#ironically i felt a wave of relief

[lola-writes]

Duty Is Sacrifice

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Velaryon/Strong!reader

Word Count: 2,6k

Themes & Warnings: Winterfell, pov. first person, feelings realization, fluff and smut, fingering, orgasm

Summary: Queen Rhaenyra sends you to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. In him you find not only an ally, but something deeper as well…

Song: Skin and Bones (Cinematic) - David Kushner

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist

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The wilderness beyond the Wall sprawled before me atop the outlook, an uncharted immensity dripping with anathema. A frozen wasteland, it held a cold that seemed to seep into your very soul, promising to turn your bones to ice with a single, lingering glance.

The stories from the seasoned rangers down below had painted a vivid picture, but this, this was a masterpiece beyond mere words. The frigid air, a living entity, tore at my dark hair and the borrowed furs – those very furs my stubborn pride had initially dismissed. Now, the only thing missing from mirroring those same hardened rangers was a permanent furrow etched between my brows, a testament to countless nights spent battling the elements. 

Their Lord was a wall of warmth which prevented the gnawing chill from consuming me. His massive form broadened at my side, his very presence thawing me. Turning to him, I observed the furrow deepening between his brows as he regarded me, though it wasn’t a testament to the cold, but rather something concerned. 

“Winterfell beckons, Princess,” he said, his timber thick with northern accent, “Let us return to warm you.” 

His gloved hand, rough yet surprisingly gentle, reached out for me. Relief washed over me as I grasped it, the worn leather a welcome anchor against the treacherous turret steps.

“Blazing fires. Hot stew. How’s that sound?” His stoic expression nearly cracked to the rumble in my stomach. I noticed I was still supported in his grasp well beyond danger, when I felt his thumb tracing reassuring circles on the back of my hand, sending a delicious shiver snaking down my spine.

Gently, I returned it to my side. “That would be most pleasant, thank you my Lord.”

Days had bled into one another at his side, treating, feasting, drinking, strategizing, and though I had no doubt I had fixed him as an ally to my mother’s claim, some other heat beneath the veneer of alliance had begun to simmer in his gaze, a spark that mirrored the disquiet blooming in my own chest.

The iron cage groaned its descent down to Castle Black, echoing through the black shaft like cries of the damned. From the moment I stepped foot in Winterfell, he’d woven a tapestry of comfort. He recalled every detail I mentioned in passing, and behind his every effort to make me feel at home was a gesture conforming to something I’d previously told him I enjoyed – a steaming mug of my favorite herbal tea, a book on a subject I’d once expressed interest in. He was unlike any man I’d encountered. Each word he uttered was a silken caress, so gentle it felt like he feared his own timber could bruise me. But a heavy weight had settled in my chest. My replies had now become clipped, mere whispers that barely escaped my lips. There was so much more at stake now beyond my desires. Duty loomed heavy on my shoulders. I feared any careless words or lingering glances could brittle the alliance with the Starks to pieces.

We mounted our horses and begun our nigh-on two days ride back to Winterfell. Though not as biting as the Wall’s teeth, the wind on the Kingsroad still carried a relentless edge. The only warmth to be found radiated shyly from the small fires Cregan’s bannermen had built, and the thick fur I wove tightly around myself at night.

As the colossal granite form of Winterfell finally clawed its way up from the horizon, a wave of exhaustion crashed into me, settling heavy in my bones. Dismounting was an ordeal. Every muscle in my body throbbed in protest from the days’ ride. My legs, leaden weights, buckled before I could even consider lowering myself. 

But before I could hit the ground, strong arms, surprisingly gentle, encircled my waist, and lifted me from the saddle before I could even think to react. 

We stood there, my body swaying slightly in his arms, our eyes lingering on each other for a second beyond my comfort. His eyes, normally the clear blue of a summer sky, were now a stormy gray, swirling with unspoken concern. A tremor of something akin to fear danced in my chest, battling the unexpected flutter at his touch. 

“Apologies, my Lord,” I stammered, cheeks flushing with a heat that had naught to do with exertion. “Dragon saddle is one thing, but I fear horseback is another entirely.” I smiled apologetically. 

Cregan’s fingers lingered on my waist, a gentle caress that singed through my leathers and into my very skin, sending a jolt through me. He withdrew them slowly, and my side ached from their absence. 

“Fret not, Princess,” he rumbled, his voice a warm current, “Two days on horseback have felled men twice your size.”

I giggled to his obvious attempt at comforting me. “I wouldn’t bet on that,” I replied, taking trembling steps toward the castle.

Once in my chambers, I collapsed onto the bed; sleep, thick and heavy, stealing the day. When I finally opened my eyes, the only light in the room spilled from the dying embers in the hearth. 

A gnawing hunger, cold and insistent, hollowed my gut. With a deep breath, I rose, and dressed in my house colors, the fabric thick with responsibility. Then, I descended the steps in my hunt for scraps.

The massive oak doors of the Great Hall ground open, revealing a cavernous space bathed in the flickering, golden glow of a roaring fire. Laughter and the murmur of rough voices hung in the air. Fur cloaked figures huddled around the immense hearth at the far end, casting dancing shadows on the towering walls. Lord Stark sat amidst his bannermen; tankards raised in boisterous revelry. 

The merriment dipped as I entered. Heads swiveled my way, some splitting into knowing grins. The bannermen rose in unison, scattering like startled crows, their boisterousness replaced by a respectful chorus of greetings and a flurry of curt bows. 

“My regrets for missing supper,” I said, drawing Cregan’s heavy gaze. His shadowed form, a giant even in the flickering firelight, rose with a quiet grace that belied his imposing physique. 

“You need not worry,” he said, ladling steaming stew from a small pot over the fire and offered me the bowl with one hand. A grateful smile lit my face as I accepted it. 

“You grow quite comely as a serving girl,” I jested, a flicker of triumph igniting in my chest when his mouth quirked up into a faint smirk, a flicker of warmth dancing in his eyes, a rare concession on his normally stoic face. 

I settled onto the bench beside his chair and began devouring the stew, its meat and vegetables soothing the ache in my belly. As I ate, I stole glances at Cregan, his face bathed in the rich firelight, a mask of unreadable emotions. 

Regret, sharp and unwelcome, tightened in my chest as I observed him. I had a duty fulfilled, but a heart unsatiated. I had come to Winterfell to remind him of the oath his house swore to my mother, and he had not left me wanton. Yet, the journey back to Dragonstone loomed large in my mind. The prospect of leaving him, perhaps for a very long time, cast a long shadow. Unless he too agreed to join us.

“The Queen’s sworn allies are too few to win a war for the throne,” I declared, my voice tight with the weight of responsibility, “She needs your men.”

His jaw clenched, his stoicism returning like a steel mask. “Cursed be the Hightowers,” he growled, venom lacing his voice. “But winter is coming. War of dragons is never a small ordeal. If the Queen is in need of my men to defeat the usurper, you must allow me to wait out the winter.”

Despair clawed at my throat. Memories and tales of past winters surfaced, stretching on for months, even years. Without the full support of the North, we could be crushed before winter even loosened its icy grip. Perhaps reduced to cinders beneath the wrath of the dragons. 

“It will be too late,” I pleaded, the urgency in my voice cracking the carefully constructed façade I had built.

Cregan met my gaze, his eyes a stormy gray. “It’s the best I can do, Princess. I hope you will forgive me.”

A spark of anger ignited within me, battling the tendrils of despair. “You swore an oath, Lord Stark.”

He held my stare, unwavering. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, “You will have two thousand greybeards that can be ready to march at once.”

“What of you?” My voice trembled, tears welling up before I had the strength to stop them. “What if this is goodbye?” 

Understanding suddenly dawned in his eyes, and his brows furrowed in what I thought was despair. He came to sit beside me, the wood groaning under his weight. His large, calloused thumbs painted the tears across my cheeks. 

“I assure you, Princess,” he said softly, “This is not goodbye.” His hand came up to grasp my chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting it up to meet his intense gaze. “I swear it,” he vowed, steel threading through his words. Hope surged through me; a lifeline cast into the churning sea of anguish. 

Starks do not forget an oath. 

“The Hightowers were doomed the second they put the imposter on that throne,” Cregan rumbled, his voice a low caress. 

The space between us seemed to have dissolved, his calloused hands engulfing mine in a firm, reassuring grasp. Silence stretched, thick with unspoken emotions, tension dripping like honey. I waited for him to say something else, but he remained still, quiet, his fingers slowly and gently exploring mine, each touch sending sparks of lightning up my arms. I met his gaze, my breathing shallowing as I realized his lips were but a whisper away, his dark eyes shimmering with heat, flickering with an unspoken hunger that seethed beneath my skin with each second. 

“Their betrayal…” His voice was barely a whisper, his fingers ceased their dance with mine, and began their path up my arms, “…will not go unpunished,” he said thickly, his hands now grazing my upper arms, up my shoulders, ceasing at the curve of my neck, the movement sending a sizzling sensation through my blood. 

With the cold that had plagued me so these last few days, I began to fever. My lips parted as if I was suddenly short of breath, and I felt a curious pulse that drifted between my thighs. My whole body, like to an unseen force, drew closer to him, and he tensed beneath his leathers. His frame vibrated with desperate restraint, the fire in his eyes warring between duty and sacrifice. 

“I am a man of honor,” he groaned. My stomach tightened as his hands inched up my neck and traced the line of my jaw, his coarse thumb brushing across my lips. 

Something tugged on my stomach from the inside as the fiery heat of his fingers burned through my skin. My breaths came out ragged and shallow while he remained silent, as though he was immersed in concentration. 

Without knowing the full implication of my words, I whispered, “Dishonor me.”

For the storm, only just contained, raged wild in his eyes, a low growl sounded from deep in his chest before he crashed his lips to mine. 

I received them with a low, beckoning gasp. My palms came up to his neck, my nails running the length of it as he explored my lips, the roof of my mouth, my teeth, and under my tongue. Then his lips traced my jaw, finding my ear, breathed his warm air into it, nibbled my lobe, then covered my throat in wet kisses. I tilted my head to grant him access, as low, sensual mewlings poured from my lips, something carnal infiltrating my veins.

His hands came down to my waist, and I gasped in surprise when he lifted me and placed me in his lap, my legs latching around his back. 

He was so big and warm and hard. His eyes were lazy and dark as his fingers began to lightly trace down the side of my neck, then hooking into my dress to bare my shoulder. He kissed it with an open mouth and moving tongue, and I quivered beneath his touch. Then, with a sharp sound of a tear, he had pulled my dress all the way down my abdomen. 

He groaned at the sight of me, his lips slightly parted, his hands delicately cupping my breasts as if he’d found treasure. When the cold made me shiver, he leaned into me to lend me his warmth, while his lips tantalized me, drawing close to my hardened nipple, blowing it with hot air, then backing off, kissing across my breastbone to the other, until I forced his mouth to it.

He hummed with throaty satisfaction, latching onto it and giving it one slow suck, grazing the skin with his teeth. I threw my head back with a gasp. White heat shot like lightning between my thighs, before pulsing into an empty ache. I swayed into him, bucking my hips into his groin, feeling him harden beneath me. He suckled my other breast in warm, slow pulses, circling the areola, drawing panting moans out of me, before he found my lips again. 

Gathering my skirts, he moved his hands underneath them, gripping the fullness of my thighs, kneading them, squeezing them, to the point it pinched me, and I bit his bottom lip in protest. 

Cregan Stark was a gentle giant in all matters but things salacious. 

A throaty sigh escaped his lips as his hands found my buttocks, kneading the flesh between his fingers. Hot, slick tingles pooled between my thighs, and my fingers curled in his hair. My body hummed in anticipation as his finger slid downward, a groan pouring out of me as he grazed over my wet opening. 

“Oh, Princess.” The words were like magic on his lips, shooting through my core in throbbing pulses. 

His other arm snaked around my waist, locking me to his body as he explored and moistened my folds, leaving me a bucking, moaning mess in his lap. 

I felt empty and sickly. A fog had infiltrated my vision, my skin, my mind, my inhibitions. I coveted him. I needed him, more than I needed anything else. His eyes alone could touch inside of me, but I could not explain the pulsing, throbbing, delirious effects of his hands, his mouth, his tongue, and I ached for more. I felt unfinished, incomplete. 

Until he slid a finger deep inside me, and I gasped. Hot, sweet pressure filled me, and once I adjusted, he introduced another, threatening to overfill as he fingered me. 

Fast and then lazy. 

Over and over. 

The room filled with wet squelching noises and my moaning squeals. His deeper, throatier moans vibrated through his chest and lit me on fire, burning in my lower stomach, blazing, desperate for feed, or I would disintegrate. 

