertips calloused and rather warm against the inside of her wrist.

"Their liege lord was murdered ever so often during the Old Way and they raised rebellions because it would cause instability and—"

"I do not need a lecture on the primitive savagery of Iron Islanders, Lady Arianne." he interrupted smoothly, though there was a clipped edge to his tone.

"Release me, then. I have duties to attend to." Arianne spat, cutting the air between them. Her frustration was mounting.

Aemond’s gaze bore into hers, dark and molten — his single eye burning like the edge of twilight.

He tilted his chin as if weighing whether her demand deserved acknowledgment.

After a few long moments, his fingers loosened, sliding away with an infuriating slowness that made her feel as though she had conceded ground rather than reclaimed it.

But he did not step back.

"What duties,hmm?" he questioned, his voice low, mocking.

"Gallivanting around my Keep, diverting men's attention with those ridiculous dresses you wear—"

 "There is nothing wrong with my attire!" Arianne bristled, brushing her skirts defiantly.

Her movements were brisk, her pulse still thrumming incessantly in her wrist where his touch lingered like a scorch mark.

"Nothing," Aemond drawled, his tone dripping with derision.

"If you wished to resemble a strawberry tart."

'A- a strawberry tart?' His explanation rattled her so much, Arianne couldn't muster a proper answer. The insult struck her so unexpectedly that she could only gape for a moment, her thoughts scrambling for purchase.

Her dress was a paragon of modesty!

Perhaps it was a tad bit vibrant with a red silk girdle but how was it Aemond's problem?

Besides, what was wrong with strawberry tarts?

"I don't understand," she confessed at last, her voice tinged with bewilderment and indignation. Arianne searched his face for some clue to his meaning, but his expression was unreadable, save for the faintest twitch at the corner of his good eye.

It now roved over her with a deliberateness that made her spine stiffen, lingering on her rose-tinted woolen skirts before returning to her face.

"Those iron-born savages would ignore every other sustenance if they saw you frolicking and pretending unaware of your womanly wiles."

The accusation hit her like a strike, her cheeks stinging.

"You cannot swindle me though, my lady," Aemond added with a hearty dose of venom in his voice. It was too measured, too deliberate.

Arianne swallowed hard.

"You should talk to a septon, your grace. Imagined slights are a disease of the mind and soul." She snapped, lifting her chin.

Aemond’s expression darkened.

His long, tapered fingers gathered the free end of her silk girdle. Arianne's cheeks colored into the same ruby-red that now gleamed inside his palm. H-he ought not to touch her clothes!

"I would never allow my lady to dress like a Lyseni courtesan." He spat, releasing the fabric.

Arianne balked, her mouth opening and closing before she could form a coherent response.

Her anger surged anew.

"Thank the Seven, I am not your lady!" She hissed, her body trembling with fury.

"Indeed," Aemond replied coldly, though a flicker of something — she couldn't quite make — crossed his features before he masked it.

"Thank the gods. A commoner wife would be preferable to you. She'd know her place, at the very least." He taunted, with something  not quite a smile.

"How wisely you speak, Your Grace." Arianne batted her eyelashes several times before the corner of her mouth curled.

"Mayhaps you go court one then, instead of ruining my day."

For a long, tense moment, Aemond said nothing.

Something brimmed in his eye, a brief, almost imperceptible flicker of surprise crossing his features before being buried under a cool, marble-like facade.

His lips twitched, just slightly, as though he could not decide whether to sneer or hiss something back.

Just as his mouth opened, his gaze lifted to focus on something above her, further away.

Aemond stilled, then quickly composed himself as he saw who approached — several courtiers, Ser Tyland Lannister among them.

The group moved toward them with casual grace, their footsteps light on the cobbled stones, yet their arrival seemed to extinguish something in the air.

Aemond's eye sizzled with irritation, but he said nothing—choosing instead to shift slightly away from Arianne, into a proper distance for their stations.

She turned her head and observed them as various voices greeted the Prince.

Tyland Lannister noticed Arianne, his mouth opening in something akin to a concern.

"Lady Swann," he said with a gentle note of surprise.

"Your eyes are rather red. Do not tell me something has made your ladyship cry? You only need let me know—"

Arianne let out a quiet, relieved breath, her expression softening into a smile.

At least now she had witnesses.

'The Lannisters are the Queen's supporters, you foolish girl.'

