#if: golden hearts silver tongues

[golden-hearts-silver-tongues-if]

Demo: (Release Date: when i figure out twine, and then a week)

Life was never easy, but the day you first found your talent for less than legal practices, it certainly got easier. And when you finally got taken in by a nosy noble who could appreciate your talents, life finally seemed like it was looking up. But the highlife isn't all it was cracked out to be. You had to leave behind your best friend for this chance at the high life, and that's not even to mention all the enemies you've made while in service of the person who brought you in. Was it worth it? Can you keep your skeletons nice and tidy in your closet? Or will the past prove to have a few too many chips on its shoulder. ------------- This is a game about many things. Struggling to find meaning in your own life, trying to cling to those you care about as life drags you apart, and what can happen when you don't make peace before the storm. You take on the role of a peasant with a talent for the illegal, be that quick hands or a quicker wit. After years of dealing with the dirt of life to make a living, you get taken in (read, bought into service) of a noble who claims to have nothing but good intentions. They want to expose other nobility for their wrongdoings while climbing the ranks themselves. Will you be willing to remain loyal to their cause, or is money truly the only thing motivating you? That remains up to you to decide. Golden Hearts, Silver Tongues is rated 18+ for explicit language, mature themes, drug and alcohol use and abuse, violence, thoughts and mentions of suicide, self-harm, death and mental trauma. -------------

Customizable MC, choose your gender, pronouns, appearance, sexuality, romantic attraction, personality, history with some characters, potential disabilities, and most importantly, how you choose to go about your crimes. Are you a smooth talker, or someone who prefers actions over words?

Romance one of four available ROs? Will you fall back to your tumultuous Ex/Ex Best Friend? Or perhaps your new coworker or Boss? Or perhaps the most dangerous, the Ex-Noble hunting you down?

Struggle with Morality as you get pulled in different directions. What constitutes good anyways? And let's be honest, do you even care about being good at this point?

Resolve all of your lingering issue, before choosing how to move forwards. To remain trapped by the chains of your past, or to cast it all off and move forwards, unburdened. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

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

Romance Options:

The Rival (F, Cis or Trans selectable) - Your one and only friend in the early days of your life, and perhaps something more? You two grew up together and often were the only ones each other had. Perhaps she was your best friend, your lover, or someone you were so close to you could consider them family. Regardless, whatever she was, she isn't anymore. A fight caused a rift between you two, and now you two aren't on talking terms, much less anything else. So, when she shows up to one of your jobs, to steal the same items no less, is it any surprise things don't go well? Tropes - Exes to Lovers, Childhood Crush, Exfriends to Lovers, Rivals/Enemies to Lovers

The Boss (M, F, NB selectable) - The person who scooped you off the streets and showed you what the high life was like, and all you had to do was steal whatever they told you. Simple enough, right? You'd think. In practice, it seems like they keep upping the ante on your targets and at some point, you have to wonder whether or not this is all born out of good intentions. Though, with the looks they keep sending your way, perhaps more than just your skills have captivated them? No, that couldn't be true. After all, a noble and a peasant would cause far too much of an uproar for the already tumultuous figure that is your boss. Right? Gender Footnote - If NB, the Boss will be Agender. Tropes - Forbidden Love, Age Gap, Nobility x Peasant, Employer x Employee

The Coworker (M, Cis or Trans selectable) - A surprise your boss sprung on you just a few months ago, he is another noble who embraced your Boss' rhetoric and now wants to help reveal the darker side of the Kingdom. It's a shame he doesn't know what he's doing, but luckily (or unluckily), that is where you come in. Tasked to show him the ropes of thieving, you must figure out how to teach this eager learner what you've known all your life. He might not have quick hands, nor can he lie to save his life, but if there's one thing, he knows it's how to get up after a failure. And that surely has no correlation to all the gifts of his you've ignored over the years, right? Tropes - Coworkers to Lovers, Master x Apprentice, First Crush, Himbo, Potentially Grumpy x Sunshine

The Baron (M, F, NB selectable) - Hate is a strong word. Luckily, the Baron is a strong person. The first major noble your Boss ever sent you after, they by far had the hardest fall from grace out of anyone you know. Going from ruling an entire quarter of the Kingdom, to being nothing more than a rogue knight hunting you down for revenge. It's a shame they still have so much money at their disposal to hunt you with, and for all that it's worth, they are very good at finding you. Catching you, not so much. You always manage to just barely evade their capture....surely nothing to think about. Gender Footnote - If NB, the Baron will be Genderfluid. Tropes - Hate-Hate Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Murder makes people hot, Villian Route, Potentially Redemption Arc

------------- Note Zone: Hey there! Thanks for reading all the way through this. This little place down here is where I plan on placing things like links in the future, and also any notes on progress or big topics and stuff that comes up. For now, all asks are welcomed, and once again thank you!

[dreamofjoys]

— 𝙇𝘼𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙀𝙂𝙂𝙎

Synopsis: Neuvillette has finally decided to lay his eggs in your womb

C/W: Oviposition, egg laying(5), afab, established relationship, a little bit of domestic moments, double d's cause why not, double penetration, mention of pain, belly bulging, cockwarming

A/N: Dragon people are into oviposition... i just know...

DO NOT READ / DO NOT PROCEED IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH SUCH CONTENT! I WILL BLOCK YOU IF YOU MAKE ANY NEGATIVE COMMENTS (esp when I already stated the warnings) minors go away please.

NEUVILLETTE was gentle when he spread your sticky thighs apart, allowing his shaft to easily re-enter your sex again due to the lubrication of your fluids. He had spent hours stretching your hole out with his fingers and cocks, resulting to you constantly cumming and making a mess all over him.

The hydro dragon doesn't seem to mind. Instead, he pushes your back to the bed, positioning you in a missionary position while he fucks you with both of his dicks. "Sh-shit agh Neuvi, fe-feels so good!" Your eyes rolled to the back when his dicks hits onto your cervix with dead accuracy, his balls slapping onto your folds providing extra stimulation, making you cum once again.

Your husband eyes on your fluttering pussy hole before slowly pulling out, to test if there is any friction. His face turns into a deep shade of red when the erotic sound of sqwueesh happens. Your walls suddenly clamp down on him, seemingly not wanting him to leave your sex. "Love, I think you are ready." Neuvillette comments, looking back at you who seems to be babbling incoherant nonsense, too fucked out and disorientated to register what was going on.

Neuvillette re-positions you again. Your back was pressed onto his front, your legs spread wide with his own as he slots both of himself back in ease, sighing when your walls start fluttering around him again. You moaned in delight when your pussy feels full again, throwing your head back onto your husband's shoulders, hazy eyes looking up at him.

"Will it hurt when you push the eggs in?" So you still remember the agenda of today's sex. " A little, but I will make it fast. Just 5 eggs, tell me if it's too much."

"Hehe, if my husband wants me to take in more than that, I will gladly do so!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Neuvillete leans down to give you a peck on the cheek, his silver hair falls down at his action, tickling your naked body. "There is a limit to your mortal body. I won't hurt you just for my own primal desires." "But you just said that it will hurt a little when the eggs enter me though?"

"I want to start a family with you." He rest his forehead on yours, ocean blue eyes staring down at you. "If you want to back out now, I am also okay with it. I would never want to do something that you are not comfortable with." Your heart skip a beat at his words. This was the very man that you have married to. A kind and gentle soul that was willing to deny his own happiness just for yours.

"Is okay, I told you before that I wanted this. So please, do as you wish, make both of us parents." Upon hearing your words, all the blood in Neuvillette's body seems to have rushed to both of his cocks. His pale lips came crashing down on yours, hungrily devouring you. You gasped when he pinches on your harden nipple, his tongue taking this golden opportunity to slip inside your mouth, exploring every inch of it.

Your eyes widened in surprise when you felt the tip of his cock enlarging, your walls expanding to accommodate the size as something big and round slips into your womb. It seems like one of his cock was responsible for pushing the egg in while the other was just there to keep you nicely stretched. You pulled away from Neuvillette, a string of saliva attached to both of your lips, whimpering when you felt another egg entering your womb.

This whole process was testing the limits of your vagina. You start tearing up at the constant stretching of your walls, instinctively wanting to close your legs but a hand was immediately placed at the back of your thighs, stopping you from doing it.

"It will hurt more if you close your legs." Neuvillette whispers into your ear, his other hand snacking down to toy with your clit, trying to divert attention away from the pain. Your tear stained face breaks Neuvillette's heart, but he could only whisper sweet little nothings to you, telling you that he is so lucky so marry someone as beautiful as you, praising you for being able to take both of his cocks so well. You gripped onto his hand that was toying on your clit, body shaking when you felt the last egg being pushed into your womb, settling itself in it like it was meant to be there.

You look down to see a big bulge on your belly. The eggs were finally nestled inside your womb, safe from the outside. "Mhmmm... is it over?" You rub your eyes sleepily, suddenly feeling exhausted.

"Yes it is, love." Neuvillette's hand had switched to rubbing your folds up and down. He hums an old lullaby, the vibration of his chest lulls your tired state into sleep. Your husband position himself to lean onto the headboard while you sleep in his arms. His dicks were still inside you, not wanting to pull out as he did not want the eggs to slip out - or it could be just an excuse to do cockwarming.

His hand rubs your belly, feeling satisfied at his eggs being laid inside your womb.

Neuvillette thinks hard about what he can do to relieve you of your pain when you have to lay the eggs next time, especially since it's going to grow in size inside your belly.

[mangooes]

Thinking out Loud

The manor was quiet—unusually so.

Sylus stepped through the threshold of the living room, one gloved hand loosening the collar of his coat, expecting the usual: reports scattered on the coffee table, Mephisto perched somewhere suspicious, or maybe the twins passed out from a long stakeout.

Instead, he froze.

The lights were dimmed, casting a soft golden glow across the walls. The big windows stretched open to the city skyline—lights flickering like stars below. But what caught Sylus’s attention wasn’t the view.

A vintage vinyl record was spinning slowly on his cherished turntable—one of the many he collected from his global hunts, this one a pristine edition from the 1960s, playing a slow, crooning love song with that subtle grain only vinyl could offer. The room was bathed in golden amber, the sound warping gently at the edges of the notes, making everything feel timeless.

And then he saw her.

(Name).

She was in the center of the room, barefoot, her curls tied up messily with strands bouncing as she twirled. One hand held a feather duster. The other moved with graceful, lazy flair as she swayed to the old jazz song playing softly from the speakers. Her hips moved with the rhythm, hips swaying, shoulders bouncing slightly with each beat—completely lost in her own world, humming along off-key and completely, devastatingly adorable.

Sylus leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching with amusement.

Of course she hadn’t noticed him yet.

That was his favorite part.

Her joy was a song of its own.

He watched for a long moment, lips curving in that rare, fond smile reserved only for her. The vinyl continued to play softly, a tender hum of nostalgia and love in the background, and finally, (Name) twirled and spotted him.

She stilled like a deer, eyes wide and mischievous. “Sysy~!” she chirped with that breathless grin of hers. “Were you watching me dance again, how long?”

“Mm.” Sylus’s voice was smooth, velvet with a bite.

“Long enough,” he murmured, his voice rich with amusement. “You always throw private concerts when I’m not home?”

(Name) stuck out her tongue. “Maybe. Depends who’s watching.”

He stepped forward, crimson eyes glittering as he approached her with slow, measured grace. “If it’s me… then consider me your number one fan.”

(Name) rolled her eyes, but the blush that dusted her cheeks gave her away. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m a criminal lord, sweetie. I think drama’s part of the job description.”

She dropped the duster dramatically into the couch cushions and walked up to him, eyes sparkling with playfulness. “Well, since you’re here… care for a dance, Mr. Onychinus?”

He raised a silver brow, his lips curled upwards. “You sure Ms. Onychinus? You know I’m more fight than finesse.”

(Name) grabbed his hand anyway and placed it on her waist. “Lucky for you, I’m an excellent teacher.”

Sylus smirked, then without looking away, he reached for the turntable controls with a casual flick of his finger.

The needle lifted, and with a touch of his Evol, a different vinyl floated from the shelf—a slow romantic waltz pressing etched in deep red vinyl. The red and black mists placed it delicately on the turntable, reverently like it was a sacred ritual. The needle dropped with a satisfying crackle and hiss, and a lush, string-heavy melody bloomed through the room.

(Name) blinked. “You’re changing the track?”

“Of course,” Sylus whispered as he tugged her closer, one hand cradling the small of her back. “If we’re going to dance, it has to be our rhythm.”

They began to move.

Slow. Fluid. Effortless.

Her laugh melted against his chest as the two of them began to sway in gently.

The kind of dance that didn’t need steps or instruction—just two hearts beating in sync. Sylus guided her easily, his fingers firm but reverent on her waist, the other clasping her hand. They swayed in slow circles in the center of the room, the city lights painting their skin in gold and red.

Her cheek brushed against his chest as she tilted her head. “You’re being extra charming tonight.”

“I’m always charming,” Sylus teased, dipping his head closer so his breath tickled her ear. “But tonight, you’re glowing, kitten. Couldn’t help myself.”

(Name) laughed softly, chest fluttering as he twirled her under his arm, then pulled her close again. “Glowing? I just finished cleaning.”

He grinned, crimson eyes gleaming. “Then I must have a thing for house faes.”

Then, in one swift motion, he slid his arm under her knees and lifted her into the air with a graceful twirl.

(Name) squealed, laughing as the room spun around her, hair flying loose from its messy bun.

“Sylus!”

“Shh,” he hushed playfully, cradling her against his arm. “You’re ruining the moment.”

He let her feet touch the ground again, but barely—his arms still wrapped around her, one hand brushing the fallen curls from her face, tucking them behind her ear. His fingers lingered at her jaw, stroking down to the edge of her neck.

She was breathless.

“You’re unbelievable,” she breathed.

“One of many reasons you married me,” he quipped.

He was already watching her like she was the only thing in existence.

And this time, it was (Name) who leaned forward—her hands framing his face—and kissed him.

Soft.

Full of warmth.

The kind of kiss that said you’re home to me.

When they broke apart, she didn’t step back.

She just wrapped her arms around his neck, buried her face in the crook of his neck, and whispered, “I love you.”

Sylus froze—not because he didn’t know it. But because, even now, every time she said it so freely, it still knocked the wind out of him.

He rested his chin on top of her head and whispered back, “I love you too, sweetie.”

STOP IM CRYING SO HARD HIS BIRTHDAY IS IN 2 DAYS!! anywayss did u guys also buy the birthday merch from infold?? i bought the smoll keychain doll hehe, take my money. (ANYWAYS THIS FIC IS INSPIRED BY THINKING OUT LOUD ADSKJDNASK THE SLOW DANCE)

[luvether]

CAMPFIRES & UNBLED WOUNDS, the exiled prince never understood why he was curious about your touch, about you. mydei x gn!reader. 2.3k wc

“So you were here, my prince.”

The chirping of crickets subdue at the interruption, and he sees a familiar shadow settle onto the moss and mildew and dirt beside his feet, stretching longer with the puddles of moonlight grinning down at him.

Mydeimos—sitting on the rheumy rocks with his goblet in hand—does not have to tip his chin up to know the owner of the one who called out to him, it was the tone that’s as gentle as the warm wind gossiping a glee on a dewy morning, a voice that’s all too soft and careful to belong to his battle companions, instead it was from you.

“The campfire’s long been extinguished and everyone’s turned in for the night. You should be doing the same, you know.”

“I have a lot on my mind.” Mydei had answered you. “Too restless to sleep.”

For a moment, his response was met with silence. Mydeimos had the urge to glance over his shoulder to check if you were still there—but before he does, you speak.

“Well, that makes the two of us then.”

“You should not…” The rebuttal clumsily slips down his tongue when you’d finally come closer, your shadow giving way to your familiar figure as you appeared at the corner of his vision, settling soundlessly on the empty spot beside him.

Your eyes rest on him, “Should not what, my lord?”

Mydeimos lets out a huff. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone since the afternoon healing our warriors, it is you that needs the rest.”

“And leave our gracious prince out here by himself?”

There was mirth in the way you speak, your gaze settled on the distant stretch of ocean before you both. “Hephaestion was the last to turn in, but he had asked for you when he did not see you in your tent. What am I to do when I face him in the morn had I left you here and slept cozily in my mattresses?”

It was the first tonight when a smile stumbled onto his lips, the corners tipping up in a half-dimpled smile. He shakes his head, an exhale thick with the contents of a laugh. “You jest, surely?”

“He’s your most trusted, of course he worries for you.” You tell him. “Though, you’re gonna steel yourself and tell me—there is no such thing as concern within the Kremnoan language? I can hear such words already.”

You were too focused conjuring up silly teasings that you’d never noticed how the prince’s gaze was on you, no longer had the distant protrusions of rocks from beneath the unruly waves in the distance selfishly caged his attention—his honey-hued eyes beneath the silver moonlight had made the golden in his gaze more sharper and brighter than before, it’s like opening up an oyster to find a dainty pearl on the heart of its mollusk.

The way Mydeimos smiled at you with his dimples made your heart stir and you turned away, clearing the clog of words in your throat.

Jovial playfulness smooths back to comforting silence.

The air tasted of sea-salt—the perks of being near a body of water, and Mydeimos breathed out a thick exhale. Usually, the exiled Kremnoan prince would voice out his gripe at every minor display of disturbance when his mind is sullied with burdening concerns and it’s not like he’s a man who’d brood in isolation—no, Mydeimos would sit around his fellow countrymen usually, sharing a drink by the crackling bonfire after a successful battlefront won over by their Kremoan vigor.

It’s just that they’ve experienced quite a harsh fight with one of their foes of the sea-city states a week ago, many Kremnoans came back severely injured so company was the least assurance the prince wanted.

But for some reason, he cannot utter a single thing when you sit by him, gazing out at the same ocean that’s all violent waves with teeth of white foam and tongue of sea-salt.

Maybe it was the fact that you were their medic—Mydeimos never had the luxury to be patched up by you—his immortality ridding any wounds and injuries before they can be fussed over. But his keen honey eyes would look on unmovingly at times where he catches you bandaging up his men in the distance, particularly with how utterly gentle you seem.

It was a foreign thing in his eyes, then again you were not from Castrum Kremnos, they had just picked you up during their expedition across Amphoreus when you had claimed to be someone who knew a thing or two about being a medical practitioner. Mydeimos was practically untouchable so taking someone like you would’ve been more of a hindrance, they already had Perdikkas for such a situation.

But his soldiers weren’t like him, he had already seen some of them fall in battle or succumb to illnesses he wasn’t familiar with. Even the medic himself had vouched for you—saying that having another pair of hands to help the wounded wouldn’t hurt.

So with great reluctance, Mydeimos beckoned you to join. It has already been a few months since then and you have proven to be a valued asset to his party, not only as a medic but rather, a close companion of his.

He resurfaces from his thoughts when he feels a thumb run across his cheek, he’d flinch and the feeling fades just as quick as it came. You have completely caught his attention now and you seem to stumble on rolls of apologies for touching him so carelessly, expecting an ire from him.

“I apologize,” you said. “there was red on your cheek so I thought you were injured…”

Unconsciously, he lifts his ungloved hand and pushes it at the spot on his cheek in which your touch lingered like an aftertaste.

Soft.

Your touch was so sophisticatedly soft and…

“Cold.”

Mydei’s rasp stirs you. “Pardon?”

“Your fingers.” He reiterates with an unreadable baritone. “They’re really cold.”

He did not expect your eyes to waver, nor did he expect the look of shame to flush your cheeks.

Mydeimos frowns at that. “Tell me, what did you do?”

“I…doused them in the river just south of camp when I was washing the bloodied clothes of the soldiers.” You answer simply. “The water’s frigid, it was almost bone-chilling despite the early rise of moonlight—”

“Why do such a thing?”

He does not mean to pry so frankly, you seem reluctant to reply but you needn’t explain further. Mydei had already pieced together the reason.

Being a medic is just as difficult as being a warrior. The prince has seen it all, time and time again, the state of his folks when they’re dragged back from battle—almost torn and severely injured, bloodied and mutilated and ribboned—just how much have you nursed them all back to health? To stitch up capillaries to muscle and skin? for your tender fingers to be caked with hot blood and cold grime that felt like a stain on your flesh even after washing them away numerous times?

He cannot help but bring his attention back to your fingers, and to both of your surprise, he was the one that reached out first.

His calloused hand touches your cold ones, running a rough thumb across your open palm to start. To him, he felt a notable hint of tremor in your fingertips, something he tried to cradle softly.

And to you, there's a mild prickle at the aftermath of the prince’s rough-hewn hands against your own.

“How are you feeling?” Mydei asks and it’s such a simple question, it’s so simple and yet you find yourself at a loss of what to say. You didn’t need to, he clasped your hand then, drawing it closer until both your fingers interlaced together.

“My lord, such a thing—“

Your cheeks surrender to the flushed heat, Mydeimos’ hands are calloused yet very tender. You don’t know what the prince wanted you to acknowledge, you’re just surprised he was the first who was willing to touch you so daringly.

“Refrain from doing that again.” His baritone reverberates through his chest, a gentle lecture slipping between his teeth. “Cold therapy may help you now but I've seen my comrades develop trench foot before. It’s in our best interest if you, the medic, is healthy at all costs. Just come find me whenever you have troubles with anything, okay?”

His honey eyes are on you. “Stay for as long as you wish, until your hands stop trembling from the cold.” Until you’re okay, you can hear the aftermath of concern brushing your ears.

You let out a finicky chuckle. “It was supposed to be me comforting you, not the other way around.”

“I’m fine.” Mydeimos answered. “I cannot die—“

“Cannot die in physical essence but your heart can still hurt from grief.” You squeeze back on his own. “And who knows, Mydeimos? You may be stabbed and injured numerous times but what if one day, when an enemy stabs you and you die, what would your people think? What do you think I would feel?”

It was merely a hypothesis for you, but the gravity of your theory tosses weight onto his shoulders, his chest caving in and his spine tingling, especially at the thoracic region. But instead of worrying about your words, Mydeimos observes you from the corner of his eye once again—he finds himself doing that as of late, and a ghost of a smile is on his lips, a teasing of his own at the tip of his tongue.

“Maybe it’s you who worries a lot about me, not Hephaestion.” He pokes at you, his playfulness catches you off guard and you find yourself sputtering.

“You could drown—“

“Then, I can simply swim.”

“What about a fatal stab? If you die from—“

Mydeimos tries his hardest from rolling his eyes. “And you think one measly stab would cut me down completely? Sometimes you wound me with your lack of faith—“

“I’m being serious, Mydeimos.”

And this time, the prince brings your hand close to him and lays it flat above his heart.

That renders your worries short, feeling the heavy beat of his heart on his chest, the evident embrace of warmth that dances along your open palm.

“Does it feel like I’d drop dead somewhere anytime soon?”

Your fear soon withers away from your chest, but Mydeimos does not let go of your hand, tracing his thumb up and down the pulse of your wrist.

“Does it?” He asks you, barely a whisper.

You shake your head but the tension is already thick in the air, electrifying. You find yourself reaching for every inch of vitality within him, any sign of life that you can feel beneath your palm. At first it was the apical pulse on his chest, then you started to draw patterns on his denuded skin—fingers tracing down the carmine tattoos that splay across his body as you searched.

It wasn’t sensual, per say, but your hands grasped him in desperation to feel life, a breath and a sharp pulse and he’s right,

Unlike the injured soldiers that were cold and trembling beneath your fingers before they died and dried—the prince is warm, blood pumping and heart erratic. Touching him brings you some sort of selfish solace and the trembling coldness of your fingertips are quickly blanketed by Mydeimos’ body heat as you curiously trace the red that marks up his body—up his carotid arteries on his neck until it reaches the edge of his tendrils.

“Your hair is tangled, your highness.” It was your soft murmur as you leaned close to him, then your fingers reached out to comb through his thick peach-puddled blond hair.

“Is that so?” He voices, eyes trained on you. The gaps between the two of you are quick to eat up, especially with the way Mydeimos is leaning onto your hand. He’s been trying since the first few months, to not be too overly concerned with your touch every time he sees you tending to his men, but even he cannot deny that he had always been curious since the moment you first join,

He was curious about your touch on him, or simply, how gentle you would touch him like you do the rest.

And just as he suspected, your touch is rather feather-like when you start to fiddle tiny braids onto his hair. Remnants of your fingers seem to linger at every mark in his body—

A rustle shatters the atmosphere and you both are quick to pull away. Mydeimos hides the sneer on his expression when Hephaestion emerges from the bushes,

“Oh, so you both were here—”

“What is it—” when Hephaestion stares at him in shock, especially with how snappy he sounded, Mydeimos falters, clearing his throat, “—I mean, what seems to be the matter, Hephaestion?”

You snicker beside him, but when Mydeimos points a glare your way, you yourself clear your own throat.

“Nothing, I was simply wondering where the two of you have gone. Sightseeing without us?”

“Sightseeing is an understatement, we were simply sharing a conversation or two is all.”

“Well, judging by the moon high in the sky, it’s best to wrap up those conversations soon. You both need ample rest after the events that happened for the past few days, have you forgotten that we would march west in the morning?”

At your lack of responses, Hephaestion sighs.

“I’m sure the crickets and herbs are honored at your company, but the detachment move for the west awaits us all, now make haste.”

“Alright, alright we got it.” Mydeimos sighs. Hephaestion had left first as the two of you stood at your feet, brushing crumbs of grime from your attire.

“My lord?”

Mydeimos turns at your call, he sees the slightest hint of twinkle in your eyes against the foam-salted air. “Thank you, for tonight.”

“Do you feel better?”

“Yes.” You answer, rubbing your warm fingertips. “Much better, I hope your concerns have eased as well.”

“You know, I was serious when I said that if you have any troubles, just come find me, maybe we can speak our minds again like tonight.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You chuckle. “Promise me you won’t go dying somewhere else.”

“Without your permission?” His dimpled-smile returns. “I wouldn’t even dream of it.”

[gogogodzilla]

Helloo, i love how u write and this is my first time requesting so i hope u don't mind.

What abt reader giving harry head after a stressful day at quidditch? I imagine it like he whimpers and sorts.

Thank you!! <33

All to You || Harry Potter

harry james potter x reader warnings: nsfw 18+, facefucking, oral sex, gagging, both harry & reader are of age, slight dirty talk note: thank you for the request anon, and thank you everyone for 2k followers!!!!! <3 ✩ masterlist ✩

The roar of the crowd rivals the crack of thunder and the wind that howls throughout the quidditch stadium. Rain trickles down your forehead and you crane your head to catch a glance of your favorite scarlet uniform flying in slow, calculated circles high above the rest of the players. 

Tension crackles through the air as the match progresses, with each team trying desperately to get ahead. The bludgers seemed even more aggressive than usual, which, combined with the pounding rain and lower visibility, leads to some close calls that had your heart skipping a beat. 

There’s a shift in the air as Harry goes into a steep dive. The crowd erupts into cheers and gasps, and time seems to slow as he rapidly nears the ground. Milliseconds pass, and he reaches out a hand, ready to close around the golden snitch. You hardly have enough time to utter the first syllables of a warning before a bludger comes sailing through the air and into his side. You can’t tear your gaze away as he spins out of control, struggling to regain his balance. 

He reaches the ground hard, and you cringe as he rolls across the pitch. The Slytherin seeker seizes the opportunity and catches the snitch in their grasp. The other side of the stadium is a cacophony of cheers as silver and green banners sail through the air. A wave of dejection rolls across the Gryffindor section, and you sink into your seat. 

Slowly, the stadium clears as the Slytherin teams and their supporters celebrate their win. Mud squelches under your boots as you make your way across the pitch. Harry stands slightly away from the rest of his team, his broom clutched tightly in his hand. 

You call his name softly as you approach. He doesn’t look up as you take his hand in yours. 

“Sorry you had to see that,” he says after a moment. 

Your gaze softens as you look at him and lightly squeeze his hand. “Let’s get out of the rain,” you murmur, gently tugging him toward the locker rooms. 

As you enter, you wave your wand, drying your clothes as you walk toward his locker. It does little to ease the chill that seeps into your bones, and a shiver runs down your spine. Harry quickly pulls his uniform top over his head and digs around his locker for his clothes. The sight causes a different kind of shiver to course through you. 

You lean against the locker beside his, pressing your back against the cool metal. “Are you doing okay? That was some hit you took,” you question as your gaze drags down his abdomen. 

He glances in your direction, and a grin spreads across his features as he notices what’s drawn your attention. He raises a brow as your eyes meet his, and you purse your lips.

“Wanna make it feel better?” he teases as he pulls a sweater over his head. 

You step forward and wrap your hands around his waist, spinning him to face you. Your hands dip under his sweater and splay across his torso. He tenses under your touch, hissing softly as your fingers graze against his injured side. 

You look up at him through your eyelashes, and his breath shudders for a moment before he nods. Slowly, you use one hand to push up his sweater, taking in the blooming bruise against his ribcage. 

You sink to your knees and drag your lips across the exposed skin on his stomach. Your free hand wanders across his thigh as you trail kisses down his abdomen. You trace your tongue just above his hips, pressing sloppy kisses against the skin just above his waistband. 

You rest your cheek against his hip as your hands wander across the growing tent in his pants. Harry’s breath quickens as you pop the button on his pants and slowly, agonizingly tug his zipper down. 

You dip a hand into the waistband of his briefs and release his cock from its confines. You wrap your hand around his cock, giving it a few tentative strokes. You’re practically drooling at the sight, and Harry whimpers as you twist your wrist with each pass over his length. 

You look up at him as you bring your lips to his cock, pressing featherlight kisses along his shaft. You take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the leaking head of his cock. Harry bites his lip, stifling a groan as he leans his head back. 

He reaches down and gently tangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck, guiding you as you begin bobbing your head. You steadily take more and more of him while your hand strokes what you can’t reach with your tongue. 

Harry moans and whimpers out honey sweet praises as you have him at your mercy. You rest your palms against the back of his thighs, beckoning him closer. He’s quick to indulge you as he matches the bobs of your head with a quick thrust of his hips. The head of his cock reaches the back of your throat and you gag around him. Harry pulls back just long enough for you to catch your breath before he’s urging his cock down your throat once more. 

It brings tears to your eyes, and Harry cups your face, wiping your cheek as he does. 

“Doing so good for me, love,” he praises, his voice breathy and strained. “So — fuck, so fucking good.” 

With a few quick thrusts of his hips, he’s cumming with a strangled groan. He releases his hold on you as his orgasm washes over him, and you bob your head around him, milking him for every last drop. 

Whimpers escape Harry as the feeling of your lips around him becomes too much for him to bear, and he gently tugs you off of him. He tucks a stray hair behind your ear before pulling you up and capturing your lips in a kiss. 

You pull away, “Feel better?” 

“Much better,” he replies, grinning. 

[florencemtrash]

In a year's time - Azriel x Reader

Warnings: Angst, jealous Azriel, fluff

Masterlist of Masterlists

"But for all he knew you could have fallen for some dashing golden warrior, or found that you preferred your shiny, new friends over him - that you’d found a quieter city full of fae that stole your heart as well as your attention away from him."

Mor narrowed her eyes at the Shadowsinger, watching as he adjusted the collar of his newly tailored suit jacket and then combined his hair back with scarred fingers. 

Azriel had always been annoyingly beautiful - even during their middling years when their voices cracked and they hadn’t yet grown into their long, slender limbs - and so he’d never needed to take special care of his appearance. His hair dried in perfect waves, his skin was smooth and clean despite the scars, and his training had carved out a silhouette as strong and capable as it was alluring. So why did he keep smoothing down his waistcoat like he was nervous?

Mor darted out a tongue, cleaning up the drop of wine that threatened to fall from her ruby red lips, “Azriel? What in the Mother’s name are you doing?” 

His eyes barely flicked over to where she lay sprawled out on his bed. She had no intention of attending this ball sober, and if the near empty bottle of wine balanced precariously against her knee was any indication, she would exceed her goal before they even stepped outside his bedroom. 

He picked up the tie - midnight blue and hand-embroidered with silver thread - and flung it around his neck.

“Getting ready for the ball.” He answered blandly.

She rolled her eyes, “Obviously,” then continued to stare at him expectantly as he finished knotting the tie, folded his pocket square, and then slid his weapons into place as a last measure, cobalt blue siphons flashing from the backs of his hands. 

It clicked all at once as he strolled for the door, forcing Mor to abandon the glass and drink straight from the bottle. 

“Oh my gods.” She said, mouth agape. Her shoes clicked along the marble floors of the River House like the beating of drums. 

Azriel groaned internally. Even tipsy and wearing seven-inch heels, Mor kept up with his long strides easily, prodding his side accusingly with her wine bottle. It magically refilled itself with every jab.

“You’re trying to impress Y/n!” 

Suddenly it was as obvious as the sun rising in the east. He’d chosen the tie you complimented him on last Starfall, despite his hatred of its fanciful nature. He was wearing the silver moonstone cufflinks you’d bought him for his birthday. He’d even combed his hair because he knew you’d notice and muss it up for him.

“Mor-” He warned, color beginning to dust his cheeks. His shadows darted around the hallway, climbing the velvet curtains and peering around the corners to watch for any potential eavesdropping. 

“I knew it! I knew it!” She said, swatting him with a frustrated hand. Her red silk dress clung to her waist and thighs before fluttering out in a halo around her knees as she chased after him, aiming to slap him across the head. 

Azriel stopped in his tracks and grabbed at her wrists, desperately hoping no one else in the house had left their rooms yet. If he was really lucky, the two mated couples would be making enough noise of their own to drown out Mor’s excitement.

“Mor, stop it. And be quiet.”

“You loooove her.” She crowed, dragging out the sound. Suddenly she straightened up, hands on her hips and frowning, “Is that why you’ve been so irritable lately? Because you miss her?” 

Azriel said nothing, gave away nothing, even though Mor had hit the nail on the head in her drunken stupor. 

It had been a great honor when Thesan offered to take you under his wing and train you personally. More than a favor to Rhysand, he’d seen your healing talent and wanted your expertise to be well represented in the Dawn Court. So a year ago you’d packed up your things and said your goodbyes.

“It’s only temporary.” You’d promised him, “I’ll be back before you know it. In a year’s time.”

But a lot could change in a year. You’d sent plenty of letters back and forth to each other, and Azriel would be loath to admit that he slept with them clutched against his chest every night so whispers of your scent would chase the nightmares away. 

But for all he knew you could have fallen for some dashing golden warrior, or found that you preferred your shiny, new friends over him - that you’d found a quieter city full of fae that stole your heart as well as your attention away from him.

He was happy for you and had been the one to encourage you to move to Dawn. But that didn’t mean he didn’t miss you terribly. You’d been missing from his side like a torn limb, and Azriel had been walking through life at a crooked angle ever since. 

“I don’t-” He sighed, he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t love you. He just couldn’t, “It’s none of your business, Mor.” He amended. 

He released her wrists breezed past her, but she sprinted ahead of him, splaying her limbs out on the staircase to block his path.

“You need to tell her you love her. Tonight.” She commanded. Her words slurred out gently, the faerie wine finally kicking in when she’d wanted it to. “I mean it, Az.” 

He shook his head, “I can’t tell her tonight.” 

“Why not?” 

“I haven’t seen her in a year! I can’t drop that kind of truth on her.” 

“Yes you can!” She fought back. There was some muddled piece of information hanging at the edges of her mind, something important she needed to tell Az. But the wine held it back. Fuck. She cursed inwardly.

“No. I. Can’t.”

“Yes. You. Can.” She was practically seething, pearly brown eyes unfocused but unrelenting. She knows something I don’t, Azriel realized in a burst of shock. 

“What is it, Mor? What did she tell you?”

She blinked, dropping her arms from the burnt umber railings. His heart quickened. Had his worst fears come true? Had you found someone else in Dawn worth staying for?

“I-” Damn it. She shouldn’t have finished the second bottle. She cradled it protectively against her chest, feeling the glass cool her hot skin, “I don’t fucking remember.” 

“What do you mean you don’t remember?”

“I mean, I’m drunk, Az. And drunk Mor doesn’t remember shit.”

His heart quickened further, a crushing sense of guilt and loss wrapping around his chest like a corset and tightening. Mor at least was saved from further useless interrogation when Rhysand and Feyre bounded out from down the hallway, tastefully disheveled and looking sinful in Night Court black. 

Rhysand cleared his throat, straightening his dinner jacket and absent-mindedly straightening Feyre’s crown for her, “Everyone ready to leave?” His eyes glazed over, calling out to the last missing members of their party. 

Cassian and Nesta spilled out of their room next, the braids of her coronet slipping out and spilling over her heaving chest. Azriel tipped his head to the ceiling and cursed silently. Mother have mercy…

Nesta pulled up on the strap of her lace dress, only to find that it had been torn to ribbons. 

Cassian was in no better shape - the collar of his white shirt was smeared with lipstick, although he didn’t have the same sense as Nesta to look annoyed at the interruption to their… activities. A toothy grin bloomed on his face, shoulder-length hair tangled like someone had been yanking it for hours.

“Can’t make it tonight, Rhys.” He said. He glanced down at Nes, “I’m not feeling well.” 

“Me neither.” Nesta said hastily, slipping back behind the door and hauling Cassian inside with her like he weighed as light as a feather. Four months after their mating ceremony and they were as insatiable as ever. 

“You’re full of shit, Cass!” Rhys called out just before the door slammed shut. A muffled Fuck you! Came from within, followed by a, Tell Y/n we’ll see her at home! From Nesta. 

They winnowed to the outskirts of Daybreak Hill, landing in a field of cushiony moss dotted with pink and violet heather that stirred in the breeze like the dusk-painted clouds above. 

Feyre sighed deeply, breathing in the scent of lavender and rosewater. She loved Velaris and no one could hold a candle to the beauty of the Night Court… except perhaps Dawn. 

It was like someone had laid a mirror flat on the earth. Periwinkle skies kissed rolling sage green hills dotted with red-roofed villages and sank into lakes of pearl and lavender until it was impossible to tell where the sky started or ended. 