My nails dug desperately into his shoulders, as any attempts of filling myself up to completion were in vain by the power of his grip around my waist. He trailed every inch of my neck, kissing it as it if were my mouth, with lips, tongue, and teeth. His fingers penetrated deep and curled inside of me, rubbing something within that sent pressure bursting into tingles and flames, my veins burning up like dragon fire, and stars sparkling behind my eyelids. I cried out with the purest ecstasy as my body shuddered and clenched around his fingers, and he groaned against my skin with dark satisfaction as I clung to him desperately.

Once my trembles ceased and I managed to catch my breath, he took my cheeks in his hand and kissed me fiercely, passionately, his fires still boiling for release.

“I am coming with you,” he declared.

Tag list: @koyaa66648 @longlivemyblues @melsunshine @urdadsfavs @the-great-ladyg @barackosteaa @elysyannemimi @80sstradlin @hgyura @telltale-vixen @nyxbranwenn @tortargaryen @naxal-jlt @flowercrownsandherondales @red-hydra @lanadelray1989 @crumbledcastle28 @midnightcrw @prismaudee @nsr-15

[mattybsgroupie]

secret 2 | matt sturniolo

contents: established relationship; cursing; fingering (f receiving); praising; p in v; double v penetration; creampie; dom!matt

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notes: well, ask and you shall receive! thank you for not hating on the pegging fic lmao here’s the part 2, now with dom matt using your dildo on you along with his cock… and that will be the last dom fic in a while I NEED A BREAK. thank you guys for all the love and support, 1,5K followers is insane lmao. not proofread as usual so i apologize beforehand for any mistakes, enjoy this one! love yall sm ♡

request by: @cherib3lla & anon

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“what are you doing with this?” i questioned, holding back a giggle. it was a hilarious sight, a barefoot matt with his messy hair wearing a plain white t-shirt, blue plaid underwear, holding my pink dildo on his left hand.

“did you clean it? after we used it?” he asked, waving the toy around and staring at me.

“no matt, i took it out of you and put it back in the box” i ironically responded. “of course i did”.

“good” matt nodded, dragging his feet and making his way to the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress, legs crossed, still analyzing the dildo. he stroked the silicone as if he was giving it a handjob, realizing his regular fist felt too loose on the toy. “do you like this better than my cock?”

“matthew” i adjusted myself, crawling next to matt before letting my digits caress his covered shoulder. “i told you before, this is just a toy. no, i don't like it better than your cock” i gave him a smooch on his cheek, feeling his growing beard tickle my skin. 

“it doesn't fill me up as good and it doesn't cum inside of me” i whispered into his ear before nibbling on his lobe, trailing my kisses down his neck. matt let go of the dildo and tilted his head, giving me more access to mark him. 

“you think you can take both? my dick and this fake plastic one?” he grinned naughtily, opening his eyes when he realized i had sat down and stopped with the love bites. “c'mon, you're used to my size aren't you baby?” he teased and i looked away, not wanting to give in.

matt placed his palm on my cheek, thumb resting on my chin, holding my jaw upwards. he untangled his legs, pressing both knees on the mattress and hovering over me before laying his body on top of mine, holding his weight with both elbows. 

“fine.” i said, knowing he was still interested in what the dildo could do. “but you gotta go slow, please?”

“anything for my sweet girl” matt moved closer, his lips brushing against mine before taking them in a passionate kiss. one of his hands moved to my thigh, groping the flesh as he licked my lower lip, silently asking to go forward. 

i opened my mouth and his tongue quickly slid in, rolling against my own. matt’s grip tightened, a muffled moan coming from my throat as his palm rested just above my pussy. i bucked my hips upwards, trying to grind myself against his hand. 

“already?” matt asked, kissing my jaw. “want me to touch you?”

“please” i sighed heavily, my fingers going to the back of his neck, playing with his brown locks and trying to get him closer. “need you so bad”

“you asked me to go slow, princess” he reminded me and i groaned. i needed some relief. “be patient, yeah? promise you’re gonna feel so fucking good” matt dragged his tongue across my neck, tugging the hem of my t-shit when he reached my collarbones. i nodded desperately, lifting my arms so he’d take it off for me.

matt tossed my shirt somewhere in his room, latching his lips around my hardened nipple, sucking it while his hands held my waist, the grip of his fingers leaving red marks on my bare skin. he placed his digits on my covered pussy, rubbing my clit over the cloth.

i could see a smirk forming on his face when i let out a moan, finally deciding to touch me properly. matt's hands entered my pants and lifted my hips, rapidly removing my shorts and leaving me entirely naked. my pussy was dripping, my leaking juices had formed a huge wet patch on my panties while he teased me.

matt's middle finger and index once again pressed against my clit, making my legs tremble from the sudden friction. he traveled through my wet folds, stroking every inch he could reach before positioning his digits at my entrance, not waiting to start slipping his finger in. with my mouth hanging open, matt fully entered me and started thrusting back and forth, taking advantage of my throbbing pussy to slip another one in.

"matt!" i whimpered, my nails digging into his back as he began to curve them inside me.

“gotta stretch that pretty pussy first, huh? how you’re gonna take my cock if you can’t handle my fingers, baby?” he said, fastening his pace. i started clenching, i knew if he hit my spot i wouldn’t last long.

matt placed a few more kisses on my chest, slowly pulling out of me. “wanna use your big girl toy?” i nodded eagerly, begging to be filled. matt, however, wasn’t in a rush, taking an incredible amount of time to grab the dildo and coat it with my juices.

“told you to be patient baby” he said as i whined, matt softly dragging the silicone tip across my clit. “you’re gonna have to take both anyways” he spoke to himself, boosting his own ego.

matt positioned the dildo on my entrance, not making any effort to get in. i had to lower my hips, my hole finally touching the pink shaft. “sliding in so easily, huh?” he said, pushing it inside of me. i let my legs hang loose around his waist, as if it was his actual cock fucking me.

matt kept slow, steady movements for a while, until he decided he could no longer hide his aching boner. i could see his hardened dick from miles away, his lenght poking my thighs as he adjusted himself in between my legs.

“look how worked up you got me” matt spoke, pulling his pants down and showing me his cock before wrapping his knuckles around his shaft, spreading the pre-cum downwards. he was trying so hard to make it work, he wanted to fuck me with both at the same time. as soon as his leaking tip touched my entrance, he hissed “shit- so fucking tight”.

matt realized he would have to do a bit more effort for his plan to work. he pulled the dildo out of me, once again making me complain. at this point, i was basically getting edged, not receiving any relief to my throbbing pussy. matt placed his hands on my hips, slowly burying himself inside of me. his dick was so much bigger than my dildo, making me throw my head back as his length stretched my walls.

“you’re so big! fuck!” i moaned, grabbing the sheets since i could no longer reach his back. i needed him closer, needed him all the way inside.

he began to move his hips, pouding inside of me until he reached my sweet spot. “matt, please” i moaned in surprise “please, let me cum! just once!” i begged, the knot in my lower belly getting harder to hold.

“you're gonna be good” he started, “and you're gonna wait until i say you can cum”. matt's thrusts became sloppier, slower, dragging his dick just enough so he could feel good.

“how the fuck should i do that?” matt spoked to himself once again, grabbing the pink dildo and bringing it closer to his own cock. he was gonna push both inside of me, at the same time.

“relax for me princess, c’mon” matt whispered, pulling out the right amount to align both tips on my entrance. “you’re doing so well for me hm? just a little more yeah?”

“please” his praises always worked, my walls gradually unclenching. “slow, please, fuck!”

“theeere you go” he said, finally being able to fit his dick and the silicone toy inside of me. “it’s in baby, all in” matt admired his work, pressing my tummy to feel his own length. i rolled my eyes, no longer being able to speak.

“yeah? can feel it right here huh? good girl, so good to me. taking two cocks at once, fuck” he groaned before hovering his body over mine, bucking his hips forward as his lips came back to mine in a failed attempt to cover my moans.

“matt, i’m gonna- i’m close” i managed to speak, his blue eyes locked with mine, reassuring me i could take it. he was no longer containing himself, the silicone getting dragged on his veins along with the wetness of my pussy helping him to reach his high quicker.

“whenever you want” he nodded and i wrapped my hands around his shoulder. “no need to ask, cum all over me princess”

one of matt's hands came back to my boobs, groping my titties and rubbing my nipple with his thumb as gave a few last thrusts, twitching dick inside of me begging for release. my orgasm suddenly hit me, making me arch my back and curl my toes, my chest panting heavily as matt came in thick spurts into my throbbing pussy. as he savored the last moments of his orgasm, his cum started to leak from me, both of us groaning — him with the delightful sight, me with with the overwhelming sensation.

matt pulled out and collapsed next to me, resting his head on the mattress and opening his arms so i'd snuggle on his chest.

when matt came back to his senses, he realized he was still holding the dildo on his hand, the stickiness from our releases messing his hand. “well, that’s kinda icky” he showed it to me and i rolled my eyes, pretending i didn't find that insanely hot. “but i’m starting to enjoy this pink thing”.

“yeah? want me to use it on you again?” i chuckled, biting his neck and getting closer to him, resting my hands on his waist.

“it's a secret, i told you before” he spoke, caressing my head as he tried to fix my hair. “i might think about it if you let me do that to you again.”

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taglist (drop a 🌸!): @thepubeburgler @mommykinks4matt @pearlzier @mattsfavbitchhh @her-favorite @bugeyedgrl @mattslittlecumsslut @sturncakez @riowritesitall @joemamaaa42069 @mattsturnswife @sturnsmia @sturnthepot @mattscoquette @sturniolofandomthings @conspiracy-ash @ilovemattsturn @lizzymacdonald06 @sofieeeeex @blahbel668 @fratbrochrisgf @bagsbyclair0 @sturnobsessedwh0re @cayleeuhithinknot @sturniolo04 @1c3b4th @mattsfavbigtitties @bellassturniolo @sturnsxplr-25

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[delirious-donna]

The Demon King & His Princess [Sebastian Michaelis]

an: I’ve had this sitting in my drafts for months and it’s time I had a clear out. This demon could tell me stories any night he wants…

pairing: Sebastian Michaelis (demon king AU) x female reader (princess)

warnings: nightmares, storytelling turned steamy, fantasy AU, smut, NSFW

Masterlist

The darkness was pure—heavy and suffocating. It wrapped like a noose around your slender throat and squeezed tighter and tighter. You couldn’t draw air, couldn’t struggle from the iron-tight hold.

You jolted upright. Fire burned in your lungs as if you had been suffocating in your sleep and you touched feverishly at your neck but felt nothing amiss. Disorientation made your head spin, eyes scanning back and forth in an attempt to make sense of your surroundings and what had happened.

In bed.

You could feel the mattress beneath your backside and legs, the heavy weight of a rich duvet covered your midriff. That was at least a comfort. If the only one you could find. The beat of your heart ached against your ribs. It hurt to take each shuddering breath as if you had broken the surface of icy waters. The air froze in your chest, and you clutched blindly at the sweat-dampened nightgown in desperation.

Your saviour was not far…

A presence at your side made you jump anew, but soon your shoulders sagged with relief as two familiar hands held you tight. The touch was cool and soothing. You let yourself be drawn into a strong body whilst you continued to tremble like the last autumn leaf.

Slowly, and with the utmost care, you were lowered back to the sheets. Soft-spoken words sounded distant, called over the crashing waves of your fear but as the seconds ticked on, they became clearer.

“Come back to me… can you hear me, little one? You are mine, come back.”

Sebastian.

It was Sebastian who pressed his face into your hair and whispered gentle yet firm words into your ear. It was he who wound his arms around your chest and lodged his body tightly against your back. His warmth chased away the shivering chill from your skin and the even beat of his heart that settled your own into a normal rhythm.

“Sebastian…”

“I’m right here,” he soothed in his low authoritative voice, barely above a whisper. Deft fingers stroked the apple of your cheek. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Your chin tucked low into your chest, a shy shame washing over you for goodness knows why. A nightmare was out of your control after all, so why try to deny it? Sebastian slid a finger between your chin, bringing your face back up to his. At last, you nodded slowly and averted your eyes.

“Want to talk about it?” He asked.

Whatever had caused such a blinding panic had already mostly melted away, the memories new fleeting and entirely disjointed. In honesty, you couldn’t quite recall the events of the dream, other than remembering the sensation of being choked of breath.

“I… can’t remember. I think I’d rather forget.”

You pressed your eyes shut, snuffing out the lone candle on the nightstand that illuminated the darkness of the bedroom. At heart you wished away the sense of lingering panic that beat just beneath the surface, threatening to surface at the smallest jolt.

The Demon King hummed a faint melody, a tune that seemed reminiscent of one you had heard many years prior.