Even if they were not, she hardly doubted anyone would take her side when the other one had a ferocious beast like Vhagar.

'Would Jace...would he do something about his uncle? If she told him he seized her like...like...oh she did not know!'

Arianne grimaced inwardly. No, she could not tell him. Rhaenyra had made that clear.

He had enough on his plate now, and, not to mention, his legitimacy could be called into question.

Was Princess Rhaenyra telling him now to keep away from her — unruly Arianne?

Oh, curse you, Aemond.

Though, an idea flashed in her mind.

How effortlessly Rhaena moved through the Court, either side welcoming her with open arms! 

Perhaps if she tried to speak prettily, too?

"Ser Tyland, you truly are my knight in shining armor."

Her voice was underlined by genuine gratitude—Tyland had given her a welcome reprieve from Aemond’s cruel presence.

'How had Rhaena explained her ease in conversing with people? To give them a chance at feeling important.'

Arianne thought about it briefly, deciding this was her refuge from the evil boor himself.

She straightened, subtly shifting away from Aemond’s imposing figure as she faced Tyland with a new spark of amusement.

"It is true, I’m on the verge of tears."

Arianne let the words drip from her lips as if she were indulging in a great tragedy.

"Prince Aemond has been talking about the taxation system the crown exerts over fiefdoms, and I... I scarcely understood him."

She took in his finely tailored Lannister attire—a richly embroidered crimson tunic with gold thread winding around the edges in intricate patterns.

"Of course, I’ve tried reading the monetary treatises you wrote, but..." She gestured with a hand, her fingers curling in mock defeat.

Tyland’s face brightened at the mention of his work.

"I am honored, Lady Swann. But how could you forget to tell me earlier taxation interested you!" He accused, though his smile was genuine and he was seemingly unaware of the pretense in her tone. Of course, she understood how taxation worked! Arianne gave him a polite nod, her shoulders relaxing.

"But it is all so difficult," she continued with a dramatic sigh, casting a glance toward Aemond, who stood silently watching.

"The prince was clearly bored by my lack of knowledge."

Tyland leaned in, eager to lighten the mood.

"Surely no one could be bored conversing with you, Lady Swann."

He shook his head as if such a thing was preposterous.

"A lady of your wit and beauty would charm a Night King."

Arianne let out a soft laugh, eyes sparkling.

"You flatter me, Ser. I was hoping you had a moment to spare and simplify it for me," she said, a bit more brightly now that Tyland’s presence had dissolved some of the tension.

"I would prefer to have knowledge of such matters. You do mention how several members of a noble house ought to peruse the numbers lest some opportunities slip through the cracks. How fortunate I could be if I learned about gold form a Lannister."

Tyland’s grin widened, clearly pleased. An older lady whose name Arianne did not know nodded eagerly. She wore red and gold as well.

"Ah... of course. Mayhaps you’d offer me a rematch sometime then."

He took a half-step forward, his voice growing more playful.

"I do pride myself on my prowess in cyvasse, yet your maneuver with using an elephant as a sacrificial piece..." He was about to continue, but then, his eyes flickered past her, catching Aemond’s glare.

The prince stood ramrod straight, his icy stare fixed firmly on Master of Ships.

Tyland hesitated, suddenly aware that he had interrupted something.

The easy, confident smile slipped from his face.

"Your Grace," He murmured, his tone shifting to one of polite caution. His eyes quickly regarded Aemond, who had barely moved, save for flexing his fingers in a way that suggested restraint.

The air grew thick and Arianne cleared her throat.

She could practically feel Aemond's fervent glare bore into the back of her head. 'What was he glowering about?'

 His distaste for her had been clearer than a mountain lake, so he should be happy she was leaving.

He should be overwhelmed by joy that she could not, in fact, kill him!

Or did the One-eyed Prince think she ought to suffer under his wicked thumb for hours?

Well, regardless of evil boor's opinion, she was going to extricate herself from his unsettling torment.

“Your Grace,” she began, turning to Aemond and trying not to tremble under the hateful attention of his sole eye.

“We would never dream of delaying you from your princely duties. Surely, your loyal subjects are constantly entangled in their own... misunderstandings with books. Perhaps it is your responsibility to rush and report every last one, my Prince of the Realm.”

Tyland shifted on his feet, not really wanting to find out how Vhagar's rider would react to Lady Swann's words—they were nothing more than a very elegant dismissal.

Someone cleared their throat.