The Dawn Court Palace’s twisting spires of honey marble glowed brighter than the setting sun. So brightly in fact that Mor had to help shield Azriel’s eyes with her soft hands as he carried them up through low-hanging satin clouds. Dots of scarlet and midnight black soaring through cotton skies. 

His hands turned clammy and the tightness in his chest felt like a giant’s fist squeezing his heart, but he convinced himself it was the thin air that was responsible, and not the raging longing in his heart for you. Still, he had to appreciate the beauty of the red-roofed villages below, tinkering hands hard at work inside chestnut workshops filled with glistening bronze and copper. 

They dove through the columns into the open-air hall, any dampness from the mist magicked away by Thesan’s careful hands as he stepped down from the golden dias to greet his honored guests. His rich, copper-colored skin radiated light, melting with the darkness that rippled off Rhysand and Feyre’s shoulders as they shook hands and exchanged the usual pleasantries. 

Mor stretched her silky arms above her hands, catching the eyes of a cherub-faced female reaching to grab a flute from the champagne tower. Normally, Mor would have been flattered, but with Emerie at home and a wine-drunk haze over her mind, she was feeling more anxious than anything else. What the fuck was it that she was trying to remember?

Faelights bloomed above him, tinkered in the shapes of roses that gently pulsed, fluttering petals propelling them across the room in a sway of light. 

But Azriel was barely paying attention. His eyes skimmed the crowd, searching for a silhouette he knew as intimately as the ridges of his hands. 

There. 

You stood across the room, half-hidden in the stone archway beside Thesan’s lover, Herades. You bowed your head towards him in silent conversation, nursing a glass of champagne in your hand to try and cool your nerves. Azriel would be arriving soon, if he wasn’t already here, cradling the walls in search of dark corners like he was bound to do. You’d been imagining all the ways you’d greet him - with a joke, with a meaningful embrace, with a kiss. You shook her head, pushing the last thought out of your mind and focusing on Herades’s story again. 

Your laugh was a flare of light blooming at the end of a match. Azriel stared utterly captivated. Time moved slower than syrup when you finally met his eyes and smiled with an affection more precious than gold. 

“Az!” You squeezed Herades’s arm, politely excusing yourself, and then you were off. You sprang across the room in a billow of cream fabric, like milk poured into coffee. The tips of your pleated skirts were touched with blue like you’d waded out into the night sky. The color matched the ribbon in your hair, and the siphons of a certain lovestruck Shadowsinger. 

“Y/n,” He breathed out. You flowed into his arms and he gathered you into them like a bouquet of wildflowers, breathing in your familiar scent of rosemary and peppermint. Gods I missed you. He whispered in his mind, hoping that somehow you’d hear it at the end of that glowing thread.

But the hug was short-lived. Too short-lived. 

“Mor!” You sang in that melodic voice he loved so much, grasping for her next, then Rhys, then Feyre. 

Thesan looked on humbly, sighing faintly when Herades caught up to you and immediately slid to Thesan’s side. 

“Oh I’ve missed you all so much.” You said, rocking back and forth. 

“We missed you,” Feyre said into your hair. She was the one to pull away, smoothing out ribbon and giving you a once-over look. 

Your time had been well-spent at the Dawn Court. Extra color bronzed your cheeks and tinted your lips a pale berry shade. You stood up straighter, smiled a little wider, and walked with an extra height to your step. You’d always been beautiful and graceful, but it was like you were aware of it now - like you’d grown the last few inches into your body. 

“You look lovely, Y/n.” Feyre said and Mor agreed enthusiastically, commenting on your dress and your hair and your… well everything.

“Thank you,” You said, blushing, “Thesan’s treated me very well.” 

That was an understatement. He’d set you up in his personal household, paid you handsomely (even more than Rhysand paid you if that were possible), and had had the royal seamstress sew ten dresses for you to pick from for tonight’s ball alone. It was your party after all in commemoration of the advancements you’d made in child birthing practices. You’d handled twelve pregnancies alone in the past year across Dawn and Winter, all of the children delivered safely and as plump and rosy as summer cherries. 

“And you’ve repaid it to my court ten-fold.” Thesan said and held up his drink. Even Herades smiled, tawny feathers flaring out with pride. You were responsible for the safety of his sister-in-law and the birth of his nephew - hawk wings and all. 

It was a flurry of activity following the Night Court’s fashionably late arrival. You dragged Azriel and Mor up to the dais after Rhys and Feyre. Traditionally the table was only meant for High Lords and their partners, but Thesan was a unique and progressive leader in more ways than one. 

Herades and Thesan sat in the middle with Feyre and Rhysand, leaving you, Azriel, and Mor at one end and Thesan’s sister and her husband at the other. 

Azriel was eternally grateful when Mor lunged for the center-most seat, forcing you to sit between her and Azriel. You bumped knees with him, leaning close as you whispered about the Court gossip you’d managed to overhear from the cooks or discussing the progress you’d made in the Winter Court. 

Course after course appeared in front of him and disappeared, hardly touched. He wasn’t hungry for anything other than you, focusing on the crease within your brows as you tried to remember all the news you couldn’t write to him about or the twist of your perfect, flushed lips as you displayed your displeasure and your joy. 

If he believed himself to be worthy of your affection he would have whisked you away hours ago, disappearing into whichever room in the palace was yours and pressing you against the wall, lip-locked until the need for air forced him to stop. 

“How are Kallias and Viviane doing?” Mor asked, perking up at the mention of the Winter Court.

You smiled, your cheeks flushing with color, “I’m not supposed to say, Mor, so you must promise not to tell anyone. Anyone.” Mor locked her mouth and threw away the key. Your lips brushed against the sharp curve of her ear, “She’s pregnant.” 

Mor clapped a hand over her mouth, nearly upsetting the glass of wine balanced precariously on the edge of the table. One of Azriel’s shadows darted out, pushing it safely out of the way of her swaying arms.

“Stop.” She hissed in disbelief. Her golden hair seemed to brighten with her cheeks. 

You nodded, “With twins.” 

Tears flooded her eyes, “That wench didn’t tell me.” 

“She’s been busy, if you can imagine.” 

“Still!” Mor muttered under her breath, eating her food slowly and sipping on her wine quickly. She gave up on being sober the more males approached her from the base of the dais, bowing deeply with proud, puffed up chests and asking for a dance. Word had gone around about her… preferences, and far from dissuading suitors, it seemed to have been offered up as a challenge as to who could change her mind. Thank the gods Emerie had declined the invitation to join them. She would have castrated half these males in an instant, if Mor didn’t beat her to it. 

Thesan, gratefully, put an end to it once he caught onto the pattern. One sharp look from him sent them scampering back, coattails between their legs. 

There was one final male though who ignored the previous warnings, humbly bleeding out of the crowd as remnants of rose cake disappeared from the tables and the quartet swelled to include twelve musicians plus a singer. Full, cream-colored wings hovered above the ground, tawny-tipped and lush. Even Mor had to admit, with his olive skin, amber eyes, and warm honey curls he was stunning. Like liquid gold poured out of the setting sun. 

He bowed deeply, a subtle smile on his face. Azriel went rigid, seeing you lean forward out of the corner of his eye with a blush coating your cheeks. 

Mor closed her eyes and groaned. Fuuuuuuuck. That’s what she’d forgotten about. Or rather whom she’d forgotten about. 

Naemon - the golden boy who’d begun to court you seven months back. You’d dropped his name only a handful of times in your letters to Mor. Not enough times to convince Mor you were actually taken with him, but enough times for her to remember the bastard’s name. 

“Y/n,” His voice was silky smooth and kind, “May I have the first dance with you?” He asked politely. 

Your breath caught in your throat and you risked a glance over at Azriel. He looked… bored and unaffected. He reached for his glass, looking more interested in the faerie wine than the male who’d just asked for your hand. It was stupid of you to think he would care for you  as anything more than a friend, and even more foolish of you to think he might be jealous. 

You pushed away from the table and floated down the dais, taking the strong and sturdy hand Naemon offered you. The first song was too spirited and quick to reveal any true feelings. It was a blur of silks and lean arms as you wove through the sea of dancers and were gently tossed from partner to partner. But the second song was slower, more intimate. Naemon flashed a look of gratitude to the singer, who winked in return, before scooping one arm around your waist, hand flat on the small of your back. You rested one hand on his shoulder, feeling the rolling of muscle beneath his crisp linen tunic, and held his free hand. 

Naemon was a kind and gentle male. After the death of his parents, he’d all but raised his younger sister Namia on his own, relying on the money he earned in the Peregryn legion to make ends meet. It was his care for his sister that had first drawn him to you - any misgivings he’d had melting away as you grew close to Namia from among the other healers. You’d supported her throughout her pregnancy, become her friend, and served as a balm to his anxieties whenever his duties took him away for long stretches of time. 

You looked down bashfully, apologizing for missing one of the dance steps and crushing his toe, “I’m better at the quicksteps.” You explained. 

Naemon smiled brilliantly, and you couldn’t stop the faint flutter in your chest, “I can’t blame you. The slow ones can get boring. Leaves too much time for overthinking.” 

“Exactly.” Too much time for overthinking about a certain Shadowsinger.

 You’d never given Naemon any false pretenses about your feelings, always reminding him and Namia that your position in Dawn was temporary. But still… It felt nice to be courted by someone as open as him. With Naemon you never had to guess whether he wanted you or not - you knew he did. The flowers he often left in the healer’s temple, or the offers to take you out to dinner or to dances like this one proved it. 

A curl of guilt coiled in your stomach. Maybe now was a good time to bow out and return to your seat. Surely the slow waltz would be finishing soon. The-

“You’re overthinking again.” Naemon said, his full lips brushing against the sharp curve of your ear and heating the gold cuffs you wore. “I don’t want you to worry about anything, Y/n. If you’re enjoying yourself - if you like dancing with me - keep doing it.”

“Naemon-” You began apologetically.

He shook his head, “Don’t worry about me, Y/n.” He said honestly, “I just want to dance with you tonight. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

You stared into his eyes, finding nothing but truth in them. A portion of your nerves melted away and you found that when the cello began to hum out a simple tune, you were still holding onto him and letting him move you through the next movements. 

Azriel was barely holding on by a thread. Wine glass now empty and clenched dangerously between shadow covered hands. Rhys shot him a look, and when his attempts to breach his brother’s mental shields were met with resistance, he turned to Mor. 

What’s wrong with him? His eyes flashed the question.

He’s being an ass who can’t come to terms with his emotions. Mor grumbled back, sinking into her seat with a fling of yellow-gold waves. 

Rhys’s eyes went from confused to wide open as he shot a look to you across the dance floor. Fuck.

Feyre followed her mate’s attention with a look of concern, and then traced Azriel’s steely gaze to the dance floor where you were smiling reservedly up at Naemon. You two made a handsome couple, weaving a clear path through the other dancers as they parted for his magnificent feathered wings. 

Azriel stiffened. He’d never been particularly proud of his Illyrian heritage, but his wings… his wings were one of the few true beauties he possessed. But in comparison to the golden-boy warrior that smiled at you and brushed back a loose strand of hair with his soft hands, Azriel found himself lacking… once again. 

Naemon was a gentle breeze where Azriel was blistering wind. He was a wide open door, every look he gave you filled with clear affection. Azriel was a dozen locked boxes, each one nestled within the other with all the keys rusted and thrown away. Naemon looked reserved and in control. Azriel felt completely out of it, and it took every inch of willpower to keep the mating bond from driving him mad enough to launch across the dancefloor and bruise Naemon’s high, perfect cheekbones.

But then the dance ended and Naemon parted from you long enough to reach behind his back and pluck a feather from his wing. A few shocked gasps scattered throughout the room. Even Thesan and Herades looked on with raised eyebrows, leaning close enough to touch. 

The feather was a beauty - the length of Naemon’s forearm and such a pure white it glimmered like moonlight. You froze, staring down at the treasure he offered you with bated breath. 

Peregryns were fiercely protective of their wings and rightfully so. To be allowed near them alone was a great honor. To touch them was an intimate act reserved for family members and lovers. To be offered a feather?! In some circles it was akin to being gifted a thousand roses. In other circles it was tantamount to a marriage proposal.

Both offers were completely overwhelming to you.

“Naemon-” You began carefully, backing away, “I-I can’t.” 

He smiled softly, eyes flashing briefly up to the dias where the Shadowsinger had gotten up to his feet, something like desperation and longing buried deep beneath the layers of his hazel eyes. 

“Don’t worry about me, Y/n.” Naemon said resignedly, “But please, take this,” He begged, spreading open your fingers before curling them again around the feather, “For everything you’ve done for my family.” 

And because I love you, even if you don’t love me back - were the words he didn’t say aloud.

“Naemon-” A shadow fell over your feet, curling around your ankles and skirts and tugging you away like a child seeking attention.

Naemon, for all his relative youth and gentle disposition, didn’t seem surprised or affected by the Shadowsinger’s presence. Azriel hovered close behind you, eyes blown open and desperate. 

Please don��t. He silently begged. Please don’t say yes to him.

He almost melted with relief when Naemon only dipped his head in acknowledgement and kissed the palm of your hands. Even that innocent touch made Azriel’s stomach turn. 

You turned when Naemon finally disappeared into the crowd. “Azriel, I-”

You had half a mind to hide the feather behind your back, but you couldn’t do such a cruel thing to Naemon. And it wasn’t like Azriel hadn’t watched the whole thing unfold in front of him. You clasped the feather in your hands, careful not to ruffle the delicate barbs.

Azriel was no longer bored and unaffected. In fact he seemed unnaturally flustered and nervous. 

He swallowed thickly, mindful of the curious stares you were attracting. Not only had you just been proposed to, but now you were being approached by a male from your past after an ambiguous response - you’d accepted the feather, but Naemon had left alone. The court gossips would have a field day, if they weren’t already.

“Y/n,” He said, his voice thin and quiet. A mere whisper among the riff raff that was steadily building up again in a crescendo, “Can we please talk?” His wings fluttered nervously, and he shot a dangerous look at a male who came too close to you, “In private? Please?”

Your heart fluttered in your chest. You’d barely recovered from Naemon’s dramatic display and you were scared about what Azriel might offer next. 

Still you mumbled, “Oh-um… yes.” 

The words were barely out of your mouth before Azriel’s hand was on your wrist, delicately leading you through the crowd towards the archway and into the hallway beyond. Fae mingled about in their finery, happy to escape the music and the sweep of dancers. 

Azriel scowled. This was hardly any more private. 

“My quarters are further down this hall,” You offered, pointing down a sky bridge that connected the public wings of the palace to the private ones. Azriel exhaled in relief, nodding and following you as you cut through unfamiliar halls draped in rich reds, golds, and turquoises. 

You stopped at a door of solid oak, hand painted to look like it had been lifted from the pages of a storybook. Resplendent gold filigree traced the footsteps of maidens running along hills dense with colorful flora. Water trickled down from the mountain tops, so realistic that Azriel was amazed to find the handwoven carpets in your room were dry. 

You peered down the hall before closing the door with a gentle whisper. Only the songbirds nesting in the high crevices bore witness to your activities. 

You hesitated and then tucked the feather into one of the empty jewelry boxes on the vanity. Out of sight, but not out of mind. 

Azriel stood motionless by the door, watching as you closed the box and slid it back against the mirror.

“Did you say yes?” He whispered, hating the way his voice caught in his throat, “Do you love him?”

You turned around quickly, the length of ribbon in your hair rippling through the air to land on your collarbone. Azriel was upon you in an instant close enough for you to feel his shallow breathing, but all he did was trace the blue ribbon with his fingers and then push it back over your shoulder.

“I don’t-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You stuttered and your face burned with feeling. Azriel had asked you for privacy so he could ask you about Naemon? 

Azriel clenched his fists once. Twice. “The male you were dancing with. The feather-”

You blushed deeply, turning your face away to hide your embarrassment. You had hoped he didn’t know about that Peregryn custom.

He gently gripped your chin with his thumb and forefinger, pulling your gaze back to him. You blinked in surprise. For once Azriel looked… scared.

“Did you say yes to him? Please. Tell me.” 

If you had said yes he might just shrivel up into nothing on the spot. Why had he waited so long to tell you his feelings? Why had he waited so long to tell you about the bond? But if he did it now it would just be terrible timing all around. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You shook your head and Azriel’s wings dropped in relief, eyes closing as he murmured a quiet thanks to the Mother beneath his breath.

“He-it wasn’t even a real proposal. He gave it to me as thanks for helping his sister. That’s all.” 

He gave you a pointed look like he knew you were lying. There was no questioning Naemon’s feelings for you. No questioning at all.

“You never answered my second question.” 

You crumpled under his gaze. Gods, he looked beautiful tonight. Torturously so. It wasn’t fair. Naemon had loved you openly, never given you cause to doubt his intentions nor made you feel guilty for not returning his feelings. And yet here you were, still pining after the male who’d never seen you as more than a friend. A male whose intentions were never clear. A male who always made you question how well you knew him, and whether those small touches and reserved smiles and affectionate letters were just a polite kindness or something more. 

“No.” It felt wrong of you to admit it so callously, even if it was the truth, “No I don’t love him.”

Azriel looked ready to kiss the ground and something about that set a fire within you. Leave it to Azriel to ignore any romantic advances from you, to chase after other females left and right for literal centuries, and then get upset the moment another male found you appealing. 

You huffed, pushing him away harshly and crossing your arms over your chest, “It’s none of your business anyhow. I’m allowed to have my lovers and my almost lovers. And if you truly thought Naemon was proposing to me, I don’t know why you’d want to fucking interrupt it!”

Azriel flinched at the coldness in your voice, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it, Az?” You exclaimed, clearly irritated now, “Gods, you never just say what you mean.”

Azriel tried again, grasping at straws. “I would never judge you for your choices, even if you said yes to him or-I just-fuck.” 

On any other day you’d be laughing. Azriel was a male of few words, but the words he did say were always perfect and calculated. Nothing about this was calculated or thought out.

“I… you’re my best friend, Y/n. And I haven’t seen you in over a year. I just…” He cringed. Hard. Cauldron boil him. He was doing this terribly, “I was scared.” He finally admitted, and rather pathetically.

“Scared?” You dropped your arms. That wasn’t the answer you’d been expecting, “Scared of what? You’re hardly ever afraid of anything.”

He shrank away, hands clasped tightly behind his back, “That you’d leave me-us. That you’d find a reason to stay here instead of returning to Velaris. And when I saw you dancing with him tonight - the way he was looking at you and the way you were looking at him - I thought… I thought Naemon would be that reason.” 

Now you were confused and even more irate than before.

You stalked up to him, jabbing his chest with an accusatory finger, “You were the one who encouraged me to do this. You were the one constantly writing to me about the importance of making friends and “putting myself out there.” You were the one who practically shoved me out the door when I left-”

“Because I thought you wanted this!” 

“I did! I-I do!” 

“Then what was I supposed to do, Y/n?!” He cried out. His shadows, which had been held back so tightly on a leash throughout the night, exploded outward, coating the bright colors of your bedspread and the rugs and the curtains in inky black. They swirled there, as agitated and timid as their master. 

“What was I supposed to do?” He whispered again. He sounded tired. Defeated. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t hold you back from what you wanted. From the happiness and opportunities you deserve.”

“You could’ve at least said something! You could’ve at least told me that you were upset with me leaving. That you were going to miss me and that you-you-” 

That you love me and that you wanted me to stay. You shoved the thought out of your mind, slamming the door and turning the lock. Useless, lovestruck pipedreams would do you no good now. 

“Instead you just pushed me out the door and it’s been nothing but empty letters from you since.” 

“They weren’t empty.” Azriel said weakly. He’d never been a man of words or poetry, but in that moment he desperately wished he was. “And I did miss you. Y/n, I missed you so much some days it felt like I couldn’t breathe.” 

You deflated, your anger slowly ebbing away like the ocean during low tide. Sometimes you forgot that beneath all those hard-won layers of shadow and muscle, Azriel was still that little boy that had been abandoned in a cellar and taught to believe he was worthless. A waste of time and a waste of space. Nothing more than an inconvenient bastard. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you were all doing fine. That I’d come back and it would be like nothing had ever changed. I would’ve-I would’ve made time to visit. Or-or come back sooner.”

Azriel chuckled without humour. He had not been “doing fine” without you. He hadn’t been “doing fine” since the moment you’d stepped across the doorway and winnowed out of Velaris.

“You make it sound like I was going away forever.” You added softly.

“It felt like it.” Azriel admitted quietly, “I always worried there was a chance you’d decide you liked things better in Dawn. That you liked the people better. So when I saw you with Naemon I just…” His voice trailed off and he slowly backed up to your bed, sinking down into the pillowy comforter. Even the beds seemed softer and kinder here. Softer and kinder than him.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. 

He felt the bed dip beside him, your knee pressing against his in a burst of warmth. The blue tipped pleats of your dress slowly waved with his shadows as they once again curled around your feet, inching up your dress and closer and closer to your hands. Now that he was looking down he noticed the shoes you were wearing - cobalt blue with matching velvet ribbons tied up your calf. Same as your dress. Same as the ribbon in your hair.

“I wanted to believe you wore those colors for me tonight.” He said quietly, aching for your touch. Your hands were so close to his he could almost imagine that-

You covered his hands with your own, smoothing the rough skin with gentle caresses, “I did.”

It had seemed like such a stupidly hopeful choice at the time - some not-so-subtle declaration of love for all the months you’d spent apart - but when the seamstress had laid out all the dresses, you’d taken one look at the cobalt blue accents and the shoes and snatched them up in a heartbeat. 

Azriel’s eyes were wider, more open, than the moon, shimmering with disbelief and hope, “You did?” He whispered.

“I did. They reminded me of you.” You stopped looking him in the eyes. It felt like too much. Too much emotion. Too much feeling. “I missed you too, you know.” 

Azriel stayed quiet for a long while, sorting out the myriad of feelings roiling in his chest and trying to latch onto a single coherent thought. Finally he murmured, “I guess we could both work on saying things outright.” 

You laughed softly, shaking your head and wiping at the corners of your eyes, “Yes. I guess we could.” 

“We could start now.” Azriel offered hesitantly. His heart hammered away in his chest like a blacksmith at his anvil until he was sure his sternum would crack. 

You raised your eyebrows. Curious.

“The next five minutes. We say everything honestly. No holding back.” 

“I don’t know, Az. I-”

“Please.” He begged, holding onto your hands a little tighter. His shadows had traveled all the way up to your waist now, ghosting over flesh that he didn’t dare touch. He didn’t want to lose you. He’d thought he could handle being apart from you physically - that it would be no different from the decades he’d spent quietly loving you from right by your side - but he’d been horribly wrong. And he didn’t want to risk another, better male than Naemon coming to whisk you away before he had the chance to do things properly. To do things honestly.

His hands were shaking now, gripping your hands like you were the anchor to his ship trapped in raging waters, “I’ll start.” 

“Ok.” You whispered, leaning a little closer.

Azriel swallowed and tried to stop the trembling in his hands and in his voice. In this he managed quite well, falling into a rigid, flat silence.

“I love you. I’ve loved you for years now, actually.” He dared to look at you. Your lips were parted in shock and he wished he could taste them, “Is that…is that ok?” 

“Is that ok?” You repeated dumbly. “Is that ok?” You repeated a little louder, “Are you serious, Azriel?”

“Y-Yes?” He was trembling again, face open and terrified. He was offering you up his heart on a platter and praying to the Mother you wouldn’t crush it beneath those velvet blue shoes. Even if you did, he would find some solace in knowing you were the one to destroy him. He loved you so dearly that it was only within your right to do so. 

Your lips broke in a stuttered smile, opening and closing like you didn’t quite know what to do. “I never thought I’d hear you say that. I’d hoped you might feel that way but I… I was never sure. I…” You cradled his face in your hands, tracing the curve of his jaw and his cheekbones with your fingertips, “I love you too, Azriel. I love you so much.” Your voice cracked, silver gathering in your eyes no matter how fiercely you tried to blink them away, “Gods, Az, you don’t even know.” 

He gripped you close enough enough to bruise, arms locked around your waist and hands laid flat on your back. It was a sweet pain that grew even sweeter when you kissed him, searching for breath like you’d find it in his lungs. Azriel was just as desperate, ravenous even as he tugged at your clothes and flipped you flat on the bed. He wanted your lips again. You tasted like strawberries and cream, and he was starving. 

He climbed on top, slotting himself between your legs as you yanked him close.

“Your hair,” You muttered, “It’s too neat.” The next minute was all teeth from Azriel as you mussed up his hair and he grinned wildly against your lips.

“Five-” He groaned, sinking further into you when you wrapped your legs around his waist, “Five minutes aren’t-” He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at your flushed face as you gasped for breath and finally untangled your hands from his hair, “Five minutes aren’t up yet.” 

“You’ve been keeping track?” You dropped your head back on the bed with a disgruntled hmph. Had he been counting the whole time he’d been kissing you?

He kissed your chest, then the sensitive skin of your neck. But there wasn’t any expectation in the brush of his lips, just quiet, honest love. 

You raised your head, finding that Azriel once again looked scared. “There’s something else I need to tell you.” He said seriously. “Before… before anything else.” 

You drew yourself onto your elbows, craning your neck for one more kiss, “You can tell me, Az. You can tell me anything.” 

The bond sang in his chest like a songbird in a cage. It wanted to be released. To be acknowledged in words if it couldn’t be acknowledged through feeling at this moment. Because Azriel knew you didn’t feel it yet. You didn’t feel the burning he felt in his chest that made it hard to breathe when you weren’t around. 

What if she doesn’t want this? What if she doesn’t want me? Azriel swallowed thickly, tears springing into his eyes. He wanted so desperately to be worthy of you - to be the kind and gentle lover and mate that you deserved. He’d been born crooked even before he’d been tossed into that cellar, before his half-brothers had set his hands on fire. But… but he was yours completely. He’d offer whatever meager, broken shards of himself that he could in hopes it might be enough. 

“Az,” You whispered his name lovingly and slid a wayward curl behind his ear so gently he thought he might break apart into a million pieces, “Tell me. Please. Tell me.” 

“You’re my mate.” He confessed. 

The words hung in the air, unaccepted, unrejected, and you went preternaturally still. 

He had no feathers to pluck out and present to you. But he had his shadows. You tipped your head curiously to the side when Azriel knelt on the ground, holding your hand in his. 

“I don’t have any pure white feathers. I don’t even have a ring on me right now-”

“Az, you don’t need to-” You stilled when a shadow flickered down Azriel’s wrist onto yours. It was a small, delicate thing. Willful too. You could tell by the way it traveled confidently down your ring finger, curling there tastefully like a castle spire reaching towards the sky.

It hovered over your skin like mist hanging over wetlands. A proposal in and of itself.

“Yes.” You said before Azriel could open his mouth again. He hesitated, afraid to believe he’d heard you correctly, “Yes.” 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” He teased weakly. 

But this time you knew exactly what he meant, even if he didn’t say it out loud. 

The bond burst to life in your chest as the shadow sank into your skin, settling there like a tattoo. Like a promise. 

Azriel stumbled, actually stumbled, clenching at his chest at the wildness growing within him. He chased after you, hurtling down the bond and finding you wide open on the other side. You were anxious and surprised and so so so happy. So happy you felt like you might just die from it, and Azriel felt it all. 

Hello, Y/n. He called out.

Hello, Azriel. You responded. My mate. 

Azriel groaned, slamming his lips and his body against yours. You held steady as you always did, letting him press against you as if you could keep him there forever.

I am yours and you are mine. You gripped his hair again, feeling the silky strands caress your skin. With one smooth motion he pulled out the ribbon and started to undo the buttons of your dress.

Promise?

You grinned. Promise.

___________

Author's note:

Nothing like a declaration of love after a year spent apart to make my heart swoon.

But honestly I would have fallen in love with Naemon... sorry Az...

[arting-block]

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | vi x f!reader

❝maybe it was a good thing that she was angry at caitlyn. then she wouldn’t feel so bad, thinking about fucking you.❞

summary: you've seen vi around as a kid. always at arms length, observing from afar. now she's back, angry and bitter after her stunt with the kiramman heir. you see each other once more. this time as an opponent in the pit. or rather vi and reader fuck each other's lights out.

pairing: pitfighter!vi x pitfighter!reader

warnings: ARCANE S2 ACT 2 SPOILERS, SMUT, angst (unhappy ending whoops), porn with too much plot, depictions of violence, reader has tattoos and scars, afab!reader, mentions of alcohol consumption, unhealthy coping mechanisms, boxing being used as foreplay, switch!vi, switch!reader, slight brat taming, oral (vi receiving), biting kink, spit kink, knife kink (if you squint), light bondage, finger fucking, vi is obsessed with your tongue, you're obsessed with her fingers

words: 10.2K

a/n: i've crawled out of the trenches and spat out a smutty fic for my glorious muscle queen. there's some plot in there, but it's mostly just filler to bring out the tension teehee. if there's demand, i'll make a part two, maybe more ;). post divider credit: @cafekitsune

Your body felt cold as the nerves settled in. 

The crowd’s uproar can be heard above you, wild cheers and screaming that blends into nonsense. The thumping of shoes on the ceiling above you syncs with your wild heart. The announcer is amplifying their excitement, spewing out the bets in place. Two thousand golden hexes and five hundred silver cogs for you—Arachnid. You instinctively reached for your shoulder, where the design of your tattoo was exposed. The skin along your back rises as the cheers for you overwhelm the arena. Investors from Zaun come together for their favorite fighter. Yours keeps you on a tight leash, pushing you into each fight to get more, more, more.  

You adjust the bandages around your knuckles. You twist your body, stretching the aching muscles until you’re loosened up. Occupying your time before the gates to the tunnels lift. Your heart races, pounding against your ribs. You’ve been a pit fighter for a little over two years. Before that you were tumbling through the undercity engaging in street brawls for food. Fighting wasn’t new to you, yet you were bouncing off the walls with anxiety. 

You were in relatively good shape to fight. A few days of rest and some shimmer got you back on your feet from your last fight. Black Hog was a beast up close but you managed to put up a good show. Normally you wouldn’t be put up against someone of a different weight class, but you were desperate for money. You won the fight with a broken rib and bruised face. Your investor, Parvata, had a gleam in her eyes that soured your victory. 

“Seems as though the spider likes big game,” she drawled, taking a long drag of her cigar. “We’ll see how well you fare against Gord’s fighters. I hear he’s got a prodigy in his ranks. A girl, ex-enforcer, I hear.”

Gord was talking up a storm about his fighters, but you had a feeling the feud between Parvata and him went deeper. Your stunt with Black Hog proved to her that you had skill. A chance for her to settle the score. 

Parvata didn’t know much about Gord’s prodigy. You, on the other hand, had an inkling of who she was. 

You can’t exactly say you were friends with Vi growing up. Your parents knew Benzo and in turn knew Vander as well. Vi and her friends were often away, either in Piltover or across Zaun to gods know where. Interactions with her were rare and short-lived; cordial and surface-level. You exchanged names, glances, laughs, but you weren’t friends. You’ve heard whispers over the years. Vi getting arrested and going to Stillwater. A few years later she is barreling down Zaun with the Kiramman heir. Now the whispers are saying she’s back in Zaun permanently. Fighting in pits for low wages and shit beer. 

You crack your neck, feeling the bones pop and shift. Was she still the spitfire kid you’d see running through the slums? Does she still have her choppy hair brushed to one side? You roll your shoulders back, flexing the muscles, feeling them tighten under your damp skin. 

Will she even remember you?

More cheers erupt as the announcer lists off your opponent’s bets. One thousand golden hexes and eight hundred silver cogs. You have a feeling that more money would be added at the split second before the fight begins. You force yourself to take a few breaths. Focus. Focus. 

You hear the familiar blare of an alarm. A sharp, loud sound that cuts all noise. Your heart spikes—the start of the show. The walls start to vibrate with the noise of the crowd. 

The announcer taps his mic, bringing the attention of the people eagerly awaiting 

Metal gears whirr and the bright lights of the area spill into the tunnel. 

“Spinning webs of tangled limbs is her name!” the announcer says. “Speed and lethality is her game! Give it up for Piltover’s all-around champion—Arachnid!”

You step into the area with all the masked confidence you can muster. The sounds of the crowd are deafening. Hundreds of people crammed into their seats, pushing against one another to get a clear view of you. In their hands they wave black tickets with a red spider in the middle. The air is thick with sweat and alcohol. You pull on your bandage again, tightening the wrappings around your hand. Light patches of blood are dotted along your knuckles. 

“And now for the whirlwind that took this pit by surprise…” The crowd is at the edge of their seats, the noise is bordering on ear-splitting. “The Iron Fist of Zaun!” the announcer yells. 

The gates across from you start to lift and you see a shadow approaching the pit. Your breath catches in your throat. 

Haunting. Everything about Vi is so unlike what you imagined that your brows rise. Dark hair dye is messily applied to her usually vibrant pink hair. Smudges of black were smeared across her face like she applied it with her eyes closed. Your eyes can’t help but drift along her exposed neck, collarbone, and arms. Tattoos and bandages scattered across her skin. 

Vi’s step falters. A wave of shock passes her face before a narrow look settles into her features. 

The wide-eyed, toothy grinned girl was gone. Her dark lips curled down, her nose scrunches slightly as she takes apart the view of you. Wherever bandages don’t cover, you see an array of purple bruises and silvery scars along the canvas of her skin. The harsh lighting of the pit cuts her muscles in such a way that makes her look carved from marble. 

Your breath catches in your throat at her heavy, predatory gaze. Bright blue eyes never leave your face. 

DING!

The starting bell shocks you out of your nerves. In an instant your anxiety evaporates and an odd thrill overtakes you. Instinctively you raise your hands near your face, letting your arms and legs feel loose as you get into a fighting stance. Vi’s expression is unreadable as she leisurely walks the perimeter of the arena. Her eyes dip towards your body. She lingers on the spot near your exposed stomach, a jagged scar that disappears under your pants. 

You take the opportunity to attack. Vi mirrors your raised hands, expecting you to hit her head on. Instead, you duck at the last minute, colliding your shin to her knee. 

— — —

The bag of coins is hefty, more so than you’re used to. 

Your finger digs through the gold and silver; one thousand and fifty golden hexes; four hundred and fifty-five silver cogs. More than enough to cover rent and food for the next three months. 

You don’t bother with a jacket to shield yourself from the heavy downpour, opting to skip the festivities and head straight back home. Your usual thirty minute commute is delayed by the aches in your hip and abdomen. If you weren’t so well versed in getting hit, Vi’s punches would’ve been lethal. 

Gord had every right to brag about his fighter's prowess. Vi was by far the deadliest opponent you’d ever faced. The aim of the game is the knockout, not to kill, but you know the refs aren’t going to get between two skilled fighters with a lust for blood in their eyes. You were all teeth and nails, more animal than human in that pit. It was hard to get into Vi’s blind spots and even harder to accurately land any good punches. You were backed into defense for most of the fight. Vi probably hoped to tire you out before delivering the finishing blow. 

You can tell if someone fights because they enjoy it. There’s a crazed look in their eyes as they try to trap you into continually dodging or blocking their assault. You fight for survival, even if you have some love for the game. Fighting is what kept you alive all these years. It pays the bills, keeps a roof over your head, clothes on your back, food on the table... 

Vi is clearly using fighting as an outlet. You were just unfortunate enough to be her punching bag. 

In a maneuver that damn near pulled a muscle in your back, you used the wall for momentum to jump on top of Vi. Your legs wrapped securely over her hardened biceps and your arms locked her head. Your chest pressed against the hard planes of her traps.  You could feel the heavy thud of Vi’s heart. Choking someone out wasn’t as near of a spectacle as Parvata would’ve liked, but you won the fight without a concussion. 

The rain poured harder as your shaky hands fumble for your keys. The fight ended an hour ago. You let out a string of curses as you try to find the correct key you needed. Cold air stiffens your fingers and your exhaustion is starting to take over. Or so you tell yourself. 

Sweat, blood, and alcohol. That was what the pit smelled like. Thick and hanging on your tongue like smog. 

Your fingers finally latched onto the right key, jamming it into the lock and forcing your way inside. 

Vi was a furnace. Her back radiates warmth as if to scorch you alive. The imprint of her arms still aches between your thighs. Like the pit, she too smelled of sweat, blood, and alcohol. Bernie’s Brew, the cheap shit from the bar above the arena. But there was a sweet musk to her skin. More intoxicating than any liquor. 

The speed at which you rip your clothes off makes your already overused muscles burn more. There’s an inexplicable urge to scrub your skin raw, erasing the phantom smells of Vi off of your skin. You let the cold water fall onto your heated skin. 

You wondered if Vi could feel the burn of your core on her lower back. 

— — —

It takes one week for Parvata to start hounding your ass about returning to work. 

Pit fighting wasn’t all that you did, though it made you the most money. In between brutal takedowns you would run errands around Zaun for her. Debt collecting. In the sweaty arena, at least there was glory to be had when fighting. In the damp houses of the undercity where everyone is barely scraping enough money to even live, it sours your mood for the entire day. There’s no glory to forcing a single father to cough up his last few golden hexes. Which wouldn’t even make a dent in his debt to Parvata. The sight used to make you feel guilty. After a few years of it though, you’ve gotten used to the angry yelling, the sob stories, the begging for one more week to get more money. 

When you find yourself back into the pit, it wasn’t Vi you were up against. 

You ignore the pang of disappointment and let yourself run loose. All the tension and frustration from your day was unleashed. One of your better performances. A right hook slammed into your jaw and a knee found its way into your ribs. But you delivered a well-placed kick to the side of their neck. The lanky man with snake tattoos fell to the ground with a satisfying thud. 

DING DING DING

The ring of the bell announces you as the winner. You hear the chant of your name, the howls of laughter as Rondo is dragged off the floor still unconscious. 

Tonight’s crowd is exceptionally packed. Friday nights usually are. The harsh lights above you make the masses of people blur into a single entity. Various warbles of words blending together. You don’t know why you scanned the crowd. You don’t know why your eyes immediately drifted to your right, pulled by an unknown magnetic force. But it does. 