His long dexterous fingers massaged at your skin through your silky nightdress, the midnight black fingernails a stark contrast against the pure white.

“Shall I tell you a tale? It might help you to… forget.”

In your disarray, you missed the faint trace of heat in his voice. Had you noticed, would your answer have been any different? Not likely. Be that as it may, you accepted his offer regardless and his smile was not merely comforting any longer—not that you could see it with your face tucked into his chest.

With a soft sigh, you rolled back your shoulders to better settle yourself into his protective embrace. The flicker of the candle painted long shadows upon the nearest wall, and you glanced up at your handsome beau without a trace of fear. His hair fell in a black curtain around his face, eyes closed as if at rest–although you knew better–and his smile had returned to docile.

“Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who loved to roam the lands her family ruled over. Her curiosity was mischievous and might have been considered reckless for she often wandered unaccompanied.”

Sebastian spoke in soft dulcet tones, and you wondered where this story was headed. It sounded rather familiar, intimately familiar…

“One day,” he continued, aware of your narrowed eyes aimed in his direction but ignoring it in favour of speaking calmly, slowly. “The princess came upon another person out in the forests near her home.

Yet, to her bewilderment he was not a person, but a Demon. She should have been scared, fearful of a creature she had been warned was wicked with only evil in their heart, but she wasn’t.”

He smiled indulgently. Reminiscing fondly at how brave you had been that day. In honesty, he would call it foolish, but luckily for you, this particular Demon was instantly enamoured with you.

“Instead, the sweet yet naïve princess befriended the Demon and soon they would spend hours traversing the lands with the Demon showing her places she didn’t even know existed. Sharing secrets that his kind would likely condemn him for brazenly putting his trust in the young mortal.”

Butterflies erupted in the depths of your stomach, flitting around in energetic bursts at the memory of those long-ago days. The hours that easily slipped into days, the warm sunshine on your face and the excitement of newly discovered secrets. You would forever be grateful for the trust Sebastian placed into the cradle of your hands, the knowledge he chose to share when you warned it might be frowned upon.

He pressed a kiss to your temple as if he sensed your gratitude. “It wasn’t long before an attraction grew between the pair, and in short, the Demon was besotted by the exquisite beauty of the princess and the purity of her heart and soul. At this realisation, he revealed himself as not simply a Demon, for he was the Demon King. A Demon King in love with a mortal princess.”

You squirmed against his strong body, heat warming your cheeks. Sebastian wouldn’t allow you to turn in his arms, tucking you further into his hold. He planted his hands on the soft curves of your waist whilst he continued to purr his story into your ear.

“Sebastian…”

He shushed you softly, his lips traversing the gentle slope of your shoulder to press a gentle kiss to your sweet-smelling neck. You could feel his smile against your skin, knowing and growing wider when your pulse began to race faster.

“The Demon King rejoiced in the knowledge that his attraction and love were returned in equal measure, and the night he first took her to his bed was a night he would never forget… Not in all his long years of existence had a night so special occurred and might never again.”

You could only moan, the sound long and drawn out when his hands roamed your plush curves. One palm stroked up and down your side until the fairly modest hem of your nightgown was drawn high enough that his fingertips could ghost lazy patterns on your skin.

The other cupped your breasts lightly through the shimmery fabric, his warm breath caressing and causing you to shiver deliciously from his attention. These shivers were different to the ones caused by your earlier nightmare—now long forgotten. They tingled pleasantly and led to a growing wetness between your clenched thighs.

“The princess was supple beneath his touch and reciprocating to his actions. Despite the power he wielded, the Demon was gentle in his exploration. He whispered of the naughty deeds he wished to enact, and of how he desperately wanted to open her up like a blooming flower to bathe in her arousal. When his touch reached her most intimate area, the Demon King had growled aloud, finding her wet and wanting. His restraint tested in a way he hadn’t experienced to date.”

Sebastian’s melodious words mirrored his actions to perfection. A low growl that sounded like distant thunder echoed within his chest, and you gasped—thrilled. One bold finger swiped over the seat of your cotton panties and found how your lust had soaked it through.

Your eyelids fluttered shut, hips undulating eagerly. Waiting… wanting… just like the princess.

You reached out an arm, blindly searching behind and finally sinking your hand into his long lustrous hair. You played with the strands, tugging them impishly until your fingers delved deeper so your nails could scratch against his scalp.

“His cock had throbbed for the princess, straining against his undergarments and desperate to find solace in her tempting heat. Of course, he had to ensure she was properly prepared for such an intrusion,” he whispered, pausing for a moment to tug on your earlobe with his teeth.

His hips drove upwards, making you painfully aware of how hard and ready he was right now, never mind in the story. A dark chuckle floated to your ear; the amusement halted the subtle glide of your lower half, but it was only a moment until he guided your hips back into a slow rhythm against his clothed cock.

“The Demon King had ripped through the princess’s panties to her shrieks of surprise, for surely she had not known the strength of the male she had allowed to touch and taste her virgin body.” You groaned in memory. How nervous you had been, but so very ready, almost desperate.

“Her breasts were perfection, filling his palms exactly. With pebbled nipples so sensitive to the fingers that played with them, rolling the delicate buds between finger and thumb before tasting them in turn. A firm hand supported her spine which she arched to press herself further into his greedy mouth. The suckling sensation made her dizzy and mewl like a cat in heat. He turned her skin sticky and shiny with his spit, biting and nipping at such tender flesh until the princess tugged boldly on his mane of hair.”

Your fingers twitched in mischievous want to fist his silken black hair, to haul his sinful lips to yours and silence the story in favour of creating a new one. “The lovers spent an age exploring their bodies, learning what made them moan and what caused their toes to curl in delight. When it was time to taste her sweetness, the Demon King felt like a youngster again, worried he might come undone before he could take her fully. Never had he seen a pussy so pretty and perfect–made for him alone.”

On these words, Licht finally rolled you to your back and let your lips unite. The yearning between you was palpable, your fingers grasping and clutching at his strong shoulders until you were twisted like ivy around his lithe frame.

The brush of his cock–still concealed behind his pyjama trousers–against your bare slit was electrifying. The ripped cotton from where his finger had pushed through the fabric clung to your slickness, and you did indeed rub on him like a cat in heat.

Sebastian worked his hand between your bodies, spreading your open and smearing the sticky strands of your arousal over your skin until he was toying with your jittering little clit. His mouth was hungry slanted atop yours, devouring and commanding the space you shared.

You weren’t quite the shy little flower he described in the story; experience had strengthened your resolve and bolstered your confidence. Enough so that you sucked his bottom lip between your own, drawing the skin taut before releasing it with an audible pop. He growled low in his throat, admiring your shuttered eyelids and smug little smile.

Gods, how you wanted him, but he broke away, much to your frustration, to continue his story. A slow methodical finger circled your soaked cunt, grinning when you clenched around nothing but air.

“The enamoured Demon softly stroked over the princess’s unsullied silky folds, so pretty and engorged from the pumping blood of her desire. Slick rushed to meet his fingers and he couldn’t resist sucking one into his mouth for a taste. With that, he was addicted. He knew that he would never get enough.”

Sebastian held back a moan as he spoke the words. He could feel the weight of them, the truth that lay behind each syllable. To this day, he wasn’t certain you understood the magnitude of his love. He was a creature who most believed incapable of loving anyone but themselves, but he could find no other way to describe how he felt about you.

“Please…”

Eyes of regal burgundy flashed in the dark room and it shook a breathy whine from your throat. On a slow thrust, two fingers slide inside to stroke your velvet walls. His honeyed voice deepened, one forearm braced directly next to your head whilst a knee spread your legs further apart and his fingers fucked you with strokes that quickened hastily. Sebastian was losing control and that tightened the desire in your belly all the more.

“Mm, that’s it. You’re sucking me in, can you feel that? Such a greedy pussy, you want something other than my fingers, beloved?” he asked with a smirk.

You rolled your neck against the fluffy pillows, sinking deeper and deeper into decadent pleasure. “Mhm, please,” you admitted, biting deep into your bottom lip.

“The Demon King brought the beautiful princess to orgasm using only his mouth and dexterous fingers. Stretching out her tight walls in readiness for his throbbing cock. How he had hissed when she had tentatively touched it, dainty fingers encircling the girth and giving an exploratory pump with her fist.”

As he narrated, you complied with the words and reached down to free him from the confines of his sleepwear. Your thumb swiped through the beads of arousal and used it to coat his shaft.

Sebastian was heavy in your hold, a groan echoing from the depths of his chest. “Do–do you remember how the story ended?” he asked, thrusting into your grip at the same pace he thrust his slick-soaked fingers into your pussy.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” you managed, sounding far more composed than you actually felt, “But I’m certain that the devastatingly handsome Demon King–you missed that part out–made love to the princess until the sun broke over the horizon.”

With ease, Sebastian withdrew his fingers and sucked them into his mouth until they were clean. His weeping cockhead notched at your entrance and your hips strained to force him inside.

“Mm, indeed. Let’s reenact that part, shall we?”

His pelvis met yours in one forceful push. Your spine bowed off the mattress when his head dipped to suckle on your pert nipples through the taut satin of your gown.

Your eyes roamed his handsome face, his expression veiled as it often was, but it slipped when your legs wound his lean waist to push him even deeper. The mask dropped to expose the control he was struggling to hold on to. The Demon King was leashed to your hand, a power he had never given to anyone else in his centuries of existence. He was yours as much as you were his.

Sebastian remained true to his word; he worshipped you exactly as he had on your very first time together. Nothing could truly portray what had transpired on that fateful night, the unity and promises made, but it still brought tears to your eyes to be reminded. Your Demon lover stole the air from your lungs, the sanity from your mind and the love from your heart.

From that night forward, you made a conscious effort to ask for more bedtime stories and not only on the occasions you had nightmares.

What wicked words could fall from the prettiest of lips…

[spacebaby1]

Saving Ace (Ace x F!reader)

I live and breathe comfort first, especially for Ace D portgas; my baby. Thank you for this idea! Thank you, @captainportgasdace

T.W: Blood, scars

"Ya! Why do you keep running into the wilds like you have seven souls and end up hurting yourself. You always show up covered in cuts and bruises, Ace! Do you fight wild animals out there?" Your little bow still not fixed and still in your school uniform both you and Ace sat in front of your house as you were cleaning his cuts. You're both ten and nine years old. This was supposed to be the first day of school, but of course, Ace didn't show interest in being part of it. "I don't mind getting hurt because I know you will always take care of them afterwards." Pinching your cheeks with his other hand, he chuckled. You rolled your eyes before slapping his hand away from your cheeks. Getting up, you looked at him half mad, "I'm not always gonna be there to save you when you're hurt." You heard him laugh as you walked inside the house.

A painful yelp that left your lips after you hit the ground hard, arm half burnt from the Akainu fist, and both Luffy and Ace not far from where you fell. Immediately, you noticed Luffy fell unconscious in front of you to his side, bleeding everywhere. "Lu-luffy, n-no, please g-get up!" Your voice shaking as you pleaded. Turning to your other side for Ace was painful. The fist caused you too much damage in the arm that you could feel it burning and numb at the same time. Hold on to the ground you tried hard to slide towards Ace, unable to move one of your legs, hardly breathing and chocking on your own blood. You held Ace's hand, "A-A-Ace, g-get up! ACE!"

The others were quick to distract Akainu from the three of you as if suddenly you three weren't there. You saw Junpei rushing to take Luffy away, and you took a breath of relief, but still, this wasn't over, Ace was right there and hurt. A painful scream left your lips as you sat up and grabbed Ace to stand still, avoiding every muscles of your telling you to just fall because that first few steps were killing you, "A-Ace d-don't die o-on me, plea-AHHH," you almost dropped Ace when you felt the burning pain in your arm again. Seeing the heart pirate crew was a relief because you've met Law before, and you knew he was there on your side. "I-" unable to speak anymore, you cried, terrified that you're unable to let out a sound from how much you were in pain. If it wasn't for Marco to bring you and Ace on the heart pirate submarine; not once you let go of Ace even when Marco let you down and left before saying something that you couldn't hear because of how loud your ears were ringing. Everything seemed blurry even when Law reached to hold you up from your head bent position, still holding Ace and murmuring for him to wake up. Vision barely clear you spoke to Law, "P-please save him, you-you have to save him. Lu-luffy h-has no-fami- Save A-Ace." You were shaking badly, not sure if Law can even hear your voice or it's just in your mind that you're speaking when in reality you're unable to speak. Immediately, Law's crew gathered around you to take Ace, and you finally let go, watching them disappear inside the submarine while Law supported you to stand still. You gasped before reaching further and away from Law's grip, only to fall on your knees and scream in pain. "You're hurt! Let me help you," you shook your head, and Law didn't let go but turned you towards him, "you need to let me help you. I will not let Ace or Luffy die, but I will also not let you die." You blinked at him, finally feeling the blood deipping down your eyes; ironically, you couldn't remember hitting your head that hard that you were bleeding from every part of your body. "Ace." Was the last thing you whispered before falling unconscious in Law's arms.