The harsh lines of Aemond's face took on a mien of cold indifference.

His blue iris glinted like ice under sunlight.

He clasped his hands behind his back and blinked, before speaking,

"I assure you that every thief will be brought to justice, my lady Swann." His tone could put the deadliest lyseni poisons to shame.

 "I suggest caution though, Ser Tyland. Her ladyship trips over her own feet, and often so."

Just as Arianne thought she was safe, his melodious voice made her ears red again.

Her bottom lip quivered from another bout of shame, but Tyland would have none of it it seemed.

Master of Ships stepped forward and proffered his elbow to her.

“Lady Swann,” he declared, his voice as sweet as linctus. “if it pleases you, may I offer my arm? I would be most honored to escort you. And I will explain everything you wish to know about the system of taxation detailed in my treatise."

A fleeting thought of how Rhaena might be the smartest person she knew — because everything she had said was working — invaded Arianne's mind as she smiled.

"Ser Tyland. I would be delighted.”

'I'd be delighted to sail to Skagos to avoid this particular Targaryen.'

Tyland inclined his head, his own smile growing as he turned toward the waiting courtiers.

“Your Grace,” he added with a respectful nod to Aemond, before leading Lady Swann into the courtyard.

Arianne felt the tension in her spine finally diminishing.

She allowed herself a soft exhale, the corners of her lips lifting in genuine relief.

Aemond’s presence had been oppressive, his words mean and uncourteous.

He seized her wrist like some savage.

Now, in the company of Tyland and the courtiers, she felt like she had slipped free from the coiling grip of a dragon's tail.

Would Princess Rhaenyra write to her father?

Arianne didn't glance back, though her mind was still working through fantasies of exacting revenge on the One-eyed twat for taking the Fires of the Freehold from her, all the while crafting small pleasantries to distract herself from the encounter.

When Jace becomes King, and she his Queen, she will have Aemond Targaryen exiled to Yi Ti!

To Sothoryos!

To Grey Waste!

To ruins of Valyria if need be!

[mourningliliesmorningglories]

Blowing Smoke

A Jegulus song lyric one shot. I'm trying a new layout so lmk what you think! Guys this actually came to me like a fever dream.

wc: 1042 // @jegulus-microfic

Regulus isn't stupid. He sees it, all of it. He sees how she looks at James and how James looks back at her. It wasn't enough for him to have Regulus because you always chase the things you only get a taste of. This too, Regulus knows all too well. He stays hidden in the astronomy tower, behind tapestries, and alcoves in the dark. She can be loved out loud, in the common room, in the great hall, in the daylight. Today is the end day. Regulus plays the part of executioner and guilty both. He knows that to love something is to lose it too. That does not make this easier. 

James crashes through the door of the tower, rumpled and blushing. He was always loud, always the centre of attention. His eyes land on Regulus, and just for a second, Regulus stills. He can't keep this, but god, how he wants to. Maybe he never even had it, but there's something there, just not worth playing second for. James carries that boyish smile, the one reserved only for Regulus, but it's too late. A sacrifice is only a sacrifice once the blood is drawn. 

"Tell me, is she prettier than she was on the internet?" Regulus' face shifts into indifference. No preamble, no games. He is still a Black at the end of the day. 

"Reg, what are you talking about?" James shifts uncomfortably. He knew this was coming. Not this soon though, he pleads, not right now. 

"Are your conversations cool, like are you even interested?" Regulus stands, leaning against the railing of the tower. His arms sit crossed over his chest, less to be intimidating, and more to keep his heart where it should be. His tone is light, conversational almost. 

"This is about Lily." James' voice is toneless, his eyes immediately dull. Not now. Not now. 

"Who else, James, who else?" 

In any other scenario, you just might have been able to convince Regulus he was wrong, that James was just trying to protect them both. Maybe he would've believed that a year of hiding was worth it, that kissing in cupboards and avoiding eye contact in the dinner hall was just the way it should be. But Regulus will not be an object of shame outside of his home, he won't drag that ignominy behind him when he doesn't have to. 

"She's my friend." His eyes narrow. "I'm not going to avoid her just because she makes you insecure." James isn't an argumentative person. In fact, he's a talker, a placater, and so he can't quite figure out why defending Lily comes to him so easily. 

"I know what you are, brighter than the stars." Now Regulus' voice is pure mockery, just so he can see how far James flinches. "Did you mean that then?"