First you see a burly man with his arms crossed. His face is hard and his physique is like a brick; rectangular and sturdy. He’s looking at you in curiosity. 

Then you see the dark outline of Vi. Your skin burns when you realize she’s already staring at you. It’s hard to tell what she’s thinking. She doesn’t seem to be particularly impressed by you. Her hands are in her pockets as she holds your intense gaze. The man next to her leans over and whispers in her ear. Her eyes never leave yours as she replies. Their conversation is muddled by the cramped people around them. 

For a second, the smell of the pit mingles with the memory of you pressed against her. Her strong back flexing beneath you as she tries to buck you off. The wild look in her eyes when she realizes what you were doing. Your heart beats faster, and not because of the adrenaline. 

You break the spell between you, stomping into the tunnel and weaving towards the exit. 

— — —

It carries on for a few weeks. 

You can never tell if Gord is pushing Vi to fight more or if Vi willingly puts herself through hell every other day. The Iron Fist of Zaun is always in rotation, more so than any other fighter. It’s gotten to the point where people are betting how long Vi could remain undefeated. You’d assume that Parvata would try to push you to fight her again, just to win the bets against her. She doesn’t. With it, no good pay. 

You find yourself settled in the crowds instead of in the pit itself. You don’t join in on the cheers or booing. Guy after guy, match after match. A few missed punches, a nice fist to the face, and the sharp ding of Gord’s bell. Just when you think that there will be no more matches for the night, Vi comes slaughtering in view. 

You hate how you immediately perk up, watching how she goes for a punch that knocks a metal jaw off of someone. A single punch. In less than a minute the fight is over and the crowd goes crazy. Vi’s sweaty back faces you. Her entire upper back is exposed and you now have a clearer view of the beautiful tattoo that adorns her skin. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. A cruel, taunting voice whispers that you wish to trace the wet muscle along the inked skin. Smelling her, tasting her—

You were unprepared for Vi to turn around and hone in on your spot in the crowd. As if she knew you were there, watching her from the shadows. You can’t help but observe the steady rise and fall of her sweaty chest. A bead of sweat making a tantalizing trail down her cheek and dropping between the swell of her breasts. Your mouth dries, suddenly parched. 

Something hot and wanting stirs inside of you. Vi must’ve seen it on your face because her usual scorned face shifts to a teasing smirk. 

A referee motions her towards the tunnels and Vi’s gaze momentarily leaves you. The spotlight is stripped away from you and you feel like you can finally breathe. Your clothes feel too warm—too tight along your body. Her gaze alone is a fire and you want to feel its burn. 

You part the crowd, trying to find the familiar door that leads down to the gate tunnels. 

A rough hand shoots out from behind, yanking you towards the exit. 

— — —

In a strange twist of events, Parvata ends up finding use for you outside of the ring. J’kepie’s bloodied body is dragged into the stale office and Parvata drips off the badge on his jacket. She drags you by the collar and jabs the pin into your leather jacket. Her insignia; a mountain range with a star above it. Head debt collector. 

“Consider this your promotion,” she growls, blowing smoke into your face. “Do well and you’ll get double the pay. Triple if you don’t ask questions” 

You know better than to fight her on this. So you nod. 

— — —

An entire month passes before you find yourself back in the pit. 

Debt collecting—you soon realized—was a misleading title. A glorified mercenary. If that bastard were still alive you would use your mechanical webbing to string him out on the lamppost by his neck. A client paid good money for J’kepie’s services, only to fail miserably. You weren’t allowed a day of rest,  swept up in Parvata’s circle. Caught in the webs of political alliances, drug wars, and hush money payments. After weeks of slaving away, you had finally stomped out the last of the client’s enemies. 

Your reward? Thirty-thousand golden hexes and a weekend off. 

You were at your wits end. The money you earned paled in comparison to the headache of cleaning up J’Kepie’s mess. You were constantly relying on yourself to do the work of over twenty people. You didn’t know how Parvata made it this long with such incompetent drones. At least she always kept true to her word. With the money you have saved up, you were able to buy a bigger home with a working shower. Food isn’t a scarcity anymore and your clothes were brand new.

You don’t know why your mind constantly drifts to the smelly arena tucked in the slums of Zaun. It’s not like you particularly loved fighting. It’s something to keep you occupied. Zaun was a vicious cycle of violence; of dirty tricks and guerilla warfare. In the pit, the only rules were to use your fist, your brain, and nothing else. Your only chance to take control of that cycle and make something out of it. 

Between the long days with blood caking your face, your mind wanders. Not to the thrill of the fight or the satisfaction, but to the angry phantom with piercing blue eyes and a warmth that rivaled the sun. She appears in your dreams with rough hands, calloused from years of fighting. Her fingers dance along any exposed skin; tracing your tattoos with the heavy weight of her tongue. Your back would arch, chasing her touch that she would so readily give you. Hoping that she catches your skin with her teeth, marking, biting—

Morning slips into night and your worn shoes carry you from your (somewhat) cushy apartment to the graffitied building that vibrates with music. Parvata doesn’t accompany you or even mentions for you to continue fighting. Too many loose ends to burn off. With her gone, no substantial money will be placed in your favor.  

You didn’t want the money. You were angry; itching to let off steam. To gather up your frustration and let it boil over the surface until there’s nothing left of you. 

At least that’s what you’re hoping for. 

“Sorry kid, all available fights are booked up.” 

You force an inhale, keeping your voice as even as you can. “C’mon, you know I’m one of Parvata’s. One fight that’s all I ask.” 

The old lady doesn’t lift her eyes from her book. Her eyes drift from one side to the next at a snail’s pace. “I know who you are, kid. Seems like you’re without your owner too. Doesn’t budge the fact that all fights are booked. Can’t you read?” She jerks a thumb to the sign next to her. 

NO SLOTS AVAILABLE

Below the sign was a list of the available matches. Your heart spikes at the words, “Iron Fist” being scribbled in for the first match. Her opponent is none other than Rondo. 

Gears start to turn in your head. 

With a final huff, the old lady tugs a metal string, pulling a sheet of metal over her kiosk. Your nails dig into your wrapped palm, trying to keep yourself from punching the glass. If your fist doesn’t connect to someone’s face soon, you are going to end up in Stillwater by midnight. Not even Pavarta would come save your sorry ass. 

“Fifteen minutes before it’s showtime!” the speakers blare out. 

People have already started to make their way inside through the front entrance. Red tickets in their hands, waving them around excitedly. A recurring color you’d see as you pass by. The sounds of music and cheering can be heard inside, enticing you in. 

You were going to fight whether that old bitch likes it or not.

— — —

Going through the crowd of people was going to shave down the limited time you had. There were multiple entries into the building reserved for staff and VIP members. Fighters typically use the main entrance or go through one of the VIP doors if they’re accompanied by their sponsor. Parvata was away doing gods know what and you didn’t want to fumble through sweaty bodies. The shortest route would be sneaking into the kitchen. 

The lock to the kitchen easily clicked open after a few twists of your hooked pin. Fridays means more people to feed so most of the staff were preoccupied enough to not care about you sliding between them. You breeze past chefs and waiters as you make your way through. A bit far removed from the main event, but you still have ten minutes before it starts. On the other side of the kitchen was a discreet door with small red trim on the bottom. No one looked your way as you opened it. 

The air is considerably colder here. You let muscle memory carry you through the damp corridors until the familiar waiting room comes into view. The door to the room opens and a tall man with snakes coiling his neck steps out. You quickly press against the wall, out of sight. 

A gruff voice calls out to the man: “Will you be back in time? Ten minutes is gonna go by real quick.”

“Just gon’ take a piss,” Rondo grunts, flicking the end of his cigarette to the floor. The door slams shut and he retreats further down the hallway.  

You use the shadows to your advantage, following him like a ghost.

— — —

Vi downs the last half of her beer. The third one today.

Her fifth fight this week. By anyone's standards, that’s too little time to recover. A restless night between each match and shit beer won’t do her any good, but she can’t find it within herself to care. Loris does at least. That’s good enough for both of them. The burn the beer leaves behind gives her the buzz she needs to carry on. Not enough to get her shit-face (not yet at least), but just enough for her body to feel loosened up.

To ease the pain Cait had left behind. Even if it’s only temporary. In the early days, all she could see was the dark blue hair and sharp face of Cait hiding between people. Her face lingered, festering the hurt in her chest until all she could do was sob into her pillows at night. She stopped, only because something else was distracting her. Keeping her afloat in the sea of her grief. 

Another ghost of her past. A hazy memory from bygone days. Where Powder was still her sister; Claggor and Mylo were still pains in her ass; Vander would pour her favorite juice after a successful trip. Sometimes Vi would come home to see you perched up on the bar. Your legs would swing on the stool as you talked to one of her friends. She would mostly see you with Ekko, letting him rattle off your ear until he couldn’t breathe. Rarely would she interact with you, let alone talk to you. She never would’ve admitted to it then, but she was intimidated by you. A pretty, shy girl with a bright smile is enough to make anyone fumble over their words. You were her first crush, for years she was haunted by you. She realized that far too late when your parents had died. You drifted from them. From Ekko, Powder, and her (even if you didn’t know it). You kept in touch with Benzo for a while before he too died. 

Vi wasn’t close enough to know where you’d gone. 

Her fondness for you lingered. During her years in Stillwater she thought of your animated conversations. Short-lived as they were, Vi replayed those talks in her head. Your laugh would tease her in dreams. Your soft hands tracing the scars along her body with love and care. Your kisses would be as sweet as your laugh. By the time Cait had busted her out of that dingy cell, the dreams fizzled out until you were just another memory in her mind. 

Cait was different. While you were just a daydream, Cait was something real to Vi. It wasn’t just a simple crush between the two of them. Not love either, but something different. A trust in each other. Someone to count on when the world turns against them. When the end of her gun slammed into Vi’s abdomen, it felt worse than any punch to her face. Cait took the trust between them, ripped it with her teeth, and spat it out without a second thought. When Cait left Zaun, a piece of Vi went along with her. 

Pit fighting seemed like the only natural outlet for Vi. Why not take the only thing she’s good at and use it to distract herself? It seemed like a good plan at the time. Loris didn’t say much about it, but he knew that she was stubborn enough to follow through with or without him. It worked well enough. Loud music and cheers drowning out the pounding of her heart and the whispers of Cait’s voice. 

But then you appeared across from her. A ghost turned real and tangible. The shy girl who would scream at the sight of any bug had grown up to be a fighter. Outwitting her strength in a way that stole her breath—literally. You were deadly, even as Vi had you cornered with whip-fast punches. When you jumped on her back, compressing her body between your legs, her head at the mercy of your arms, Vi’s anger evaporated. In a mere five minutes you did what no other substance could: make her forget about her heartbreak completely. 

Maybe it was a good thing that she was angry at Caitlyn. Then she wouldn’t feel so bad, thinking about fucking you. 

— — —

Vi enters the pit in sync with the announcer. 

Per routine she automatically starts to rake through the crowd. A mesh of excited faces with their mouths open, screaming her name until their throat grows hoarse. Vi would see your face at every match, watching like a hawk. Your visits grew shorter and shorter. A month ago you stopped coming. Still, Vi grazed over the seats, hoping to see you lingering in the shadows. 

When her eyes fail to see you, her shoulders sag imperceptibly. 

“Get ready for the Piltover Boxing Leagues’ middleweight fighter—Rondo!”. 

Her brain short-circuits when you walk to the arena. The crowd goes wild at your appearance, shouting your name in hopes you would look their way. Instead you held Vi’s shocked gaze. Something is different about you. A look of hunger flashes in your eyes, a determination that was absent when you first fought. Vi forgets about Caitlyn’s betrayal; the feeling of her lips pressed against hers; her toned, lithe body molding against Vi’s torso. 

Vi forgets it all when you stand in front of her. It was forever ago when she had that childhood crush on you. All pure, sweet, and innocent. Something else blooms in her body. Not love, trust, or the fleeting whispers of her old crush on you. A different feeling. A steady heat that slowly overtakes her body. A curiosity that nips at her mind. The urge to pick you apart, analyzing everything that makes you tick. To back you against the wall with nowhere to run. 

Vi’s attention was solely on you. Only you. There’s a spackle of blood across your face and a fading bruise near your temple. She raises her hands near face and you do the same. A charged energy ignites between you two and with it comes a newfound passion. A desire to win. 

DING

Your muscles snap into place as you bolt forward. Vi meets you halfway, sending a hard punch straight to your face. 

— — —

The lights above you strain your eyes. A dull ringing is present in your ears and you feel your body involuntarily swaying to the bass of the music. Vi is not much better. She’s breathing considerably harder now with a fresh bruise on her chest. There’s a noticeable strain in her hip from where you’ve kicked. For the better part of five minutes the two of you were locked into a series of punches, kicks, and scratches. Vi’s body was more rock than flesh. You jabbed every sharp corner of your body into her, slowing her down enough to send your elbow to the side of her head. Vi retreats, putting distance between you two. One of Vi’s hand wrappings came undone thanks to your teeth, leaving her bruised knuckles exposed. 

You circle each other, trying to catch your breath. Vi is terrible at guarding vital parts of her body, but she makes up for it in explosive punches and a speed that rivals your own. Your body is tense, threatening to lock up from exhaustion. You keep your fighting stance, watching Vi’s every move in case she tries to pull another fast combo on you. 

You’re starting to understand why people have a passion for this—the fight. Not just showing off cool moves or delighting in beating someone up just for the sake of it. Not for survival or just as a way to let out all the pent up energy in your body. 

For the first time in your life, you’ve met an opponent who is skilled. In most circumstances you are engaged with people who utilize strength or weapons with little regard to finesse. You stood out to Parvata for your ability to out maneuver, outwit, and overcome opponents who otherwise have the bigger advantage. The thrill that came from a fight would wear off and slowly that high became less and less potent. Each fight felt the same as the last. 

Fighting became a chore, a job to do in order to get money. Pavarta signs and you show up. Dull. Repetitive. Redundant. 

Vi was your perfect antithesis. A break in a mind-numbing routine. Where you attack, she finds a way to block. When you falter she’s hot on your heels. You know she remembers you. You can feel it in the way her gaze keeps falling down your body and back up to your face. Even as you’re trying to knock her teeth in. She doesn’t let her familiarity with you cloud her judgement and you find yourself appreciating it. You’re glad to know that with each punch, she truly means it. 

A blink is all it took for Vi to come swinging once more. You twist out of the way and ram your fist into her side. Vi grunts out, elbowing you in the back. The sharp angle of her joint sends a wave of pain. You fall to the ground, barely catching yourself with weak arms. Vi doesn’t give you time to recover. Her steel-toe boot kicks your side, hard enough to make all the air leave your lungs at once. Pain shoots everywhere. 

With a huff you bring your leg out, swiping her ankle until she’s on the ground with you. It’s a struggle to try to get on top of her. Her mouth in a snarl as she tries to fight you off. 

Much of her intimidation comes with her being on two feet. On the ground, however, she’s flailing. 

You force yourself past her arms and settle your weight on her chest. Vi tries to punch your abdomen but you redirect her punch. Your nails dig into the wrapping and undo it. When her other hand tries to land a hit, you take the loose end of her wrapping and bind her wrists together; caught in a web of your doing. You slam her bound arms above her head onto the concrete. The sound is so crisp that the ringing in your ears cease. 

Vi is full-on thrashing beneath you. She jerks and writhes, desperately trying to buck you off of her. It doesn’t work, of course. You lean closer, taking in the messy makeup, the silver nose ring, the small scars across her face. She’s surprised, her mouth parts to let out frustrated huffs. Her once soft blue eyes are overtaken by her dilated pupils.

She stops shifting beneath you and it’s then that you realize that you’re fully seated on top of her breasts. Your core is settled on top of her sternum, the wild pulse no doubt could be felt by her. The heat is all consuming. A sickening shock goes down your spine and with it comes the familiar ache of arousal. Vi’s gaze is no longer surprised or panicked. Hunger is written as clear as day in her darkened eyes. 

The referee runs beside you, slamming his hand on the ground. Once. Twice. 

The final slam declares you the victor. 

DING DING DING

— — —

Vi is no stranger to being roughly handled. Seven years in prison didn’t exactly go by smoothly. Hell, these past few weeks were filled with nothing but split knuckles and a mind-numbing headache. You were all coiled muscle and snapping teeth in the ring. Vi was wholeheartedly expecting to be dragged off to an empty room and be devoured by you.

But you continue to give her more surprises. 

“Let's get you cleaned up,” you say, leading her out of the building. A soft invitation that was so unlike your behavior when fighting. It’s the first time in years since she’s heard you speak. Directly at her, no less. Vi’s brows draw into a furrow and your lips tilt to a smile. “It’s a bit of a walk, but I know your place doesn’t have good heating.” 

The adrenaline from the fight starts to dissipate, and so does the innate want in her body. She can think clearly now.

Vi stops in her tracks, glaring. “Stalkin’ me much?”

“I’ve been fighting in that pit longer than you, Vi.” Her heart flutters with the mention of her name. You continue walking, kicking rocks out of your way. “It doesn’t exactly pay you much. I had two jobs and could barely keep the water running. Plus, you don’t seem to wash out that makeup.”

“I do.” She doesn’t. You give her a smirk to let her know that you see through her bullshit. You tug on her naked wrist. Warm and tender, like she’s a piece of glass. She lets you. 

You greatly understated how much walking there was to your place. Vi doesn’t complain in the slightest, especially if it means talking to you for longer. Occasionally you would point out a new restaurant that opened or a brothel that many Piltover elites would favor. You’re easy to talk to, she concludes. Sometime during the walk, your hands joined together. Wound tightly, swaying in tandem with your steps. She doesn’t deny that you’re an entirely different person, but there’s part of the old you that remains. You’re still talkative. A trait that Vi often finds annoying, but with you it falls under the category of endearing. Your smiles light up your face, as small as they are. 

Your apartment is better than Vi had pictured in her head. Spacious with high windows and modest furniture. It’s cozy, intimate. More so than when Vi entered Caitlyn’s home. In Piltover, Vi is painfully aware that she doesn’t belong. Everything bad in her life traces back to the gilded city with gleaming white buildings and blue skies. No matter how much money you seem to make (which Vi guesses is a lot more than you make it out to be), you’re a Zaunite through and through. 

Maybe the three mile hike through the Lanes was worth it, Vi thinks wryly.  

The lock to your door clicks shut and Vi is fully aware that she’s alone with you. 

You lean against the wall, kicking off your shoes. The perpetual twilight of Zaun makes your body glow. You peel off the jacket with that shiny gold badge, revealing your bruised body. Your tank top is tight along your chest, emphasizing your body in a way that makes Vi’s face darken. Her fingers curl inside of the pockets of her jacket, itching to touch you. 

“Something the matter?” you ask. A genuine question seeing as how Vi’s face is pinched, focused on you. The darkness of the room makes her look angry. 

Before you can open your mouth again, Vi crosses the room until she’s all that you see. Her hands, rough and calloused like you imagined, find the hem of your top. Your breath is caught in your throat, your body jolting at the contact. Her thumb gently follows the skin along your hip bone—the jagged scar that caught her attention all those weeks ago. You feel her trace imprint of your scar, her thumb teasing the edge of your pants where it continues. 

“Been wonderin’ how far this goes,” she murmurs. She flickers up at your face, hesitating just a bit. Waiting for your permission. 

Your face is warm and your smile is full of teeth. “Why don’t you fuck me to find out?” you challenge. 

Vi wastes no time in slotting your bodies together. Your response is immediate. Your hands slide up her abs, trailing upwards until they knot in her dark hair. Vi groans into you, and you take the opportunity to slide your tongue into her mouth. The sound she emits makes your spine tingle. Vi’s warmth is all consuming. Her hands are everywhere—your hips, the small of your back, your ass—mapping out your body’s topography with her eyes closed. She’s eager to have you close, to feel you, claim you. 

A bit too eager with the way she’s pressing against your lips so hard that you think they’ll bruise. But with the way she’s groping your ass you don’t even have the will to care. 

The leather jacket around Vi’s shoulders is pushed away by your hands. Using Vi’s hair as a leash, you tug her head back, forcing her to reveal her neck to you. You latch onto the soft patch of skin just below her jaw. Vi keens, gripping onto your hips like a vice. 

Her skin is still tacky with sweat. The salt dissolves with your open mouth kisses. Your teeth gently nip the hollow of her throat until the vessels beneath her skin breath. A mark; ownership. Vi jolts when she feels your tongue, hot and needy, drag along the column of her neck. If it wasn’t for your tight grip onto her, Vi is certain that her knees would’ve given out right then and there. 

You jerk her back, harder this time. Vi releases her hold on you. Her eyes are glazed over, her eyes dilated once again. You hook a finger onto a loop in her pants and drag her deeper into your apartment. Vi stumbles, trying her best to get her shaky legs to move faster. You barely felt her up and already she’s been reduced to a horny mess. 

Vi is far from inexperienced. She had a rotation of girls in her prison block vying for her attention, begging for a quick fuck in a supply closet or in the showers. She’s no stranger to being touched, to have a tongue slide into her mouth, or being groped. She doesn’t understand why it feels different when it comes to you. Why is she buzzing with excitement when the door to your room squeaks open? Why does her heart skip a beat when you shove her onto your bed? Why the fuck does she let out a pathetic whine when you lift up your tank top, revealing your bare chest to her? 

You crawl on top of her to kiss her again. It’s slower, precise, but equally as firm. Vi knows she’s strong enough to tug you closer, but the way your tongue keeps sliding against her own makes her head foggy. When you pull away, an obvious trail of spit connects you two. With a single hand you pop open the button on her jeans. Cold anticipation fills her. 

“Wanna take my time with you,” you say against her swollen lips. There’s a raw edge to your voice that lets Vi know that you’re desperate for her too. 

A glint of metal catches Vi’s eyes as you pull out a small knife from your pants. With the precision of a surgeon, you slice open the bandages that cover her chest. The muscles of her abdomen flex when your knife cuts a touch too close to her skin. The layers of wrappings fall open like a flower in bloom, revealing her bare torso to you. 

You kiss along her neck once more. Your lips carve a path down to the middle of her sternum. Wet, sloppy, occasionally accompanied by the glide of your tongue. Vi’s hips involuntarily jerk upwards, trying to alleviate the ache of her core. 

“You’re such a—ah—fucking tease,” she huffs. 

You hum against the underside of her breast. “So impatient,” you chide with a gentle nip of her skin. “Not unlike your fighting style.” 

All words of protest die in Vi’s throat when you take a nipple into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive bud, watching Vi arch into you. You can’t help but grin at her disheveled state. You palm her other breast, twisting the hardening nipple with your fingers. One of Vi’s hands flies to her mouth, trying to silence the higher pitched gasps and moans. 

You pinch her nipple a little harder. “Cover your mouth again and I’ll stop.”

“It’s embarrassing,” she whines. 

You cup her clothed pussy, digging your hand harshly against the crest of her slit. The moan that escapes Vi is music to your ears. “I’m trying to be nice Vi. I want to hear every noise you make.” You punctuate your words with another roll of your hand. “Can you do that for me baby?”

A few more slides of your hand and Vi gives a weak nod of affirmation. Satisfied, you continue your trail down her torso. You’re a drug. You must be. Your lips alone are undoing her, fanning the flames of her desire in a way that no one else could. With every tender bruise, your tongue gently prods it with a cruel grin. Vi keeps her hands fisted in your sheets, trying to please your demands of hearing her. She’s not used to receiving; being at the mercy of someone during sex. It’s as foreign of a concept to her as living her life in Piltover with an ivory tower and silk clothes. She’s not used to being beaten in a game she’s good at, especially not to the same person. Not with fighting and certainly not through sex. But you managed to do it anyway. 

You’re an enigma to her. Opposite to her in such a way that leaves her aching. Oil and water, yet you find a way to compliment her. Separated by time, but equal when together. Her match in a ring, and her match in bed it seems. 

Vi lifts herself on her forearms, watching you with rapt attention when your mouth leaves her body. You move to her feet, undoing the tight laces of her boots and tossing them onto the floor. Once her other shoe hits the ground with a loud thud, you’ve finally reached the faint trail of hair under her belly button with a soft kiss. Your teeth catch the fly of her zipper and pull it down. The sharp sound made her heart pound faster. You tug onto her pants and underwear, Vi lifting her hips to help you slide them off her body. 

Cold air hits her cunt and she sucks in a breath. Your lips part in awe, seeing the proof of her desire leaking out of her entrance. You settle between her legs, placing your hand on the corded muscle of her thighs to keep her spread for you. You watch her opening clench around nothing, practically begging you to put your mouth on it. Apparently, you were staring a second too long. 

“You gonna watch or are you gonna fuck me?” Vi snaps, already fed up with your prolonged teasing. Her cheeks are flushed as her eyes challenge yours. “Don’t tell me you forgot how to eat pussy.”

Vi grins at your displeased face, happy to see your assured confidence crack just a little. 

You give her a sharp glare, but that only seems to stir a spark of rebellion against your cruel tyranny. You certainly can’t have that. 

So you press your thumb against her puffy clit and watch as her jaw goes slack. 

“Could you repeat that?” you ask with mock innocence. You let your thumb gather some of her slick and gently rub her crest. A wordless gasp leaves Vi as you continue your slow ministrations. “Something the matter, Vi? Spider got your tongue?” Your thumb is pressing against her harder, almost to the point of pain. You shake your head with faux sympathy, clicking your tongue. “Poor thing’s been neglected. I barely touched you and you’re already ruining my sheets. Maybe I should leave you here so I can prevent a mess.” 

A strained noise of protest escapes from Vi. Too caught up in pleasure to see past your obvious bluff.  “Don’t you dare…f-fuck! Don’t you dare stop—shit.”  

“You’re not in the position to be making demands,” you state, emphasized with a light pinch of her clit. Vi bucks her hips into your hand, trying to get as much friction out of you. 

“‘M sorry…won’t do it again—ah—promise!” 

As much as you want to prolong her suffering, you’re too selfish to deprive yourself of good pussy just to prove a point. Next time, you think to yourself. If there will be a next time. You push down that thought, focusing on the growing slick accumulating in your palm. Vi whines when your hand leaves, but quickly swallows any scathing words when she feels your tongue drag along her slit. Kitten licks and kisses along her pussy makes Vi more desperate. But it’s not enough to release the pressure in her core. You continue to tease her even as she’s starting to grow frustrated. You would prod her tight entrance with your tongue, only to retreat a few seconds later. You watch with a grin at Vi’s mounting frustrations, wanting to test her patience with you. 

When you latch onto her clit, sucking it gently, Vi damn near sobs in relief. 

You’re a god. That’s the only explanation. Your saliva holds a magical elixir that sends her nerves ablaze and makes her mind go blank. If this was a ploy to get her to join your cult, she’ll be attending mass every day of the damn week just to experience your mouth on her cunt, no questions asked. Your firm hold on her thighs keeps her from crushing your skull between them. In a few minutes she’s already starting to shake. 

When you add a finger to the mix, Vi is making sounds she never thought capable of. It takes a few tries to find the right spot, but when you do, you’re merciless. Your finger and mouth working in sync to bring her to the height of her pleasure. The pressure between Vi’s legs threatens to snap. Her body winding tighter, tighter, tighter—

Vi chants your name like a prayer. Broken wails that plead for your grace; to give her sweet relief to the pain you had also caused her. “Please, please, please! I can’t…fuck, I need to cum! Please—”

Who are you to deny a beautiful woman’s cries? You add in a second finger, never faltering in your brutal assault. Vi’s pussy clamps down on your fingers—the only warning of her impending descent. 

The pressure explodes outwards. Energy ripples through her body in powerful waves until she’s left shivering. Vi’s back arches off the bed as she cries out your name, her eyes rolling to the back of her skull. Her strong legs wrapping around your head, suffocating you with her body and essence. Cum gushes onto your face and fingers as you continue to fuck her through her orgasm. Only when she parts her legs and starts to jerk her hips away do you stop.

Vi is left shaky, her chest struggling to inhale deeply. Still, she hauls you from her legs and pulls you in for a kiss. She lets out a groan at the taste of her sex on your lips. 

You give her one more peck before pulling away slightly. “Forgotten how to eat pussy, huh?”

The look in Vi’s eyes tells you that she doesn’t regret it one bit. “Worth it to have you prove it to me.” 

“You’re a brat, you know that?” you say, exasperated. 

Vi grabs hold of your waist and rolls you on your back. She doesn’t bother teasing you with nips and open mouth kisses along your body. You were right to call her impatient as she fumbles with your belt. There’s a fire behind those blue eyes of hers, a look of ambition and cunning.  

Before you could question her motives, Vi grabs both of your wrists and mounts on top of you. You feel the clink of your belt as Vi wraps them around your wrists, tying them to your metal headboard. In the span of a few seconds, she manages to secure you to your bed, completely at her mercy. Her slick core rubs against your stomach as you helplessly pull against your restraints. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you ask. 

Vi’s hand travels appreciatively down your chest, stopping you giving your breasts a squeeze. “Repaying the favor.” She wears the same look as she does in the ring. Halfway between a glare and a look of curiosity. 

Vi shifts off of you, relieving your body of her weight. Instead she settles between your legs, much like how you did before. 

You tilt your chin out, glaring up at her. “You think that you’re in charge now just because you restrained me?” 

“I do, actually.”

You’d be lying if you said you don’t find it incredibly hot to be at the complete mercy of someone like Vi. Still, you hoped to have your streak of conquering Vi to be undefeated, at least for the night. Vi is too busy tracing her fingers along your body, mentally counting all the scars she could see on your body. You try to not let it show that her seeking fingers have an effect on you, however your traitorous skin erupts in goosebumps wherever her finger travels. Vi takes her time visually appreciating her body. She enjoys the feeling of warm flesh beneath her fingers, the subtle shivers whenever she finds a particularly sore spot. 

“So beautiful,” she whispers, almost to herself. “Been wanting this for so long.”

A shallow chuckle escapes you. “Since you saw me in the pit?”

You whimper softly when she kneads the soft mounds of your breasts.  Her brows furrow and her movements falter for a moment. 

“Before that,” she corrects, in a serious tone that shocks you. 

It takes a moment for the implication of her admission to hit you. You almost laughed at the ridiculous notion. You wanted nothing more than to be friends with Vi as kids. But any advance was met with hesitation. She would constantly avoid any prolonged interaction with you. You tried not to take it to heart; she always had a lot on her plate. You assumed she didn’t think you were cool and you’ve learned to make peace with that. Even if Powder constantly assured you that Vi didn't actually hate you…

Oh.

“I just…I thought that…y'know.” 

“Y’know what?” Vi asks. 

You force a steady inhale. “I thought that you didn’t want to be friends with me. I grew up thinking you secretly hated me.” Suddenly the immediate chemistry between you two in the ring starts to make sense. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner? When I saw you again I thought that you wouldn’t remember—”

Vi shuts up your rambling with a kiss. A dizzying, passionate kiss that steals what little air you have left in your lungs. You wrap your legs around Vi’s hips, bringing her closer. She lets you press your pelvises together, groaning in your mouth when you start to move. Her hips move in sync with yours, grinding against your heated core with fervor. 

Vi breaks the kiss but doesn’t stop the movement of her hips. “I thought about you every night since our first fight.” You let out sharp gasps when her hands return to your chest. “When I saw you in the stands, I wanted to drag you to the bathrooms and fuck you against the sink” Her hands finds your hips and presses you down to her pubic bone, hard enough to make you arch into her with a whine. “Let me have you. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

“Do it,” you say, your voice growing hoarse, “take me. I’ll be yours.”

There’s the unspoken meaning behind that declaration. A line that separates you two, once crossed it can have the power to destroy you from the inside out. You don’t seem to realize the weight of what you’re saying. Vi knows her mind is still conflicted on Caitlyn. She can’t bring herself to commit to hating her, but she can’t deny the toll it’s taken on her mind. Poisoning her. With you, the pain recedes, forgotten and pushed away. A distraction. A damn good one. 

When Vi kisses you again, she remembers all of the reasons why she was so drawn to you. You were more than just a pretty girl that she admired from afar. Her antithesis. Should she accept your invitation, wholeheartedly, you will have the power to be a weapon of her undoing. Vi should be scared of that. Not too long ago she poured her heart and bled for someone who ultimately discarded her. 

But then you moan out Vi’s name—breathy and desperate. A longing to rewrite your shared past between each kiss. A call to action. To finally answer one of Vi’s biggest what if? 

Vi runs past that separation between you two. Just for tonight, she promises weakly. 

In her haste to get your pants off your body, she snaps the button of your jeans and yanks the garment off along with your soaked panties. Her fingers run along your slit, teasing your entrance with the pad of her finger. 

“Please!”

Vi slides her middle finger down to the knuckle, curving ever so slightly. You jerk into her hand and Vi knows she’s found your weakest point. It’s like her fingers were made your pussy. She gives an experimental press of her finger, slowly building up a steady pace. Your tough demeanor chipping away bit by bit with each drag of her finger. 

You’re panting heavily. The squelching sound of your wet cunt fills the space between your bodies. Vi sets a moderate pace, enough to elicit moans, but not enough to satisfy. Vi must’ve seen the look on your face. 

“Let me take care of you, baby.” Her hand moves a touch faster, but you’re so wound up that any difference makes you cry out. “That’s it—that’s my girl.”

 A steady ache builds in your core at the name. You pull needlessly against the tight restraints, hoping that one more tug would be enough to free your hands. You want to touch her, to bring her closer to you bodies and fuck you properly. 

Vi laughs at your struggle. “Too much for you? Should I slow down?”

You shake your head vehemently. “More…give—fuck, give me more Vi. Need you…need more of you!”

The moment you feel her lips on yours, you also feel the addition of another finger deep in your cunt. The effect is immediate. Vi could barely kiss you with how loudly you’re moaning; jaw hung open, head thrown back, and your hips furiously meeting her fingers. She grabs your open jaw and forces you to look at her. Vi’s spit hits the back of your throat. When she sees you swallow—mouth closing and throat squeezing—she lets out a string of curses. 

A third finger makes your eyes roll to the back of your skull. Your thighs seize up and your chest tightens. You’re so, so close. You need something more. Just one more push and you’ll fall off the edge. 

As if Vi could read your mind, her hand leaves your face, pressing below your belly button, right where her fingers meet the spot inside of you that makes you see stars. The pressure from her other hand combined with her feverish fucking was enough make you cum—hard. Your body twists in on itself, trying to ride out the pulses of pure feeling. Blinding pleasure rips through your body like lightning, hitting you fast and leaving behind a burn. Your cum rushes out of you like a dam, coating Vi’s fingers. 

“That’s it baby. You’re taking me so well. My good girl,” Vi coos, slowing down in her assault against your cunt. 

It takes a minute to come down from your euphoria. Your body slowly relaxes as Vi eases her fingers out of you. You can’t help but whine at the loss. 

In an executive act of mercy, Vi tugs at the belt restraint, freeing your sore wrists. 

You feel warm. A hot, pulsating nerve that’s been rubbed raw. Never in your life had sex ever been that good. You don’t even think you’re even capable of making yourself cum that hard. Vi collapses beside you, pulling you to her chest. You breathe in the scent of her; sweat, musk, and faint traces of leather. 

“We’ll shower tomorrow,” she mumbles into the side of your head. Exhausted. 

You feel the lull of sleep start to take you too. You bury your face into her neck, letting yourself trace patterns along the muscles of her back. Her strong arms wrap around your body, caging you with her warmth. Her soft, bruised, scarred skin enveloping you. You lay like this for a while, listening to the slow staccato of her heartbeat. Vi’s breath evens out and soon she’s asleep in your arms. It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep as well. 

— — —

At some point during the night, Vi twists away from you. You only notice when her voice starts to pull you awake. 

“Didn’t…didn’t mean to,” she whispers. Her face is scrunched up, pained. 

You’re unsure what the protocol is for someone having a bad dream. You want to smooth your thumb over her pinched brows, kissing her frown until her imaginary worries go away. But if Vi wakes up, would she talk about it? You’re paralyzed by the decision, you opt to simply stay on your side of the bed. If it gets too much then you’ll wake her. In the meantime, you’ll try to ignore her sleep talking. You only have the weekend off after all. Soon, Parvata will be knocking on your door, demanding for your services. The thought alone makes you exhausted. 

The bed shifts again and this time Vi’s arms find you. This time, your back is pressed against her chest, her lips ghosting over the top of your shoulder. 

“Sorry…” she murmurs into your skin. A longing spelled with each syllable. “Love…I love you.”

You’re frozen. Her arms around your waist feel like dead weight. A sour feeling is felt in your gut; the feeling that whatever comes out of her mouth will haunt you. 

Vi’s mouth moves again. Sounds pressed against your skin, trying to be let out. Then, you hear it. As clear as Piltover’s skies.

“Caitlyn.”

You felt your heart stop in its tracks. It’s the clearest word that came out of her ramblings. With it comes a shock of clarity that makes the room feel ten degrees colder. Caitlyn…why does that name seem familiar?

Kiramman. Caitlyn Kiramman. Vi’s supposed enforcer buddy before she would up in the pits. Responsible for the removal of one of the chem-barons and their followers. Not much is known about what exactly went wrong to have Vi end up back in Zaun. But one thing was clear. 

Vi was using you. To distract herself from the Kiramman heir. It wasn’t a desire to reconnect with you that led her to follow you. Seems as though sex was a better option than shitty liquor. You feel Vi nuzzle against your skin and you fight the urge to recoil from her touch. It’s not like you’ve staked your claim to her. She wasn’t your girlfriend. You didn’t establish any boundaries or attach any labels to what you were. She never accepted your invitation after all—”I’ll be yours”. 

You slowly maneuver your body until you’re facing Vi. She’s still sound asleep. The hard crease in the middle of her brows is gone, looking  more relaxed than you’ve seen her. You shouldn’t feel jealous. Vi isn’t your partner. And now you have confirmation that she most likely never will be. 

So you cling onto her. Pretending that just for tonight, she’s actually yours. 