"I'm leaving. Aren't gonna say goodbye?" Ace giggled, waving for you.

"ACE!" You screamed, reaching your hand as you woke up. You were breathing heavily with the oxygen mask on and bandages all over you. The door opened, and Bepo entered with a stock of bandages but gasped when he saw you sitting on the bed, "You're awake. How are you feeling? Does it hurt anywhere? Are you hungry? Do you wan-"

"A-ace and Luffy. Are they oka-"

You didn't get the finish your question when Luffy entered the room with a huge smile and a bandage on his head, "Ah! You're awake!" He cheerful spoke and your eyes widened before pulling away all the machines hooked on you before running into Luffy's arms, it was then when you finally realised how badly you were hurt because you could feel every muscle hurting. You cried in Luffy's arms, hugging him tight, "You're okay. Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Luffy. You're okay? Of course you are. I was so scared Luffy, you were hurt and weren't moving. I was so so scared." He nuzzled his head on your shoulder, "I'm fine tra-guy fixed me up, heheheh. He's a really good doctor." You chuckled at how Luffy said Law's name before pulling away and nodding, "where's Ace? Is he on the deck? He should be out of the sun -" You saw the look of Luffy's face changed as his smile dropped.

Your heart dropped when you entered the room, Law was standing next to the machine that was hooked on Ace's body. You gasped, feeling tears filling your eyes as you rushed to his side. Your sweet Ace looked beyond hurt, lay on the bed unconscious. His skip pale and huge bandage around his chest, placing a gentle hand almost hovering over where he was hurt, you cried before Law spoke, "he's fine now, give him time to recover. But it will take him time to wake up. Just be patient." You lifted your head and stood up, bowing to Law, avoiding the pain in your side as you spoke, "I'll forever be in your debts for saving my boy. Thank you for saving Luffy and Ace-"

Law rushed to make you stand still, making sure to be gentle with his grip on your hand, "Don't bow like this. You're still hurt. And it's my job. there's no need to thank me at all." Your lips quivered, and you nodded, trying hard to hold yourself before Law placed one of his hands on your head, "are you feeling any pain?" You lied, shaking your head, and Law only nodded, fully aware that you indeed were lying to him, but he also knew you're saying that to stay here with Ace, "But you need to rest. Come on, Bepo, you too, Luffy. I need to run a few tests for you." Law dragged both Bepo and Luffy out of the room to give you privacy. You sat on the chair beside the bed, leaning your head next to his, and gently caressed his face, "Ace, can you hear me? Please wake up, I miss you, I miss your voice. Please, wake up. Recover fast, humm?" You kissed his forehead over and over.

The next few days felt too long, but you simply stayed by Ace's side, not leaving him alone. Luffy would stay with you by Ace only to be dragged out by Law because he keeps talking loudly to Ace and once tried to open Ace's eyes to wake him up fast. Sometimes, you'd find Luffy sitting there silently staring at Ace with a sad face waiting for his brother to wake up. Law also had to drag you out to your room to sleep, but you'll always end up returning to Ace's room and always falling asleep on the chair with your head next Ace's. Law cringed at the uncomfortable position you were sleeping with all your injuries, "ah, what the hell," with a sigh he picked you up and laid you on the bed beside Ace and placed a blanket over you both since the bed was big enough.

You'd often fall his hands slightly move when you held them, but again, they'll not move again the same minutes, so you thought it's probably because you're imagining it. It was just another long day, and you were resting your head on the bed beside Ace, almost dozing away.

A soft hand rested on your face, and you hummed at the vivid dream. It wasn't until you were sure that you heard a breathy chuckled that your eyes shot open and you sat up looking down at Ace, "Hi, my a-angel."

You immediately started to cry hugging him you placed kissing all over his collarbone, neck, jaw and face as he smiled weakly. "Ace, A-Ace, Sweetie. My Ace." He held your face gently with both hands, "My angel, my brave girl. Gimmy a kiss," you chuckled with tears rolling down your cheeks and placed few soft kisses on his lips, trying not to hurt him. Then, he kissed your forehead as he closed his eyes, took a deep sigh, and hugged you tight as you as you cried on his chest, "A-Ace, why did you scare me like that? I thought I had lost you, I don't want you to leave me, please. I can't live without you, I need you, Luffy needs you. You scared me to death, I never want to see you in pain, never ever ever. I love you, i love you so much."

"Look at me please, I've been thinking about you, you made me live. You saved my life, I know you did." You looked at him rubbing the tears away before he held your hands chuckled, "Shh, you'll rub your eyes red like that. Don't cry." He spoke, voice tired as he whipped your tears with his thumb, "my beautiful princess. My strong, brave girl." You shook your head crying before falling on his chest, "Ace," he wrapped his arms around you. "Yes, Ace's heart. My beautiful girl, I'm here, I'm still here."

The door flung open, making you and Ace jump, "ACE!" Luffy gasped when he saw his brother rushing to hug you both down, and you laughed, "Luffy, I can't breathe." Ace groaned with a smile. While Law stood there silently and sighed; at least the three of you were alive.

Even though Ace woke up, he was still in so much pain most of the time. Law still didn't let any of you off his ship; he needed Ace to recover fully. There were nights when Ace would have nightmares, twisting and turning in the bed waking you up because of how much he was burning in pain or nightmares. He'll always find you right next to him, eyes tired but trying to calm him down from his nightmares. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe, and everyone's safe. Darling, it's okay, shhh." You hugged him, rubbing his back as he calmed down, nuzzling his head in your hair, "You're safe." He hated making you worry or stay up all night looking after him, but he was terrified to be alone, and he needed you beside him. He held your hands, kissing them over and over, "Please don't leave me." You kissed his forehead, "never, I'll never leave you." You never fell asleep before him. You'll always stay awake caressing his hair softly or cuddling him humming to him while rubbing his back where he was injured soothing his pain away in any possible way You happily stayed up all night if it meant for Ace to feel safe from his pain and nightmare. When Law finally took the bandage off his chest. Ace had to look at the scar right in the middle of his chest. He grew insecure about it because he thought you'll think about him differently. Ace who refused to wear a shirt now refused to take it off, and if he'd change, he'd leave the room. That night he was in pain again, his chest itching from pain as he increased his own temperature with his devil fruit before you woke him up soothingly hushing him while gently rubbing his arms, "you're sweating, let me help you take the shir-"

"NO!" He held the end of the shirt tightly, not looking at you as he sat.

"You're burning Ace-"

He shook his head aggressively, "Why? Do you think that low of me?" He blinked at your question about to cry, "you think I didn't notice? You hate wearing shirts, you said it's hell, especially if you sleep with a shirt on. And now you're hiding a simple scar -"

"It's not simple it's ug-"

"If you think I care about a scar of your then you'd absolutely care about this," you lifted your shirt to show him your side, left arm; covered in your injuries scars, tears streaming down his eyes as he gasped at how much you were hurt trying to save him. "No, I don't! I don't care about the scars, please come back to me." He reached for you, still unable to walk much, and you immediately hugged him crying. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, sorry. You must've been in so much pain, and it's all my fault. I didn't know I'm sorry I didn't know, why didn't you tell me? You were in pain, and you didn't tell me. I deserve all your injuries. It's my fa-"

"No, no, I will never blame you. You're my everything, Ace. I don't care how much pain I'm in because it all disappears when I see you safe and sound. I don't feel pain when you're around, I don't feel any of it when I see you sleeping comfortably. I could never blame you, I'll take your pain. If I can, I will die for you." Ace cried harder at that and he doesn't remember when was the last time he cried this much knowing how much you loved him, "I'll forever be in your debt, I owe you my life. My life, body, and soul are yours. All yours. You saved me. I love you, I love you, oh I love you so much."

That is all that took Ace to finally stop caring about that scar and return to his old self. If you thought he was clingy before, then you were wrong because he got clingier now. He got used to you taking care of him and you really didn't mind showing him the love and care, he'd refuse to accept anyone else's help and care if it's not you, even Luffy's. Sorry, Luffy.

He'd only let you tend to his wounds and injuries to the point that Law gave up and taught you how to tend to his healing injuries. Ace got more clingy asking you to hold him every chance he got because he was so used to your soft embrace and hands softly scratching his scalp, and he'll whine if you gave the same attention to Luffy; even though you saw Luffy as your little brother. Ace would absolutely not fall asleep if you're not holding him in your arms with him nuzzling his face in your neck. He will fight sleep waiting for you. And you love how clingy he got and yarns for your care. Even after Law told him that he healed out of his injuries. Ace will still look at you with puppy eyes and want his cuddles and head scratch, or you just rubbing his back. He's completely utterly in love with you, even more than he thought he was in love with you.

[fleurrreads]

hello!!

i was wondering if i could request a azriel x reader story where reader has low iron and passes out a lot? maybe how he helps reader or what he does when it happens in public/in front of the inner circle?

have a great day 💞💞

an: hellooo so i got a little sidetracked from low iron and made it a condition that reader has had since they’ve been young. i hope you like it nonetheless ♡ have a lovely day! also soft az has my heart ☹️

☆ hey angel azriel x reader

The waft of coffee filling your nose makes your heart nearly swoon. You see Azriel from the corner of your eye, holding two mugs of coffee, thanking the owner and walking towards you. You could sit here forever you decided. The little coffee shop in Velaris — where everything started.

You remember the day you sat down in this very seat, ordering a refreshment and a small snack. You’d had a frustrating morning at the studio you worked, and needed to take your mind off of it when Azriel walked into the coffee shop.

Your heart nearly stopped as you took in his beauty. So flawless. His wings tucked neatly behind him as he made his way over to the owner, greeting her friendly and placing his order.

Just as you snuck another glance at him, you felt your head go fuzzy, eyes fogging slightly. Of course. Your system had such a great sense of timing. You don’t remember much of what happened next but as soon as you made eye contact with Azriel you were out.

You woke up quite quickly after, only being out of consciousness for a few minutes when you realise your body was warmer than normal, and a hand had rested on your shoulder keeping you upright. You glanced to the side and saw Azriel carefully watching you. He shifted slightly in his seat — completely facing you. “Are you alright? Does this happen often?” There was a little frown in his brows and you couldn’t help but stare at him in awe.

The shadowsinger you’d heard so much about. Murmurs and whispers of the high lord’s spymaster had travelled in the city since you were young. You never knew what he looked like but now it all made sense. The faint blushes on the girls’ faces when they’d speak so fondly of him.

“Oh- Yes I’m quite alright. It happens often.” You tried to brush off the situation, not trying to make too much of a scene. He surely must’ve been a busy man. “I didn’t mean to cause you trouble. Thank you for helping me. I faint quite often because of this condition I’ve had since I was young.” You explained, and saw Azriel’s complete focus while you explained that you were always okay and even the shop owners knew you well and looked out for you when you would stop by.

You think you saw a hint of relief on Azriel’s face. You smiled at him, rubbing your hands together out of nerves. “I’m glad that it’s not something too serious. You had me quite worried there for a minute.” You felt the burn on your cheeks, a bit embarrassed that the infamous shadowsinger had seen you in such a state. That wasn’t what you wanted for a first impression with him.

You sat together in silence before you realised your coffee was now cold and you’d have to get a new one. Azriel asked the owner to get you a new coffee and you sat in each other’s company, just feeling comfortable and peaceful with each other. You realised you hadn’t ever felt at ease with someone like that.

“It was nice meeting you today Azriel. Thank you again for helping me, and making sure I’m okay.” You couldn’t thank him nearly enough. He gave you a genuine smile. One he wasn’t sure he’d given in a while. “It was nice to meet you as well, maybe we’ll run into each other here again.” Azriel took your hand in his, and pressed a light kiss to the top of it. You swear you noticed a faint blush on his cheeks, but pushed it aside. You waved goodbye to him, and made your way over to your studio again.

After that day you’d coincidentally meet him at the café all the time — running into him so often that it was weird not to see him there when you entered the café these days. You swear he was never here this often and you met him more often, you got to know each other and your feelings started becoming apparent. You liked him, a lot.

It’s now been a few months since that very day in the café and you’ve been introduced and welcomed in with open arms into the inner circle. You will admit meeting the High Lord and Lady wasn’t what you thought it would be. They were genuinely nice people. Everyone was. They weren’t as intimidating as everyone made them out to be.