"That was a private conversation. Who even told you about that?"

"I don't think me finding out is the issue here."

"She was upset, she's got so much going-"

"And me, James? How much have I got going on?" Now Regulus promised himself to stay put together, but this, this is his frailty. Too emotional, too expressive when it counts the least. "I'm your dirty little secret because Sirius wouldn't be able to handle sharing. I'm one wrong step away from my parents beating me half to death. So tell me." 

"No."

"Tell me what the fuck is so awful in her life you just had to recycle the same line you used on me?"

James is quiet, chest heaving. He can feel curls sticking to the nape of his neck from sweat. How could he choose? How could Regulus make him. The silence was crackling like it was electrified. A blush crept up Regulus' cheeks. He looked younger in that moment, and something tugs at James' chest, but a callow face does not mean weakness. 

"Tell me if she takes you far." And James knows exactly what Regulus means. Even through his derisive tone, Regulus had something that kept James grounded, something that kept him tethered. And he hates it. 

"Far away from you." James is angry now, but he can't quite tell who it's at. "Far enough away from all the baggage you've been carrying." His head is a mess, and the only person who could help won't. Who the fuck does Regulus think he is? What the fuck has he done?

"My baggage? Oh, you're funny, Potter. Go on, run away again." Regulus' tone is harsh, derisive. "Up another hill to all the girls who'll help you bury it."

"Oh, fuck off Regulus. Back to surnames? Really? Can't we just talk?"

"About what? The lying? The running? The hiding? No, we can't fucking talk. Grow up."

"Baby Black, so insecure, so naive." James' words are trite to Regulus. "And the girls? What fucking girls? How could I when you're always just behind me?"

"Apparently that still didn't stop you." A flicker of hurt runs through Regulus, but he tamps it down. 

"You know nothing about me. You don't understand. I have a reputation. Everyone thinks I'm single, and Lily's just there. What do you want me to do when I'm constantly pushed in her way?" James is bright red and the air is cloying. His head is buzzing, and he just wants it to stop. "Everyone expects me to be put together, to get the girl, to be cool and funny, and attractive. I thought you'd get it."

"They're just blowing smoke," Regulus smiles, except it's not a smile at all. "I'll say what they won't." It's a realisation. Regulus knows that despite everything, despite being James' dirty little secret, he still has one thing James doesn't. 

James told Regulus the truth, everything. Every false laugh. Every tired smile. Every sleepless night. 

And James knows it too. 

"Reg, wait. Stop. Please." His hand reaches for Regulus, but he just misses, brushing the cuff of his jumper. 

"I know everything they don't." Regulus' footsteps echo all the way down the stairs. 

And for the first time in his life, James feels something bubbling up in his chest. A subtle burning that felt like agony. 

For the first time in his life, James Potter couldn't have the thing he wanted most.

[mourningliliesmorningglories]

Oh this is so Vienna coded. Oh I am thinking so many thoughts.

People Sirius Black did not get enough time with:

James Potter (10 years)

Harry Potter (2 years)

Remus Lupin (13 years)

Regulus Black (10 (good) years)

Fleamont and Euphemia Potter (7 years)

[cleo-serotonin]

die your daughter // emma & ms. chatham

[azariah-z-fell]

Crowley : ready for it

To

Aziraphale : wildest dreams

[hello-galad]

Cid has a battered old radio in his workshop. It catches a frequency that plays old songs, sometimes nostalgic for couples dancing to the rhythm of soft blues, other times all it plays is rock music and Cid hums the lyrics absentmindedly.

Sometimes Cid can hear soft humming coming from somewhere above him, as silent as the turning of pages. Vincent likes to read, perched most of the time on one of the crates or the wing of one of the planes. Sometimes a rafter, others a chair next to Cid’s as the engineer goes over blueprints and equations.

That day the radio station plays a soft but rhythmic melody that Cid will be the first to admit he doesn’t know how to dance to, but he doesn’t really care as he reaches out to Vincent with an extended hand in invitation. Vincent, who had been watching him swing around the workshop, a feeling of peace and happiness in that smile that carefully keeps the cigarette Cid is smoking in place, accepts Cid’s extended hand. Without warning he is lifted from the chair, twirled around and back in the blonde’s arms.

The song ends and is followed by a softer one that Vincent recognizes from back when he was still a Turk for ShinRa.

They sway together to the voice of the singer who reminds her love that she’s forever theirs.