[hisfavegirl]

Resolve - Aemond Targaryen x SisterWife!Reader x Aegon Targaryen

Summary : the situation rewinds to when you found out you were pregnant, your mother made a tough decision for you and aegon.

You walked slowly through the garden, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot mixing with the gentle rustling of leaves swaying in the breeze. The sun bathed the world in golden warmth, and the air was sweet with the scent of blooming flowers. Your eyes followed your daughter as she ran ahead, her silver hair catching the light like threads of silk. Her laughter echoed like the sweetest melody, filling the empty spaces in your heart with warmth.

A smile tugged at your lips as you watched her chase after a butterfly, her little feet pattering on the stone path. Moments like this were rare — moments where everything felt simple, peaceful, and whole.

But then it struck. A sudden wave of nausea. It was sharp and overwhelming, twisting your stomach into painful knots. Your breath hitched, and your steps faltered. Panic rose in your chest, but you forced yourself to stay calm.

“Not here,” you whispered to yourself, glancing toward your daughter to make sure she was still preoccupied with her game.

But it was too late. The bitter taste surged up your throat. Clutching your stomach, you turned quickly and rushed toward a cluster of bushes near the edge of the path. You barely had time to kneel before you heaved, your body betraying you as you emptied the contents of your stomach into the grass. The taste was foul, the strain on your body harsh and unrelenting.

For a moment, you stayed there, one hand braced on the ground, the other pressed to your chest as you took shallow, ragged breaths. Your heart pounded in your ears, and sweat dotted your brow.

“Mother?” a small, worried voice called from behind you. Your daughter.

You wiped your mouth quickly with the back of your hand, swallowing the bitterness that lingered on your tongue. Turning toward her, you forced a smile, even as your body still felt weak.

“I’m all right, my sweet girl,” you said softly, reaching for her hand as she approached. Her eyes were filled with worry, far too knowing for a child so young. She leaned into you, her small hands resting on your arm as she gazed up at you.

“Are you sick?” she asked, tilting her head.

You hesitated. Your mind turned over the possibilities, your breath still unsteady. It wasn’t the first time you’d felt this way recently. No, it had been happening for days now — sudden waves of nausea, fatigue that clung to you like a fog.

Realization struck you like a thunderclap. Your eyes widened, your breath catching in your throat.

No. It couldn’t be. Not now.

But deep down, you knew the truth.

You were with child. Again.

The weight of the truth pressed heavily on your chest as you sat by the window of your chambers, watching the pale light of dawn spill over the Red Keep. Your fingers absently traced circles on your stomach, a gesture of quiet reassurance — for yourself, for the life growing within you.

You knew whose child it was. There was no doubt in your mind. Aegon. The man who had been your refuge when the world turned cold. The man who saw you when others refused. He had given you warmth when you felt frozen, love when you felt abandoned. This child was his, not Aemond’s.

But love did not erase fear. It did not silence the questions that echoed in your mind.

What will Mother say?

What will they all say?

You knew Alicent would not be pleased. She had fought to maintain control of her family’s reputation, to keep order where chaos always lingered. Her dreams of noble unity had already crumbled once with the annulment of your marriage to Aemond. This would be another crack in the fragile image she sought to preserve.

With a deep breath, you rose from your chair. You couldn’t delay this any longer. She had to know.

The walk to your mother’s chambers felt longer than usual. Servants bowed as you passed, and guards gave you polite nods, but you barely noticed them. Your heart pounded in your chest with every step. What if she blames me? you wondered. What if she blames the child?

When you reached the door, you hesitated. Your hand hovered over the polished wood for a moment before you finally knocked.

“Enter,” came Alicent’s familiar voice from within.

Pushing the door open, you stepped inside. Your mother was seated near the window, a needle and thread in her hands as she mended an intricate piece of embroidery. Her gaze lifted to you, and her eyes softened with that familiar motherly warmth — but also a hint of caution.

“what happend my sweet love?,” she noted, setting aside her sewing. Her eyes scanned your face, always able to read you better than you liked. “You look troubled.”

Of course, she knew. She always knew.

You stepped further in, hands clasped in front of you. For a moment, you felt like a child again, coming to confess some small mischief. But this was no small mischief. This was a truth that would change everything.

“Mother, I need to speak with you,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt.

Alicent’s eyes narrowed, her brows knitting together in concern. “What is it, dear?” she asked, motioning for you to sit.

But you didn’t sit. You couldn’t. You stayed standing, your gaze unwavering as you spoke the words that had been clawing at your heart.

“I’m with child,” you said plainly, each word deliberate, like the clang of a hammer on steel.

Silence.

Her lips parted slightly, her hands falling still in her lap. Her eyes flickered to your stomach, and for a heartbeat, you saw hope there. Hope that perhaps this child was Aemond’s. Hope that this might restore what was broken. But you knew that hope would be fleeting.

Her gaze slowly lifted back to yours, sharper now, more calculating. She didn’t have to ask, but she did anyway.

“Whose child is it?” Her voice was quiet but firm, each word like a blade.

You swallowed hard, your fingers pressing against your palms to keep them from trembling. No lies. Not now.

“It’s Aegon’s,” you said, not looking away. Not this time. You would not flinch.

Her breath came slow, deep, and controlled, the way she always breathed when trying to keep her composure. Her eyes closed briefly, as though she were counting her thoughts, forcing them into place. When she opened them again, they were sharper than ever.

“You fool,” she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper, but the weight of it crashed down on you like a wave. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I know,” you said quickly, stepping forward, your hands gripping the back of a nearby chair. “I know what it means, Mother, but—”

“But nothing!” Alicent snapped, rising from her chair so swiftly that it scraped loudly against the stone floor. “You think love will protect you from the whispers in these halls? From the court? From your enemies?” She stepped forward, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made you feel small again. “This child will be branded a disgrace before it even draws its first breath. You know that as well as I do.”

“I don’t care,” you said, your voice cracking but resolute. “I don’t care what they say about me. I won’t hide it. I won’t hide him.”

“Him?” Alicent’s eyes flickered with shock. “You think it will be a son? Is that why you risk everything for this?” She paced, her fingers pressed against her temples. “The lords will talk. The ladies will sneer. Do you know what they will call you? They will call you whore. They will call the child a bastard. They will call Aegon—”

“They already call him worse,” you said sharply, cutting her off.

Alicent froze, her eyes narrowing as if she had been struck. The air between you turned cold and still, like the eye of a storm.

“Do you love him?” she asked suddenly, her voice quieter now, colder.

The question hung in the air. Not a command. Not an accusation. A genuine question. One that required an honest answer.

You lowered your gaze for a moment, thinking of all the nights you’d spent in Aegon’s arms, of all the times he had pulled you close when the world felt like it was crumbling beneath you. Of how he made you feel seen, whole, and wanted.

“Yes,” you whispered, lifting your head to meet her eyes. “I love him.”

Alicent studied you for a long, unbearable moment. Her eyes, so much like yours, filled with exhaustion, pain, and something else. Resignation. Slowly, she sat back down, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She did not look at you this time. She gazed toward the window, her face stoic as stone.

For a moment, she said nothing. The silence was suffocating, thicker than smoke. Her gaze was sharp, her mind calculating, as if weighing every possible outcome. Finally, she drew in a slow breath and spoke.

“Both of them will need to hear this,” she said, her voice as cold as the winter sea. Her eyes never left yours. “Aegon and Aemond. We will not let this spiral into more chaos than it already has.”

Her words hit you like a blow to the chest. “Aemond?” you repeated, your voice barely a whisper.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “He must hear it from you, not from the whispers of court. If you think this will be resolved in quiet corners, you are mistaken. We face it now. All of us.”

You nodded, heart pounding in your chest. This was no longer just your burden to bear. It was theirs too.

Moments later, you stood in Alicent’s chambers with your brothers. Aegon leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, a sly grin playing on his lips as if he already knew what was coming. His confidence was infuriating but also reassuring in its own way. He glanced at you with a flicker of warmth in his eyes, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer than necessary.

Aemond, on the other hand, stood rigid near the window, his one eye fixed on you like a predator watching its prey. His jaw was tight, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture stiff as iron. He knew something was coming. He always did.

Alicent stood between them, her face the very picture of control, though you could see the tightness in her shoulders. The queen had spent years mastering the art of appearing unshaken. But today, cracks were beginning to show.

“Tell them,” Alicent said, her voice calm but commanding.

You glanced at her briefly before turning your gaze to Aemond and Aegon. Your heart felt as though it might break free of your ribs, but you forced yourself to stand tall. You would not falter.

“I am with child,” you said, your voice strong despite the tremor in your chest. The words echoed through the chamber, sharp and cutting.

Aegon’s grin widened, his eyes flickering with something smug but also protective. He pushed off the wall and sauntered forward, his gaze never leaving yours, his voice thick with pride as he glanced at Aemond. “And it's mine.”

Aemond’s face was still for a moment. No reaction. Not a twitch. Not a blink. Just silence.

Then, slowly, his head turned toward you, his gaze burning with quiet fury. Not rage. Not disbelief. But something colder.

The weight of your mother’s decision pressed down on you like a storm brewing on the horizon. Her words echoed in your mind, unrelenting and absolute.

“The annulment will be reversed,” she had said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I will speak with the High Septon myself.”

You stood there, your heart pounding in your chest, every breath feeling heavier than the last. Your gaze flickered to Aemond. He was silent, his face a mask of cold indifference, but his eye lingered on you with an intensity that made your skin crawl. His jaw was set, his lips pressed into a thin line, but you could see the flicker of something more beneath it — possession, triumph, control.

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, your nails digging into your palms as you fought to steady yourself. This was not a decision made for you. It was a decision made about you.

Then your gaze shifted to Aegon. He stood at your side, his face a mixture of defiance and disbelief. His eyes darted between you, Aemond, and Alicent, and for the first time, he didn’t look like the carefree, reckless man you had always known. He looked angry. No, more than that — he looked ready to fight.

“Mother,” Aegon’s voice was sharp, sharper than you had ever heard it. “This is madness. You can’t just undo it as if none of it ever happened.”

Alicent’s eyes snapped to Aegon, her gaze hard as steel. “I can, and I will. This family is not yours to break apart as you please, Aegon.”

“You think this will bring us peace?” Aegon stepped forward, his voice rising, his arms outstretched as he motioned to all of you. “Look at us! Look at her!” He pointed to you, his eyes filled with frustration and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “Do you think she wants this? Do you think I will let you throw her back into his arms after everything he’s done?”

Alicent’s face tightened, her lips pursed in disapproval. “This is not about what she wants, Aegon. It is about duty. It is about honor.”

“Duty?” Aegon scoffed, his eyes narrowing as he approached her, his voice dropping to a low, biting whisper. “Is it duty that made Aemond lie with Helaena? Is it duty that made you look away when he broke her heart and mine?”

The room fell into a suffocating silence. Alicent’s face paled, her mouth opening slightly as if to protest, but no words came. You could see it in her eyes — the guilt, the knowledge that Aegon’s words had struck where it hurt most.

You felt it too. The truth of it burned in your chest like wildfire. It wasn’t just you who had suffered. It wasn’t just you who had been betrayed. Aegon had, too.

Aemond shifted from where he stood, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “You speak too much, brother,” he said coldly, his eye locking on Aegon. “You always have.”

“And you think too highly of yourself, brother,” Aegon shot back, his grin wild and sharp. “If you think she will ever love you again, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

“Enough!” Alicent’s voice sliced through the tension, her eyes blazing with fury. “This is not a choice for any of you to make. It is mine. I will do what is necessary to protect this family from scandal and ruin.”

Her gaze then shifted to you, and for a moment, you saw her soften, her eyes filled with something like regret. She stepped forward, her voice quieter but no less firm. “You will do this, my child. For your children. For your honor. This is the only way.”

Silence.

You glanced at Aemond, whose eye was now locked on you with unwavering focus. He didn’t smile, but there was something victorious in his expression, like a man who had won a war without ever lifting a blade.

Your heart twisted with disgust.

You turned to Aegon. He was already watching you, his eyes filled with so much worry, so much hurt, and for the first time, you saw something you had never seen in him before. Fear. Not for himself. For you.

You stepped toward him, slowly but with purpose, your gaze never leaving his face. His brows furrowed in confusion, his eyes flickering with hope and doubt all at once.

Then you reached up and placed a hand on his shoulder. Your fingers pressed against the fabric of his tunic, grounding him, grounding yourself. You met his gaze, steady and unwavering.

Then, you turned to face your mother.

“I will do as you command, Mother,” you said, your voice calm, deliberate. “If that is your decision, I will not fight it.”

Aegon flinched as if you’d struck him, his eyes wide with disbelief. “No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, you don’t have to do this.”

Alicent tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing in approval, as if she had known you would see reason. She nodded once, her lips pressing into a thin smile. “Good. You are wiser than I thought.”

But you weren’t finished.

You turned back to Alicent, your eyes burning with something fierce, something unyielding. “But if I am to return to Aemond,” you continued, your voice rising just enough to command attention, “then let me be clear. I will not suffer in silence. I will not endure betrayal and deceit. If I return, it will be as his equal, not his possession.”

The room went still.

Aemond’s face twisted, his eye narrowing in challenge. “You forget your place, wife,” he said slowly, dangerously.

“No,” you said, stepping forward, not afraid this time. “It is you who forgot mine.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His silence was more telling than any words he could have spoken.

You turned to your mother once more, your chin lifted high. “I will follow your command, Mother. But I will not be silent. And I will not be meek.”

For a moment, Alicent said nothing, her eyes flickering between you, Aemond, and Aegon. Then, slowly, she gave a single nod. “Very well.”

Her eyes softened, but there was sadness there. “Go now. Rest. I will speak to the High Septon myself.”

You didn’t wait for permission. You turned away, your hand still on Aegon’s shoulder. As you walked past him, you felt him reach for you, his fingers gently curling around your arm.

“Don’t do this,” he said, his voice low and broken. “Don’t give her what she wants.”

You glanced back at him, seeing the desperation in his eyes. You squeezed his arm once before pulling away.

“I’m not giving her what she wants,” you said quietly. “I’m giving them what they fear.”

Aegon’s eyes widened, his lips parting as if to say something, but you were already walking away. Each step was heavier than the last, but each step was also stronger. You felt their eyes on you — Aemond’s, Alicent’s, Aegon’s — but you did not falter.

Not anymore.

If you were to return to Aemond’s side, you would not be his shadow.

You would be his storm.

You walked steadily down the corridor, your mind racing with every step. The echoes of your footsteps were joined by another — heavier, deliberate, and unwavering. You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

Aemond.

His presence was like a shadow, ever-watchful, ever-looming. The closer you got to your chamber door, the louder his footsteps became, a slow, deliberate drumbeat behind you. You quickened your pace, heart pounding in your chest.

But it wasn’t fast enough.

The moment you reached the door, his hand shot out, pressing it shut before you could open it. Before you could react, you felt him behind you — his chest firm against your back, his arms sliding slowly, possessively, around your waist. His breath was hot against your ear, his movements slow but inescapable.

“You can run from me, you can defy me,” he whispered, his voice low, dangerous, and all too familiar. “But you will never escape me.”

His hand slid down, gentle yet firm, resting on your stomach. The touch was light, deliberate, and far too intimate. His fingers moved slowly, tracing small, idle circles over the fabric that covered your belly. Your breath caught in your throat, rage, fear, and something darker mixing together in your chest.

“This child you carry…” he murmured, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel every breath. “It may be his, but it changes nothing. You are mine.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine — not from fear, but from fury. Your teeth clenched, your nails dug into your palms as you willed yourself to stay still, to not give him the satisfaction of seeing you tremble.

“You hear me, don’t you?” he pressed on, his grip on your stomach tightening just slightly. “No matter what happens, no matter whose child it is… you will always be mine. Not his. Never his.”

You closed your eyes, your breath shallow, trying to block out the feeling of him against you. But his presence was all-consuming, suffocating.

“Say it,” he commanded softly, his voice like silk over steel. “Say you understand.”

Your eyes snapped open, burning with defiance. Slowly, you placed your hand over his, gripping his fingers tightly. But it wasn’t the gesture of surrender he expected. You squeezed, hard enough to make him feel it. Hard enough to remind him that you weren’t as fragile as he liked to believe.

“If you think I will ever belong to you again, you are a fool, Aemond,” you hissed through clenched teeth, your voice sharp as a blade. “This child may not be yours, but know this — I am not yours either.”

You pulled his hand away from your stomach, stepping forward out of his hold. Your breath was heavy, your heart pounding, but you did not stop. Slowly, you turned to face him, your eyes locked onto his.

He stared at you, his eye narrowing, his lips curving into a bitter smirk. “Is that what you believe?” he asked softly, tilting his head as if examining you. “You think you’re free of me?”

You raised your chin, your gaze cold and unwavering. “I know I am.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you crackled with tension, the silence louder than any words. His smirk faded, his eye dark with something far more dangerous than anger — obsession.

He stepped forward, slow and purposeful, closing the distance you had just created. But this time, you didn’t back away. You met him head-on, your eyes sharp with unyielding resolve.

“If you touch me again without my permission,” you said quietly, your voice steady as a storm on the horizon, “I will show you that I am not as weak as you think I am.”

His gaze flickered, just for a moment, his jaw tightening. But he didn’t touch you again. Not this time.

Instead, he leaned in, his voice low, quiet enough that only you could hear. “You’ll see soon enough, sweet wife,” he murmured, his eye never leaving yours. “No matter where you run, no matter who stands at your side, you will always come back to me.”

With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, his pace slow, deliberate, as if he had already won.

But you stood there, your heart steady now, your breath even. Because for the first time in a long while, you knew something that he didn’t.

You weren’t his anymore.

And you never would be again.

Time moved swiftly, and your pregnancy had now reached its fifth month. The days in the Red Keep felt longer, yet each one blended into the next. Your body had changed, your belly round with the life growing inside you. The weight of it was both a burden and a blessing.

You often found yourself walking in the garden, seeking peace among the blooming flowers. But peace was a luxury you no longer had. Aemond was always there.

He walked beside you, silent but watchful, his sharp gaze never straying from you. His presence was a shadow you could not shake. His hand was a constant, resting on the small of your back or lightly gripping your waist, steady and possessive. At first, you’d tried to brush him off, but his grip would only tighten, his touch firm yet calculated.

You hated it.

It wasn’t the touch itself that you loathed — it was the meaning behind it. It wasn’t affection. It was ownership. A reminder that, in his mind, you were still his.

But what made it worse was Aegon.

Every time the three of you crossed paths, you saw the way Aegon’s eyes flickered with barely restrained rage. His gaze would lock on Aemond’s hand at your waist, his jaw clenching so tight you could almost hear it. His hands would curl into fists, his lips pressed into a thin line. You knew exactly what Aemond was doing.

He was doing it on purpose.

Every glance, every touch, every lingering second his hand stayed on you — it was all for Aegon. To provoke him. To remind him. To declare, without words, that you were not his.

You felt like a pawn in their silent war. Every look they exchanged felt like a strike in an invisible battle. Aemond’s grip would tighten just a little more whenever Aegon drew near, and Aegon’s eyes would darken as if he were seconds away from lunging forward.

Once, Aegon had stepped forward, eyes blazing, his lips parting to say something. But you had caught his gaze and shook your head, silently pleading with him. Not here. Not now.

He’d stopped himself, but his eyes never left you. They were filled with something deeper than anger. Hurt. Longing.

The nights in the Red Keep were cold, quieter than usual, but not for you. Your chambers, once a place of solace, had become a shared space with Aemond once more. It had not been your choice. He had demanded it.

At first, you had argued, protested, even sought your mother’s support. But Alicent, ever the mediator, had insisted it was for “appearances” — that it would “ease tensions.” You knew it was a lie. It was control. Aemond’s control.

So now, every night, you endured it. You lay on one side of the bed, eyes on the distant wall, while his presence loomed behind you. Sometimes you heard the sound of him sharpening his dagger, the slow, deliberate scrape of metal on stone. Other nights, it was the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing.

But you never turned to face him. You never acknowledged him.

Tonight was no different. His gaze lingered on you longer than usual. You could feel it. The weight of it pressed against your back like a brand. You bit your lip, holding in the urge to tell him to stop.

No. Not tonight.

Slowly, you sat up, your hand resting on your rounded belly, feeling the gentle kick of the child within you. You ran your fingers across it, soothing both the child and yourself. Without a word, you slipped out of bed, letting your bare feet meet the cold stone floor.

“Where are you going?” His voice was sharp but quiet, like a dagger in the dark.

You didn’t answer him. You didn’t even look at him. Your feet moved steadily, step by step, toward the door. You expected him to call for you again, to stop you, to demand you return to him.

But he didn’t.

The cool night air hit you as you stepped into the corridor. It was dimly lit by flickering torches mounted on the stone walls. The silence of the night was broken only by the soft echo of your footsteps and the faint hum of distant voices from guards on watch.

You didn’t care.

Your hand stayed on your belly as you walked, the warmth of your palm against the growing life within you giving you strength. You didn’t know where you were going at first, but your heart did. Your feet carried you with purpose, with longing.

Toward him.

Toward Aegon.

You missed him. You missed the warmth of his arms, the way he held you without hesitation. You missed his laugh, his sly remarks that never failed to bring a smile to your face, even on the darkest days. With him, you didn’t feel like a pawn or a prize to be fought over. With him, you were just you.

When you reached his door, you hesitated for a moment, glancing behind you to ensure no one had followed. The corridor was empty. Silent. Safe.

You raised your hand and knocked once, softly.

A moment later, the door creaked open. Aegon stood there, his silver hair tousled, his eyes heavy with sleep. But the moment he saw you, that sleepiness vanished. His eyes softened, filling with something warmer than you had felt in weeks.

“You’re here,” he said quietly, stepping aside to let you in.

You didn’t speak. You simply stepped inside, closing the door softly behind you. The weight of the day, of Aemond, of everything — it all slipped from your shoulders the moment you were in his arms.

He pulled you close, his hand cupping the back of your head as he pressed his lips against your hair. “I’m here,” he murmured. “I’m always here.”

And for the first time that day, you breathed. Truly breathed.

The night felt endless, but for once, it was not in a way that brought you dread. It was warmth, safety, and peace. Aegon’s arms around you were a haven.

You lay against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Each beat matched the rise and fall of his breath, slow and steady. His hand rested on your swollen belly, fingers moving in soft, slow circles that lulled you into tranquility. Every so often, he pressed a kiss to your hair, your temple, or the curve of your cheek.

“You should sleep,” he whispered, his voice husky with weariness but full of tenderness. His thumb brushed along your jawline as he tilted your face toward him. “You and the babe need rest.”

You tilted your head up, eyes meeting his in the low glow of the hearth. “I don’t want to sleep,” you murmured, your fingers curling into his tunic. “Not yet.”

You didn’t have to explain why. He understood. You didn’t want to let go of this moment. Of him.

With Aemond, you felt like something to be claimed, to be possessed. His grip on you had always been firm — unyielding, controlling. But with Aegon, it was different. He held you like you were something precious, not something he owned, but something he cherished. He didn’t tighten his hold when you moved, didn’t pull you back when you tried to leave.

And that freedom — that trust — made you stay.

“Then stay awake,” he said softly, resting his chin on top of your head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His hand continued to glide over your belly, slow and certain, his fingertips light but firm enough to ground you. You closed your eyes, not to sleep, but to feel him more clearly. The babe stirred within you, responding to the warmth of his touch. It made you smile.

“They know you,” you said, a soft laugh escaping you. “They always move when you’re near.”

He hummed a laugh of his own, low and soft in his chest. “Of course they do. I’m their father.”

His words echoed in your heart. Father. A title that once belonged to someone else. Someone who, for all his sharp wit and intelligence, never made you feel like this. Not like Aegon did.

He tilted your face toward him once more, his gaze searching yours as if he could feel the shift in your thoughts. “Stay with me,” he said quietly, not as a command, but as a plea. “Stay with me, and I’ll give you everything. No one will ever touch you again.”

You stared at him for a moment, taking in the sincerity in his eyes. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe. Like you could be free.

“I’m already here,” you whispered, leaning forward to press your lips softly against his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His breath hitched, and you felt his arms tighten just slightly around you. But unlike Aemond, it wasn’t suffocating. It was safe. It was home.

The warmth between you and Aegon vanished the moment the door slammed open with a deafening crash. The sharp sound echoed through the room like a crack of thunder.

Aemond stood in the doorway, his chest rising and falling with every heavy breath, his eye blazing with fury. His gaze locked on you and Aegon, his face twisted with something darker than anger - possession.

Before either of you could react, Aemond closed the distance in long, deliberate strides. His hand shot out, his fingers curling tightly around your arm.

"Get up," he snarled, his voice cold and commanding. "Now."

You gasped, feeling the sharp sting of his grip.

"Let me go, Aemond!" you shouted, trying to twist out of his hold, but his fingers only dug in harder. "You're hurting me!"

"You think I care?" he hissed, his face inches from yours. His single eye burned with something wild, untamed, and his grip only grew more unyielding. "You're coming with me. Now."

Aegon was on his feet in an instant. The air in the room shifted, heavy with tension as he stepped forward, placing himself between you and Aemond. "Let her go, brother," he said with a sharp edge to his voice, his eyes narrowed in warning. "Now."

Aemond's lips curled into a bitter, joyless smile. "Step aside, Aegon," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "This has nothing to do with you."

"Everything about her has to do with me," Aegon shot back, his voice steadier than you'd ever heard it. He reached for you, his hand curling around your other arm in a protective grip. "She's not going anywhere with you."

Aemond's patience snapped. With a sudden, sharp tug, he yanked you toward him with enough force to make you stumble. Pain shot up your arm as his grip turned ironclad, his fingers pressing into your skin so hard you knew it would leave a bruise.

"Aemond, stop!" you cried, twisting against him, but he didn't let go.

Aegon stepped forward, his eyes wild with anger. "I said, let her go!" he barked, his voice louder now, filled with a raw kind of rage that rarely surfaced in him. He grabbed Aemond's wrist, his nails digging into his brother's skin. "I'm not asking, brother."

"She is my wife!" Aemond shouted, his voice breaking like thunder. His body tensed, and for a moment, it felt like the world itself was about to split in two. "Mine! Not yours, Aegon!"

"She's not yours, Aemond." Aegon's voice was eerily calm, his grip on Aemond's wrist firm and unyielding. "She hasn't been yours for a long time. And you know it."

The words struck harder than any blade.

Aemond's eye twitched, his jaw tightening so hard it looked like he might break his teeth. His gaze flickered to you for a moment - and in that moment, you saw something raw and desperate beneath all that fury. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by cold, steely resolve.

"If you think you can take her from me," Aemond said, his voice a venomous whisper, his gaze fixed on Aegon, "then you're more of a fool than I thought."

"Try me," Aegon growled, his eyes narrowed, unflinching.

The room felt suffocating, every breath you took shallow and quick. You could feel Aemond's grip loosening, just a little — but it was enough. You pulled back with everything you had, your heart pounding in your chest.

"I am not yours, Aemond," you said with a voice stronger than you thought you had. "I am not a prize to be fought over."

His eye snapped to you, sharp and burning with something between pain and fury. "Don't think for a moment that he'll love you the way I do," he said, his voice quieter now but just as cutting. "He will ruin you."

"No," you replied, your voice steady as your eyes met his. "You already did."

You stood frozen, eyes locked on Aemond, his hand gripping your wrist with unyielding force. His fingers dug into your skin, and no amount of pulling or twisting seemed to loosen his hold. His breaths came in sharp, angry bursts, his chest rising and falling like a man barely clinging to control.

Your gaze shifted to Aegon, who stood just beside him. Aemond's other hand was pressed against Aegon's throat, pinning him against the wall. Aegon struggled, his face twisted in pain, but he still managed to shoot Aemond a defiant glare. His hands gripped Aemond's forearm, trying to pry him off.

"Stop it, Aemond!" Your voice was sharp, laced with urgency. You tugged at his arm, trying to break his focus. "Please, let him go."

He didn't move. His gaze shifted to you - cold, calculating, and yet, behind it, something more. Obsession. Possession.

"He needs to learn," Aemond growled, his grip on Aegon tightening. "He thinks he can take what's mine. Thinks he can touch what belongs to me." His voice was low, dangerous, every word like the sharp edge of a blade. "But I'll remind him. I'll remind you too."

Your heart pounded in your chest, every beat a sharp thud against your ribs. You stepped closer, ignoring the ache in your wrist, ignoring the fear clawing at your chest. Your voice was softer now but firm. "Aemond... if you want me to come back with you, I will."

That got his attention. His eye flickered to you, his brows drawn together, suspicion laced with disbelief.

"I'll go with you," you repeated, holding his gaze steadily. "But you have to let him go." Your voice didn't waver, even though your body trembled. "This isn't the way. Please."

There was a long, agonizing pause. Aemond's breathing slowed, his gaze moving between you and Aegon. Slowly, his grip on Aegon's throat loosened, his fingers sliding away. Aegon gasped for air, coughing as he rubbed at his neck, his eyes still blazing with anger.

"Don't think this is over, brother," Aemond muttered coldly, his gaze never leaving Aegon as he finally released him.

Aegon coughed, his eyes filled with defiance despite the redness blooming on his neck.

"No," Aegon rasped, wiping his mouth. "It's far from over."

Aemond tugged on your arm, forcing you to stumble forward. You shot one last glance at Aegon, heart aching at the sight of him like this. His eyes met yours, a silent plea for you not to go. But you had no choice. Not now.

"Walk," Aemond commanded, his voice sharp but quieter now. He didn't look at you as he pulled you down the corridor. "If you run, I'll drag you."

You swallowed the lump in your throat, keeping your eyes forward, your heart heavy with every step. Behind you, you could hear Aegon calling your name, but his voice grew distant with every step you took.

Aemond's grip on your wrist remained firm, his fingers like iron shackles that refused to yield. His pace was relentless, each step echoing through the empty corridors as you struggled to keep up. Your heart pounded in your chest, not just from the speed, but from the growing dread that settled deep in your bones.

When you finally reached your shared chamber, Aemond shoved the door open with a force that made it bang against the wall. He pulled you inside, releasing your wrist only to grab your face with his hand. His fingers pressed firmly into your cheeks, tilting your head upward so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

"Look at me," he hissed, his eye boring into yours, cold and unyielding like steel. "You seem to have forgotten something very important."

You blinked, your breathing quick and shallow.

"Aemond-"

he snapped, his voice low and razor-sharp, each word cutting deeper than the last.

"No more excuses. No more lies. You are mine." His grip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to make your breath hitch. "No one else. Not Aegon. Not anyone."

Your eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape, looking for anything that might help you. But there was nowhere to run. No one to call for.

"You think I don't see it?" he continued, his voice dangerously quiet now, a slow burn of rage that simmered just beneath the surface.

"The way he looks at you. The way you let him touch you." His lips twisted into a bitter smile. "Do you think that I'll stand by and watch while he takes what's mine?"

"I'm not a possession, Aemond," you said firmly, but your voice trembled. "You can't control me."

His smile vanished in an instant. His face hardened, and for a moment, you thought you saw something break inside him. Slowly, he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing harsh and uneven.

"If I can't control you," he whispered, his voice laced with venom, "then I will control everything around you." His eye flickered, wild and untamed. "I will burn it all if I must.Do you understand me?" His breath was hot against your skin, his words colder than ice. "I will destroy anyone who stands in my way. Mother. Aegon. It doesn't matter. No one will take you from me."

Fear gripped you for the first time in a way you had never felt before. This was no longer anger. This was obsession. This was madness. Your breathing grew shallow, heart racing as you felt the weight of his words sink in.

Aemond never spoke threats lightly. He never said anything he didn't mean. And this... this wasn't a warning. This was a promise.

"Please, Aemond," you pleaded, your voice softer now, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. "Don't do this. You don't have to do this."

"But I do," he whispered, his voice like silk over steel. His eye searched yours, softer now, but still dangerous. "Because if I lose you..." He trailed off, his jaw clenching. "I won't lose you."

He finally released your face, and you stumbled back, your chest heaving as you fought to stay calm. Your fingers brushed against your belly instinctively. His gaze followed the movement, his eye lingering there for a moment. You took a step back, keeping your eyes on him, never turning away. The distance felt like a fragile shield, ready to shatter at any moment.

"Rest," he said, his voice eerily calm now. "I'll stay tonight." He moved to unfasten his leather jerkin, as though he had not just threatened to destroy everything you loved.

Your heart pounded as you backed away toward the bed. For the first time, you weren't sure if you were safe anymore - not from him, and not from what he would do.

The morning sun filtered through the tall windows as you made your way to your mother’s chambers. Your steps were slow, every movement weighed down by exhaustion and the dull ache radiating from your wrist. You kept your hand close to your side, fingers gently curled to hide the fresh bruises that marred your skin. The blue and purple marks stood out starkly against your pale complexion, a cruel reminder of Aemond’s grip from the night before.

The familiar scent of lavender and freshly pressed linens filled the air as you entered her chambers. Your mother stood near the mirror, her back to you, as her handmaid carefully fastened the intricate laces of her gown. She glanced at you through the reflection of the mirror, her green eyes narrowing with quiet observation.

“You’re late,” she remarked, her tone sharp but not unkind. Her eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, her gaze sweeping over you as if searching for something. “Sit,” she added with a tilt of her head toward the chair near the window.

You moved to sit, your movements careful and deliberate. Your heart pounded in your chest, every glance she sent your way feeling like she might see through you — see everything. The fabric of your sleeve shifted as you sat, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you thought she might notice the bruising.

Her gaze flickered to you once more, her brow slightly furrowed. “You look pale,” she said, dismissing the handmaid with a flick of her fingers. The servant bowed her head and left the room, the soft click of the door closing behind her.

Your mother turned fully to face you, arms crossed, her sharp eyes now fully focused on you. “Are you unwell?” she asked, her voice quieter now but no less commanding.

You shook your head quickly, forcing a small, unconvincing smile. “No, Mother. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

Her gaze lingered on you, her eyes narrowing in that way she always did when she knew something was being kept from her. She stepped closer.

“Show me your hands,” she ordered suddenly, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Your heart stopped. “Mother, I’m fine—”

“Show me,” she said again, her voice sharper this time.

Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your dress, panic rising in your chest. You glanced at the door, as if it might offer you some escape, but it didn’t. Slowly, reluctantly, you raised your hands, keeping your sleeves as far down as possible.

Her eyes narrowed even further. “Pull up your sleeves.”

“Mother, please, it’s nothing—”

Her patience snapped. She stepped forward and grabbed your wrist with a speed you hadn’t expected, yanking your sleeve up before you could stop her. Her eyes landed on the bruise, the ugly blues and purples staining your skin. Her lips parted slightly, her breath catching in her throat.

Her face shifted from confusion to horror, then to something colder, more dangerous. Her grip on your wrist tightened, not in anger at you, but in sheer disbelief. “Who did this to you?” Her voice was low, each word deliberate and sharp like the edge of a blade.

Your eyes darted away, heart racing. You didn’t want to say it. Saying it would make it real.

Her eyes followed your gaze, and slowly, realization dawned on her face. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled slowly. “Aemond,” she said his name like a curse, as if the mere sound of it tasted bitter on her tongue.

She released your wrist, her fingers lingering there for a moment as if she wanted to pull you into an embrace but didn’t know how. Her eyes softened for a moment, but only a moment. Her jaw clenched, and you saw the familiar look of resolve settle on her face.

“This ends now,” she said firmly. “You are not his to break.” Her words hit you harder than you expected. Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to let them fall.

“You’ll stay here with me tonight,” she added, her voice leaving no room for argument. “No one will touch you without answering to me.”

For the first time in a long while, you felt something akin to hope. Maybe this time, she wouldn’t look away. Maybe this time, she would fight for you.

You lowered your gaze, your hands trembling slightly as you tried to keep your composure. “Please, Mother,” you whispered, your voice strained with desperation. “Forget it. Don’t do anything. Don’t say anything to him.”

Alicent’s eyes narrowed with concern as she moved closer to you, her hand gently cupping your cheek. “I won’t stand by while he treats you like this,” she said firmly, her voice filled with quiet resolve. “You are my daughter. No man, not even Aemond, will lay a hand on you and walk away unscathed.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you grabbed her hand, clutching it tightly. “You don’t understand, Mother,” you said, your voice breaking with emotion. “He’s not the same anymore. He won’t care who you are. He said it himself — no one can stop him. Not you. Not even Aegon.”

Alicent’s eyes flickered with something dangerous — not fear, but fury. Her grip on your face tightened ever so slightly. “Then he is more of a fool than I thought,” she said coldly. “He forgets who raised him. He forgets that I am still his mother, and I have not forgotten how to protect my own.”

“No!” you cried, shaking your head frantically. “Please, Mother, I’m begging you. Don’t provoke him. He’s not thinking clearly. He’s not like he used to be.” Your voice broke, and you felt the tears spill down your cheeks. “If you push him, he’ll do something reckless. To you. To Aegon. To everyone.”

Her eyes softened as she saw the fear in you, her strong, brave daughter now reduced to a trembling shadow of herself. Alicent knelt in front of you, her hands resting on your knees. “Listen to me, my sweet girl,” she said softly, looking up at you with a mother’s fierce love. “You are not alone in this. You have me. You have Aegon. You have all of us. Aemond is not as untouchable as he thinks.”

You shook your head again, heart pounding in your chest. “He’ll never let me go, Mother,” you whispered, tears streaming freely now. “He’ll always find a way to control me. He’ll hurt Aegon if he has to.” Your hands clutched at hers, eyes wild with fear. “Please, Mother. If you care for me at all, don’t challenge him. Just let it go.”

Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line as she gazed at you, torn between anger and heartache. Slowly, she pulled you into a hug, cradling your head against her shoulder. Her hand stroked your hair gently, just like she used to when you were a child.

“Shh, it’s all right,” she murmured, her voice softer now but no less determined. “I won’t do anything to put you or Aegon in danger. But I won’t stand by and let him destroy you either. I promise you that.”