You haven’t really told them about the fainting and the way you initially met Azriel. It didn’t feel necessary to you.

Well, until now. You’re sitting down at the table in Rhysand and Feyre’s townhouse when your feel your head spinning. You don’t even have to say anything as Azriel’s already picked up that something was different in your demeanour. In a matter of seconds he’s over to your side, an arm already outstretched infront of you for when you faint.

You don’t catch the worried expressions of everyone at the table before the world goes dark.

You hear faint murmurs and whispers as you try and get your mind back to your body. Azriel’s arm still protectively wrapped around your body. Safe. You felt absolutely safe with him. Rhys gives you a glance you can’t quite decipher with Feyre looking at you with slight worry in her eye. One you’ve seen many times before when she would worry about her family. Mor and Cassian seem like they’re holding their breath waiting for you to explain what just happened.

You sigh, grabbing a glass of water with shakey hands. “What just happened. Are you okay? Should we call Madja?” The questions are coming from everyone all at once and Azriel puts a reassuring hand on your thigh, rubbing smooth circles. You clear your throat, “It hasn’t happened in a while. It does happen frequently though. I’ve been having these ‘episodes’ since I was a child. No one could ever tell me what the cause was. Just that it was harmless.” You feel the tension in the room subside and turn into relief. A wave of relief.

“Thank the Cauldron. I thought I’d have to sacrifice Cassian to save you or something. Which I would still do one hundred percent. Even if it wasn’t necessary at all. Maybe then we’ll get some peace and quiet.” Mor says, eyeing Cassian with a smirk, poking at him. He slaps her arm away, “Oh please, like you’d ever get rid of me. You like me way too much.” He then turns to you, “I’m really glad that it’s not something troubling you or affecting you in a bad way.” He smiles gently, then goes straight back to bantering with Mor. “By the way, I’d sacrifice you first.” Mor sends a vulgar hand movement his way as the table erupts in laughter.

Azriel hasn’t let go of your thigh, his hand now resting comfortably. His shadows move from him to you, taking your hair in their little hands — almost as a way to calm you down and reassure you that you’re safe and fine with Az. Rhys looks at Azriel and gives him a look you can’t make out. A smile forms on Rhys’ face as he drinks from his glass.

Feyre takes your hand in hers as she scoots her chair closer to you. “If you ever need anything to make these episodes easier, don’t hesitate to let me know. Whatever you may need.” She taps your hand lightly, a comforting understanding between you. You nod, thanking her silently.

You turn to Azriel as everyone continues on with their dinner, to find him already staring at you. His eyes capturing a deep emotion you don’t quite recognise. You take his hand on your thigh in your own, squeezing it and smiling at him. “Thank you for always looking out for me. You’re the best, seriously Az.” You meant every word. He smiles one of his genuine smiles again. The ones that make your heart burn with desire and some other emotion you’re not sure of.

He looks to Rhys for a second and then back to you, that unknown emotion flashing in his eyes again. “Of course. You- you mean a lot to me. I’ll always look out for you angel.”

reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! ★

[kingkat12]

nightmare (eric draven x reader)

WARNINGS: angst, mentions of blood, kinda spoilers?

summary: you were sure that your murder was a nightmare... all until you had to face the deep, dark truth of why you were waking up from it in the first place

word count: 1,018

I had no idea where I was when I finally awoke. 

It felt as though I had been sleeping for several days. Images from my supposed nightmare flashed before my eyes-- both of us getting choked out in plastic bags on his bedroom floor, Eric's muffled screams of struggle, the sound of my nails clawing against the wooden floors, trying to cling onto any last slivers of life. The memory made me press Eric even closer to my chest as we knelt in a pool of red, muddy water. He held me tighter than ever before, almost as though he had lived through my nightmare as well; because that's what that had been, right?

Just a nightmare. Nothing more.

However, I quickly realized something was wrong. I dared to look up at the sky, seeing the ruins of skyscrapers resembling our hometown of New York towering above us; this place looked like the equivalent of what would happen if humans abandoned the city. It looked like we were at an abandoned train station, with a thick, grey fog surrounding us. Eric's sobs brought me back, and I pressed him harder against me. "I just had the worst nightmare," I mumbled, my fingers digging into the back of his soaking wet coat. "I swear it was almost as though I was in hell just now."

With this, Eric's grip around me only tightened, and I could feel his lower lip quivering against my neck. "It's over now," he whispered, his words coming out with his next shaky breath. "You'll never have to go back there again."

What? I pulled away, taking his tear-stained face into my hands. "Eric, it was just a dream," My thumbs brushed over the ink he had smeared around his eyes and across his cheeks. "Baby, what happened to you? Why are you so..." It took me a few seconds to realize that it wasn't only ink. Suddenly, the strong smell of iron hit me like a wave-- it was blood. 

My heart sunk all the way down into my shoes; "Eric...?" I felt my hands give in to a tremble as I brushed over the blood trickling down from his forehead. It wasn't coming from an injury, and that was a relief... until I realized what that meant. He was practically sprayed in it from top to bottom. "What have you done? Where are we?"

Eric took my hands into his, a certain hollow look about him. "I've made a deal... And I did what I had to do to bring you back," 

My eyes immediately filled with tears, remembering the feeling of my soul getting sucked out of me and watching the same happen to the love of my life. "I'm so confused, Eric, what's happening?--"

The ground beneath us shook, and Eric immediately pulled me into a kiss, pulling me flush against his chest in an act of desperation. "My life for yours," he breathed in between flashes of aching passion, the taste of salty tears and blood mixing in with our kiss. "I did it all for you. Everything."

I grabbed his blood-soaked coat, pulling him away from me as I felt another sob build in my chest. "What did you do?" I cried, shaking him. A chilly breeze passed us, followed by the loud cawing of crows gathering in a circle above our heads. "Eric, please!" I recognized the coat from the time we first went to my apartment-- the flashing memories of our good days made the wait for his answer even worse. 

The coldness of the water around us made me shiver as Eric grabbed my face, tears streaking down his ink-stained cheeks. The beautiful man I loved, the man I wanted to marry, had never looked so broken before, and it was scaring me more than anything ever had. "I killed them all," he whispered against me, his voice lowering with darkness hiding in the depths of his words. "All of them. Every single one of them. And now the balance is restored, and you can get your life back."

It shook me to see a smile forming across Eric's lips, who now seemed to be finding solace in his actions.

My nails dug into the fabric of his coat, the sinking of my heart ensuing as I cried in his arms. Horror struck me as I realized that everything hadn't been a nightmare, after all. "No, Eric, no, you didn't!--"

"I did," he breathed, his words just as hollow as his gaze. Eric's soft smile only made my heart ache more; "I love you more than life itself. Knowing I have avenged you, knowing you will be safe, will allow me to rest."

"Rest?!" My cries grew louder, holding onto him for dear life as the crows above us became many more, the cawing persisting. "Eric, get up, let's just go!" 

Finally mustering the strength to stand up, tugging at the sleeves of his coat, I quickly realized he was stuck to the ground. Panic filled me as Eric didn't try to fight it, making no attempts to save himself from his destiny. "I love you," he breathed, holding onto my wrists as he slowly started sinking into the puddle, the smile remaining on his face. "Remember me."

I fell to my knees once more, wrapping my body around him as I sobbed. "Stop it!" The cry I let out was unlike anything I knew I was capable of, watching the heartbreak streak down Eric's beautiful, green eyes. "Get up, Eric, get up!" 

Eric's body was now halfway sunken into the ground, his grip around me loosening. "I love you," he echoed, pulling me in for one last tear-stained kiss.

After Eric disappeared into the ground, I clawed at the mud for what felt like hours, crying out into the foggy abyss. I didn't know where I would find the strength to leave, how I was supposed to live knowing he had sold his soul for mine, taking my place in whatever hell I had just been in during my few days of death.  "I love you," I sobbed, screaming my throat raw.

"Eric! Eric!"

[jaimeslanisters]

the pawn in every lover's game (part fifteen)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King’s Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 10k notes: spite is genuinely the greatest motivator. i had plans to make this longer but i genuinely felt i would die if i didn't post right now so! enjoy (:

The dance ends all too soon. You wish it had lasted longer. You wish it had never started to begin with. You hate every passing second and you can’t pull yourself away. There’s an ache, deep in your chest, as you watch Aegon and Helaena finish. There’s a final note that the bards play, one final mournful strum of the harp, and the two of them unfurl from one another, the space growing between the two of them as they pull away. At the last moment, Aegon captures Helaena’s hand, bowing his head as he brings it to his lips. Helaena closes her eyes, her free hand coming up to clutch at her chest, and, in the multicolor glow of the candles, it looks like a hazy memory, like something you’ve dreamed of and have only just remembered.

It looks like a song.

Next to you, Floris sucks in air sharply, completely enraptured by the show in front of her, and you’re struck with the memory of your cousins whispering and giggling about their dance during the opening feast. The Targaryens are beautiful - you know this as surely as you know that you are a Lannister with all that that entails - but their allure goes beyond that. It’s intoxicating. It’s overwhelming.

There’s almost a sense of relief in knowing that you aren’t the only one to be pulled in by them.

Aegon releases Helaena from his hold and, together, the two of them walk back to the royal table, a careful space between the two of them. As they pass, all the nobles rise to their feet and you join them, your hand shooting out to support Floris as she stumbles slightly on her way up. She tilts into you, seemingly content with you supporting her weight, but you don’t pay her any mind, your gaze locked onto the newlyweds.

Aegon looks straight ahead, fixated, but Helaena spares you a glance and she smiles, her whole visage melting into something softer and sweeter. You smile back even though it feels wrong on your face, your smile stretched out too thin, but she doesn’t begrudge you for it. You wish she would. You wish she would push back at you for your inability to swallow this pain easily because that would mean that she was pushing back on something. You could bear that burden - you could bear anything for her - but she would never. She doesn’t need it regardless. You need it. You crave her anger at you like you crave absolution.

The two of them walk together to the dais at the front and, once they reach the shadow of the Iron Throne, they turn to each other. Aegon bows low at the waist while Helaena curtseys, nearly brushing the stone floor with her knees, officially signaling the end of the first dance and opening the floor for everyone else. A cheer breaks from the waiting nobles and, when the pair of them rise again, the waiting crowd breaks and moves to a dance floor, a moving wave that’s unstoppable. At your side, the silent Baela breaks away from you, pushing through the crowd toward where you last saw one of her Valeryon cousins. A part of you wants to follow behind her, see if you can’t coax her into speaking again, but the rest of you just wants to find Helaena and Aemond.

You turn to look up at the dais, in time to see Aemond rise from his seat, his eyes locked on you and you heave a sigh of relief as he nods when he notices his gaze, motioning for you to stay still so he can come find you.

Floris teeters closer to you, reaching up on her tiptoes to speak in your ear, stumbling closer by mistake so that her lips brush your earlobe in a move that has you shivering. She wobbles dangerously and your arm shoots out to gently grab her around the waist so she has some semblance of support. You belatedly realize that this is the closest you’ve ever been with someone who wasn’t a member of your family or Helaena and Aemond. “Is your prince coming to dance?” She aims to whisper but instead she practically yells in your ear, oblivious to your open wince.

You pull away from her, smiling in spite of your discomfort. “Are your sisters nearby?” You ask in lieu of responding, hoping that you could dump her on one of the other Four Storms and make her someone else’s problem. You’d feel bad about pushing her away except it’s hard to even conjure up the desire to. You want to spend the night in the company of Aemond and Helaena, not minding a girl you’ve just met - a girl who is seemingly completely uninterested in detaching herself from you.

She straightens up, craning her neck to try and scan the audience. She suddenly points in excitement, shouting “Maris!” in absolute glee, and you follow her pointing finger only to teeter back in shock.

Maris Baratheon is a tall, skinny girl with pale skin and a sea of freckles across her face. Her pitch-black hair is pulled tight against her scalp and, where Floris is soft and sweet, she is severe and sharp. She looks like a storm personified, thunderous and bold, a Baratheon through and through.

And she’s standing right in front of you, frowning at her youngest sister wagging her finger just in front of her nose.

“My lady,” you rush out, your curtsey coming out more like a short bob with the way that Floris leans her entire weight on you. “My apologies for not noticing you. I wa-”

“Have you no shame?” Maris hisses, plainly ignoring you in favor of narrowing her stormy blue eyes at her younger sister. “Mother didn’t let you come just for you to embarrass yourself in front of the royal family.”

Floris frowns tempestuously and it slowly dawns on you that, in spite of appearances, she may be just as stormy as her sisters. “I don’t see the princes or the princesses around.”