Her words were meant to soothe you, but they only made you more afraid. Because you knew Alicent. You knew that behind her calm, measured words was a storm brewing. And Aemond was reckless enough to walk straight into it.

You slowly pulled away from your mother’s embrace, wiping your eyes as you steadied yourself. Just as you were about to speak, the sound of the door creaking open drew both of your gazes toward it.

There she stood — Helaena. Her soft, serene smile as innocent as ever, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Her eyes met yours, gentle and kind, as though nothing had happened. As though she hadn’t betrayed you.

Your breath caught in your throat, your body going rigid. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Your mother glanced between you both, her eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. She could sense the tension.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Helaena said softly, tilting her head. Her voice was light, so sweet and harmless that it made your chest tighten with resentment. “I just came to see Mother, but I can return later if this is a bad time.”

Her gaze lingered on you for a moment too long, her eyes searching yours as if she were expecting you to say something. But you didn’t. You refused to give her that satisfaction.

“No need,” you muttered quietly, stepping back from your mother. “I was just leaving.”

Alicent’s hand brushed your arm. “Are you sure, my dear? You don’t have to go.” Her voice was concerned but firm. She could see how tense you were, how stiff your movements had become.

“I need to rest, Mother,” you said, your eyes focused on the ground. You knew if you looked at Helaena, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from glaring. “I’ll return later.”

Without waiting for a response, you moved toward the door. Your heart pounded in your chest with every step. You could feel Helaena’s eyes on you, following you like a shadow. The air felt heavier with every inch you crossed.

As you passed her, you didn’t look at her. You didn’t acknowledge her. She shifted slightly, as if she wanted to speak, but no words came. The silence between you was louder than any scream.

Once you were past her, you released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your steps quickened, your heartbeat thudding in your ears as you put as much distance as possible between yourself and that room.

Her smile. Her voice. Her innocence.

All of it was a lie.

You bit your lip hard, willing yourself not to cry. Not again. You had shed too many tears already, and you refused to give her the power to cause any more.

You froze at the sound of Aegon’s voice calling your name. Panic shot through you like lightning. Your breath hitched, and your heart pounded so loudly you could hear it in your ears. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t. If Aemond was nearby, if he saw you with Aegon, there would be consequences — consequences you weren’t ready to face.

But you didn’t move either. You stood there, caught between fear and longing.

His footsteps echoed softly as he approached. You could feel him before you saw him, the familiar warmth of his presence just behind you. Slowly, he stepped in front of you, his eyes searching yours with quiet concern.

“Look at me,” Aegon said softly, tilting his head to meet your gaze. His voice wasn’t teasing or playful like usual. It was steady. Serious. “Please.”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Your eyes stayed fixed on the ground, afraid that if you met his gaze, you’d break.

His gaze lowered, his eyes drifting to your hands. Slowly, his face changed. His lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing as he took in the dark bruise on your wrist. His fingers reached out, gentle but firm, taking your hand in his.

“Who did this to you?” His voice was low, quiet, but the edge of anger beneath it was unmistakable. His thumb traced the bruise with a touch so soft it almost hurt more.

You yanked your hand back, cradling it against your chest as if to shield it from him. “It’s nothing,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Aegon’s eyes flickered, his jaw tightening. “Don’t lie to me.” His voice was sharper now, his eyes no longer soft but hard as steel. “Was it him?”

Your silence was enough of an answer.

His eyes darted down the hall, his shoulders stiffening like a predator spotting prey. His breathing grew heavier, nostrils flaring as he clenched his fists. You reached for him quickly, grabbing his sleeve with your unbruised hand.

“Don’t,” you pleaded, your voice urgent. “Please, Aegon. Not here. Not now.”

He turned his gaze back to you, and for a moment, you saw the conflict in his eyes — the war between fury and restraint. His jaw worked as he ground his teeth together, his eyes scanning every inch of your face.

“He doesn’t own you,” Aegon said, his voice rough but filled with certainty. “He never did.”

Your eyes stung with tears you refused to shed. “Please, Aegon,” you whispered again. “Just let it go.”

His eyes lingered on you a moment longer, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. But for you, he relented. He let out a heavy breath, his shoulders relaxing just a little.

“Fine,” he muttered, taking a step closer. “But I’m not letting this go forever. He’ll pay for it.”

You shook your head, fresh tears brimming in your eyes. “Don’t make it worse, Aegon. Please.”

He stared at you, his eyes full of emotions he didn’t know how to say. He reached up, his fingers lightly brushing your cheek, and for a moment, everything else melted away.

“I’ll do whatever you ask,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving yours. “But if he hurts you again, I won’t wait for your permission.”

He leaned forward, his forehead gently resting against yours. Neither of you spoke, letting the silence say what words couldn’t. For once, it felt like you weren’t carrying it all alone.

Your footsteps felt heavier with every step as you entered your chamber. The air was colder than usual, as if all warmth had been sucked out of the room. Your heart pounded in your chest, and your breath came in short, shallow gasps as your eyes settled on the figure sitting by the fire.

Aemond.

He sat in silence, one elbow resting on the arm of the chair, his fingers idly spinning a dagger. The soft glow of the fire reflected off the sharp steel, casting flickering lights across his face. His gaze was fixed on the blade, his focus so intense that it was as if you didn’t exist in the room. But you knew better. His calmness was a facade—a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

You froze near the door, every muscle in your body tense. Your throat felt tight, and the urge to cry out was almost unbearable. Your eyes darted to the door behind you, calculating the distance, wondering if you could make it before he noticed.

“Enjoying your time with our brother, hmm?” His voice cut through the silence, sharp as the edge of his dagger. His tone was low, quiet, but it held a threat that couldn’t be ignored.

The dagger stopped spinning. His fingers held it still, balancing it delicately between his thumb and forefinger. Slowly, his eye lifted to meet yours. Cold. Unforgiving. Burning with barely restrained fury.

“Not going to say anything?” he continued, tilting his head slightly like a predator watching its prey. “Or perhaps… you think I didn’t see?”

Your breath hitched, and you felt your chest tighten with fear. “Aemond… I’m tired,” you whispered, forcing yourself to sound calm even as your voice trembled. “I just want to rest.”

He stood. Slowly. Deliberately. Every movement controlled and precise, like a lion stalking forward. The dagger remained in his hand, dangling loosely but never truly at rest.

“Tired?” he repeated, his tone eerily soft, tasting the word as if it were foreign to him. “Tired of what? Of your freedom? Of the warmth he gives you?”

He took a step forward, his boots thudding softly against the stone floor. Your back pressed against the door, and your breathing quickened. You had nowhere left to go.

“He touched you, didn’t he?” His voice grew sharper, more venomous with each word. “I saw it. I saw how he looked at you like you belonged to him.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh that sent chills down your spine. “But he forgot one thing.”

He was right in front of you now, so close you could feel the heat of his body against yours. Your heart pounded in your chest as if it were trying to break free.

“You are mine,” he whispered, his voice so low it felt like a hiss of smoke curling around your ear. “No matter how many times you run to him. No matter how many times you let him touch you. In the end, you will always belong to me.”

“No,” you said, your voice cracking with the weight of your defiance. You shook your head, your eyes fierce despite the tears threatening to fall. “I am not yours, Aemond.”

His eye narrowed, and his lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. “You’re wrong.”

He lifted the dagger, the cold steel barely grazing your cheek. The touch was light, almost like a lover’s caress, but the weight of the threat behind it was suffocating.

“I don’t need a marriage to claim you,” he said, his voice colder than the blade on your skin. “I don’t need anyone’s blessing. You have been mine since the beginning. And I will make sure everyone remembers that — including you.”

The tears you had been holding back finally fell, hot trails down your cheeks. But you refused to look away. “If you love me…” your voice cracked as your throat tightened. “If you love me, you will never betray me.”

His smile disappeared instantly. His face went cold, his features carved from stone. He pulled the dagger away from your cheek, his gaze empty but somehow more terrifying than his rage.

“I love you,” he said slowly, as if it were an undeniable, absolute truth. “And that’s exactly why you will never leave.”

Without another word, he turned his back to you and walked toward the fire. He set the dagger down on a small table beside him, his movements calm, methodical, as if nothing had happened. He sat back down in the chair, folding his arms over his chest as he stared into the flames.

“Go to bed, wife,” he said, his voice unnervingly casual, as if the past few moments hadn’t happened at all.

It wasn’t a request. It was a command.

Your legs felt as if they had turned to stone. You couldn’t move. Your whole body trembled as you stared at him, watching the way his eyes remained fixed on the fire, not even glancing your way.

He didn’t have to. You knew he was still watching you.

Your eyes darted to the door behind you. Just a few steps. Just a few.

“If you step out of that door,” he said suddenly, his voice soft, almost gentle. “I will make sure Aegon never sees the sun again.”

Your heart stopped. Your eyes widened, and your gaze shot toward him. He didn’t look at you. He stared into the flames as if they were more interesting than anything you could ever say.

But you knew he wasn’t bluffing.

The tears came harder now, streaming down your face. Your hands shook as you wrapped your arms around yourself, hugging your body tightly. Slowly, painfully, you turned away from the door and took one step toward the bed. Then another.

Your heart felt heavier with every step, as if the weight of the world had settled on your shoulders. Your knees wobbled, but you forced yourself forward until you reached the edge of the bed. You sat down, your eyes fixed on the floor, your hands pressed against your growing belly.

“Good girl,” Aemond said softly, his voice filled with dark satisfaction. “You know where you belong.”

You felt yourself break. Something inside you, something you’d fought to protect, shattered.

You lowered your head, closing your eyes tightly as if shutting out the world would somehow make it all go away. But nothing could block out the cold weight of his words.

Your fingers curled over your belly, cradling the life growing inside you. Tears dripped down onto your lap, and a quiet, broken sob escaped your lips.

But there was no comfort for you here. No warmth. No safety. Only the sound of the fire crackling softly in the hearth and the quiet hum of Aemond’s breathing behind you.

You knew then that you were trapped. Not by the walls of the Red Keep. Not by your duty or your vows.

But by him.

The days passed quickly, but each one felt heavier than the last. You had grown cautious-every glance, every step, every breath weighed down by the fear of Aemond's eyes on you. His presence lingered even when he wasn't there, like a shadow that never faded.

You learned to move carefully, to avoid his gaze whenever possible. Your secret moments with Aegon became even more fleeting and hidden. You met him only in places where Aemond's eye could not reach-when he flew with Vhagar or during his training with Ser Criston. In those moments, you could breathe freely. For just a little while, you could feel like yourself again.

But every night, the suffocating weight returned. No one knew. Not your mother. Not Aegon. No one knew what happened in the darkness of your shared chamber.

Aemond's hand would grip your wrist with bruising force, dragging you to him no matter how much you resisted. You would plead with him, reminding him of your condition. "Please, Aemond, I'm carrying a child." Your voice would break, your tears falling freely.

But he never listened. His response was always the same. "i don't care, i will claim what's mine."

You stopped fighting after a while. It hurt less that way.

Every night, you lay there with tears streaming silently down your face, staring at the ceiling as he claimed what he thought belonged to him. His hands gripped you like a vice, his breath hot and sharp against your neck. Every whisper of his love felt like poison in your ears.

"You're mine," he would say, as if repeating it would make it true.

But in your heart, you knew it wasn't love. It was possession. It was control.

Every morning, you'd wake up with new bruises-faint marks on your wrists, your hips, and your neck. They lingered for days, and you covered them with sleeves and scarves, hiding them from the world. But you couldn't hide them from yourself.

Aemond would watch you dress with that same, sharp gaze. His single eye followed every movement, as if to remind you that no matter where you went, he would always be watching. You never looked at him. You never spoke to him unless absolutely necessary.

But he didn't care.

He knew. He knew you feared him. And he relished in it.

The only peace you found was in Aegon's presence. His touch was gentle. His words were soft. Sometimes he would press his forehead against yours, and for a moment, it felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from your shoulders.

"Run away with me," he whispered once, his voice filled with quiet desperation. "We'll leave them all behind. I'll take you somewhere no one will ever find us."

Your eyes stung with tears. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to take his hand and run far, far away. But the image of Aemond's face flashed in your mind-the cold fury in his eye, the sharp edge of his dagger.

You knew he would hunt you to the ends of the world.

"He'll kill you, Aegon," you whispered, voice hollow. "He'll kill you just to make me watch."

Aegon cupped your face with both hands, his eyes fierce with defiance. "Let him try."

But you shook your head. "No. I won't lose you too."

Aegon pulled you close, his arms wrapped around you like a shield against the world. You buried your face in his chest, allowing yourself a moment of weakness, a moment to pretend you weren't afraid. His hand rubbed slow circles on your back, soothing, steady, strong.

"I'll protect you," he vowed, his voice firm with resolve. "Even if it costs me everything."

But in the pit of your heart, you knew that protection would come at a cost. And you were terrified of what Aemond would do when he realized that the thing he cherished most-the thing he believed he owned -was slipping from his grasp.

You were now in the final month of your pregnancy, and the weight of it all — both physical and emotional — had become nearly unbearable. Your swollen belly left you confined to your chambers, your movements slow and careful. The once-familiar halls of the Red Keep now felt distant and unreachable.

Your mother visited often, her presence soothing, though her eyes always lingered on you with quiet worry. She could see it — the exhaustion in your gaze, the unspoken pain you carried. She never asked questions, but her hands would often reach for yours, squeezing them gently as if to remind you that she was still there.

Aegon visited, too. His visits were a much-needed reprieve from the storm that raged around you. He brought laughter, warmth, and stories that made you feel like you were living outside these walls. When he sat beside you, he’d rest a hand on your belly, grinning as he felt the baby’s kicks. “A little dragon with fire in their blood,” he’d say, his eyes crinkling with pride. His smile always eased your heart, if only for a moment.

But there was another presence in your chamber that refused to be ignored.

Aemond.

He allowed Aegon to enter your chambers, but only under his watchful eye. He would stand in the corner, arms crossed, his gaze cold and sharp as Valyrian steel. His presence hung in the air like a storm cloud, suffocating and ever-looming. You could feel his eye on you, always watching, always calculating.

Every glance exchanged between you and Aegon was met with the slow, deliberate clenching of Aemond’s jaw. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t have to. The threat lingered unspoken in the room.

“You don’t have to stay,” you had said to him once, exhaustion seeping into your voice. “I’m safe enough with my brother.”

Aemond’s eye flickered toward you, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smile. “You misunderstand, dear wife,” he replied, voice low and sharp as a blade. “I don’t stay to protect you. I stay to remind him that you belong to me.”

You felt the chill of his words settle into your bones. It wasn’t protection. It was control. It had always been control.

Aegon shifted beside you, his hand still on your belly, fingers pressing firmly as if anchoring himself to you. His eyes never left Aemond, his jaw tightening, his nostrils flaring. For once, Aegon didn’t have a joke to throw at his brother. He didn’t laugh. He only stared.

“You can remind me all you want, brother,” Aegon finally said, his voice quiet but sharp. “It won’t change a thing.”

Aemond’s gaze darkened, his fingers twitching at his side. His eye moved to you, as if daring you to say something, to deny him, to challenge him. But you didn’t. You stayed silent, your hand covering Aegon’s on your belly.

Aemond noticed. Of course he did.

His lips pressed into a thin line, his hands clasping behind his back as he approached. Each step felt like the sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. He crouched in front of you, his eye level with yours, so close you could feel his breath on your skin.

“Soon, you’ll give birth,” he said softly, his voice deceptively tender. His hand reached for your face, his fingers brushing against your cheek with a gentleness that made your stomach twist with unease. “And when that child is born, it won’t matter whose blood runs through its veins. It will be mine. As you are mine.”

You turned your face away, but his grip on your chin forced you to look at him.

“Say it,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. “Say it, my love. Say you are mine.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, but you bit your tongue, refusing to give him that satisfaction. His gaze searched yours, his patience waning.

Aegon’s voice shattered the moment. “Enough, Aemond.”

The air grew thick with tension. For a moment, it felt as though one wrong move would set everything ablaze. Aemond’s eye flicked toward Aegon, his lip curling into a sneer.

“Be careful, brother,” Aemond warned, his voice low with menace. “You’ve taken enough from me. Do not take her, too.”

Aegon rose slowly from the bed, his eyes locked with Aemond’s. “If she were truly yours, brother, you wouldn’t have to force her to say it.”

The silence was deafening.

Aemond stared at him for a moment longer, his breathing slow but deep, like a dragon ready to breathe fire. But then he rose to his full height, his hands still clasped behind his back. He tilted his head, his single eye narrowing in cold amusement.

“Be careful, Aegon,” he murmured as he turned on his heel, walking toward the door. “You never know which dragons bite.”

With that, he left, his footsteps echoing down the hall like thunder. The room felt lighter in his absence, but the weight on your chest remained.

Aegon sat beside you again, his hand finding yours. You clutched it tightly, your breath coming in shallow, unsteady gasps.

“He won’t touch you again,” Aegon promised, his voice low with conviction. “I won’t let him.”

But you both knew Aemond’s promises were not so easily broken.

As night fell and darkness draped itself over the world, the soft glow of moonlight spilled into your chamber, casting pale silver rays across the stone floor. You sat by the window, gazing out at the vast, endless sky, your fingers slowly tracing circles over the curve of your swollen belly. The rhythmic motion brought you a small measure of peace, a quiet reminder of the life growing within you.

But that peace did not last.

You felt him before you heard him. The subtle shift in the air. The weight of his presence behind you. His footsteps were too quiet, too deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. Your heart quickened, but you didn’t move, didn’t turn. Perhaps if you stayed still, he would leave you alone.

Then, you felt it.

His fingers brushed through your hair, slow and deliberate, as though he had every right to touch you. Your body tensed immediately, every muscle going rigid, and your breath caught in your throat. The tenderness of his touch only made it worse — the careful, possessive way his fingers lingered at the ends of your silver strands, as though you were something precious that belonged to him alone.

You bit your lip, forcing yourself to stay still. Do not react. Do not show fear.

But he didn’t stop.

His hand moved to the crown of your head, his fingers weaving through your hair as he leaned down. You squeezed your eyes shut, every part of you screaming to move away, but your body betrayed you, frozen in place. You could feel the warmth of his breath, the faint brush of his lips as he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the top of your head.

“You’re too quiet tonight,” he murmured, his voice low and soft as silk, but laced with a quiet edge of danger. His lips lingered a moment longer before pulling away. “Are you afraid of me, wife?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes stayed fixed on the window, your gaze distant as if the stars could somehow save you. Your fingers still rested on your belly, rubbing small circles as if to shield your child from the storm that lingered behind you.

Aemond’s patience was thin. It always had been.

His hand slid from your hair to your shoulder, his fingers curling around it with just enough pressure to make you feel it. “Answer me,” he said more firmly, his tone like a blade pressed against your skin. “Are you afraid of me?”

Your throat felt tight, as though it had been closed off with chains. For a moment, you thought of Aegon’s words. “He won’t touch you again. I won’t let him.” But Aegon wasn’t here. It was just you and him. It had always been just you and him in this room, in this prison masquerading as a marriage.

You swallowed hard, forcing down the fear that clawed at your chest. Slowly, you turned your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. His face was calm, too calm, his eye watching you intently, sharp and unblinking. The firelight from the hearth behind him flickered, casting shadows over the sharp angles of his face, making him look like something carved from stone.

“No,” you said quietly, your voice hollow. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his eye narrowing as if he were trying to see past your words, past your mask. Slowly, his grip on your shoulder loosened, his fingers sliding away, but not before brushing against your skin one last time.

“Rest then,” he said, his voice a whisper of command. “You’ll need your strength soon.”

He walked away, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. You didn’t turn to watch him go. Your eyes stayed on the stars. Your fingers pressed more firmly against your belly as if your child could feel your silent plea for strength.

Behind you, you heard him settle onto the bed. The quiet rustle of fabric. The shift of weight as he leaned back against the pillows. The room felt colder with him in it.

You stayed by the window for a while longer, counting each breath, each second, until you were certain his gaze was no longer on you. Only then did you allow yourself a quiet, shuddering breath.

He called you to the bed, his voice low but commanding, leaving little room for refusal. Your heart sank, but you knew there was no escaping it. Slowly, with quiet, measured steps, you approached, each movement feeling heavier than the last. The weight of his gaze bore down on you like chains, unyielding and inescapable.

He watched you intently, his sharp eye tracking your every move, and when you sat on the edge of the bed, he tilted his head, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice as smooth as silk, but it sent a chill down your spine.

You lay down beside him, your movements stiff and mechanical. The mattress dipped slightly under your weight, and you tried to keep your breathing steady, calm, though every muscle in your body was tight with tension.

He turned toward you, his long silver hair falling over his face, the firelight catching on its strands, giving him an almost ethereal glow.

His fingers brushed against your cheek, tracing the curve of your face with an unsettling gentleness. You didn't flinch, didn't move — you'd learned that it only made him more persistent.

"Look at you," he said softly, as if in awe. "So quiet, so obedient tonight." His thumb lingered at the corner of your mouth, his gaze flickering from your eyes to your lips. "I could almost believe you've finally accepted your place."

You didn't respond. Your eyes stayed fixed on a distant point beyond him, unfocused, your breathing shallow but steady. His thumb pressed lightly against your lower lip, tilting your face toward him, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Don't look away," he whispered, his voice gentle but firm. "You're mine. You always will be."

Then, without warning, he leaned in, his lips pressing against yours. It wasn't harsh or forceful, but that only made it worse. It was slow, deliberate — the way a man kisses something he believes belongs to him. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he deepened the kiss.

You didn't move.

You didn't push him away, but you didn't kiss him back either. Your lips were still, unmoving, cold. You knew better than to resist outright, but giving in was something you would not do.

Not tonight. Not ever.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his eye narrowing as he studied your face. For a moment, it felt as though he might say something - a rebuke, a threat, a reminder of who you belonged to. But he didn't. His hand lingered on your face, his fingers trailing down your jawline, before resting lightly on your throat.

He could feel your pulse there. He always did this, as if he needed to remind you how fragile you were in his hands.

"One day, you'll stop fighting me," he said quietly, almost like a promise. "One day, you'll see that there's no one else who will ever love you like I do."

His hand slipped away from your throat, and he settled back onto his pillow, closing his eye as if nothing had happened. You stayed still, your eyes fixed on the ceiling, your heart pounding in your chest.

You gripped your mother’s hand tightly as a sharp wave of pain tore through you, your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. Sweat clung to your skin, your back arched as you cried out. The maester and midwives moved around you with practiced urgency, their voices a blur of instructions and reassurances. But none of it reached you. All you could hear was the pounding of your heart and the sound of your own labored breathing.

Tears streamed down your face as you turned your gaze toward your mother. “Please,” you sobbed, voice hoarse from exertion. “Please, let Aegon in. I need him.”

Her eyes softened with concern, her lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, she didn’t answer, torn between your plea and her sense of propriety. Her fingers brushed your damp hair away from your forehead, offering comfort, but it wasn’t enough. “He’s right outside,” she said, her voice soothing but firm. “You’re strong, my sweet girl. You can do this.”

“No!” you gasped, clutching at her hand as another contraction hit, fiercer than the last. Your body trembled, and you shook your head violently, eyes wild with desperation. “I need him, Mother! Please, I need him with me!”

Her eyes darted toward the door, hesitation clear on her face. She knew who else was waiting outside. Aemond. His presence lingered like a shadow even beyond the thick wood of the door. Her gaze returned to you, torn but seeing the raw fear and pain in your eyes.

“Very well,” she relented at last, brushing her lips against your temple. “Stay strong, my love. I’ll bring him.”

Her hand slipped from yours, and you watched her figure retreat toward the door, her skirts swishing behind her. Your breath came in shallow, broken gasps as you tried to focus on anything but the pain. You heard the faint creak of the door and muffled voices beyond it.

The sound of heavy footsteps filled the air.

Aegon’s voice came first — louder, more insistent. “Move, Aemond.” His tone was sharp, like steel drawn from its scabbard. “She needs me.”

“She doesn’t need you,” Aemond’s voice followed, cold and controlled but laced with something darker beneath it. “She has me. She doesn’t need anyone else.”

“Don’t make me push you aside, brother,” Aegon hissed, closer now, each footstep deliberate and unyielding. “I’m going in.”

There was a tense pause, then the heavy thud of something — or someone — hitting the wall. The door swung open wider, and for a moment, you thought Aemond might follow. But it was Aegon who entered, his eyes locked on you, face twisted with concern. His gaze softened the instant he saw you, taking in your tear-streaked face, your trembling form, and your outstretched hand reaching for him.

“I’m here,” he breathed, rushing to your side and falling to his knees next to the bed. His hands were warm as they clasped yours, his fingers curling around yours like he was anchoring you to the world. “I’m here, love. I’m not leaving you.”

Your sobs broke free at his words, and you squeezed his hand like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “Don’t let him in,” you whispered frantically, your eyes darting to the door. “Don’t let Aemond in.”

Aegon’s jaw tensed, his eyes flicking toward the door, where the shadow of his brother lingered just beyond the threshold. He glanced at your mother, exchanging a silent understanding. Her eyes were sharp as she moved to block the doorway, her stance unyielding.

“No one will come near you,” Aegon vowed, his eyes never leaving yours. “Not him. Not anyone. It’s just you and me now.”

The pain came again, searing and unrelenting, and your cry filled the room. Aegon’s forehead pressed to yours, his voice a low, steady murmur in your ear. “Breathe with me,” he said, his breath warm and familiar. “In and out. Just like that. We’ll do it together.”

And together, you endured.

The pain was unbearable, sharper than any blade, hotter than any flame. You screamed, your voice hoarse from the strain, tears streaming down your face. “I can’t do this!” you cried, your breath coming in short, frantic gasps. “I can’t, Aegon! I can’t!”

Your body trembled with exhaustion, every muscle burning with effort. Panic clawed at your mind, the weight of it crushing you as you shook your head in denial. Your eyes locked onto Aegon’s, wild and desperate.

He cupped your face, his thumb brushing away your tears with a tenderness that contrasted with the storm of pain inside you. His gaze held no doubt, only fierce determination. “Yes, you can,” he said, his voice low but steady, like an anchor in the chaos. “You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. Look at me, love. Look at me."

You blinked, trying to focus on his face as everything around you blurred into the background. The soft glow of the firelight, the hurried voices of the maester and midwives, even the sound of your mother’s quiet prayers—all of it faded away until it was just him.

He pressed his lips to your forehead, letting them linger there for a moment longer than necessary. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” His voice was warm, a promise wrapped in steel. “One more push. Just one more, love.”

The maester’s voice cut in. “It’s time. Push now, my lady. You’re almost there!”

Your whole body shook as you gripped Aegon’s hand so tightly that you were certain you’d break his fingers. But he didn’t flinch. He only squeezed back, grounding you, giving you something to hold on to.

With a cry that tore from the deepest part of your soul, you bore down with all the strength you had left. Every fiber of your being focused on this single moment, this one final push.

“You’re doing it,” Aegon whispered, his voice filled with awe and pride. “You’re doing it, my love.”

There was a searing, blinding moment of pain. And then—relief. The weight in your belly lifted, replaced by the sharp, piercing wail of a newborn’s first breath.

“It’s a boy,” the maester announced, his voice filled with quiet joy. “A strong, healthy boy.”

Your chest heaved with the effort, your whole body slack with exhaustion. But the sound of that tiny cry pulled you from the haze of pain. Tears welled in your eyes as you turned toward the maester, who carefully placed the squirming, wriggling babe into your arms.

He was small, red-faced, and loud—so loud. His silver hair, damp with birth, clung to his tiny head, and his little fists flailed in the air. You stared down at him, breathless and overwhelmed.

“He’s perfect,” Aegon breathed, leaning down to rest his head against yours, gazing at your son with wide, wonder-filled eyes. “You did it, my love. You did it.”

A sob broke free from your chest, this time from joy instead of pain. Your fingers brushed against the soft skin of your son’s cheek, marveling at how small and delicate he was. “We did it,” you whispered, turning your gaze to Aegon, eyes filled with love and gratitude. “We did it together.”

He kissed your temple, his lips warm and lingering against your skin. “He’s ours,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “No one will ever take him from us.”

As you gazed at your son, your heart swelled with a fierce, protective love that drowned out every fear, every doubt. He was yours. Yours and Aegon’s. And no one—not Aemond, not anyone—would change that.

The air in the room grew heavier as Aemond’s boots echoed softly against the stone floor. You could feel each step, the slow, deliberate pace of a man who believed he had every right to be here. Your eyes flickered from your mother’s warm gaze to Aemond’s cold, unyielding stare.

Aegon was seated beside you, his fingers gently stroking the back of your hand. His presence was steady, grounding, and you clung to it like a lifeline. He noticed Aemond’s approach immediately, his posture straightening, his eyes narrowing like a predator ready to pounce.

Your heart tightened when Aemond stopped at the side of your bed. His gaze swept over you, lingering on the bundle of warmth cradled against your chest—your newborn son. For a fleeting moment, something softer passed through his eye, but it vanished as quickly as it came.

He leaned down slowly, his silver hair falling around his face like a curtain, and before you could react, his lips pressed firmly against your forehead. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It felt like a brand—an unspoken claim.

His hand brushed your cheek as he straightened, his cool fingers lingering for a heartbeat too long. His gaze locked onto yours, sharp as a dagger’s edge. “You have done well, wife,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, as though every word was a vow. His eye flickered to the baby nestled in your arms. “Our son is strong. I knew he would be.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

You felt Aegon’s grip on your hand tighten, his fingers curling protectively around yours. His body went rigid beside you, every muscle taut with barely restrained fury.

“He’s not yours, brother,” Aegon said, his voice sharp but controlled, like a sword just before it strikes. “You know that as well as I do.”

Aemond’s smile was a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. He didn’t look at Aegon—he only looked at you. “Blood is blood,” he murmured. “No matter how it is claimed.”

You shook your head, feeling the weight of his words press on your chest like a stone. “He is not yours, Aemond,” you said firmly.

He didn’t move, his gaze fixed on you. His eye lowered slowly to your son, and his fingers twitched at his side, curling into a loose fist. “Does it even matter anymore?” he asked quietly, but his voice was like a blade slicing through the stillness of the room.

“It matters to me,” Aegon shot back, his voice laced with venom. He stepped forward, just a pace, and you could feel the shift in his body, the protective edge to his movements. “If you have something to say, brother, say it. But don’t you dare cast your doubts here.”

Aemond’s gaze snapped to Aegon, sharp as Valyrian steel, his lip curling ever so slightly. “I wonder if you’d still be so bold without your guards and wine to dull your senses.”

“Try me.” Aegon’s voice was low, dangerous in a way that surprised even you. "you can't just take what's mine just like that"

Aemond tilted his head slightly, his eye narrowing with quiet amusement. “Take?” he repeated, his tone as smooth as silk but sharp as steel. “I do not need to take what is already mine.”

Your mother’s eyes flicked between the three of you, her face tense with concern. “Aemond,” she said softly, placing a hand on his arm, trying to pull him back. “Leave them be. Please.”

For a moment, it seemed like he might listen. His gaze darted to his mother, his jaw tightening, his breath slow and controlled. But then his eyes settled on Aegon, and something darker flickered behind them.

“Careful, brother,” Aemond warned, his voice low with menace. “You’ve taken things from me before. Do not think I will let you take her too.”

Aegon rose from his seat slowly, his movements calm, calculated. But his eyes were anything but calm. They burned with a quiet, seething rage. He stepped between you and Aemond, his back to you, his shoulders squared like a shield.

“She is not yours, Aemond,” Aegon repeated, his voice low but firm. “Not now. Not ever.”

The two of them stood there, inches apart, their gazes locked in a silent war. It was a moment of unbearable tension, and you feared for what might happen next.

But it was your mother who broke it. “Enough,” Alicent said, stepping between her sons, her voice steady but commanding. “Both of you, enough.” She turned to Aemond, her eyes hard but pleading. “This is not the time for your pride, Aemond. She has just given birth. Leave her in peace.”

For a moment, Aemond didn’t move. He looked down at you, his eye lingering on the sight of you and the child in your arms. His face was stone, but you saw the flicker of something else—resentment, jealousy, longing.

You turned your head at the sound of your sister’s voice. Helaena entered the room, her soft footsteps barely audible on the stone floor. She carried her baby in her arms, rocking her gently, her usual distant but kind smile on her face.

Her eyes landed on Aegon first, and she tilted her head, her gaze as soft as ever. “Aegon,” she called his name with a small, almost pleading tone. “The twins are asking for you. They won’t sleep without their father tonight.”

You saw Aegon glance at you, hesitation flickering in his eyes. His jaw clenched, his grip on your hand lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “I’ll be back,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing against your fingers.

You nodded, offering him a small, reassuring smile. You could see the guilt in his eyes. It wasn’t easy for him to leave you here, not after what had just happened with Aemond.

Aegon leaned down, pressing a kiss on your forehead, then glanced at the baby nestled in your arms. “Rest, love,” he murmured softly. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

He stepped toward Helaena, and she glanced at you briefly. Her gaze lingered on the baby in your arms. Her smile grew wider, her eyes lighting up with that familiar dreamlike warmth. “He’s beautiful,” she said softly, her voice gentle as a lullaby. “He looks just like you.”

Her words should have brought you comfort, but they didn’t. Not when you knew who was still standing behind you.

You felt it before you heard it—the weight of his presence, the sharp, cold sensation of being watched too closely. Aemond’s breath was steady, his gaze sharp as ever, piercing into the back of your head like a blade.

He moved closer, slowly, as if to make his presence unavoidable. His voice came low and quiet, just for you to hear. The words were soft but sharp as a dagger’s edged.

“Does it ease your heart,” Aemond whispered, his voice like silk and steel, “to think he’ll love you more than he loved her?”

Your chest tightened painfully, the words like a sudden blow you weren’t prepared for. Your breath hitched, but you didn’t turn to look at him. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

But he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear, his voice even quieter now, dangerously gentle. “Men like him never stay, sweet wife,” he continued, his words coated with venom. “Not for you. Not for anyone.”

Your fingers gripped the fabric of your blanket tighter, your heart pounding in your chest. You bit your lip to keep from saying something that would make it worse. You didn’t want to give him any more power than he already thought he had.

Behind him, Helaena’s eyes shifted to Aemond. Her smile faded, her brow furrowing ever so slightly. She blinked slowly, as if seeing something others could not. Her eyes met yours briefly, something unspoken passing between you. She knew. Somehow, she always knew.

“Come, Aegon,” Helaena said softly, turning away, her voice gentle but firm. “The twins are waiting.”

Aegon glanced at you one last time. You could see it in his eyes—the promise that he would return. That he wouldn’t leave you alone.

But he left. He had to.

The door shut softly behind them, and you were left alone with him.

Aemond didn’t move for a long time. You could feel him standing there, feel his eyes on you like a brand on your skin. Slowly, he moved around to stand in front of you, his gaze locking onto yours with that same cold intensity.

“You will never be free of me,” he said softly, his head tilting slightly, his eye narrowing. “No matter how far he runs or how sweet his words are, you will always belong to me.”

He crouched down, his gaze level with yours now. His face was unreadable, his voice soft but absolute. “Do not forget, sweet wife,” he said, his eye flicking to the baby in your arms. “I never forget what is mine.”

Your heart felt like it might shatter in your chest, but you didn’t look away. Not this time. You met his gaze head-on, your eyes fierce despite the fear clawing at the edges of your mind.

“I am not yours, Aemond,” you said, your voice steady but firm. “I never was.”

His jaw clenched, his lips pressing into a thin, dangerous line. For a moment, you thought he might strike you. But instead, he reached forward, his fingers brushing lightly over the baby’s head, his touch far too gentle for a man with so much darkness in his heart.

“We’ll see,” he whispered, standing slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “We’ll see.”

He turned and walked toward the door, his steps slow, controlled, each footstep echoing louder than the last. He didn’t look back as he left, but his presence lingered, like a storm waiting to break.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and you exhaled the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

You looked down at the baby in your arms, your fingers stroking his silver hair. His little face was peaceful, unbothered by the storm that surrounded him. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his tiny forehead, your heart aching with love and fear all at once.

“You are mine,” you whispered to him softly, your voice trembling with quiet determination. “No one will ever take you from me.”

Tag list : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack

[fixated-cookies]

I can't get this thought out of my head so now you're cursed to bare this burden with me. 🫵🙂

Pure Vanilla tied to the bed as reader and Shadow Milk (who shapeshifted into a woman) just overstim him to the point of passing out.

PV is selfless to a fault, even in bed. So having his two beautiful lovers service him and he can't do anything for them. Bro would be SOBBING 😩

yummmmm

His arms are stretched above his head, wrists bound in pale golden ribbon—his own, laced with magic that shimmers faintly in the soft light of the room. They wrap snug around his skin, glowing as if proud to restrain their master.

Pure Vanilla lies exposed on the bed, flushed from head to toe, breath shallow as he stares up at you and Shadow Milk.

Or rather, the version of Shadow Milk who now straddles his hips, curvy and feminine, with a wicked smile and silver-streaked hair falling over her breasts. She leans over him slowly, mouth hovering just above his, eyes gleaming.

“You look so divine like this,” she purrs. “All tied up, flushed, helpless.”

His voice trembles. “P-Please… let me touch you…”

“No,” you murmur sweetly from where you sit beside him, running your fingers down the center of his chest. “Tonight’s not about giving. Tonight, we’re going to make you take everything.”

He shudders—his cock already twitching, slick against his stomach from earlier touches.

Shadow Milk chuckles as she slides down, dragging her mouth over his throat, his chest, nipping softly at his nipple until he moans, arms pulling against the ribbons uselessly.

“Poor little healer,” she croons. “You’ve given so much. Isn’t it time you were ruined a bit?”

You lean in close, lips brushing his ear. “You’ll be good for us, won’t you?”

He nods frantically, breath hitching. “Y-Yes… I’ll be good… please, please—just let me—”

But you’re already lowering yourself to his face, and Shadow Milk is sliding herself slowly onto his cock.

He gasps—loudly—eyes flying wide as you both settle over him, warm, wet, tight.

He can’t move. Can’t thrust. Can’t touch.

All he can do is moan and take it, over and over, tears slipping down his cheeks from the sheer pleasure of it all.

His body is slick with sweat.

The sheets beneath him are soaked, the soft gold ribbon around his wrists now taut with tension—his fingers flexing, useless, over and over. His mouth is parted, trembling, breathless whines spilling out like prayer.

Shadow Milk—still in her feminine form—rocks slowly on his cock, her pace infuriatingly gentle. Every time he tries to thrust, she holds him down harder, shushing him like a misbehaving pet.

“Shhh. We’re not done yet, Vanilly,” she whispers, lips ghosting over his jaw. “You don’t cum until we say so.”

He’s been edging on the brink for what feels like hours.

His thighs tremble beneath Shadow Milk’s hips, every sharp, slow grind of her dripping cunt dragging another sob from his chest. She’s riding him cruelly slow, hips circling, body flushed with sweat. Her voice is honeyed and lazy as she looks down at him.

“You’re still hard,” she purrs, tightening around him with a smug twitch of her hips. “Even after all that? What a good, desperate little thing you are.”

But he can’t answer.

Not when his mouth is buried between your legs.

You’re straddling his face, grinding down into his tongue with a soft moan. One of your hands is in his hair, guiding him, the other resting on his chest—right over his pounding heart.

Every whimper from his throat vibrates through your core. Every flick of his tongue is shaky, sloppy, eager. He’s trying his best—worshiping you, serving you, even as his hips buck up uncontrollably into Shadow Milk’s soaking pussy.

He’s crying now.

The ribbon at his wrists pulses gently, as if sensing his breakdown. He sobs into your cunt, voice muffled and high-pitched, the words nearly lost between your slick and his desperation.

“Mmmph—p’lease—mmnh, I-I—please—’need to—cum—p’lease—”

Shadow Milk leans forward, dragging her nails lightly down his chest. “You don’t get to cum yet, Vanilly. Not until we say so.”

You grind harder against his mouth, shivering as his tongue trembles inside you. “You wanted to serve us, didn’t you?” you coo, breathless. “So be good. Take it.”

His hips jerk again, cock throbbing inside Shadow Milk’s tight heat, his mouth falling open against your cunt as another moan escapes—pitiful, raw, wrecked.

His voice is nothing now but helpless, wet pleading.

You look down at him, flushed and ruined between the two of you, and smile.

“You’re such a mess,” Shadow Milk laughs, leaning down to kiss his throat. “Let’s see if we can break you completely.” He can’t form real words anymore.

Your slick is smeared across his chin, his tongue lolling helplessly out as you rock against his face. His nose nuzzles against your clit, lips trembling with every muffled sob. Above him, Shadow Milk moans as she grinds down harder, using his cock like it was made for her—because it is.

His chest is heaving, wrists tugging weakly against the glowing restraints, knuckles pale. He’s been edged, milked, overstimulated to the brink again and again—and now, he’s gurgling little cries into your cunt.

“Such a good boy,” you whisper, fingers tangled in his hair. “You made me feel so good, baby.”

Shadow Milk leans forward, her voice silk and sin against his sweat-slick ear. “You want to cum, don’t you, Vanilly?”

He sobs through your pussy, eyes rolling back.

“Mmmph—p-please—pleaseplease—!”

“What’s the magic word?” she teases, her pace picking up, tight walls pulsing around him.

You glance down, voice soft but firm. “Say it, love. Say what you’re feeling.”

His hips stutter beneath her—every muscle straining.

He pulls his mouth from your dripping cunt just enough to cry out, loud and broken:

“Thank you—f-for ruining me—!”

Then he cums.

Hard.

His whole body spasms, thick ropes of cum spilling deep inside Shadow Milk as he whines, shakes, and sobs through it. His cock jerks helplessly inside her, his legs kicking beneath the sheets, face sticky with your slick and his own tears.

He doesn’t stop crying.

Even as his body collapses back into the mattress, wrists slack against the ribbons, his lips still tremble with soft, hiccuping thank-yous.

Shadow Milk leans down and kisses his tear-streaked and slick covered cheek with a grin.

“Good boy,” she whispers.

You stroke his hair as his breath slows, as the golden glow of the ribbons dims.

“Now rest,” you coo, kissing his temple. “We’ll take care of you.”

And he does. He falls asleep—tied up, spent, soaked—and completely owned by you both.

---

AHHHHH i hope you guys like this one heheheh Kofi

[golden-hearts-silver-tongues-if]

Can i ask for the ROs reaction when MC hold their faces and say "i can hold the whole world in my hands"? -sarah

oh boy, this one's gonna be fun :D

The Rival - If you're at the point where she allows you to just casually touch her, then this would be the icing on the cake. She's a sucker for physical touch and honeyed words so expect a lot of blushing The Boss - They would try their best to hide their reaction, but once again, if you are at the point where they just let you do stuff like that then they've already fallen off the deep end for you. Expect them to get very clingy The Coworker - Genuinely, he might cry. Not in a sad way, in a very, very happy kind of way. Expect not to move for a while as he will be hugging you until he either calms down or passes out The Baron - They will scoff, probably roll their eyes, and walk away. The moment they're behind closed doors though? They start acting like a kid who just asked out their crush. Jumping around, generally can't stop smiling, the whole works

[r3starttt]

LA DÉDICACE

PAIRING: Princess! Abby Anderson x reader

SUMMARY: Where abby falls for the woman she met at a mascarade.

CW: angsty asf but also lots of yearning and happy ending. It's a request ♡ thanks anon

TAGLIST: @twopeoplee @greysontheidiot @sapphic-ovaries @bilsvlt @tlouloser @marsworlddd @1-800-fantasy @prwttiestbunny @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @abbys-muscles @lott6i @imagoddess @lovelyy-moonlight

A.N: Inspired on Renee Vivien's poems. I enjoyed writing this request so much.

I was originally doing this for Caitlyn but ended up working with Abby. Either way... it's pretty good, me thinks.

I will beg for u, pretty amazing reader to please leave a comment or reblog this or both if you liked it even the tinniest bit. Please and thanks ♡ hope u enjoy.

It was a rare affliction, a peculiar and persistent condition that ran through the veins of the noble bloodline, one that neither healer nor sorcerer could eradicate. For two decades, no remedy—no enchanted herb, no mystical fruit, nor sacred flower—could cleanse it, as if the hand of God itself had decreed this fate. For nearly every noble child born in that time had been gifted—or burdened—with the biological form of a woman.

This had become a growing concern, a burden for those aware of the little time the King had left. What would become of the kingdom when the king passed? Would the throne remain empty, or worse, be claimed by someone unfit to rule?

Even so, Abigail had come to embody the very heart of her father’s reign. There could be no missteps, no flaws. Every moment was a calculation, for any slip would cost her dearly. With every five steps forward, one misstep could undo it all, leaving her at least six steps behind.

Her father’s affection for her was evident, but she knew it could only stretch so far. He could not afford to show weakness, even in the face of his own daughter’s love. His affection was tempered by his duty, by the crown’s expectations. She was aware that, despite the love he had for her, it would never grant her complete freedom.

Yet, Abigail remained soft-hearted, her nature too gentle for the hardened world around her. She was born to love, to represent the purest form of royalty—one that transcended power and wealth.

Her speech was carefully honed, polished with elocution and intelligence, words flowing with a cadence so refined that only the most learned would comprehend them. Consonants and vowels twisted into intricate phrases, a vocabulary that demanded respect, reserved for those worthy of understanding it. And so she adapted. She humiliated with her words, She wielded her intellect as both a shield and a sword—using it to humiliate, to elevate herself above those who sought to diminish her.

Abigail reveled in the confusion, for it was their inability to understand her that made her presence all the more commanding.

And the thought—faint at first, yet persistent—began to root itself in the deepest corners of her mind: that perhaps, somewhere beyond the stone walls and polished silver of her upbringing, there existed a man whose tongue would not stumble over flattery, whose gaze held clarity, and whose heart could mirror her own in strength and tenderness. A man whose hair bore the color of summer grain like her father’s, and whose nobility ran not through lineage, but through his deeds.

-

You weren’t supposed to be here.

A favor, a borrowed mask, and a friend in the castle kitchens had slipped you past the guards. It was foolish—dangerous even—but something in you longed to see how the other half lived. Just for one night.

The palace shimmered under golden candlelight, each chandelier catching the gleam of masked faces and embroidered gowns.

And then you saw her.

She stood at the edge of the ballroom, tall and composed, a detailed mask made with the most expensive materials, the only one who worn color. Raming eyes and golden hair coiled back with precision. Her dress was different from the others.

When your eyes met, she didn’t look away.

She approached.

You spoke of nothing and everything—books, cities you’d never seen, dreams that didn’t belong to your class. She was clever and soft-spoken, but there was steel in the way she carried herself, like she’d been taught to command even in silence. Still, you didn’t question her name, nor did she offer one.

Hours passed unnoticed. At some point, she took your hand, guiding you through a dance you didn’t know. Her touch was steady. Gentle.

You expected mockery when you stumbled over a step, but instead, she leaned close, her breath brushing your ear.

“Follow me,” your body understood the rhythm better than your mind ever could. The rest of the world blurred. Your feet moved not with grace, but trust. It was enough.

Laughter and music spun around you like a spell. You couldn't remember the last time you felt so light, so seen. When she smiled—soft, private, meant only for you—you realized the knot that lived in your chest had loosened.

She didn’t ask about your dress, which was borrowed. Or your speech, a little too rough to pass for nobility. She didn’t seem to care. Or perhaps… perhaps she already knew.

As the night wore on, the candles melted lower. Midnight loomed, and with it, the unraveling of fantasy. You felt it before you heard it—distant bells from the outer ward, signaling the change of watch. A quiet reminder that time was not yours.

You pulled back slightly, your hand still in hers. “I should go.”

Something flickered across her face. Regret? Frustration? She didn’t argue, but she also didn’t let go.

“One more minute,” she said, her voice barely audible above the music. “May I have your name?"

You hesitated. Your eyes drifted to the crowd, to the towering ceiling, to the place you knew you didn’t belong.

Her lips parted slightly—just slightly. It wasn’t quite a smile. Not this time.

“Let me see you,” she said, as if taking your mask off with her voice.

But you couldn’t.

You slipped away. And she let you go.

You didn’t know her name.

And you would soon haunt her thoughts.

-

When the moon weeps,

illuminating flowers on the graves of the faithful,

my memories creep

back to you, wrapped in flightless wings.​

Love, if only you would come again—

My hands could hold your fragile wings.

But time slips like water through my fingers

And my soul remains thirsty, empty.

— A. A.

-

Abigail found herself longing —selfishly, perhaps—for such a intimate encounter like she had with you. For someone who could shield her without binding her, who could love her not despite who she was, but because of it. Someone as soft as you felt that night.

She prayed. Quiet, hopeless prayers to a god she was not even sure she believed in, hoping that if divinity ever listened, it might listen now. And though the desire was delicate, even innocent at its core, it was also indulgent. For a woman born into power, even dreaming of such things was its own form of rebellion.

Still, she clung to the thought like one clings to warmth in winter, and eventually, it drove her to act. With uncharacteristic nerve, she asked the king—her father—for a rare permission. She wished to leave the palace walls. Just once. To see beyond the curated beauty of rose gardens and marble columns. He agreed, reluctantly. And so she went, dressed in garments that barely clung to her body, coarse fabric draped in a way no noblewoman would dare be seen. A cloak of shadows sewn by her trusted maid, who accompanied her closely.

The streets were crowded with the hungry and the poor. The scent of ash, sweat, and desperation lingered in the air like a curse. But she was not broken by the sight. She had always known this world existed—her education had not spared her such truths—but it had remained a distant concept until now. Weakness, her father once said, is a luxury afforded only to fools. And she had taken that lesson to heart.

Still, it was in this moment of carefully guarded defiance that fate began to stir.

She thought her journey would remain uneventful—a quiet, dangerous indulgence.

The same path that had led her through narrow alleys and cobbled streets now brought her to a modest marketplace. Here, the world was loud and alive—vendors shouting prices, children pulled tightly by their mothers' hands, food exchanged for coin in desperate urgency. She moved with care, slipping between the crowds, eyes wide and curious.

And then she saw it.

A small wooden stall, nearly hidden among the others, bore a collection of books. Old and weathered, but dignified. One, in particular, caught her attention. Its spine was cracked, its edges softened with use, but the author’s name glinted faintly beneath the dust—poetry, surely. She reached for it, compelled by a hunger she could not name.

Before her fingers could graze the cover, a hand snatched it away.

“It isn’t for sale,” came a voice—calm, firm, feminine.

Startled, she looked up to meet the eyes of a young woman, perhaps no older than herself. Her hands were ink-stained, her gaze sharp.

Abigail’s brows furrowed, not in fury, but confusion. She was not used to being refused.

For a moment, the princess simply stared—no words, no breath, no pretense. Just awe.

A woman… with a book.

Abigail straightened, smoothing the front of her coarse, borrowed cloak as if it could somehow conceal the nobility in her posture. She reminded herself that here, in the dusty stalls of the outer market, she was no more than another traveler with a few coins to spare.

"I apologize," she said, her tone soft but poised. “I thought it was part of the selection.”

The woman didn’t answer. Her gaze was lowered, careful, her body turning slightly to hide the book from further view. Not defiant—guarded. As if hiding something more dangerous than poetry.

Abby tilted her head, her curiosity blooming faster than she could contain. She knew what that kind of secrecy meant. That book hadn’t been purchased with ease. It had been fought for—perhaps traded for meals, hidden under floorboards.

The round eyes of the princess flicked over the rest of the stall—stacks of worn leather covers, the delicate crinkle of pages long loved or long forgotten. Titles that ranged from crude farming manuals to religious texts, even a faded volume of sonnets with gilded corners. Her fingers hovered over the bindings like someone choosing which star to pluck from the sky.

"How much for this one?" she asked casually, selecting a thick, obscure volume she already owned in triplicate back in the palace library.

The woman hesitated. Named a fair price.

Abby smiled, polite, distant. “And the rest of this row?”

That drew the woman’s eyes upward. Suspicion. Curiosity. She named another sum—one that no commoner would offer so easily. Abby didn’t flinch. She placed the coins on the wooden table, deliberately overpaying by more than half.

She didn’t say why.

And as she turned to leave, she caught the briefest glimpse of the woman watching her—no thanks, no smile. But her fingers had softened around the book, her shoulders ever so slightly less rigid.

Abigail walked away feeling like she had read something more intimate than poetry that day. And she would return.

-

Abigail approached the book stall quietly, her eyes scanning the crowd. She'd already passed by it twice before finally deciding to stop, half-hoping the woman wouldn't notice her hesitation. Her cloak fluttered lightly behind her as she moved through the throngs, a deliberate, purposeful walk to the stall that had caught her attention so many times before.

It had been a week since their last encounter. She had meant to return sooner, but her duties had held her captive.

As she reached the stall, the woman looked up, their eyes meeting with the briefest flicker of recognition. There was a coolness in the air between them. The woman’s eyes spoke volumes of the caution she held.

“You're back” The woman’s voice was guarded, but there was a faint curiosity hidden beneath it. A statement and a question at once.

Abby nodded, glancing at the books displayed on the rickety wooden table. She ran her fingers over the leather bindings as she spoke. Her fingers gripped a small, intricately bound book she’d picked up from the royal library.

It caught your attention. That was clear. But after having received a huge amount of money from the woman in front of you, all you could think of was to not trust her. You knew better than to fall for money, but hunger had made you take it.

The nobles where selfish, and as much as you desired to allow their charity, you knew the consequences of it could go as far as ending with your life.

“You’re generous, but I’m not in need of charity.”

"Who said anything about charity?” She set the book down gently on the table, pushing it towards you. “It’s a trade. Nothing more.”

As far as you could tell, her tone was as honest as it was sophisticated. You hesitated, your fingers brushing the book before returning your gaze back to the woman in front of you. “You’ve been very generous with your coin before. A little too generous for my taste,” your tone cutting yet with a layer of genuine wariness.

Abby glanced down at her hands, feeling a flicker of guilt. “I don’t want your distrust.”

You leaned forward, just enough to get a proper look of her face. “A woman like you has no need for my meager books. And yet… you keep returning. That’s more than I can understand.”

And after a small pause, you reached for the small pouch of coins the blonde had placed beside the book. You allowed your fingers to brush the velvet fabric, giving the woman a quiet appraising look.

“This is more than I could ever ask for,” your tone tinged with both surprise and reluctance. “You’ve given me far too much.”

Abigail smiled again, though this time it was softer, more genuine. “I will come back." Her lips curved up into a subtle smile, and for the briefest of moments, the tension eased.

-

Ever since that first exchange, Abigail kept returning. At first, it was infrequent—perhaps once every few weeks, when the weight of royal duty would lift long enough for her to venture outside the palace walls, wrapped in the guise of a mere commoner. She was careful, always cautious not to attract too much attention.

Abigail never brought more than what was needed. She was always respectful in her exchanges, never forcing the conversation beyond what was comfortable.

For the first few exchanges, you kept your distance, aware that life could be changed by the mere presence of a noble. Abigail would offer her a few extra coins, always polite, but never asking anything of it beyond the books. Each time, you would glance at the coins, as though calculating their worth, and then slip them into your pocket, still with some doubt.

But it was the books that spoke more than anything. With every new volume that Abigail brought, a part of her own story unfolded for you. She brought not just simple novels or works of fiction, but the classics—poetry, philosophy.

What intrigued you most, however, was that Abigail never expected anything in return—at least, not explicitly. She didn’t press for anything other than the books in exchange. There were no strings attached, no promises of wealth or favors. She had all of that already.

But over time, something changed. It wasn’t just the books. The more Abigail returned, the more she lingered, sometimes even engaging in brief, innocent conversations. She asked about the books and your opinions, what you'd learned from them, and sometimes, if she was feeling bold, about your life outside the stall. At first, you had been hesitant to share any details. Your life was full of hardship, days spent scraping by. You wasn’t someone who had the luxury of talking about dreams or aspirations.

“Do you ever think about leaving?”

It was an innocuous question, one that any other noblewoman might ask in passing. But there was no pity in her eyes. Only curiosity.

“You can’t leave. Not when you’ve nothing to your name but this stall.”

Abigail nodded, understanding. “But surely you have dreams, something you long for?”

You swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of each of your unspoken desires.

“I dream of reading more,” you admitted, not honestly but enough to suffice her curiosity.

Abigail’s gaze softened, but there was a quiet intensity in her eyes, as though she could see the layers beneath your words—those that you had not said aloud. She didn’t press you, but she was patient, allowing the silence to linger between you.

“You dream of reading more…” Abigail repeated your words, her voice gentle but knowing. There was no judgment, no disbelief. She simply allowed the truth to unfold in its own time.

“Books are a start,” she said softly, her tone warm. "But there's more than books in life."

You shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her eyes for a moment, but her soft expression never wavered. She wasn’t asking for anything more. She was simply… acknowledging.

"Not for everyone," you said finally, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

Abigail was silent for a moment, but then she stepped a little closer. “You could have more than just books.”

You looked at her then, the magnitude of what she was offering beginning to settle over you. You had always been taught to rely on yourself, to take what you could from life, no matter how little. But here was someone offering to change that, offering something you’d never dared to ask for: a chance.

And the strangest thing was, you didn’t know whether to be skeptical, to distrust her offer because of who she was—or to believe.

But fear is bigger than hunger some times.

“I don’t know what you mean," you said softly, avoiding her gaze as to end this conversation.

Abigail’s gaze softened. She would never give empty promises, and less ask for anything in return. She was simply offering what she could.

-

It happened swiftly.

A nobleman—one you’d only ever seen from afar—had spotted you lingering at your stall too long. Perhaps it was the way your fingers turned the pages with too much familiarity. Or maybe the way your eyes scanned the titles like you knew them. Whatever it was, it drew attention.

They returned at dawn with two guards and a parchment bearing the royal seal. You tried to deny it, claimed the stall was someone else’s. You were simply helping. But a quick search unearthed your notes hidden beneath the crates, your writing—your handwriting—and books you’d copied by hand. Evidence, they called it.

A woman. Reading. Selling books. Writing.

Unheard of.

You were dragged through the streets, past jeering stares and hushed murmurs, your skirts muddied, your lip bloodied where a guard had lost patience.

You were being held in a cold, stone chamber. You hadn’t spoken, keeping your eyes low, your body still.

Until the doors burst open.

And there she was.

Not in her common cloak or with dirt on her cheeks—but in velvet. Dark and royal. Her golden hair braided up and away from her face, her spine straight as a sword.

“Release her,” she said. Her voice didn’t raise—it didn’t need to.

The guards glanced at one another. “But, Your Grace—”

“She stands accused of treason. An accusation of such gravity must be handled with care, not brute force,” Abigail said coolly, a tone laced with sharp authority as she stepped forward. “I shall escort her to His Majesty myself.”

You stared at her, betrayal and awe mixing in your stomach. Her Grace?

Abby didn’t meet your eyes. Not until the guards obeyed, not until your wrists were cut loose and your trembling form collapsed against her without meaning to.

Then, and only then, she looked at you.

“I apologize,” she whispered.

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

But when her hand slipped gently into yours, guiding you down the echoing halls of the palace, you didn’t let go.

-

The palace corridors were colder than you had imagined—colder even than the cell. The air hummed with stillness, untouched by wind or warmth. Each step echoed too loudly, your muddied skirts whispering shame against the polished stone. Behind the impassive masks of the guards, behind the glint of helmets and spears, you could feel the eyes. Watching. Judging. Knowing.

Maids lingered in corners, nobles passed at a distance, halting ever so slightly as if they sensed something was amiss. A peasant woman, bruised and bleeding, being pulled through the halls by the hand of the princess. You caught their glances—curious, disgusted, afraid. Perhaps some pitied you. Perhaps they remembered once standing where you stood now. Or perhaps they simply watched the spectacle unfold, as people always did when someone beneath them stumbled.

And still, she didn’t look back.

Abigail’s hand stayed firm around yours, steady and warm despite the chill. Only when the heavy doors closed behind you, cutting the world away with a soft thud, did she stop.

Her chambers were suffocating in their beauty. A great fire flickered in the hearth, gold and amber licking the carved stone. Velvet curtains billowed faintly over tall windows that framed the last light of the sun. The furniture gleamed with polish and expense, everything arranged not for comfort, but presentation. It was the kind of room that could silence a person.

And it silenced you.

Because here, now, surrounded by the spoils of her life, the truth became unbearable. With one of her rings, she could buy a year of your survival. One of her shoes, a month of bread. With a single necklace—forgotten, perhaps, at the bottom of a drawer—she could pay off every debt you’d ever inherited.

It was obscene. It was staggering.

It was her.

She turned to face you then, and for the first time since the cell, the mask cracked. Her poise faltered—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you. Enough to know it cost her something.

“I am sorry,” she said, not softly this time, not like before. Her voice trembled with something deeper, something close to shame. “More than I can say.”

“You lied to me.”

It came out flat, brittle, like a blade dropped on stone.

“I did not lie,” she answered carefully. “I withheld the truth.”

“That is a lie.”

She flinched—not visibly, but internally, something shifted. She stepped toward you, paused, then held herself still with deliberate restraint.

“It was never my intention to deceive you. I swear it. But revealing who I am—it would’ve placed you in more danger, not less. I thought... if I stayed silent, I could keep you safe.”

Your chest tightened, the words catching like thorns in your throat. “It was never going to be safe,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Not for me. Not for people like me.”

She said nothing. Because she knew.

“You,” you continued, your voice growing steadier, harsher, “You can wrap a scarf around your head and walk through the market like it’s some kind of game. Smell the rot, hear the cries, pretend to understand. But I live it. I bleed for it. I stood there every day until my legs gave out, until the guards tore my stall apart and dragged me through the filth for daring to read. And you—”

Your voice cracked. “You disappeared. And I paid for it.”

Silence settled, thick and suffocating. Abigail’s eyes dropped for a moment, her jaw tight with guilt.

“I would give anything to go back,” she said at last, voice low, deliberate, every syllable weighted with remorse. “Had I known what would happen, I would have torn down the palace gates to stop it. But I did not know. And now all I can offer is this: let me make it right.”

She stepped forward, slow, her hands open at her sides. “I will speak to the King. The charges will be erased. I will see to it myself.”

You stared at her. “And then what?” you asked. “You think I can just go back to the ashes of my life and start again?”

“I don’t expect that.”

Your voice dropped. “I have nowhere to go.”

She winced again, and you knew then she’d never considered what having nothing truly meant. Not until she saw it stitched into your skin, bruised into your lip.

“You can stay here,” she said, quieter now, but with clarity. “Not as a servant. Not as a prisoner. As my guest. Protected. Free, for as long as you choose.”

You let out a bitter laugh, sharp and hollow. “Free? Under a crown? Under your watch?”

Abigail’s expression didn’t change. But her voice, when it came, was fiercer than before.

“I will not pretend that I can erase your suffering. Nor will I insult you by asking for your trust. But know this: no harm will come to you while I draw breath."

And still, you didn’t speak. Because it didn’t feel like a choice—it felt like surrender. All that you had built—small, fragile, secret—burned down in a single morning. And in its place, stood a stranger wrapped in velvet, offering a different kind of cage.

Yet what choice did you have?

With your heart bleeding in your hands, with pride worn thin and dignity stripped bare, you nodded.

-

The door creaked open long past midnight.

You were more than awake. Sleep had long abandoned you in this place—where the sheets were too soft, the air too still, the silence too unnatural. You sat at the window, knees hugged to your chest, the fire burned low behind you.

Your eyes were still red, body and face bruised and covered in dirt and sweat.

When she entered, Abigail looked heavy. It was clear the news would not be nice. Not for you.

Her braid had started to come loose around her face and her hands were held tight. For once, you allowed yourself to stare back, to look every inch of skin that defined her face. Until she spoke.

“He’s allowed it,” she continued. “You may stay. You won’t be tried. The charges are to be forgotten.”

For once today it felt like maybe your life was worth it. Like the rage in your stomach could be forgotten if you just let out a breath you've held since she left you in the overwhelming of expensiveness.

“But,” she added, and you held your breath again. “It comes with condition.”

Of course it does.

You said nothing. She waited, but you didn’t speak, and so she did instead.

“You’ll have to work. Officially. Be assigned a role—maid, laundress, kitchen help. You’ll be paid. Fed. But you won’t be free to wander. And you will answer to the steward.”

You scoffed—barely more than a breath, but she heard it. Her clothes moved beautifully as she dragged herself closer to you. “I begged him to let you stay as my guest. But he wouldn’t allow it. Said no woman without title or trade stays under his roof without purpose.”

She continued after you held your words.

“I accepted,” she said, precise. “Because the alternative was your death.”

That shut you up. Any single thought on your mind erased at the pronunciation of such word.

“I’ll see to it that you’re given the lightest duties. You won’t scrub floors or clean privies. I’ll speak to the head of the linens or the kitchens—”

“I’ll do what I must,” you cut in quietly. “It’s more than most get.”

You stood then, brushing your hands down the plain clothes you've worn all day.

“I can’t promise I’ll be grateful,” you murmured.

Abigail’s voice was softer than before. “I don’t need your gratitude.” She meant her words, and you could tell.

You looked at her then. Really looked once again. She was oddly beautiful in an impossible way—too poised, too noble. But her eyes were tired, red at the corners. Her jaw was tight. You wondered how many people had ever dared speak to her without bowing.

You stepped past her to the bed and simply stared at it. Not like something to be used, but something to be earned.

You just stood there—fists curled, muscles drawn tight, like you might still be dragged away at any moment.

“When do I start?” you asked.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

You nodded once, like it hurt.

Abby hesitated. Then stepped closer—slowly, carefully, like she was approaching a frightened animal. Her voice gentled. “You’re still bleeding.”

You blinked.

“I saw it earlier,” she went on, eyes catching the cut at your lip, the ugly purple swelling along your cheekbone. Her voice caught, almost imperceptibly. “Please. Let me help.”

You didn’t answer. But your silence wasn’t a refusal. Just… stunned stillness.

“There’s a basin in the side room. I’ll draw water." Her tone became more formal, more deliberate—like she was giving you a choice no one else ever had. “You can bathe in privacy. I’ll send for clean cloths. And I have balm for the bruising—rosehip and myrrh. It’s gentle.”

You stared at her, your throat thick. No one had ever offered you softness after pain. Not like this.

“For tonight,” she added, a little quieter, “let me make it less unbearable.”

Still, you hesitated—until you caught the way her hands shook slightly, clasped in front of her. You weren’t the only one wounded here.

-

When the moon gazes upon my face,

I think of you.

When the night holds me in silence,

I hear your breath.

Your name is the last thing

I speak before sleep takes me.

— A. A.

-

The sun had barely begun to rise, and already the garden was alive with fresh smells. You found yourself there—on the edge of the palace’s sprawling grounds—fingertips brushing over the cool leaves of the herbs. There was something oddly peaceful about the place, about the quiet hum of the early morning. No jeering, no judgment. Just earth beneath your feet and the scent of thyme and rosemary in the air.

The task was simple—gather what you could for the kitchens. But in a place like this, simplicity felt like a fleeting thing. Everything about the palace weighed heavily on your chest. The duties you now had, the role you played. Even if it was a “gift,” the reality of it felt more like a gilded cage than sanctuary.

You bent down to pluck a few sprigs of parsley, the cool soil soft against your hands, when the quiet hum of footsteps reached your ears.

Abigail.

She didn’t announce herself.

You didn’t even see her approach, but you felt her presence the moment she stood just behind you, a space between you but still close enough for you to hear the rustling of her silk cloak as it moved with her.

“Should you be here?” you asked without looking up.

Yet, before she could make any sound, one of the older maids had come around the corner and froze at the sight. “Your Grace,” she whispered, blanching. “You shouldn’t be—if the steward finds out—”

“I’ll speak with him,” Abigail said simply, without turning. “And if he has concerns, he may bring them to me.”

“But—”

Abigail turned around, the sternness in her frown being enough for the woman to duck her head and vanish.

“You’ll get us in trouble,” you murmured, withdrawing your hand from your task. “They think I’m not suitable. If you keep showing up, they’ll start treating me worse, not better.” Your tone had grown quieter since you arrived.

Abigail wasn't only here for you, but you were indeed the main interest.

She had slept in worry about how would you adjust. If you would be in any danger when she wasn't around.

That you didn't know, and for your eyes she was a selfish princess who thought knew better.

“They wouldn’t dare,” she said softly. “I made myself clear the night you arrived. You are to be shown dignity, same as anyone else in this castle.”

You blinked at her, struck silent. Each time she spoke it only got you confused. You simply won't ever trust her. It was impossible to comprehend such a woman. She couldn't actually care about a stranger. And if so, it had to do more than just a shared love for books.

-

"Would you allow me to help?" her question made you jump at the sudden if sound other than breeze and women yelling in the kitchen.

You hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Sure."

She had insisted for weeks now. Not with words but with the way her eyes stared at what you'd gathered or how she wandered in the kitchen even after being begged by the women there to stop doing so.

She knelt beside you, her fingers delicately brushing against the leaves, almost like she was afraid to disturb the stillness of the space. You couldn’t help but notice the ease with which she worked, how even something as simple as this seemed to become something of grace when she was involved.

The two of you worked in silence for a while.

It wasn’t the silence that struck you, it was the subtle closeness that had grown between you, the quiet understanding that was slowly building with every small gesture.

Maybe you could eventually trust her.

"Do you know my name?" she asked suddenly, her voice laced with a kind of quiet amusement, as if the question was an invitation.

You blinked, not entirely sure where this was going. "Abigail," you said, your voice hesitant, as if testing the waters. "That’s all they say."

She paused for a moment, leaning back as her expression softened at the sight of a bee dancing over lavander. She stared at you then, looking at your hair, your neck. Your eyes and nose and lips. "What may I call you?”

She looked with innocence. A genuine interest.

And as you spoke your name, it all made since.

-

There is no garden where I walk,

But a world of roses

That you have left behind.

Each step I take upon your name,

Each breath a memory you have given me.

— A. A.

-

You eventually grew familiar with the castle.

Not comfortable—never that—but familiar. You memorized the rhythm of the guards steps, the scent of the kitchens before noon, and the way the light warmed the stone differently depending on the time of day. You came to understand its mood. And more than once, you found yourself lost in it—on purpose.

After all, it wasn’t the first time you’d walked those halls.

But now, your steps took you beyond the scullery and the washroom. Beyond the garden paths where you pretended not to notice the woman who always found you there. Abigail. Princess. Her Grace.

She had made it a quiet mission to gift you books—slipping them into your hands when no one looked, pretending they were forgotten things, unwanted. But her eyes always lingered a beat too long, her voice always softened at the handoff. At first, she gave you simple stories. Then poems. Then banned texts again, bound in worn leather or too-new covers that meant she’d taken risks for them. For you.

Her shame was as small as her restraint. She invited you to her alcove again under the guise of reading. Then to the library, with a confidence too casual to be honest. You never said no, not once. But you never let yourself stay long, either.

Still, she had not once left you alone for a whole day. Somehow, she always appeared—ghostlike and golden—on the edge of your hours. In the garden with some excuse. In the kitchen asking about herbs she already knew. Sometimes, knocking at your chamber door, only to say she’d forgotten what she meant to say in the first place.

Abigail wasn’t sure when it began. The unraveling.

Only that it had. And that now she was helpless against it.

She thought of you more often than the laws she was born to uphold. More than her duties, her gowns, her name.

She didn’t know how to bear it.

In the solitude of her room, when the moon hung heavy and she was left with her thoughts and too many luxuries, she thought of the first time she saw you.

Not in chains. Not bloodied.

But in silk.

Under the soft light of the masquerade—when your mask had been simple but your laughter louder than music. When your hand had brushed hers for a moment too long, and she’d thought, foolishly, that she’d never forget the feeling of it. That was the night she’d wanted to kiss you. When she still didn’t know your name but already wanted to learn it.

Now she did know it. She whispered it into her pillow when refused to allow herself pleasure.

And it only hurt more. It tore at her to remember who you had been before she failed you. Before her world and its rules pulled you into a prison. And she hated herself for having the power to save you and still not being able to give you freedom.

She couldn’t kiss you now.

Couldn’t touch you.

Couldn’t even stare for too long without fear clawing its way into her throat.

What if you hated her for it? What if you saw her as nothing more than your keeper, your chain disguised in shiny velvet?

What if someone saw?

So she suffered in silence, and soothed herself—ironically—with the very thought that burned her.

You.

And meanwhile, you did everything in your power to keep yourself away from thoughts like those.

She was the princess. A tender built of stars and stained glass. And you—now—were just another girl who worked beneath her roof. One of many.

You folded linens and scrubbed your hands raw and didn’t dare speak her name aloud unless required. That was reality.

And anything else was more than foolish.

It was dangerous, even.

You would not dream. Could not afford to.

But god, at times… when you let your guard slip—when she tilted her head just so, or smiled too softly, or touched your wrist under the guise of handing you a book—your eyes betrayed you. They slipped to her mouth. To the freckles dotting her cheekbones. To the scar by her cheek she never spoke of.

And you would hate yourself for it.

You would remember that night at the masquerade. You would remember how she’d held your waist without trembling, how you’d felt like a secret worth keeping, how you’d nearly leaned in—

And you would regret.

Regret leaving. Regret not kissing her. Not touching her longer. Not letting her look at you like you mattered.

And worse still, you would feel guilty for missing a fantasy, when she had granted you a reality—life.

She had let you live.

And you were squandering it on daydreams. On sighs.

You told yourself to forget.

But your body remembered. Your heart

It remembered everything.

-

There is no place I belong

more than the space between your hands

when you braid your hair in the sun

and forget that I am watching.

You reach for thyme in the garden—

fingers brushing mine,

and I pretend it is the wind

that leaves me aching.

It looked like a profanity to you. The words you've written on the paper, now hidden between the pages of a book you were meant to return soon.

Yet your heart could wish for nothing but them profanities to reach Abigail.

You needed her to know.

Needed her love even if it killed you.

-

She hadn’t meant to read it. Truly.

She hadn’t even seen the small piece of paper until a servant noticed it.

At first, she thought it a recipe perhaps. And her respect for you held her from reading it.

It was her hands holding the thin material– reluctant to let it go and return it to you–that had her eyes reading her name. Not written but confessed.

Abby froze. The silence of her alcove pressed in close, thick with breath she forgot to take.

Her fingers trembled as they unfolded the rest of it, and her lips parted without a sound as she read.

The paper felt too fragile in her hand, like if she blinked it would disappear, like it had been meant only for the moment her heart cracked open and not a second longer.

She read it again. And again. Each time slower.

And then she was moving.

The book slammed shut. She left her alcove without else but her thin white sleeping clothes, her heart thundering louder than her steps as she moved through the hallways. Past guards. Past a maid who startled at her pace. Past the kitchens and their fire. Into the shadowed servants' wing.

She didn’t hesitate. She knocked until you opened the door.

"Abigail?"

She crossed the room before your breath could catch. She held the paper—the poem—shook in her fingers.

“You wrote this,” she stated in a tone similar to a plead. It wasn’t a question. Her voice was low, as if the walls might echo it back too cruelly. But there was wonder in it too. Terror and reverence.

You looked down. Shame bloomed in your throat. “No.”

“You wrote this.” She said it again, softer. She was trembling now. “And it was me you meant. Wasn’t it?”

The breath she exhaled was sharp, close to a sob. Her hand came to her chest, clutching fabric that meant nothing now.

“The masquerade. I never forgot.”

Only there you looked. She was breaking beneath you. And there was no point in denying it.

“I remember,” you said.

Silence. But not the painful kind.

“I have longed for you in silence,” Abigail said. “And hated myself for it. But if there is truth in these words…” She raised the poem slightly. “If there is even a sliver of hope—then say it. Please.”

Your breath caught, and for the first time, you didn’t look away.

You opened your mouth—but nothing came. Nothing except a soundless ache, the shape of a yes that wouldn’t yet rise to meet your lips.