“Aye and what is she?” Maris shoots back and you startle to realize that she’s turned her dark gaze on you. You open your mouth to insist that you are no princess or anything resembling royalty but the elder Baratheon girl doesn’t even offer you the chance to. “You should have minded yourself. Controlled yourself.”

Floris turns her nose up, rolling her eyes. “Lady Lannister wasn’t bothered.”

Maris huffs. “You idiot. You essentially held her hostage. She couldn’t escape you!”

“Maybe it’s hard for you but I can manage to befriend people without offending them at every step!”

“This isn’t about me! This is about yo-”

“Oh is it? Are you s-”

“Yes! For Gods’ sake, you always d-”

The two Baratheons start screeching at each other, their words overlapping until you’re sure they’re speaking as one, leaning closer and closer in until you’re trapped between the two of them, pressed tight in the middle, and you start to wonder if storm is too small of a word to describe the pair of them. They’re hissing and vicious and you know they must be seconds away from throwing punches and trying to land blows and you start to pray that you’ll be able to slip away in the chaos when an all too familiar voice cuts through the din.

“If I could,” Aemond starts, hands tucked behind his back as he stares down at the trio of you with barely concealed amusement. “I’d like to steal away Lady Lannister if she’s available.”

There’s a beat of silence where you try to express your gratitude with your eyes and Floris begins making a sound like a captured mouse before Maris snorts, distinctly unladylike even as she bows her head in greeting. “I’m surprised you’re asking, my prince. I doubt you offered Victor Florent the same choice.”

You laugh, startled and too caught off guard to keep it in, while Floris’s squeaks take a particularly high pitch. Aemond’s smile turns sharp and he hums noncommittally, tilting his head as he peers down at Maris Baratheon. To her credit, the lady doesn’t quail or shrink away, merely turning her nose up.

“This is why Mother wants to send her to the Silent Sisters,” Floris hisses to you, her voice, again, far too loud to be counted as a whisper.

At that, Maris visibly flinches and her face flashes with annoyance - whether it’s at herself, her mother, or Floris you’re not sure - but she backs down, bowing her head once more. It’s unfitting for her, you think. Self-pity doesn’t suit her - it sits wrong on her features - and you feel a quick flash of pity. The Silent Sisters was a harsh punishment - only the Night’s Watch could compare and even then, at least those men were permitted to talk and had more than enough freedom to break their other vows up in the frigid North, far from even the Starks’ eyes.

You glance at Aemond and, when he notices your watchful gaze, he flicks his eyes upward in exasperation before fixing his stare back on Maris. “The Lady Lannister was offered no choice when Victor Florent presented her with his crown. I simply returned the favor.”

Maris doesn’t respond, simply nodding her head in agreement, her expression the same smooth mask, but Floris lets out a soft ‘oh!’, sounding as delighted as if Aemond had just personally handed her a bouquet of the prettiest flowers. You flick your gaze up towards her and she’s gazing at him, starry-eyed and flushed, and you feel a sharp lance of annoyance shoot through you.

Has she forgotten you’re the one thing keeping her standing?

“Well,” you trill as pleasantly as you can, straightening up and tightening your hold on her waist to hoist her up with you. She moves readily enough, making no complaint when you squeeze her, and you find with no small degree of displeasure that she’s taller than you, tall enough that she’s level with Aemond’s eye. “I really must accompany the prince. I-”

“Oh,” Floris chirps, grinning widely when you look up at her. “I’m sure you’re eagerly awaiting the first dance!”

You’re most definitely not. Aemond has not danced since before Driftmark, back when he and Aegon had been your and Helaena’s partners in your dancing lessons. He’d never been fond of it though he had never complained - not like Aegon who seemingly could not whine enough about being forced into lessons even if he had enjoyed more than Helaena and nearly more than you. You’re not planning on telling the Baratheon girls that but, before you get the chance to come up with some excuse for not joining in on the imminent first dance, Aemond steps forward, grabbing hold of your elbow and gently pulling you from Floris’s grasp. Maris moves up to steady her, swearing at her sister as she does, utterly immune to the way Floris flops on her affectionately like a dog cuddling up to its master.

“The first dance is starting soon,” Aemond says in lieu of explaining and you hide a smile as you tuck his hand close to you, curling your arm around his.

Maris hums, clearly disinterested in your reasons for leaving and also clearly pinching her sister with one of her hands hidden from view if the way Floris twists away from her is any indicator. “I thank you for watching my wayward sister, my lady.”

You nod, flashing her a pleasant smile. “It was no problem.” It had been. “It was a pleasure to meet your sister.” It hadn’t been. Not towards the end, at least. Not with the annoyance and jealousy coiling in your chest like a snake preparing to strike out and bite.

Floris leans out of her sister’s grasp, beaming up at you and Aemond. She hasn’t even approached sobering up - the longer she’s been without her drink, the more her last drink seems to sink into her. “I hope to speak to you soon, Lady Lannister. It’s been so lovely speaking with you,” she grins toothily, looking more girly than ever, and you force a smile, bowing your head in gratitude.

She turns her pretty smile on Aemond, her flushed cheeks turning even more pink to your watching eyes. “Prince Aemond,” she breathes out, her big gray eyes wide. She looks starstruck and sweet, a perfect gentle lady. “If you’re not too tired after your dance… No one has claimed any dances from me…” Her hand reaches up, hesitantly and slowly, as if she’s going to reach over and grab his sleeve and your vision flashes red.

You sharply exhale, all eyes snapping to you. “My lady,” you say, letting concern seep into your voice. “Would you be alright on the dance floor? I would hate for your sister to have to hold you up during a dance with the prince.”

Floris blinks at you, her cheeks burning an even brighter red.

Aemond hums next to you and you can feel the rumble of his chest against your arm, his amusement nearly radiating off of him.

You reach out to her, keeping your arm looped around Aemond’s but using your free hand to brush her own arm that’s wrapped around her sister’s. “Perhaps some water would suit you well, my lady, rather than a dance.”

Maris laughs, the sound more like a bark than anything, and she eyes you, defensiveness sharpening her gaze. “You’re rather bold in your assessment, my lady.”

You smile, squeezing Floris’s bicep before letting go. “If I am in the presence of storms, I must be bold to weather it. It’s just friendly advice, Lady Maris. I’d hate for your sister to shame herself.” More than she already has, at least.

The elder Baratheon girl gives you a tight smile. She knows you’re right and that she can’t refute it. Be it Storm’s End or King’s Landing, the rules are all the same. Ladies do not ask for dances from Targaryen princes. Ladies do not cling to strangers they’ve just met, let alone hang on them through a royal feast. Ladies do not drink themselves to the point of being unable to stand unassisted.

A harsher person would point this out in front of a bigger crowd than just her sister. A cruel person would spread it. You’re being helpful. You’re being generous.

Even Floris’s wounded deer performance can’t sway you to more than mild pity.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd until you find your target. Your cousin, predictably, is surrounded by fawning ladies and laughing lords, his grin wide and endlessly charming. “Once you’ve found your legs, I’ll see if I can’t persuade my cousin, Ser Tygett, to come and offer you your first dance. He would be honored to be dancing on the arm of a beautiful maiden such as yourself.” You smile at her as gently as possible.

“He won the archery event,” Floris says after a moment, her voice soft. She doesn’t look at you, eyes glued to her feet. She wobbles damningly and Maris makes an annoyed noise. “I-I… You’re right, my lady. Thank you for… for saving me from embarrassment.”

You nod. “Of course. The capital can be hazardous for young ladies unused to such a large court. I only aim to help you, Lady Floris.”

Floris nods again and Maris scoffs lightly. Your eyes snap to her and you half expect her to be glaring at you. You’ve embarrassed her sister - in front of royalty nonetheless. You’d be fuming if anyone had mocked your sisters in front of you like you had her. But she’s not looking at you at all.

“Seems I’ll have company with me when mother ships me off to the Silent Sisters,” Maris says, not even bothering to drop her voice to a whisper as she stares down at her sister. Floris flinches and looks up, her gray eyes blazing, and you know you’re seconds away from witnessing another row.

Aemond, once again, saves you from that particular indignity. “Enjoy the feast, my ladies.”

He pulls you away and you give them a final smile, one that you’re sure they won’t see - not with the way they’re glaring at each other.

Aemond leads you around the edges of the floor, carefully skirting the groups of noblemen cloistered together, all of them eagerly gossiping and debating each other about the merits of the ladies. Most of the floor is already occupied by couples standing across from each other in two neat rows, ladies separated from the lords, all in preparation for the first dance. Aemond stops just short of entering the actual floor and he looks down at you, a question plain on his face.

“First the tourney and now dancing,” you muse out loud, smiling when he looks skyward. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to ask Ser Criston to knight you as well. I’m not sure I’d be prepared for your family’s reaction.”

Aemond hums in agreement. “I had planned to have this first dance with you, my lady, but it is a mixer dance. I’m not sure I can guarantee the safety of any partners I’d have after you.”

You sniff. “I’m perfectly civil. Your partners would remain untouched.”

He laughs out loud, quick and sharp, and you huff. “I must admit, I’m rather tempted to walk right back and ask Lady Floris for a dance if only to see how you’d tear into her.”

“I’m afraid Floris Baratheon would not be my only victim if you did that,” you say, frowning up at him.

His eye flashes, a distinct hunger sneaking into his features. “Would you sink your teeth into me, my lady? Would you dig your nails in and tear me apart?”

You want to, consequences damned. You imagine biting him, scratching him, burrowing as deep into him as he had into you. You want it all. You want to possess him completely. You are his and he is yours. He had torn his mangled scar up and put your sapphire in it, had filled it with you. What else would he let you take? What else would he let you claim?

You wonder how people can bear this desire - surely you’re not the only one. It’s more than carnal. It’s all-consuming. It’s absolution. It creeps around constantly, haunting every thought. Surely you can’t be the only one who has ever felt this complete burning.

“Perhaps I will, my prince,” you murmur, meeting his eye, wishing he didn’t have the eyepatch on so you could see him completely. “I may not be a dragon but a lion still has claws.”

He smiles, a sharp edge to his expression. He’s hungry. He’s starving. “I’ve known that truth about you since I first met you. Only being a Targaryen saved me from your wrath when you spilled that water over yourself.

The memory flashes in your mind and you think you can almost feel the phantom pain of the needle going through your finger, feel the cool water soaking the front of your gown. You had snarled at him. Briefly but it had been there. The moment had passed so fast that even you had barely registered it. Anyone else would have let the moment pass, counted it as a quick flash of emotion that meant nothing else.

Not Aemond.

He had seen the truth of it. Try as you might, pretend all you will, but there’s no hiding the truth of it - you’re a Lannister. You’re a Lannister to your bones with all the ambition, all the cunning, all the greed that it entails. You’re a lady, yes. Gods know that you’ve dedicated yourself to your etiquettes, to your embroidery and your songs. You did it not just because you had to but because you wanted to. You were a lady but it did not mean that that blunted your edges. It did not make you soft or gentle.

You had told him that truth in his bedroom in Driftmart, in a whispered promise over a gift, but he had already known. He had known from the very first moment he had seen you.

A slow grin spreads on your face. “It saved you the initial moment,” you reply. “Then it was because it was you. Do you remember when you snapped at me after the Dragonpit? I asked you a silly question about the Baratheons and you had just come back from the Dragonpit, from Prince Aegon and the Str… and your nephews.”

Not even your treasonous near mishap stops the downward curling of Aemond’s mouth. “I wasn’t at my… best after the Dragonpit in those days.”

You laugh, more cheery about it now than you had been back then. “I can recall, my prince. You called me a nosy bitch. I wanted to strike you across the face for it. I nearly did too.”

“I apologized,” Aemond grouses, sounding like a little boy again in his annoyance and embarrassment. It’s a far cry from the starved man he had just been and you laugh for the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“I know,” you reply, smiling. “That’s what I was trying to say; I was prepared to apologize to you. Not because you were a Targaryen but because you were Aemond. I didn’t care that you were a prince in that moment. I just cared that you were my friend and I didn’t want to hurt you like you had me.”

Aemond stays silent for a moment, studying you closely. His eye trails across your face, searching deep into you. He’s looking for any sign of deception, any tiny crack in your honesty, but he won’t find it. Not with you. Not with him.

Eventually, he sighs, looking away. “I was terrified I had pushed you away that day,” he murmurs, softly as if he doesn’t mean for you to hear. “I was convinced you were about to demand your return to Casterly Rock and it would have been all my fault. Helaena would hate me for losing her her closest companion. My mother would skin me for losing Lannister support.”

“Were alliances the only thing that kept you in check?” You ask, tilting your head at him, exaggerating a confused expression.

He scoffs lightly, more out of exasperation than annoyance. “No. I didn’t care that you were a lady of House Lannister in that moment. I cared that you were you. My… My friend.”

Distantly, you register the first dance beginning and a small part of you regrets that the two of you hadn’t gotten to join, even if it had meant that you would have had to watch him with other ladies of the court. The rest of you, however, is focused on Aemond, on his words.

You laugh after a second, softly. “So we both spent that night thinking the same thing. Capable of hurting most everyone except each other.”

Aemond hums. “You were the first person I had ever apologized to - outside of the apologies my mother would drag out of me whenever my brothers and I fought or on the rare occasions Helaena and I would argue. The only person I ever apologized to because I wanted to.”

“Don’t worry, it came out very naturally. Not practiced or rehearsed at all,” you reply, grinning when he shoots you a droll look, only the tiniest of movements at the corner of his mouth letting you know he’s amused by your teasing. “Come. I’m sure Floris is beyond herself now that she’s realized we didn’t leave her to go dance the first dance. Let’s find Helaena before she can come to demand her turn.”

“You’ll have to find your cousin as well,” he reminds, following easily enough when you tug on his arm to lead him up to the raised dais where his sister stands, pressed up arm to arm with Aegon, as their mother speaks to the pair of them. “I may have escaped a turn with that particular storm but you did sacrifice Ser Tygett in my place.”

You wince. “He’s not going to want her to be his first dance in case she thinks this is a show of his interest. I’ll have to dance with him for that particular favor,” you say, slightly wishing you hadn’t made that promise. You enjoy dancing but you find you have little interest in it if your partner isn’t the man you’re leading through the crowd right now.

He glances down at you. “I’d ask to have your first dance then, my lady, before you ask him.”

A surprised smile breaks through as you look up at him. “You meant it then? You do mean to dance tonight?”

He nods, looking as serious as he had when he entered the tourney grounds, as if he hasn’t spent this week turning all the expectations you had of him on his head. “Perhaps not a mixer dance so we can ensure that every lady wakes up in the capital tomorrow with their hands still attached but I do intend to have your first dance if you mean to take a turn with other partners.”

“Other partners?” You ask, blinking, realizing belatedly that dancing with him would open you up to dancing requests from men who weren’t him. “So the ladies of King’s Landing can keep their hands but the lords will get to have breakfast with Victor Florent tomorrow?”

He snorts softly. “More that the men of King’s Landing are at least aware of what could happen and will endeavor to make sure the same does not happen to them. I’m afraid the ladies are, as of now at least, ignorant of the true danger.”

“The true danger?” You ask, laughingly, as the two of you reach the foot of the throne, right before the steps of the dais. “I can’t swing a sword, my prince, nor do I have a dragon to send after my enemies.”

“Don’t you?” He tilts his head, smiling when your cheeks flare with heat, as you join the small circle of his family.

Helaena notices you first, always attuned to you, and she smiles at you brightly when she sees that you’re still arm-in-arm with Aemond. Aegon, predictably, already has a goblet of wine in his hand and, judging from the way that he’s downing it as quickly as possible, deaf to his mother’s scolding, he’s not planning on leaving this wedding feast close to anything resembling sobriety.

“I’ve done my part Mother,” Aegon grumbles, his lips stained a deep red from his drink. “You can’t ask for more from me. Not tonight.”

Alicent sighs, wringing her hands together. She seems blind to you, completely oblivious to your presence. She’s focused on Aegon for now. “I just ask you don’t shame yourself. Please just control your habits for this feast at least.”

“I’ve already done what you asked,” he grumbles before he spots you. His eyes brighten and he gets that all too familiar grin on his face, the one that promises trouble. “Here’s your true crowning achievement in your matchmaking skills. Perhaps you should concern yourself about Aemond’s marriage bed instead of mine.”

You don’t react, simply meeting his gaze steadily, but Aemond tenses next to you.

“Enough,” Aemond rumbles and Aegon barks out a laugh.

“Enough? Enough?” He hisses. “It isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough for Mother.”

“Aegon,” Alicent hisses, her eyes flashing with an anger you’re unused to seeing on the Queen. It makes her look so much younger. A sister arguing with her brother than a mother of four. “Finish your drink then. Drink your heart out. Do as you always have for tonight then. But you will do what you must tomorrow. For the rest of your life, you will do your duty.”

“And what is that Mother?” Aegon says, his voice soft.

She looks at him, disappointment warring with grief on her face. “What is necessary, Aegon.”

There is a moment suspended, where they stare at each other, blind to the rest of the room. The music fades, the chatter of the room ceases. All that matters is the two of them.

You think Alicent wants to say more. You think Aegon wants to fight. They’re both hurting for it. They both want to make the other bend to their will, make the other understand, but there’s an insurmountable chasm separating the two of them. Nothing could bridge it - not unless one of them caves to the other and that could never happen. You think neither of them would even want it.

Alicent breaks first, sighing as she looks down at her hands, her fingers clasped tightly, her thumb digging into the cuticle of her other thumb. “Enjoy the feast. All of you.” Her voice fades slightly, cracking on the final word.

You bow your head, murmuring your thanks, but your voice is the only one that answers. When you straighten up, Helaena is looking down at the floor, looking lost in her own mind, while Aemond watches his mother. She gives him a wan smile before she brushes past, her perfumed scent lingering in the air as she moves into the crowd, melting into it.

There’s silence. Even in the loud, busy room, there’s silence in the shadow of the Iron Throne.

Then Aegon scoffs. “Of course. Of course.”

He sounds angry and you look up, your hackles rising as you want to snap back in defense of Alicent.

But he has tears in his eyes. He’s angry. He’s spitting. If you spoke, he’d find a target for his rage, someone to pin all of this anger and rage on. He’d say unspeakably cruel things.

But he has tears in his eyes.

Your fury dies in your throat.

It feels pointless.

He doesn’t linger. He leaves quickly, pushing through the crowd, the crowd parting around like a ship through water. All of you watch him go, the air thick with unspoken grief.

Helaena breaks the quiet first. “The broken emerald ring,” she murmurs. “The ruby shattered.”

You look over at her but she’s already shaking her head, knocking her head clear of the words she had just said. She meets your gaze and smiles. “The feast went well.”

You pause for a moment, registering her words, before nodding, trying your best to smile. “Your announcement went perfectly. I’m sure there’s already smallfolk singing your praises outside the keep.”

She makes a face and your smile turns more genuine. “I mean it Helaena.” You slip from Aemond’s grasp to get closer to her, wishing that you could reach out to her to pull her close. “How are you feeling?”

Helaena doesn’t say anything for a while, looking down at her fidgeting hands before looking up and meeting your eyes. She doesn’t smile but she nods her head. “I feel the same. Things have changed but… Not everything has.”

You nod. “You’ll remain here at least. With your brothers and your mother.”

“With you too,” She reminds, a smile finally flickering on her face.

You nod again, stronger, confident. “With me too.”

She gives you a final fond look before she turns her attention to Aemond. She looks at him, her eyes openly roving over his face and body. She’s looking for something, you think, but you don’t know what. You know Helaena as well as you know yourself. She’s so tied up into your own sense of self that you don’t think that, if you ever felt even the slightest desire to, you could ever cut her away from you. Her roots are deep in you, curling tight around your heart and soul.

But her mind can be as secretive as her prophecies.

“The iron crown,” Helaena says as she looks at her brother, her eyes bright. “The throneless king.”

Aemond doesn’t say anything but when you look over at him, he’s tilted his head up, gazing down at his sister with satisfaction glowing in his eyes.

He covets the crown. How could he not? He could have listened to his father and gone to Dragonstone to try for one of Syrax’s hatchlings or taken one of her eggs. Instead, he had claimed the largest dragon in the world - the Queen of All Dragons. He had lost his eye for that prize, had forever damaged his standing in the view of his father. His ambition knew no bounds and could not be satisfied in remaining as only a second son. Only his love for his family, the loyalty to his brother, kept his fanged desire caged behind his teeth. But he couldn’t keep it down. Not forever. Not in moments like this. It would always bubble to the surface, always threaten to break free.

You watch him, tracing the proud jut of his chin, the tilt of his head, and his overconfident pride.

He should wear a crown. He suits one - far more than Aegon.

You suit a crown. If you were born less than two centuries earlier, you would have had one. If Aemond had been born first, perhaps you would have still gotten one.

You quash the desire as soon as it rises up in you. If Aemond had been born first, he would have married Helaena more likely than not. Even now, if something were to happen to Aegon, the question of what to do with Helaena’s marriage would arise. If they were to have children, the matter would only complicate.

You were willing to do a lot of things. You were willing to bloody your hands, willing to burn bridges and move your family about like they were nothing more than pawns in this game you were playing. You were willing to do much.

But you’re not willing to sacrifice Helaena. You’re not willing to risk anything that would bring her harm.

There’s no use wishing and longing for a crown that just wasn’t your’s. That could never be yours. Perhaps if you played your cards right, a daughter of yours could one day grow to wear one on her head. Your grandson could one day sit the Iron Throne.

But not you. Not if there was Helaena and if you had it your way, you’d rip your plans to absolute shreds if you could ensure that she would remain safe through it all.

You swallow thickly, looking down at your hands. Even the thought feels treasonous, feels like a betrayal.

The soft call of your name pulls you out of your thoughts and when you look up, both Targaryen siblings are looking at you, their eyes both gleaming in the same way underneath the multicolored candlelight. An apology bubbles up in your throat and it’s only at the last second that you remember to apologize for what would make sense rather than what you really want to apologize for.

“Sorry,” you say, laughing slightly. “My mind left me. What were we discussing?”

Helaena is gracious even if Aemond narrows his eye. “I was asking if the two of you really mean to go dance or if you’re going to spend all night hiding with me.”

You frown slightly. “If you want me to hide with you.”

She snorts, so unladylike that you can’t help but to smile. “Absolutely not. If you hide with me, Mother will notice that you haven’t taken to the floor with Aemond which means she’ll notice I haven’t taken to the floor and she’ll make it her mission to make sure I dance with at least a few lords.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t force you,” you try to defend her, your resolve weaker than it would have been before - now that you’ve witnessed her demands of Aegon. Still, it seems impossible that she would ever ask the same out of Helaena. Helaena was her only daughter, her only girl. She was sweeter and softer with Helaena.

Helaena nods her head, his smile only flickering a little. “Still, I wouldn’t want to push my chances.”

You watch for a beat longer, wishing that there was something you could say or do to make it easier, but eventually, you heave a sigh and nod.

“You needn’t look like you’re marching to your doom,” Aemond murmurs under his breath as he comes to stand next to you, offering you his arm once more.

You ignore him for a moment, giving Helaena one final look, letting her know that if she needs you, she need only call and you’ll come to her side but she waves you off. You focus your attention back on Aemond only to see him eying you with a small smirk.

“I should refuse you the dance,” you warn. “You only asked so you could beat my cousin to my first dance.”

He laughs. “Would it please you if I declared my intentions again - In front of all? What prize would you like this time? Another crown?”

“Perhaps the head of another Florent,” you reply, catching sight of the familiar shade of blue on the other side of the crowd, only visible as the two of you still stand on the dais. Erren Florent stands alone once more, dark and moody around the edges of the room. His son and good daughter stand by his side, subdued but preoccupied in speaking to well wishers as they approach. He speaks to no one, choosing to only stare at the pair of you.

Aemond hums. “My mother was almost a Florent. She told me earlier this week that the Hightowers once debated betrothing Grandfather to a Florent lady. They eventually decided on Lady Alerie Redwyne and she was convinced that was why the Florents chose to insult us by their repeated badgering of you and their less than subtle animosity towards us.”

You blink, letting the information settle in, before peering up at him. “So in another life, Victor Florent may have been a cousin or something of sorts. You’d have been a kinslayer.”

“There’s one in every line,” he replies, his eye glinting knowingly. He’s referencing the library, your debate about King Brandon and the night’s king all those years ago, but your mind races to the carriage ride here with your father and uncle and what you had said about his own uncle and sister. There were kinslayers in every line.

What would one more be?

You smile at him, suddenly pleased by the turn of his conversation. “The next dance will be a waltz,” you remind him. “It’d be terribly bold if our first dance was a waltz.”

“Bolder than crowning you?” He asks and your smile only grows.

“No,” you agree. “Not bolder than that.”

He begins leading you down to the dance floor and, when the two of you arrive, the mixer dance ends. Some of the floor dissipates but the majority of the crowd stays, people finding their partners and a free space for the two of them to claim on the borders of the floor. Some people slink on, grabbing partners as they go, and you and Aemond do as well, heading for a spot close to the center.