And Abby’s eyes—God, her eyes—searched yours like she was drowning and looking for shore.

She moved.

Not a question.

She kissed you like she’d been waiting her whole life for the moment to arrive.

Her hands rose, hesitant at first, until she cupped your jaw and cheeks, and her mouth met yours like prayer. Like poetry. Like your poem.

Like her poems.

The paper drifted from her fingers as if it, too, knew it was no longer needed.

And your body—your body betrayed you beautifully. It leaned into hers before you could even think, lips parting to meet her, your hand rising to rest just above her heart, where it beat frantically beneath silk and skin.

The world hushed.

It didn’t vanish, not entirely—but it softened. The walls receded. The rules and roles and titles dulled to distant echoes.

There was only the warmth of her mouth, the way she trembled against you, the faint salt of a tear neither of you dared name.

When she pulled back, it was barely an inch. Her breath was on your skin.

And all you could do—all you wanted to do—was pull her back in.

So you did.

You kissed her like you were finally allowed to breathe.

[kasagia]

Skin and bones

Pairing: Halbrand/Annatar/We know who x fem!elf! reader Summary: Ever since Galadriel revealed Halbrand's true identity, you've been having some very strange dreams… dreams that aren't the innocent figments of your imagination you thought they were. Warning: I HAVEN'T WATCHED THE RINGS OF POWER. All my knowledge is based on fanfics, short scenes posted on yt and uncle google. I just couldn't get this guy out of my mind... And I don't regret anything. Inspired by: David Kushner - "Skin and bones" Halbrand's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Main Masterlist

"Y/N…" A cold shiver runs down your spine as you feel HIS hot, quiet, velvety whisper in your ear. You keep your eyes tightly closed, not wanting to see what image your mind, tired from today's meetings, has put before you this time.

For days now, your imagination had been tormenting you with strange dreams. Dreams in which you were haunted by him.

Halbrand.

You avoided speaking his true name. Somehow, the face of the one you should have hated with all your heart did not match the face of the one who had spent so many weeks by your and Galadriel's side.

And it scared you immensely. So much so that you weren't sure you could pretend to the light elf that you were haunted by the shadows of your past.

Galardiel once told you that to know true light, one must touch the darkness. But what do you do when that darkness becomes more attractive than light? What do you do to resist that magnetism? How do you enjoy the glow of pure light on your skin again when you still have spots of darkness on you in the shape of HIS fingerprints?

"Y/N." Another whisper, another brush of warm air against your cool skin, this time on your neck. Goosebumps rise up your spine, your hand shakes uncontrollably, trying to desperatly grasp something you can't see. "Let go. Just let go. I'm waiting here for you. With open arms, mime írima kal (my lovely light)."

The feathery touch of HIS lips against your earlobe sends a shiver through your body. Even though you are in complete darkness, you are perfectly aware that he is near, that his presence is right next to you.

Physically you could be miles away from each other but spiritually... spiritually he has made sure that he will haunt you every night.

"You miss me. You miss the feeling of power I gave you. The darkness you could hide in, when you were too tired of playing the hero no one appreciates as they should. Just as I miss your light. Your laugh. Your mind. Your lips. Your body..." His lips move with each sentence down your cheek and to your neck, leaving a gentle kiss as if he was appreciating your skin and paid tribute to it.

He was right. You missed this. Him. He was addictive. And like any addiction, you should cut yourself off before it goes too far... but hasn't it gone too far already?

"Do you think you can hide from me? That any elven friend of yours could disrupt my vision of you? That I would stop watching you at night in the darkness of your chambers, waiting for the moment when you finally realize that the cold you feel is caused by my lack of physical presence with you? Tell me, my beautiful, stubborn elf, when will you realize that the warmth you long for is found in my darkness and not in the light of your golden sunlight?"

You gasp as HE suddenly grabs you by the neck and uses his fingertips to force you to turn your head towards him. His mouth attacks yours with a huge force of possessiveness, anger, frustration, lust, as if he were going to conquer you by using only his soft lips and a silver-tongue trained over the centuries he spend on seducing others to his will.

And you promised yourself that you wouldn't be the next victim of his games and manipulation.

That's why you let him kiss you. Not because you enjoy it and miss the feeling of his lips on yours. You tangle your hands in his hair, shivering as you feel the cold metal of his spiked crown against the pads of your fingers.

You managed to let his guard down, letting his tongue tangle with yours in a familiar, passionate dance you used to indulge in when you knew him not as a Dark Lord but as a mere blacksmith. An electric jolt runs through you, stealing all the air from your lungs and making your mind cloud with lust—but not strong enough to make you completely forget about your plan.

Before he can realise it, you bite his lower lip and push him away from you. You summon all your power that he hasn't timed in your sleep and push him out of your unconscious mind. You can hear his loud growl of rage and the clang of his metal armour against the rocks as you fall into nothingness.

A loud thud echoes through the room you and Galadriel have rented as you fall from the small bed onto the wooden floor. You groan, propping yourself up on your elbows and cursing under your breath as you wake up from yet another dream HE has taken over.

"Another one? Which one is it this week? Third?" You sigh at the question from the elf sitting on the bed across the small tavern room. You nod reluctantly and stand up, dusting off the dust and dirt from the floor.

"I'm not counting. I lost count about a two months ago anyway." You mumble, ignoring the fact that these dreams started much earlier. You turn your back to her, hiding the blush that blooms on your cheeks as you remember how… naughty your dreams were.

Before you realized that your… night visions weren't just yours, you and he… were doing all sorts of things. Most of them weren't really things you could speak about out loud. And as much as you're ashamed of them, you have to admit they were the best nights of sleep you've had since… you found out the truth about him.

"I keep wondering how he creates this connection with you? It's a bridge that shouldn't be created without… the willingness of both sides."

“It’s Sauron.” You reply, making sure to pronounce his name with just the right amount of disgust in your voice. "He has powers that allow him to break the rules. You know that."

"Still… they shouldn't be that strong."

"Are you suggesting something, Galadriel? Do you think I would really seek him out willingly? He has deceived us. He has deceived you and me. He wants to destroy Middle-earth, do you think I would willingly seek contact with him for any other purpose than to finally kill him?"

Your accusatory tone comes out a little stronger than you intended. You wrap your arms around yourself and take a few calming breaths, trying to calm the anger boiling inside you.

"I trust you. If I trust anyone, it's you, Y/N. I'm not your enemy here." She responds calmly and walks over to you. She cups your cheeks in her hands and rests her forehead against yours.

"I am highly aware." You respond and place your hands on the sides of her neck. "I'm just... tired. That's all." You sigh and rest your chin on her shoulder, snuggling into her.

You hold each other like that until she gently pulls away from you. She grabs your hands and looks you in the eyes.

"We all are. War is coming. Darkness is descending upon more of our lands. But together we will prevail. Sun and moon. We must work together if we are about to defeat him and Morgoth." Galadriel spoke, tightening her grip on your hands.

"I know." You mumble and shake your head. You remove your hands from her grip and turn to face the window, watching the sun slowly rise. “Which doesn’t mean he won’t see it coming. Because he will. We have to move faster, think five step ahead than he does if we want the light to break through his army of darkness.” You say not turning to face her since you're too afraid of what she'll find in your eyes. Galadriel sighs but doesn't try to catch your attention anymore.

"I guess we won't get any more sleep tonight. Get ready. I'll go find Erlond." She looks at you a little longer, her gaze burning on your back, but you stubbornly stare out at the valleys lit by the glow of the sun breaking through the morning mist, not yet feeling ready to face what is outside.

You breathe a sigh of relief as the door closes behind her. You turn one of the rings forged by HIM, which you have placed on your necklace, in your hands, quietly wondering if you should really do what you were about to do. But since he's decided to play dirty against you for weeks... you might as well start returning his little blows, too.

You close your eyes and place the ring on your finger. You hold your breath as the familiar surge of power makes your blood pump a little harder and your eyes sharpen to your surroundings. The outlines of the valleys in the distance become much clearer, and you can almost smell the forest that lies miles away.

You know he can sense where you are if you let him. So you take a little risk and remove the protective shield that keeps you away from him. And Sauron bursts through your slightly ajar door as if into a rabbit hole.

"If you're out there somewhere… if you can hear me… know that you've given me enough darkness to rip your black heart from your chest without blinking, mime melin cotumo."

Maybe calling him your dear enemy wasn't the best thing to end your threat, but the only thing that could leave your lips when you addressed him were such nicknames. Never the names you knew him by. Especially the name under which he hid when you so naively gave him part of your heart.

"Are you, Y/N?"

His whispered question echoes through the empty room. You immediately throw him out and slam the door on his ghostly presence, blocking his vision of you again. You want to celebrate this small victory over him, showing him that you are still in control, but you both know it's just an illusion. An illusion you're desperately trying to fall for. Unfortunately, you guess you're not as good at them as he is.

"I don't like him." You say to Galadriel, eyeing Annatar carefully.

You held little Celebrían in your arms and watched as Celeborn, Celebrimbor, and Annatar chatted in the distance, enjoying the party Celebrimbor had thrown for your arrival.

"He is… quiet around us. But that doesn't mean we have to be hostile towards him right away. We can't be overly suspicious." Galadriel says and takes her daughter from you, who begins to cry quietly. You sigh, looking at the child in her arms.

"In these times we can be as suspicious as we want, Galadriel. Middle-earth is even more divided; we elves do not have such a solid, strong united front. If Sauron decides to attack with his orcs, they will crush us one by one. We must act, not be stuck in pointless parties."

"Parties are also part of diplomacy. I'm off to melt the hearts of the ladies of other lands with this sweet little bundle. Try not to spit venom at others. We need allies, as you well noticed." And with that, she leaves you to drown your bitter thoughts in a glass of wine completely alone.

You snort, not paying attention to what's going on around you. The ring that hangs around your neck under your clothes burns your skin mercilessly as you try with all your might to push away the memories of the nap you took after arriving.

Warm, black furs clung to you as you slept soundly in your soft bed. In the background, you could hear the crackling of the fire burning in the fireplace. You were tucked into warm pillows and blankets, the tip of your nose exposed to the cool air outside, being the only thing that was bothering you from resting in your bed.

After a while it turned out that it wasn't just one thing that was supposed to bother you.

You gasp as a strong arm suddenly wraps around your waist. The blankets are lifted, and the cool air assaults your skin, sending goosebumps up your spine. A moment later, you feel yourself pressed against someone's bare, muscular chest.

"Is my queen comfortable enough?" He whispers teasingly in your ear and nuzzles your temple, tightening his grip on you as you try to squirm out of his arms. But he doesn't give you that chance.

He grabs both of your wrists and presses them to your chest as he straddles you. Black fur clings to his back, the only covering he's wearing.

"Do you intend to defile me in your dreams when in reality you cannot lay even the smallest fingertip upon me? You grow more pathetic with the passing centuries." You growl at him angrily, kicking beneath him and trying to break free from his grip.

"You will beg for my touch. I will make your cries heard throughout all the Middle-Earth." He murmurs a promise against your lips and leans down, capturing your lips in an aggressive, passionate kiss that sets every fiber of your being on fire.

The surroundings around you change rapidly. Suddenly, you are completely alone in a black and gold throne room. The only source of light is the rays reflected off a golden throne engraved with a sun.

You glance around frantically, searching for him and a weapon you could use against him. You take a few steps back, heading unconsciously toward the two thrones on the dais. You gasp as your foot touches the tiled mechanism beneath you.

The throne room begins to change, darkness giving way to light, the black marble turning white. But the entire chamber, instead of being divided in half by two colours, blends into grey. The golden throne turns white, and the black as night one becomes a lighter shade of black, almost greige. You turn your face to the landscape outside the window and gasp at what you see.

All of Middle-earth. Divided, but still... a coherent whole. Each of the lands was arranged so as to separate races that got in each other's way, where conflict could arise. The lands of the Orcs were in a barren wasteland, where life could not have arisen anyway, but they made their kingdom on it. All separated from each other by walls of mountains so high that even from the height where the palace was located, it was difficult to see the top of their mountains and the paths of the passes.

You shiver as the heavy, cool metal of the crown settles against your temples. He quickly grabs your shoulders and digs his fingers into you. He holds you against him, forcing you to stare at the land before you, a land you barely recognise anymore.

"We could have that. All of that. I would place a crown on your head, make them all bow to you. Make them bow to us. I would heal Middle-earth of strife and war, make them all live in harmony in their own worlds."

"Would you confine them within the boundaries of their lands? What if they run out of space? Would you move mountains? Would you remake the world? You won't fix them this way; you can't avoid wars and bloodshed. Who do you think you are to decide how the world is suspposed to look like?" You ask him angrily, turning in his arms.

You bravely hold Halbrand’s watchful gaze as he analyses your words carefully, probably thinking of ways to make you join his side, ways to make you see his case in a completely different light.

And you hope you'll have the self-control to reject every single one of them - every little tempting suggestion of the future he wants to show you.

"Amil! (Mommy!)" The joyful cry of a child and the dull thud of tiny feet hitting the floor later are the only warning you get before something small pounces on your legs.

You stubbornly don't look down, but into the eyes of the man in front of you, because you know that once your eyes land on the little projection of a child he wants to show you, you'll be haunted for the rest of your life by the image of what you could have had with him.

“You won't even look at our son, Y/N?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at you, daring you to show him how much you don’t care or care about the future he has to offer you.

So you gather all the strength you have inside you and lean down to take the little boy into your arms. He mumbles something, playing with the necklace around your neck.

The boy has his dark hair. And your eyes. And he's too damn cute for you to ever forget the vision he shows you, that he created to torture you forever.

"How long would it take you to instill your dark, poisonous thoughts in him?" You ask with a trembling voice, giving him a look full of pain and dismay.

"I've told you many times, mime melin hon. With you by my side I would have no darkness within me." He mumbles and reaches up to stroke your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "I will make you mine. Even if it was the last thing I would do. With or without your consent, I will bind you to me and make you who you were always meant to be: My queen."

You shiver as he places a tender kiss on your forehead. You hold back a broken sob as the weight of the baby on your hip begins to fade and his touch becomes just a hazy memory as you wake from this beautiful and terrifying dream.

“Can you do me the great honour of dancing with you, my lady?” You shiver when you suddenly hear someone's voice next to you. You turn around and barely keep a grimace from forming on your face when the platinum hair of the hated elf catches your eye.

"Lord Annatar. I thought you weren't dancing tonight?" You say in a forced, pleasant tone of voice and nod towards the elf whose invitation to dance he declined. He becomes embarrassed at this and clears his throat awkwardly.

"I simply have been saving my first dance in the hope that my lady of the sun would consent to grace me with it." You present him with your practiced smile, internally cursing him for being so thoughtful with his choice of words. Refusing him would be like spitting in his face - something Galadriel would clearly disapprove of.

"How could I be so cruel in this situation and refuse you, Lord of Gifts?" You tease him flirtatiously, seeing an opportunity in his obvious little affection, and offer him your hand.

You tremble as an electric shiver suddenly runs through you. The strange reaction to his closeness makes your brain buzz with thoughts. Especially when the ring hidden under the material of your dress begins to heat up.

"I may be… but right now I feel like I've received the greatest gift from you, my lady." He says, placing a soft kiss on the top of your hand. He confidently leads you onto the dance floor and pulls you close, wrapping his arm around your waist and being a little too close than was required for this particular dance.

His closeness overwhelms you. Not in a positive way. He seems suspiciously too familiar. Your body doesn't react to him as to a stranger; on the contrary, you immerse yourself in his touch as if it were familiar, comforting. You sense that something is wrong, but you can't say what yet.

"Do you like the rings we've been forging lately? Galadriel probably won't be too keen on his... idea."

"Because he follows in Sauron's footsteps. Perhaps we can dissuade him from this path. Together." You see his jaw tense slightly at your words. His grip on you tightens a little and he seems... flustered.

You narrow your eyes at him slightly, trying to understand his reaction, as well as why with every little touch he makes the ring on your chest burns like it's on fire.

"I truly believe we would be a great unit, úrin-o i world." You tremble when he calls you the sun of the world just as you tremble when he places his hands on your hips and lifts you.

He's in no hurry to put you down. It's as if he was deliberately prolonging this moment, and you let yourself be caught in the hypnotized state that his eyes bring you to.

For a moment, nothing exists except the two of you. It's just you and him. The dancing couples swirling around you momentarily become a blur.

You gasp when, for a moment, instead of Annatar's face, you see Halbrand. His mesmerising blue eyes pierce through you, making it all you can do to lean closer to him.

Your vision ends the moment one of the couples crashes into you. You land awkwardly on Annatar's chest, only his arms keeping you from falling. The couple apologizes and he just nods, pulling the two of you to the sidelines to a more secluded place.

You sigh, staring at him, your breathing heavy, not from the exertion of the dance, but from what you saw when you danced with him. Or rather, who.

"What are you?" You ask suspiciously, but he raises a surprised eyebrow at you, as if your sudden hostility was unfounded.

"You know who I am. Don't you, my Lady of the Sun?" You swallow hard at his question, but before you can answer him, Galadriel steps between you and him. A very angry and irritated Galadriel.

"He is of an unsound mind. How can he ignore what is so obvious? No one who follows the path that Sauron trod can call himself anything but his ally. I am leaving first thing in the morning. We cannot waste time while he is somewhere nearby, preparing an army against us."

"Perhaps you are giving him too much thought, my lady?" Annatar makes a sarcastic remark, but Galadriel ignores him and walks furiously away from the two of you, not even waiting for her husband, who has just reached the three of you.

"Galadriel..." You call out to her but she ignores you. "Galadriel!" Celeborn nods apologetically and follows the elf with the child in his arms. You stand in shock in the middle of the room and stare at the leaving elves.

"I don't blame them. You know what they're talking about... and about who they're talking." Annatar says, nodding at Celebrimbor. He stands alone in the corner, looking around nervously. "It would be best if you followed your lady." He advises you like a nasty snake that coils around your leg and whispers unwanted things in your ear.

You flinch and turn so you can fully look at him. He liked to play games. So he'll get one from you. You won't leave this palace without a promise from Celebrimbor to join you in case... if HE tries to attack.

Galadriel wanted to resort to desperate measures—she wanted to warn Adar that Sauron lived and wanted to use orcs in his plan to change Middle-earth. If you were to choose allies, you would rather heal the mind of an elf in whom you saw even a shred of light.

"I am my own lady. I do not have to follow anyone. Besides, I think you could use some help here, dear Annatar." You reply with a sweet smile. You see his jaw tense a little at your words. He clearly didn't want you around - that's why you had to stay here and see what the Lord of Gifts - the supposed envoy of the Valar was really doing in Eregion.

"Hm... that would be an honour to have you as our guest, my lady."

He says, smiling mysteriously at you. A shiver runs down your spine, and you already know that this won't be as much fun for you as it will be for him.

As if on cue, you drift off into blissful, dark unconsciousness.

"Fighting by your side… I felt like I could hold onto that feeling. Bind it in my very being."

"I felt it to." You mumble, staring at Halbrand's slightly bruised and scratched face.

You often had dreams like that. Flashbacks of past events. Sometimes they were real, and sometimes he was just playing with you in dreamland again, reenacting past events and laughing in your face, mocking you as you relived the same thing.

So I guess nothing has changed… if, knowing who I am, you still kiss me with such burning passion, my sunshine.

Cheap line. You managed to punch him for it many times. But that only seems to make him more cocky. So you stopped and instead looked for some way to get out of these dreams.

But now, as he leaned down and kissed you as sweetly as he had before... you could do nothing but moan and grab his hair in your fist as you pressed yourself against him, hating every bit of armour that covered your bodies and was separating you from him.

"The Valar must have spent aeons crafting those raspberry-sweet lips." He mumbles against your lips and cups your cheek in his hand. He pushes you back gently, your back pressing against the tree trunk you were sitting on.

You pretend you didn't notice that that little comment never came out of his mouth back then, and you take advantage of his moment of distraction. You take out your dagger and press it to his neck, pushing him away from you.

He needs a moment to process what happened. He chuckles raggedly and shakes his head slightly—just enough so that your blade doesn't even scratch his skin.

"What gave me away?"

"Sweet lips?" You mock him, pinning him against the rough tree trunk.

"I tried to be romantic with you, my beloved nemesis. Almost the same as that Lord of Gifts of yours, wasn't it?" He asks, raising an eyebrow at you. The cocky smirk doesn't leave his face even as you straddle him with the blade at his neck. You want to pierce all of his arteries, but his comment about Annatara catches your attention more than the murderous urge he's inspired in you.

"Jealous?"

"Intrigued. Do you like him?" He corrects you and asks a question that makes you want to laugh. As if there was anyone else besides him who could hold your attention for longer…

"Are you afraid that it will take your place as the worst, most venomous snake I have ever encountered?"

"Oh please… we both know that's not the only thing I'm best at. I remember one night perfectly, when…" You press the metal of the blade to his neck and draw blood from him. A black stream runs down his skin, soaking into the tree trunk, which instantly rots. "I understand. You want to be the one to dominate today?"

You snort in frustration at him and push yourself away from him. You take a few steps away from him and watch him closely as he slowly stands up and catches up with you.

"Only if you let me plunge my blade into your black, cold heart."

"Only if you acknowledge the fact that it beats only for you." He whispers and gently cups your cheek with his hand. You tremble, unable to move away from him or make any movement except to stare at him. Anger and something else—a feeling you're terrified to admit to—boil inside you like crazy. And that's all because of him.

"As if you could love anyone but yourself." You answer shakily as he leans toward you. He kisses you again, more gently, more tenderly.

He lifts your chin with two fingers, demanding full access to your mouth, as if the way he kisses you is to prove to you that he is capable of love—that he is capable of giving himself over to a mad passion that he cannot control, as if you were truly his lady.

And it is out of fear that he will manage to squeeze out of you that little challenge that he so desires that you reach for the dagger you had abandoned earlier and brutally plunge it into your heart, bypassing the plates of your armor.

You gasp, tearing yourself out of the dream he has entangled you in, but only to find yourself in a real nightmare.

You look around in panic as you see only orcs above you. The dead body of a dark elf is being torn apart by them, as if they were performing some kind of ritual over the dead. They are talking to each other in the black language, clearly too distracted to pay much attention to you.

You reach out for their abandoned weapon beside you, but you can't move much. You groan as a foot steps on your wrist, hard enough to pin your hand in place but gentle enough not to break or crush your bone.

You lift your head and bite your lip, drawing blood when you see who is standing over you.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, my sweet nemesis." Annatar says and nods to the two orcs closest to you. They walk over and hold you by the arms, lifting you to your feet.

"Sauron." You snap at him furiously, putting as much venom and hatred as you can into saying his real name.

"Hello, darling. Many years, centuries even, but it still seems like one day, right?" He mockingly responds to your seething fury. You watch him closely and freeze when you see that he holds not only his crown in his hand but Galadriel's ring as well.

He had two of the three forged for the elves. The last one... hung around your neck. And he could have taken it anytime he wanted. But he would have to pry it off your dead body if he really wanted it.

"You were more handsome as a brunette." You spit insults at him, trying to stay as calm as you can as he begins to walk forward. The orcs lead you right next to him.

"I can transform back into Halbrand just for you. Would you prefer that, my lady?" You press your lips together in a thin line, about to answer him, but he's already using his powers, and before you can do anything, Halbrand appears before your eyes.

You turn your gaze away from him and try to focus on the burning desire to draw some blood that the orcs' touch on you inspires as they lead you toward what looks like a camp.

"I'd rather have you rotted in Mordor."

"Ahh… such ugly words on such a joyous day? After all, you don't get married every day, do you?" He asks casually, too excited for your liking; if the orcs weren't forcing you towards the large tent, you would have stopped dead in your tracks and stared at the back of his head in complete shock.

"Married?" You repeat his words stupidly. The orcs hand you to him after you enter the large tent and quickly flee at their lord's beck and call. Halbrand... Sauron sets his crown down at the foot of the makeshift bed and turns to regard you, a huge, cocky grin on his face that you once found sexy. In the current situation, it only irritated you more.

"I promised you I would make you a queen. My queen. I have a crown, an army, and land. The only thing that is missing is you by my side—exactly as the Valar planned." He’s been explaining this to you for the umpteenth time, as if you were a carefree child to whom he had to explain something in a simple, banal way. You clench your fists and take one deep, calming breath.

"I'd rather die."

"No, you don't. Don't blaspheme like that. We both know that's what you want. I'm only doing you a favour by taking away your free will, giving you the illusion that I'm forcing you to do this against your will, so you don't have to feel guilty about acting on your heart's desires." He answers confidently, stubbornly, in a tone you knew—a tone he had used a thousand times when negotiating with kings, queens, and nobles.

Back then, when you thought he was just a man, you were charmed by his chearism, his self-confidence, and his unwavering actions. Now you saw how dangerous that was.

"You don't know my heart's desires." You whisper as he stops in front of you. But he doesn't move to touch you, does nothing but stand there and watch you.

You want to curse him for turning back into Halbrand and for showing you this illusion. It was much easier for you to reject Annatar than him... ironic, since it was Halbrand that betrayed you more than any other being.

"Another lie. I think you've gotten a lot better at it than I have in my absence, my dear sunshine."

You snort when he calls you that. The moment you open your mouth to answer, he leans in and steals your kiss and your breath. He pulls you to him by the material of your dress and perfectly ignores any thumps in your chest you give him. You jerk against his grip, bite his lip, and do everything to pull away from him. But he doesn't let go. Not until you're gasping for air and your lips are swollen, your clothes and hair a mess just like all of you.

"You know... I am not surprised you lied to me all this time. I mean... living for so long can trick your mind. You probably don't know your true self anymore, do you? When was the last time someone called you by your true name? Not with insult or fear, but with affection, maybe even sympathy?"

"Why? Want to change that, I úrin -o mime coiv- (the sun of my life)?" He asks, slowly pulling away from you. You ignore your instincts to follow his touch and stand frozen in place as he walks over to his abandoned crown.

"Are you just going to rule them? In the hopes that they won't kill you again? That I won't convince them to do so?"

"Fear is a powerful ally. And something tells me you'd rather have me alive than dead." He answers calmly and places his crown on your head. You frown as the cool metal settles on your temple.

You let him play with you for a moment and treat you like a doll he can do anything to. You waited for the perfect moment to attack, to throw him off balance. You wouldn't give in to him without a fight. Not when you still had at least a shred of strength to resist the darkness calling out to you.

"Not as powerful ally as love." Your response makes him more thoughtful. He stares at you, contemplating the sight of you in his crown, as if trying to forever engrave the image in his mind… to bind it to his very being.

"Indeed. But you either have one of them." He nods and runs his fingertips over your exposed shoulder. You shiver as he grazes the metal of your necklace.

"And what did you want? From me?" You see him soften noticeably at your question. Something like affection… maybe even tenderness or love appears in his eyes as he moves his hand to your neck, cupping it gently.

"You know my heart's desire, Y/N. Just as I know yours." He mumbles your name barely audible and leans in closer to you. You shiver as his bearded cheek brushes against yours, his soft lips caressing your earlobe as he whispers: "I don't have to say it out loud for you to know it."

"No… you don't have to." You respond and cup his cheek in your hand. He freezes at the sudden display of affection from you and involuntarily buries his face in your palm, closing his eyes. You lean down and press a small kiss to his cheek. He sighs tiredly, as if he had travelled a truly polynomial distance, and allows himself to melt in your touch. "Because I'd rather cut your tongue out than listen to another lie from you."

Before he can react, you're already reaching for his dagger. You press it to his neck, but he shakes off your little seduction and pushes you away from him roughly. You fall with the yak onto the mattress behind you, the crown falling off your head with a clatter to the floor as you stare at him intently, both of you aiming your blades at each other.

"In some races dagger is considered as one of the love's language." She mocks you, wiping the black blood off his neck with her free hand. He licks it off—a demonstration at which you hold your breath for a moment. Bloody bastard.

"I always preferred to consider it death's language." You respond and lunge at him again. He blocks your blade with his own and grabs your arm. You hiss at the hard, painful swipe of his fingers against your skin as he leans toward you, giving you one of his long, enigmatic, dark stares.

"You know what the difference is between me and them, Y/N? They fear you, what you can do, the power you wield with such grace, like it's nothing. But I'm willing to burn in the light of your sun if it means having you by my side."

"Rather, if it means gaining that power for yourself." You growl and kick him. He falls on his back in surprise at your strength, which you take advantage of and run forward—straight to the exit of the tent.

You run through the camp and quickly take the ring from your neck. You put it on your finger and, using the power it gives you, cast illusions on yourself, becoming invisible to the orcs. You hear Halb... Sauron's shouts behind you, ordering the orcs to find you and bring you alive to him. He himself gives chase through the forest. And you have to admit that he is not so far from you.

You run as long as your legs give you strength. You stop in some clearing with a small stream. You try to find a safe hiding place, hide, and wait out the mad pursuit. And just when you think you've made it, he emerges from behind the trees.

"Y/N! I know you are here! I can feel you! I will always..." He pauses, his voice shaking, and you realise this is the second time you've seen him so... vulnerable and open. It's a dangerous reaction from him. Either it's real... or he's using it as a card in his game to win yet another game he's playing with you. "I would make you a queen. In a heartbeat. You don't have to do anything. Just come with me."

And you really wish it were that simple. But you don't know if you could look at yourself in the mirror if you just so blatantly betrayed them and everything you know for… him and his lies. As beautiful and tempting as they were.

"Queen of slaves like you!" You scream, comming out from your hidding place and attack him.

"Yes! I am a slave! I am a slave to you, Y/N. At least I have the courage to admit it to myself and to you. And you, my queen?" He says each sentence every time your blades strike each other with a metallic clang.

"Don't forget about Mogoth, my king." You mock him and hit him more and more aggressively, each of your blows a precise attack on him.

"You're going to bind to me. Willingly or not, and I will relish every moment of it." He growls and finally knocks the blade out of your hand, and he grabs your wrists, twisting your arms behind you and pressing your back against his chest, the blade at your neck gently teasing your skin, as do his lips against your temple. "Let go. Just let go. I know you are tired. Let me help you. Let me carry for you all your worries and the hatred of the Middle-earth. Let me make you my queen. Heal this world with me."

"Only if you will made ma a crown from your skin and bones." You gasp, fighting his grip, trying to twist from the iron grip his arms have on you, but it's not as easy as it might seem. He pins you to the ground, straddling you, and stares at you, breathing heavily.

"I will wrap you in them, if that's what I need to keep you at my side!"

His cry echoes through the empty clearing. For a moment, you stare at each other, not making a move. The sound of the stream around you is the only other song playing in accompaniment to your heavy heartbeat, which you can hear in the deafening emptiness that surrounds you. The world stops. Again, when you're close to him.

"I did not desire power as much as I desire you. You hurt me more than Morgoth ever did; you poison me more than the darkness. I think of you every morning, afternoon, and night. You are like a poison that I cannot draw from myself. You are the light that blinds me, that destroys me, but I cling to it like a child in the dark. Even though the darkness has been a much longer and more loyal companion to me than you." He mumbles, pressing wild kisses to your face.

You moan as his lips and rough beard abuse your neck worse than the blade he had brought to you moments ago, which he had driven into the ground beside you. You had nothing. No weapon to attack him with, to protect yourself from his sweet lips and the burning touch that stirred desires so shameful and so familiar in you.

"A pathological liar." You gasp as he hastily undoes your dress. But you do nothing to stop him. You can't anymore.

You feel exhausted, both mentally and physically, all the running away from him, all the fighting with him. Maybe you really were a lost cause; maybe you were always meant to blend with his darkness and try to balance it with your light. You don't know that. What you do know is that he feels too good against you for you to fight him any longer.

"Both of us. But I'm the only one here who doesn't deceive myself."

"I'd rather deceive myself than allow myself to think that I could desire someone like you." And it's awful that as you say that, you reach for him and help to undress him.

You were only proving that you really were a terrible liar and hypocrite. But how long could you hold back from touching the darkness that called out to you so sweetly?

"We both know this is much more than simple lust." He whispers, stroking your hair tenderly and pressing his lips to your forehead. His hands roam your exposed body, caressing every little part of you. And if you concentrate hard enough, you can forget for a moment who he really is—you can only see Halbrand and not HIM. "Tell me… what's it like to want to simultaneously pierce me with a sword, burn me at the stake, and cherish me in the privacy of your chambers, my dear sun?"

"Maddening." You whisper shakily, admitting what you feel.

A single tear rolls down your cheek—a tear that he quickly licks from you. He groans at the sweet-salty feeling of your tears and holds you tightly with his one arm as the other slowly begins to toy with your most sensitive place, preparing you for complete failure and defeat.

All you can feel is blissful pleasure as the darkness is touching you.

And just when he is about to bring you great pleasure, when he is about to unite the two of you as one after so long, he stops completely. You fidget, toss, and turn, seeking renewed contact with him that he does not grant you.

"I'll come for you. In one form or another. I'll make you my queen, whether you want me to or not. I may be a fraud, Y/N, but I don't have the strength to deceive myself. You'll understand when you will be my age. And I'll wait for that. I will wait for you to realise that I am the only one who sees you, accepts you, and adores you as you truly are. All you have to do is call for me." You almost cry in frustration as he pulls away from you, leaving only a ghostly touch on your skin as he continues to hold your wrists. "The sun is also having an eclipse, Y/N. I am your eclipse. And you will beg me to give you my darkness."

He places one last kiss on your forehead and then disappears. You sigh, looking around you, and realise with a shiver that he was never really there.

He tricked you. He connected with you through the ring you still wore on your finger and entered your mind as another illusion. You cry, your hand shakily pressed to your mouth as you try to keep from making any sound for fear that he and the orcs might still be nearby and sense you.

You bite your fingers as a pitiful cry wants to escape your lips; it starts as your mouth forms a cry of his name, but at the last moment you stop yourself. You grit your teeth and stand up from the ground. You dust off your dress and look around you.

The rising sun illuminates your face, but you no longer feel the familiar warmth spreading throughout your body as you greet the morning light. You feel emptyness. A festering, burning emptiness. And the visible touch of HIS lips on your neck...

Sauron may have defeated you in your dreams and mind, but when it came to duels, when you faced each other in your own skin and bones, he lost. In the crucial moments, when he was about to make you his, you managed to slip away from him. You only fear how long you will be able to do so.

Especially since he has robbed you of all joy in the light and awakened a lust for the darkness you have touched with him...

And as you stared at the rising sun, you already knew that there would be no salvation for you, nothing that would make you forget about the electric thrill you felt every time you embraced the darkness with him.

Halbrand, Sauron, Annatar, whatever form he took, you were drawn to him. And you could either die, try to fight it, or accept it and try to save the little bit of light that was left in both of you. You didn't believe that after all the darkness he'd poured into you, he wouldn't get an ounce of your light from you in exchange. And if that tormented him as much as his darkness tormented you... then you felt at least a little less pathetic for falling in love with the Dark Lord of the Rings.

[heartsiebyul]

NRC Housewardens

(Art not mine, all respect and credit to the original artist.)

Twisted Wonderland characters sharing a pajama set with their lover—keeping the bottoms while lending them the top.

— Riddle : Leona : Azul : Kalim : Vil : Idia : Malleus x reader! cw : suggestive.

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle emerged from the bathroom with a proud stride, a rare hint of mischief in his crimson eyes. He wore only the pajama pants, low on his hips, his lean chest and toned stomach fully on display as he casually tossed the matching shirt your way. “Here. I figured it would look better on you,” he said smoothly. “Wait, where are the pants?” you asked, blinking as heat crept up your neck. He smirked—smirked—as he climbed into bed, his eyes dragging slowly down your form. “Already wearing them. If you want matching bottoms, you’ll have to get them off me yourself.” Flustered, you slipped the oversized top on, the hem barely covering your thighs, and padded toward the bed. His gaze was locked on your bare legs the entire time.

Once under the covers, he pulled you against him with surprising boldness, one arm circling your waist, the other gliding along your thigh. His lips brushed your ear, whispering, “Do you have any idea what you do to me, wearing only that?” You gasped softly as his hand slid under the shirt, stroking the bare skin of your hip while his mouth kissed your jaw, trailing to the corner of your lips. “So indecent… and yet I can’t look away.” You turned in his arms, breathless, capturing his lips in a deep, lingering kiss. His fingers tangled in your hair as he kissed you again, more possessively this time. Between breaths, you whispered how lucky you were to have him, and he responded with a quiet, “I’ll prove to you every night just how lucky I am.” His heart thudded against your chest as you fell asleep entangled, warm and completely his.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona stepped out lazily, golden skin glistening faintly from the shower, wearing nothing but the pajama pants slung low on his hips. His toned abs and defined v-line were on full display as he smirked and tossed you the shirt without warning. “This one's yours, herbivore.” You caught it with a confused blink. “Where’s the pants?” His lips curled into a wicked grin. “Already taken. Unless you wanna fight me for them.” You swallowed hard and slipped on the oversized top, the hem stopping just at your upper thighs, leaving you bare underneath. His eyes raked over you with shameless hunger, dark and lazy. “Now that’s a sight worth sleeping next to.”

You barely got into bed before Leona dragged you into his arms, one hand gripping your bare thigh as he tugged you flush against him. His lips found yours in a slow, possessive kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a quiet growl. “Tch… You really gonna tempt me like this?” he muttered, voice rough against your ear as he nibbled on your lobe. You gasped as his fingers slipped under the shirt, grazing the curve of your rear, his tail curling around your leg. “You drive me crazy, y’know that?” he murmured, pressing hot kisses along your neck. You whispered back how you wanted only him, and his eyes softened—just a little. “Good. You’re mine tonight,” he rumbled, and with one last deep kiss, he pulled you tightly against his chest, fully satisfied with you half-naked in his shirt, already drifting into a dream of you.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul stepped out with calculated poise, but you could see the faint redness coloring his cheeks as he wore only the pajama pants. The rest of him was bare—his surprisingly defined chest exposed, silver glasses slipping down his nose slightly as he shyly held out the shirt. “Here… I thought it might suit you better.” “Wait, where are the pants?” you asked, blinking at him. He adjusted his glasses and gave you a smirk that sent shivers down your spine. “I’m already wearing them, my pearl.” You pulled on the oversized top, the scent of his cologne clinging to the fabric. As you walked past him, his eyes lingered on your bare legs a bit too long, lips parting slightly in awe.

Once in bed, Azul pulled you into his lap, large hands trailing along your exposed thighs under the shirt. “You’re… breathtaking like this,” he murmured, voice husky, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth before catching you in a slow, sensual kiss. His hands roamed up the small of your back, fingertips teasing the hem of the shirt. “No one else gets to see you like this… only me,” he breathed against your lips. You kissed him again, whispering how deeply you trusted and adored him. Azul’s breath hitched, and he held you tighter, murmuring, “Then let me treasure you, like you deserve.” With your forehead pressed to his, you fell asleep wrapped in him—his shirt clinging to your form, and his heart beating steadily against your chest.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim came skipping out of the bathroom, positively glowing, wearing just the pajama pants—bare chest exposed, golden skin glowing with warmth. “I saved this for you!” he said cheerfully, tossing you the matching shirt. “Where are the pants?” you asked, blinking. He gave you a cheeky grin and spun once. “Already on me! Looks like you’re going bottomless tonight!” You blushed but slipped on the oversized shirt anyway. The moment you did, Kalim's eyes lit up with open, affectionate desire. “Wow… you look amazing like that. I didn’t know I had such good taste!”

When you crawled into bed, Kalim didn’t hesitate to throw the covers over both of you and immediately pulled you into a straddling position. “You feel so soft,” he murmured, his hands gently caressing your thighs as he pressed kisses along your neck and collarbone. “Can I kiss you here? And here?” His lips trailed lower until you gasped his name, gripping his shoulders. You whispered that he made you feel loved—wanted—and he beamed, fingers now sliding under the hem of the shirt to draw slow circles along your hips. “You are loved,” he said with a smile that melted your heart. “And tonight, you’re all mine.” Eventually, you both curled under the covers, your legs tangled with his, his arms caging you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil stepped into the room with deliberate grace, wearing only the silk pajama pants that hugged his slim hips. The definition of his torso gleamed under the soft lighting, and he held the shirt out to you like it was a gift wrapped in seduction. “This deserves to grace your body more than mine,” he purred. You hesitated, flustered. “But… where are the pants?” His lips curled into a knowing smile, a single brow arched. “Already claimed, darling. If you wanted them, you should’ve spoken up sooner.” You pulled on the satin top, the fabric clinging to your bare thighs, and Vil’s gaze dropped lower, heat simmering in his amethyst eyes. “Divine,” he whispered, his voice rich and sinful.

When you joined him under the covers, Vil pulled you into his arms like you were made to fit there. His hand slipped beneath the shirt, stroking your back, fingers trailing deliberately downward. “You realize what you’re doing to me, dressed like this?” he murmured against your lips before kissing you—deep, thorough, and intoxicating. He whispered praises into your skin, brushing your thighs with his slender fingers, lips grazing your neck, jaw, collarbone. “You tempt me without trying. But I’ll behave... for now.” You giggled breathlessly, whispering how beautiful he was, how lucky you felt. He smiled, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Sleep beside me like this every night, and I’ll never need another dream.”

Idia Shroud

The door creaked open and Idia peeked out, face red as his hair tips, dressed only in the pajama pants. His pale torso was slightly flushed, lanky but with a subtle softness, and he avoided your eyes as he held out the top. “Y-You wear it… It’ll look better on you than on me…” You tilted your head, confused. “But where are the pants?” He tugged the hem a little lower, fidgeting. “I-I’m wearing them already, duh…! It’s not like I didn’t plan this or anything… ” Your face heated, but you slipped into the oversized top. His eyes darted to your legs, and he made a strangled sound. “Oh. Oh no. This is a critical hit.”

When you joined him in bed, he froze, then wrapped you awkwardly in his arms with surprising confidence, especially when his hand brushed your bare thigh. “Wearing just that is cheating,” he mumbled, breath tickling your ear. You kissed him softly, and he let out a shaky breath, kissing you back with surprising depth—slow, trembling, hungry. “You’re… way too powerful like this,” he whispered as his hand slid up your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin. You whispered back how you always wanted to be close to him—body, heart, soul. He buried his face in your neck, whispering back, “You already are. Just don’t disappear from my screen, okay?” Holding you tight, your legs tangled, his heart raced long into the night.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus stepped out like royalty incarnate, his sculpted chest bare, obsidian pajama pants resting elegantly on his hips. His gaze glowed faintly as he offered you the matching top. “For you, my dear,” he said, voice low and melodic. “And the pants?” you asked softly. He tilted his head, amused, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “They are already adorning me. Should you desire them, I could be persuaded to part with them… later.” You slipped the top on, feeling suddenly small under his gaze, as if you were his most beloved possession. The shirt fell well past your thighs, but the cool night air made your bare skin tingle.

As soon as you laid beside him, Malleus wrapped his arms around you, effortlessly drawing you into his lap, your thighs straddling his. “You wear my clothes so beautifully,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, then trailing down to your throat with agonizing slowness. His clawed fingers slid under the shirt, resting possessively on your waist. “This… closeness,” he whispered as your foreheads touched, “is a privilege I shall cherish.” His kiss was languid, exploring, reverent. You murmured how safe, how loved you felt. He pulled you tighter. “Then sleep, my beloved. I shall guard your dreams.” With your cheek against his chest, you drifted into peaceful slumber—clothed only in his warmth.

me: 😳

“oh no… that’s kinda…”

also me 0.2 seconds later: 😊

“never mind"

I promise I'll do all the requests tomorrow 🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️

[marvelstoriesepic]

Where We Were When the Stars Came Out

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky and you take a momentary break from the chaos of your lives.

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: brief mentions of past violence; references to PTSD; lots of fluff and coziness

Author’s Note: I honestly needed that fluffiness after all the angst of the fics before. So we can all thank my lovely dear for requesting this sweetness!! I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

They told you to take time.

They told you to make the best out of the little time off you got.

The last mission ended with too much blood in the soil, and Bucky’s hands were shaking again, and you started storing your panic behind your teeth.

So you left.

Not far. Not long. But far enough. Long enough.

Tony promised you some five-star hotel on some Caribbean island. But Bucky and you declined without hesitation. Because that’s not what you both thought of.

The cabin you are staying at isn’t fancy at all. It creaks like it has knees, groans like an old man when the wind pushes too hard at its bones. The wood is worn in places, kissed silver by time, and the windows fog up if you so much as look at them with a hot drink in your hands.

It sits quietly in the folds of a forgotten forest, between sloping hills and trees that reach toward the sky.

There is a lake nearby, flowing and bubbling along so serenely. Birds skim its surface in the mornings. You’d watch them from the window, your fingers curled around a chipped ceramic mug, back pressed against Bucky’s chest, his arms around you, his head on yours.

The world doesn’t know how to find you here.

And you don’t ask it to.

You cooked with what little the kitchen allowed earlier today. Bucky found joy in chopping vegetables with a dedication so high, as if it meant something. You teased him for measuring salt as if it mattered, as if it wasn’t just the two of you eating in socks with mismatched mugs and nowhere to be.

He burned the grilled cheese this morning because he just couldn’t stop kissing you on the countertop, worshipping you with his lips, his tongue, his hands, his voice.

The smoke alarm had screamed loud enough to wake the trees and he’d cursed under his breath, waving a towel around like the old man he is. You only laughed, leaned over the kitchen counter with your elbows popped up and soft eyes. He blamed the pan, the stove, the altitude. Because kissing you, he claimed, was never the problem.

The second sandwich came out golden, perfect, cut into triangles, and plated with too much pride. It tasted like freedom and cheese and warmth and Bucky’s love.

There are books left by strangers on the shelf. Dog-eared pages and notes in the margins. You'd read them aloud on the couch, legs tangled, your ankle over his. His hand absentminded in your hair, his thumb brushing behind your ear every few minutes like a compass realigning north.

He didn’t talk much but his kisses were hot like firelight.

And he listened as if the words were balm. Sometimes he closed his eyes. Not asleep, just still. Relishing.

You like him best like that. Breathing. Not bracing.

Tonight, you sit on the terrace.

It’s quiet here too. Just the two of you and the cold at the edge of the world, trying to sneak in past the seams of the wool blanket stretched over your bodies. Bucky is meticulous, always has been, especially with you - he tugs the corners down, beneath your knees, under your arms, around your shoulders, making sure your feet are covered like maybe he thinks the cold could steal you away.

“Warm enough?” he whispers lowly into your ear, accompanying the question with a soft kiss to the side of your head.

You nod with a contented hum, your cheek pressed against the curve of his chest, listening to the metronome of his heart.

The sky is a bruise fading into velvet. The kind of dark that is anything but empty. The kind of sky that reminds you how much you two survived to witness this.

The stars come slow.

As if they, too, have something to savor.

As if they know that you are watching.

“Do you hear that, love?” he asks, voice like soft gravel right at your ear.

You blink. Listen. The wind. An owl, somewhere far off. Leaves rustling like paper.

“What?” you whisper, looking up at him.

“Nothing,” he says, grinning. “That’s the point.”

With a soft giggle, you kiss his jaw and move even closer, half in his lap, finding the dip of his shoulder, his arms around you pulling you into his warmth. He rests his chin on your hair, and you both exhale as if you’ve been holding your breath for years.

It smells like pine needles and earth. Like whatever he used in his beard. Like late nights that don’t come with battle plans.

Bucky is holding you as if he finally found something worth staying still for.

“I forgot there were this many stars,” you murmur absently.

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. Just looks up.

The stars have scattered themselves wildly across the sky, without pattern or apology. Bold and endless. Unfiltered. And Bucky traces them as if he is learning something, relearning the night. As if maybe he’d forgotten how to exist in a world where the sky didn’t end in fire.

“You see that one?” he points with a chin tilt, keeps his head pressed against yours. “Looks like a crooked arrow.”

You blink up. “No way. That’s clearly a lopsided cat.”

He laughs. Real and unguarded. Head back, mouth wide, nothing hidden.

And just like that, the sky isn’t the most beautiful thing in front of you.

You shift closer. He pulls you tighter. Kisses your hair.

“Okay,” you start softly, tipping your head up. “Pick one.”

Bucky hums half beside, half behind you. Thoughtful. His breath touches your hair as he shifts, metal arm tightening around your waist. He lifts his flesh hand, pointing toward a crooked mess of stars to the northeast.

“That one. Looks like a bird. Maybe a hawk.”

You squint. “More like a chicken,” you hum, grinning.

He glances at you. There’s a smirk playing on his mouth. Soft. Secretive.

“You’ve got no imagination, doll,” he states, a breathy laughter in his voice.

You scoff, playful. “I do have imagination. That’s why I see a chicken, babe.”

His smile is crooked. His eyes are full of adoration.

Your eyes continue tracing the constellations.

You are quiet for a beat, then you point higher, farther to a cluster shaped like that smile you love.

“That one,” you say quietly. “That’s you.”

He doesn’t look. Not right away.

“What do you mean?”

You let your fingers rest against his chest, right over his heart. “Don’t know. It’s just beautiful.”

He laughs. Quiet and startled as if the sound just slipped out before he had time to be afraid of it. You forget to breathe at the intense way he looks at you.

“God,” he breathes. Swallows. “I don’t know how you do it, sweetheart.”

“Do what?”

His flesh hand slips under your chin, tilts your face toward his as if he needs you to really see him.

“Make it easy to be soft.”

He nuzzles his nose against yours, leans his forehead to yours and you watch him close his eyes.

“I’m happy to be of service,” you whisper fondly with a hint of teasing and he presses his smile against yours. Your half-lidded eyes close fully.

“I like it here,” you breathe against his lips.

He takes a deep breath that is filled with you. “Yeah,” he exhales. “Me too.”

“I could stay here forever with you,” you sigh sweetly.

“We could make it forever.”

Your eyes open and you meet his. There is a constellation in his baby blues as well. Their vastness is filled to the brim. As if someone dropped the whole sky in his eyes and never claimed it back. His emotions spread like stars. Tiny and shiny dots. So much glitter that nobody ever intended to clean off.

Before you can answer, something bright streaks across the sky overhead.

A meteor.

You gasp, eyes wide and sparkling.

“Make a wish,” you cheer in a whisper, a wide smile blooming on your mouth.

But Bucky doesn’t even look away from you for a second. And he doesn’t give himself a second to think about another answer.

“I don’t need to,” he murmurs tenderly, adoring. Full of love. “You’re right here.”

He pulls you closer again.

And you let him. You don’t laugh.

Because he said it without flinching. Because his fingers are steady and strong against your skin. Because his heartbeat is slow and in rhythm. Because the stars are out and they are not competing with headlights or gunfire or the screaming ache of the past.

Out here they just exist.

Out here the sky remembers how to be quiet.

And so do you.

[austinbutlerslovers]

Romantic Rêverie

Label Mature 18+

Summary Being with Austin in Paris fills your heart with amour for him. Especially when he can't keep his hands off of you during the YSL Fashion show, and even more so when you can't wait for him to ravage you back in your penthouse suite.

🔗 Masterlist

💝Romantic Smut💝 Austin loving •affectionate •intuitive • physical touch•love language wait for it • good girl •praising •patient •passionate•eye contact • enjoys watching you come• still hard girl • on top• body worship• consecutive ejaculations• everyone knows his name• orgasms •creampie

*Written by popular demand with @butdaddyilovehim99 🤤🩷

Romantic Rêverie

The sleek car door opens and the Parisian night air is crisp against your skin as you step out with Austin. 

Flashbulbs explode around you, the chaos of cameras and shouted names blending into a blur, but you forget all of it the instant you feel the warmth of Austin’s palm settle on your hip.

He guides you effortlessly on the red carpet, his fingers pressing through the sleek fabric of your dress as he walks you up the grand steps. His pace is confident, measured, every movement of his body like foreplay, the way he glances at you, the way his thumb grazes your lower back.

On top of it all, he looks devastating.

His suit is midnight blue, so dark it’s nearly black, the kind of color that only reveals itself under the right light. The tailoring is loose in a modern cut on his sculpted frame, the crisp white collar of his dress shirt holding a black tie with the faintest silver stripes neatly against his chest.

You’re captivated as you stare at him, utterly and hopelessly caught in his rêverie.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, low enough for only you to hear, amusement laced in his tone as his fingers trail over your hip.

“You keep looking at me like that, we won’t make it through the show,” he teases, his voice dipping lower, softer, something  just for you.

You blink up at him, heat rising to your cheeks that he’s already caught you, and his blue eyes darken knowing exactly how much you want him.

Inside, the Palais de Tokyo is magnificent. The hall glows with warm, golden light illuminating from polished marble walls, the high ceilings amplifying the hum of conversation. 

The space is filled with an elite crowd, fashion icons, designers, ambassadors, everyone dressed in the pinnacle of Parisian luxury.

Champagne glasses are passed to you both as Austin mingles effortlessly. He moves through the crowd greeting and chatting up his peers with the kind of presence that draws everyone’s attention without seeking it.

When your champagne is refilled again Austin smiles at you lifting his glass “Saint Laurent can put on a show,” he teases clinking his glass against yours, his blue eyes gleaming in the low light.

You smile as you take a sip, the crisp bubbles tickling your tongue, but you barely register the feel—Not when Austin is standing this close, when his suit is brushing against you, when his voice is a deep steady timbre as he exchanges pleasantries with another guest while his fingers trail up your side.

As the lights dim to signal the start of the show Austin’s hand finds the small of your back guiding you gently to the front row 

He takes his seat beside you, his long legs crossing effortlessly, one arm draping over his knee as his presence radiates quiet confidence.

As the lights rise, the runway comes to life. The first notes of the music hum through the venue in a deep pulsing rhythm that vibrates the space, setting the tone for the event. 

Models emerge one by one, striding with effortless grace, their silhouettes sharp against the illuminated backdrop.

Austin watches intently beside you, his posture relaxed as his palm rests against your lower back.

He leans in occasionally pointing out designers, giving you quiet insights into the world of fashion that he’s become so familiar with. 

But the champagne has gone to your head, and the way his voice drops just a little lower with every word, the way his lips softly graze your ear when he speaks, sends a shiver down your spine.

And he notices.

Austins smirks as he hums with quiet approval, the sound low and indulgent as he pulls back to glance at you.

His gaze darkens with desire when he sees how much you want him. Your eyes are wide, lips parted in shallow breaths as your body betrays just how desperately you need his touch.

And He knows.

Austin always knows.

As the show comes to a close all the model sashay down the runway with the designer for the finale as the crowd erupts into polite applause

The moment the lights rise, signaling the end, Austin’s hand finds yours, guiding you through the crowd of his peers as he offers polite goodbyes.

Once at the Lune Courtyard of the Palais de Tokyo, you spill out into the cool Paris night. 

His sleek black car is already waiting beyond a roped-off group of fans pressing eagerly against the velvet barrier to catch a glimpse of the celebrities in attendance.

Their voices rise, calling his name the moment they spot him, a chorus of excitement cutting through the night air.

He pauses with effortless charm, flashing his signature smile for selfies before signing a few autographs, his pen gliding swiftly over outstretched posters and photos.

His free hand stays locked with yours, fingers intertwined as if unwilling to let you go.

Then, with a final graceful wave, he turns, guiding you into the car.

Once in the backseat Austin brings you closer, his arm sliding around your waist as he pulls you against him.

“You have no idea how hard it was to keep my hands off you in there,” he says, voice low and sensual, his breath grazing your ear. 

“When you looked at me like that, I nearly lost it.” He confesses, and your heart pounds as his lips find yours, drawing you into a searing kiss, tasting faintly of champagne and the intoxicating edge that’s undeniably him.

Your fingers trail through his stlyed hair, pulling him closer as the city blurs past in streaks of gold and shadow. 

He deepens the kiss and your lost in him, the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the low pleasurable hum in his throat.

Once outside the hotel you both get out of the car hand in hand stealing glances at each other as you walk through the lobby unable to contain your excitement.

The elevator ride is a haze of stolen kisses, his hands sliding over your dress as your back presses against the mirrored wall.

The ding of the elevator door barely registers before you’re in the hall, his hands roaming your body as you cling to each other, desperate to reach the room.

When you finally get to the suite, he fumbles with the keycard, swearing under his breath as you kiss along his neck.

Once inside the hotel penthouse suite the city glows beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Eiffel Tower shimmering in the distance, but you barely notice it—Not when Austins hands are warm on your waist, guiding you back to the bed.

“Stand right here,” he says, his voice calm with authority.

He pulls off his suit jacket, one shoulder at a time the slow, intentional movement keeping you locked in place, unable to move even if you wanted to.

Then he starts on his tie, the striped black silk sliding through his fingers as he loosens the knot, slipping it off with practiced ease.

You bite your lip as you watch him, your pulse hammering deep in your core, and he catches it—in the way you shudder as you exhale, in the way your thighs press together trying to contain your arousal.

He smirks as his fingers move to his cuffs, undoing them with ease, before unbuttoning his dress shirt exposing the strong lines of his torso.

You reach down in anticipation, slipping off your heels, and bringing your fingers to pull the zipper of your dress until he makes a low tsk to stop you.

“Not yet, baby,” he says, his voice as smooth as silk as he undoes his belt, the metal clinking faintly. 

His blue eyes lock onto yours as he grins as if daring you to disobey, and your pulse pounds in your ears as you nod, surrendering completely to him.

He strips fully, his broad pecs and firm arms sculpted by the city glow streaming through the windows. 

The defined contours of his abs tighten down to his narrow waist, his sharp hips framing his hard cock amplifying his commanding presence before you.

He steps closer, his touch affectionate and warm as he takes his time worshipping you in your elegant low-back dress. 

“I’ve been thinking about this moment as soon I saw you slip this on,” he confesses, his hand sliding along the slit, caressing the bare skin of your thigh.

“You’ve been thinking about this moment all night too, haven’t you?” he says with a knowing look, his fingertips gliding over the exposed curve of your back, tracing up your spine to your neck.

“Uh-huh,” you breathe, your eyes filled with lust for him, your voice so soft and needy, it’s clear he’s unraveled you completely.

“It was written all over your face, baby,” he teases, his fingers slowly tangling in your hair “Everyone could see it,” he whispers and he draws you into a deep, consuming kiss.

His lips slide against yours with possessiveness, his tongue slipping in to explore yours with velvet strokes, coaxing soft moans from you. 

His solid strength presses into you, his hips pinning you with an unspoken claim, the raw edge of his desire pulling you deeper into the haze of him.

He’s completely naked as he lowers you onto the bed with gentle strength, his warm hands sliding up the soft skin of your thighs, thumbs catching the hem of your dress and bunching it slowly around your hips. 

“You’ve been so good for me tonight,” he says, hooking his thumbs into your panties and pulling them down, the depths of his blue eyes holding yours in a silent promise as his hands guide your legs apart. “Let me show you what you do to me.”

He lowers his head, kissing along your inner thighs before his tongue flicks out, delivering soft, teasing licks against your clit that make you arch beneath him. 

Your arousal is already slick and warm against his mouth, and it drives him wild as he hums against you in pleasure.

“Austin please,” you beg, your voice trembling as your fingers tangle in his hair, trying to guide him up, trying to get him to satisfy your need to feel him deep inside.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his voice deep and reverent. “I love it when your this needy for me baby,” he says, pressing a final kiss to your thigh.

He climbs on top of you, his broad shoulders flexing with strength as he settles his weight over you, his-skin hot against yours. 

You’re panting heavily as he strokes your hair back, cooing at you. “Shh, baby, I’ve got you now,” he promises, his tone soft and soothing.

He nudges your legs apart as his thick cock slowly pushes in, guiding so deep it’s overwhelming as the tight stretch of him inside sends a jolt of heat through your core

“Fuck…you feel …so perfect, take it all for me baby,” he encourages, his voice low and reverent, his breath brushing your ear as he settles, letting you feel every inch of him.

He moves with slow precision, each thrust a testament to his passion, his gaze fixed on you watching every reaction. 

He angles his hips just right, a subtle tilt that presses a spot deep inside, his fingers grazing your cheek to catch the flutter of your lashes, as your breath hitches.

“That’s it, baby,” he coaxes, his tone soft but commanding, “Show me how good it feels for you.”

Your walls tighten around him instinctively as your soft moans grow heavier, your chest rising in shallow, desperate breaths.

He smiles with a faint curve of his lips as he watches you. “So… pretty like this,” he says, his voice filled with admiration.

His thrusts deepen, rhythmic and powerful, his body tensing with each push, his broad pecs tightening as his abs flex driving into you. 

One hand cradles your jaw, his thumb tracing your lower lip with care, while the other rests at your hip, fingers holding just enough to steady you against his relentless thrusts. 

“You’re doing so good for me,” he praises, his voice cutting through the haze of pleasure. 

His thick cock strokes you just right, building an unbearable heat that makes your body clench tighter around him as he hits the perfect spot inside of you over and over with each rhythmic thrust.

“Your so close baby ” he whispers, his voice low and knowing as you teeter on the edge of ecstasy.

You nod, a shaky breath escaping you as your walls flutter and tighten against his cock.

“Come for me,” he urges, his tone shifting to a gentle command.

His words push you over the edge, as you feel a surge of pleasure crash through you, sharp and radiant. 

Your hips tilt up to meet his thrusts, lips parting in soft broken moans as you lock onto his stunning blue eyes, intense and unwavering, his focus entirely on the way you fall apart for him.

“Austin!” You moan feeling a flood of warmth and bliss course through leaving you trembling, and he’s right there with you, his loud groans of pleasure echoing as he comes inside you.

His hips rock back and forth, his cock pulsing with each clench of your walls, moving in perfect sync with your shuddering body until you’re both breathless.

Your satisfied sounds fill the room, pupils blown wide, lips parted in soft exhausted exhales as your cheeks flush a deep rosy hue.

He watches you captivated, before lowering down to press lingering kisses from your forehead to your lips. “You’re so perfect,” he praises.

His hand strokes your hair gently as he slowly pulls out, his cock still hard, his body reluctant to leave yours.

He lays down beside you, both of you still catching your breath, and he gently pulls you onto your side.

His fingers find the zipper of your dress and slide it down, helping you peel it off to reveal your bare skin.

His hands roam over you, warm and possessive, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, before his lips find yours again in a deep consuming kiss.

You kiss him back, lips parting eagerly, tasting the faint salt of his skin as his rock hard cock presses against your thighs.

He ruts gently, a low hum of pleasure escaping him, the friction stroking his need to have you all over again.

It’s not long before he pulls his lips away, his breath ragged as guides you on top of him with firm hands on your hips.

“One more, baby,” he says, voice rough with desire, “ride me like a good girl.” He breathes, and you nod, eager to please him, lifting your hips as he aligns himself beneath you.

His cock slides back in, thick and warm, filling you with a tight, perfect stretch as he pulls you down, urging you to sink fully onto him.

You moan as you settle, feeling the pleasure radiate in a deep, throbbing heat pulsing from where you’re joined.

He takes in the full view of your body on top of him as his hands explore, sliding over your breasts, your ribs, your hips.

“Baby, you’re so gorgeous,” he whispers, his voice brimming with want and desire.

You begin to move for him, rolling your hips in slow circles, savoring the way he feels inside you.

Your hands press against his chest, fingers digging into his firm pecs as you ride him, soft moans falling from your lips.

You lift and settle in a steady rhythm, each downward push a sharp slap against his pelvis.

His face is pure bliss eyes fluttering closed as he moans in pleasure, only to open them again, locking onto yours with fierce intensity.

You indulge him in the sensation, your hips grinding harder, faster, chasing the tension building inside you.

His voice is low and rough, grunting “unh, fuck” as you begin to bounce on him.

“Austin,” you moan, loud and unrestrained, your voice so sharp you’re sure everyone in the halls knows his name by now.

He grips your thighs, fingers sinking into your flesh as he thrusts up to meet you, the force making your breath catch.

His thick cock hits deep as your mind unravels into a haze of incoherent pleas—“yes, Austin, please, yes”—the words tumbling out as the pleasure consumes you.

Your orgasm hits first in a sudden, shattering wave as you cry out, “Austin!” feeling a surge of pleasure rock your core.

Your hips falter as your walls clench tight around his cock pulsing with every surge of bliss that floods your body.

He’s right behind you, his release crashing through as a loud, guttural “fuck, yes” tears from his throat as his hips buck hard and fast, spilling thick, hot streams inside you.

His hands grip your hips, holding you down to take it all, each deep pulse of his cock syncing with the aftershocks shuddering through your body.

You both moan, breathlessly as he pulls out, his come warm and slick, coating your thighs.

He guides you down beside him your bodies still tangled as you rest on his arm, spent and sated.

His lips brush your forehead as his hands stroke your back, and you’re lost to him, the world fading to nothing but the steady beat of his heart against yours, feeling his breathing softening as the moment slows.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice low and reverent, a small smile tugging at his lips as you look up into his eyes.

“I love you too,” you say affectionately, and he pulls you closer wrapping you both in a romantic rêverie.

END 🇫🇷

🔗 Masterlist

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[nanamisgirly]

more womanizer sugu pls begging on my knees I'll eat it up ur writing is so engaging 🙏

˖ 𑣲 comments and reblogs are always appreciated ma girliees <33

+ thank you so much🥹 part.1 part.2 part.4

who would have thought womanizer!geto would be at your boyfriend's ‘close’ friends party? he's on the couch, legs spread as always, a lazy hand holding his beer—fingers adorned with silver rings, nails freshly painted black with chipped edges. his tongue flashes when he takes a lazy sip, licking foam off his lip like he's bored. like he's not watching you.

every. fucking. step.

womanizer!geto who can't help but have his eyes coming back to your boyfriend's arm draped protectively over your shoulders. he can't help but stares at your soft belly showing above your pale purple long skirt—thighs around your waist.

you don't need to look over to feel your (ex)best friend's eyes all over your body. and you try so hard to ignore the heat crawling up your neck. his gaze is molten behind the rim of his drink. 

you know how womanizer!geto is. lazy on the outside, dangerous underneath. and he proved it pretty well weeks ago when he left you twitching on sheets soaked with your own slick, without so much as a backward glance. 

and he's possessive.

womanizer!geto thinks you're his. so he watches openly disgusted when your stem boy fixes your necklace, adjusting it on your throat with a grin, calling you ‘his golden girl’. but as fucked up as this whole situation is, geto leans back and spreads his legs wider, the thick ridge of his hardening cock visible, pressing against the zipper of his jeans. gauging your reactions, and muttering "cute", voice low and slow and meant only for you, even across the room. 

your thighs press together. you hate him. you hate how easy it is for him—how just a glance, a few lazy words, can leave your cunt clenching around nothing. you hate how you're practically drooling, nipples hard against your tiny top at the mental image of his thick cock. 

you're feeling so guilty with your boyfriend's hand stroking your back sweetly—flinching at his touch. “you okay, baby?” he asks, all concerned.

“yeah,” you nod too quickly. “i just…need a sec. bathroom.” he kisses your cheek, all sweet and trusting. “i'll wait for you.”

womanizer!geto watches it all, and when he sees you rise—hips swaying in that skirt and top, heels clicking—he laughs under his breath. he lets his head fall back against the couch, long black hair spilling over his shoulders, Adam's apple bobbing with a slow swallow. his inked throat exposed.

he looks like sin, pure and unbothered. and he knows it—knows you're watching. and you're probably losing your mind right now, not only feeling wet but literally having your panties drenched. your heart is thundering as you stumble away down the hallway, your boyfriend waving gently behind you—so clueless.

geto smiles wider, licking his bottom lip, already pushing himself up from the couch with that lazy, predatory grace. because what better than now to make his move? 

the smell of cheap tequila and weed lingers in the air—but under that, something him. that sandalwood and smoke and sweat that haunted your sheets for weeks. your hands grip the bathroom's sink tighter. you breath like you've run a marathon, thighs slick and trembling. you haven't even touched and you're already close.

your heart kicks up at the sudden shift of the door handle. instinctively, you speak before you lift your head, “sorry, i'm getting out—” but your words die on your tongue as you meet eyes with unnatural, almost-glowing violet. 

womanizer!geto steps in and shuts the door behind with a soft click. no urgency, no permission asked.

“didn't mean to interrupt,” he murmurs, voice like honey. “though…judging by those thighs, i'm guessing you needed more than just a minute.” his eyes slowlyyy drags all over your body, burning you. 

you take a step back, body trembling slightly. “that skirt,” he says, walking closer to you. “you wore it for him?” you stiffen. “you think he deserves that?” he cages you in seconds between the sink and his body, so close you can feel the heat of his cock against your lower belly, hard and demanding through his jeans. 

“you think he's the one that earned that fat cunt? that soft stomach? you think he deserves to see you jiggle when you ride him?” your gasp is humiliating. your back arches, pressing your hardening nipple agains his torso.

geto chuckles darkly. “tell me something,” he growls, hand sliding down your waist, stopping just above the curve of your ass. “does he even get on his knees for you?” you don't answer. “or does he think a pussy like yours doesn't deserve to be worshipped?” his voice dips to a snarl, hot and wet against your cheek. “bet he eats you like he's scared of getting messy.”

his free hand finally brushes your stomach, a single tattooed ring-clad finger dragging down. “i dream about tasting you, sweetie. dream about your thighs around my head, soaking my face ‘til i can’t fucking breathe. does he do that? does he make you cry with his tongue, sweet thing?”

your hands fist at your sides, eyes closed shut as he dips his head—nuzzling the crook of your neck, smelling your delicate perfume—he fights not to roll his eyes to the back of his head, totally intoxicated by your sent. “i should fuck you right here,” he whispers. “right up against this sink. let everyone hear how loud that cunt gets when i ruin it. show himwhat you sound like when someone actually knows how to touch you.”

you whimper, thighs clenching tight. you hate how badly you need him. hate how your boyfriend's name feels like a betrayal in your throat and not geto's one.

“go on,” he murmurs, biting gently at your earlobe. “go back to him, pretty. let him kiss the mouth that's been begging to chock on my cock.” 

womanizer!geto pulls away. just like that. leaves you panting, dripping and flushed red—once again.

you blink, once, twice, third—maybe a thousands time. you don't know. your heart is almost bursting. you force yourself to fix your hair in the mirror after he left—your reflection blurred with shame. you wipe your mouth, though nothing happened.

but you wish it had. you wish it hadn't. you don't even know what to wish anymore.

but one thing you clearly weren't wishing for was finding your boyfriend waiting outside the bathroom. you don't know if he saw geto getting out too. 

he's leaning against the wall, half-smiling—a bit drunk. “was starting to wonder,” he murmurs, brushing your arm. “everything okay??” you don't know what to say, how to feel. “yeah,” you lie, the word catching dry in your throat. “needed a pause that's all.” 

the way your eyes dart away from him like he's the one who should be ashamed perturbs him. and he's about to ask again when a voice cuts in.

“yo.” crowding the hallway like he owns the place, broad shoulders relaxed, beer bottle hooked loosely between ringed fingers. geto's hair loose, mouth curled—smug and knowing. “having a lover escape?” he says, looking straight at your boyfriend—but never really seeing him. his eyes crawl over you instead. linger on your plush thighs. the flush in your cheeks. 

your boyfriend straightens up. awkward, confused. “well..huh, yes?”

womanizer!geto hums, brow lifting just slightly. “that's cute.” his eyes drag back to yours. something filthy dances behind his lashes. “real cute.”

stem boy clears his throat, stiff with something between confusion and creeping dread. “you're… geto, right? her best friend?”

“oh, best friend?” his eyes flick between you two, amused. “we can say it like that,” his lips twitch. “we were close. still are. sometimes.” he steps in just slightly—the movement so casual it shouldn't feel threatening. but it is.

your boyfriend shifts instinctively, body tensing like he can’t decide if he needs to defend or retreat.

“crazy thing,” he goes on, conversational, “you know how sometimes a girl just has to show up in your bed at two in the morning, crying about her sweet little boyfriend, wearing one of your shirts and nothing else?” he taps the beer bottle against his palm. “swear she just needed to ‘talk’”

your boyfriend flinches. and so do you. because what was his saying? you never did that. not exactly. and for your defense he was the one provoking. but the memory of his violet eyes staring at your glistening cunt while telling you how to touch yourself—this was really wrong. 

your brows brows draw together in fury, amusing geto. “i was wondering, she do that with you too? or just me?” your voice is frozen in your throat, seeing red.

“wait—” your boyfriend starts but is quickly cutting off by the black haired man.

“does she ever sit on your face while crying?” he adds smoothly. “say your name like it's the only word she knows.”

you choke. and still, geto doesn't even look at your boyfriend.

he leans against the wall now, casual, one leg crossed over the other, taking another sip of his beer like he’s just chatting. “in case you haven't clicked the puzzle together, i'm talking about her.” he nods toward you. “and i was truly curious if you eat this fat cunt like she deserves? also, did you notice she likes getting it talked to?"

your boyfriend stiffens. “don't fucking talk about her like that.”

“why not?” geto grins wider, savoring every seconds of the discussion. “she likes it. don't you, sweetie?” you can't breathe. you're burning from the inside out.

womanizer!geto tilts his head in deception when you don't answer. “she's not very talkative right now, but i promise, if you know how to use your poor three inches correctly she might be a bit noisy. and since i feel kind lately, im giving you a tips : she likes being called a pretty little slut.”

he nods down. right at the space between your thighs. “bet she's soaking through those lacy little panties right now.” geto leans in, smirking at your boyfriend like he's finally acknowledging him—and only to insult him.

"tell me, does she make those sweet little sounds for you?” he sneers. “or is it always quiet in your bed? you touch her and she just lays there, huh? makes sense. girls like her—they need to be handled. not coddled.”

you want to scream. you want to claw his mouth shut. but you also want to fall into his chest and let him wreck you all over again.

your boyfriend stares at you, livid, like he doesn't recognize you anymore. like he's been stabbed in the chest and doesn't know what did it.

“tell him,” geto whispers, grinning widely at your reactions. “tell him who makes that greedy little pussy ache. be honest. he deserves honesty, doesn't he?”

the hallway goes silent. and the world teeters on the edge.

you feel like drowning on dry land—blood roaring in your ears. your boyfriend's gaze cuts into you, wide and wounded and shaking with disbelief. you've never seen him like this. he looks like a stranger, and maybe you do too.

“cat got your tongue?” womanizer!geto murmurs, eyes dark and glittering. he's just too cruel none of that is necessary. “or is it just still sore from gagging on mine?” and he's lying above all that. adding stuff that never happened just to push your limits.

a strangled noise breaks from your boyfriend's throat. “you're kidding me,” he breathes, voice cracking, half laugh, half plea. “tell me he's lying. tell me.”

but how are you supposed to explain this? to explain the thrill? the desire that is so much more than what you've ever felt with your boyfriend. how do you voice the way geto's presence twists everything inside you?

“i didn't mean to—” you start weakly.

“you know what… save it.” your boyfriend snaps, cutting you off with a voice so sharp it makes your heart drop. the silence lingers in the air, thick and suffocating. and all you can hear is the humping of your heart, each beat painfully loud.

“i thought i knew you. thought you were mine.” his voice is quiet, full of disbelief. “but i guess, i was wrong.” his eyes shine—not from tears, not yet—but from the kind of heartbreak that scorches clean through.

and in front of him, womanizer!geto laughs. low, pleased, like it’s private entertainment.

he doesn’t even try to hide it—how much he’s enjoying this. the destruction. the ruin. the way your boyfriend looks at you like you’re poison and he just drank deep.

geto steps forward, licking his teeth behind a smirk that should be illegal.

“don’t look so shocked, man,” he murmurs, cocky and cold. “you never had her. you just babysat what was already mine.”

his fingers twitch like he wants to grab you—like he could, right there, and no one would stop him.

“let her go,” geto says with a shrug. “some girls weren’t made for sweet. they need teeth. need to be ruined to feel real.”

then womanizer!geto glances back at you, grinning slow and filthy.

“and she likes being ruined. don’t you, pretty?”

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