People greet the two of you as you pass and you smile and greet them all back, playing the kindly lady to Aemond’s aloof prince. You spot your father in the crowd, Lady Tyrell on his arm. You can spot Ser Edwyn Sand, a charming smile locked on his face as he leads a blushing lady of House Crakehall onto the floor. You can even see Baela towards the back of the room, laughing with someone who can only be one of her Velaryon cousins.

The two of you slow to a stop, settling in a spot next to an unsmiling Stormlands lord and his quiet wife. You turn to face Aemond, him copying your movements, and two of you wait for the rest of the room for the bards to begin their songs.

It takes a moment or two, most of it filled with the soft sounds of people chattering or the repetitive click-clack of peoples’ heels on the smooth stone floor.

But then the soft twang of the harp filters through the air, over the low brass of the pipes, and you curtsey deep to the ground, in unison with the other ladies in the room, as Aemond bows in response.

He reaches for you first and you respond in kind, lifting your arm high to settle on his shoulder while he grips your waist tight. The two of you spin slowly, the skirt of your dress flaring through the air, but the dance picks up, your feet never once taking a pause as the memories of your old lessons start reawakening.

At first, no one in the room speaks, as if there’s a spell cast over all demanding silence, but eventually the splatters of the conversations break out in the watching audience, spreading slowly and surely to the dancers in motion.

“You’ll have to forgive me, my prince, if I miss a few steps. It’s been years since I’ve actually studied the dances,” you start, more to open conversation than to actually apologize.

Aemond snorts. “I’m sure you danced your fair share back in Casterly Rock during the feasts for your brother’s birth.”

You immediately shake your head. “The feasts were a mite different there than they’ve been here. Tyshara and I mostly preoccupied ourselves with ensuring everything was going smoothly as our mother entered her confinement. I didn’t have much time for dancing. More to the point, I think the lords were rather scared to approach me after a time.”

He looks down at you as he dips you low and your heart flutters a bit in your chest without your permission. When he pulls you up, he pulls you closer than he ought but you don’t have it in you to push him away. “How so? Had they heard there was a Targaryen awaiting your return in King’s Landing?”

“I doubt it though I’m sure some suspected,” you reply, holding down a laugh. “No, they were all rather put off by me after I castigated two lordlings from House Clegane and Tarbeck for mocking my sister.”

“They mocked her?” He asks, raising an elegant brow. “Were they allowed to leave with their tongues?”

“I’m not your kingly father,” you mockingly scold. “I’m a Lannister. I wanted to toss them in with the lions my family keeps in the bowels of the Rock so they could see if they found their joke as funny as they did.”

“What was the joke?” He asks as he spins you out.

When he pulls you back, you take a half moment to catch your breath again, suddenly gratefully that Aemond was meant to be leading this dance since you’ve forgotten how you’re supposed to move relative to the rest of the floor. Thankfully, he has not or, more likely, all his years in the yard have taught how to read his opponents’ body language and he was just naturally inclined to move in response.

“They called her Cerelle the Almost Heir,” you say once the pair of you have settled in the new movement of the crowd. “I’d applaud the rhyme if it wasn’t for the fact that that name was meant to hide the fact that any of their houses would count themselves lucky to have Cerelle as their heir. She spent her entire life preparing for that possibility. Every waking moment was spent getting ready for the chance that she might become Lady of the Rock. Little Loren kept her from that but, if she was to be Lady Lannister, the true Lady Lannister, she would have been the fiercest in our history.”

“Did she want to be the Lady of the Rock?” Aemond asks after a moment and your eyes dart up to his. “Does she regret having it taken away from her?”

You know what he really wants to ask.

Does your sister sympathize with Rhaenyra Targaryen? Does she, like the Princess, resent the younger brother born to take it all away from her?

You had asked yourself that very question in the lead up to your brother’s birth. When the two of you, along with all your sisters, would make the trek to the golden sept in your home and kneel on the floor, letting the incense burn your noses and eyes, as you had all prayed fervently for a boy to be born, did a part of her pray for another little sister?

When she had cried in the birthing chamber, when she had whispered to you about buying a thick cloak for her journey north, were her tears ones of joy or loss?

How would you feel, you had dared wonder in the sanctity of your mind, if what had been yours was ripped from your hands by a mere babe? A baby that you had in equal parts prayed for and dreaded?

How would you feel if you were the Almost Heir?

You release a sigh, faintly aware of Aemond awaiting your response, faintly aware of the music reaching its crescendo. “She knew what would happen to us if Loren had been a girl,” you say in lieu of answering his question. “Our bannermen were already lying in wait to push their sons onto Cerelle in hopes that their boys would get to be the next Lord of the Rock, Warden of the West. House Lannister survived it once in our history, when Queen Leila was the only child born to King Gerold III. Our vassals’ hunger has only grown in size and ambition since.”

Aemond hums in response. “As hungry as they may be, their ambition is outpaced by the one inherent in Lannisters. Your sister herself recovered the title lost. She might not be Lady of the Rock but she is Lady of Winterfell now.”

It’ll sound natural eventually, you reason to yourself. Soon, the name Cerelle Stark will be as familiar to you as Cerelle Lannister is. Decades in the future, she will have spent more time with her married name than she ever had with her maiden one.

But it is not now and, in this moment with only Aemond patiently waiting for you, you do not have to pretend.

“I should have been there,” you murmur, voice soft as to not be overhead though you doubt anyone is listening and, if they are, they can hardly hear you over the constant hum of the crowd. “It was my idea. My plan. And I sent her there alone.”

“You were that invested in a trade contract with the Starks?” Aemond asks, with only the faintest hint of humor in his tone telling you that he knows damn well that the earlier lie that you maintained, the current lie you’re maintaining in the court, was just that. A lie.

A lie you want to dispel - at least with him.

“I was that invested in soldiers,” you reply softly. “In blood alliances. In oaths. Lord Cregan Stark is my good brother now. He has a line to the Lannisters as steady as the Rock. Which means he has a line to the Targaryens. He has an investment.”

The humor leaves Aemond’s face quickly and he looks at you as seriously as he had in the sanctified Dragonpit. “There’s never been a Stark who has forgotten a vow,” he murmurs, a hint of warning entering his voice. Not a warning of anger or rage but rather a reminder. It was for naught, he tries to remind you. You’ve lost your sister for no prize at all.

You smile again, confidence laced through it. “What’s an old vow to a wife’s warm embrace? What’s an old promise to a blood tie to the next ruler of the Seven Kingdoms? Lord Cregan is loyal, yes, but he’s pragmatic. He understands that for his people to survive, he needs to do what he must. His father’s vow was to the princess but he swore no vow. His vow is to the rightful heir and the rightful heir is supported by the house that helped him to his claim, the house that his lady wife is of.”

Aemond doesn’t say anything, looking at you over, only leading you through the dance out of sheer memory.

“You said earlier that you couldn’t swing a sword,” Aemond finally says as the dance slows to a stop, as he bows to you again and you curtsey in response. This time, his voice is firm and loud, loud enough for people to overhear. He wants them to hear this. “A sword would not be a strong enough weapon for you, my lady. You yourself are fiercer than any knight, more dangerous than any battalion.”

You don’t have time to bask in his compliment - not when another voice chimes in.

“Yes, the Lady Lannister is fierce. Fiercer than most know,” Erren Florent says, a cold smile plastered onto his face when your eyes jump to his.

Aemond and you rise up, the prince stepping in front of you slightly so you’re tucked behind his body, but Erren Florent’s smile does not flicker.

If you thought his soft countenance was a cover before, it is a grotesque death mask now. His gray eyes are bright but empty, utterly soulless as he keeps his smile firmly on his face. His skin stretches tight around his skull, as pale as any corpse now. If you hadn’t met him before his son’s death, you would swear that he was no human. No, you’d say, no human can look like that - as if they’ve peeled someone else’s face off and are wearing it as a mask, as if their own body is not your own.

Aemond is tense but he can afford to be tense. His weapon is a sword. His weapon is the largest dragon alive.

The only tool you have at your disposal now is your courtesy.

You smile brightly at him, as sweet as any lady could ever be, pushing down Aemond’s arm slightly so you can peer around him more easily. “My lord,” you greet, bowing your head, keeping your grip on the Targaryen firm. You’re here, you’re safe, you want to remind but you can’t, not with Lord Florent watching you with his dead eyes, waiting for any chink in your armor. “I meant to meet with you but time got away from me. As the Maiden in the wedding party, I was kept well occupied until this feast. I wish to pass along House Lannister’s, as well as my own, condolences. The loss of Ser Victor was a tragic one, one that will be surely felt in the City Watch for years to come.”

Erren bows his head, keeping his head down even as Aemond echoes your words, passing along the Crown’s sympathies. When he looks up, the first hint of emotion has broken through his closed expression.

Cold rage dances in his eyes.

“It’s a loss I will feel until the Stranger comes to claim me,” he says, his voice soft like a whisper. “A loss that will haunt my every waking moment.”

There’s nothing you can say to that. No words you could conjure that would make that blow any easier, would make him hate you any less.

You don’t want to. You don’t want to soften the blow. You want him to feel every moment of his grief. You hope that the pain of his loss will remind him of what his son had forgotten.

You are a Lannister, a daughter of the Rock. Your blood is old, the blood of kings. Even without Aemond, you are above a Florent even if their line stretches back as far as your own. A lion could not be caged by a fox, no matter how hard it might try. A lion could be caged by no one.

Not even a dragon.

“I pray you will find comfort, my lord,” you finally say, stepping out from behind Aemond, walking closer to Erren Florent. The old lord does not step back to accommodate you, letting you get within arm's length of you.

If he wanted to, he could reach out and strangle you here. He could pull a knife out and push it deep in your heart and not even Aemond would be able to stop it. If he wished it, Erren Florent could kill you as easily as you draw breath and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

But he can’t and that pain must be equal to the loss of the son. To have the reason for Victor's death, the true reason and not just the means through which it was delivered, so close at hand and being unable and unwilling to do anything.

How hateful a scene. How horrid.

You step closer, a smile dancing on your lips.

“May you find peace, my lord,” you murmur, your words intended for only you and him.

“May I find justice,” he snarls back, his mask slipping even further, his face twisting in his vengeance. His hot breath washes over your face, burning and awful, and you can taste the sharp smell of wine on your tongue.

Aemond steps closer, his chest pressing against your back, but you don’t move, not even to accommodate his touch. You stand in front of Erren Florent, smiling as innocent as a lamb.

“Justice, my lord? You found it. Your son earned it. The debt is paid,” you say, voice serene and calm. “But if you wish to seek further satisfaction, you are welcome to it. I could hardly deny it.”

You step closer, your expression never slipping.

Your smile grows, hunger sharpens it. “I pray you do, in fact. I pray you aim for more than your station affords you, just as your son did.”

“Why? So your prince might drive a sword through my throat?” Erren growls, all pretense of civility gone from his face.

You lean closer. “So that I might.”

There’s a moment where the two of you stare each other down, when the rest of the room including Aemond fades and it's just the two of you in the room together.

All he wants is to wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. He wants to break your neck. He wants to smash your head against the stone floor, crack it open like an egg and spill your brains out for all to gawk at.

Try it, you want to whisper. Try it and let me loose the hounds of war. Let me rip your house out by root and stem and seed. Let me wear your carnage and gore as a crown. Let no one utter the name Florent as anything but a warning. Try it and let me pay the debt.

The moment passes. The opportunity fades.

His anger festers. Your hunger grows.

He steps back, his mask sliding back into face.

“My lady,” Erren says, bowing his head.

“My lord,” you reply, dropping into a curtsey.

He leaves as quickly as he had come. You watch him go, slithering through the crowd towards the large doors of the throne room.

“I was his purpose,” you say softly but Aemond is close enough that he hears you.

“You are his purpose,” his voice is low and harsh and fierce and you turn to look at him, your skirt moving around you in a flurry. His eye is locked on you, concern sharpening his features into a fury. “He only lives now to seek his satisfaction. He won’t rest until he has your head mounted on his wall. ”

“It is a nice head, I’ll grant him that,” you laugh, your heart still pounding fast in your chest. “But it is mine and I have never been one to share.”

Aemond takes in a sharp breath, closing his eye. When he opens it, his worry is tempered by growing anger.

“You should carry a dagger,” he murmurs, his voice low, his tone leaving no space for disagreement. “I am your sword, I will always rise to defend you, but I cannot be everywhere at once. There are places that I cannot follow, places he will go to seek his vengeance.”

Your smile drops slightly. “I don’t know how to wield one. I’m more likely to stab myself than do anyone any real harm.”

His hand reaches out to touch your face, only pausing in mid air when he remembers himself. He drops his hand, clenching it into a fist at his side.

He’s angry, his brow furrowed tight with an anxiety you haven’t seen since Driftmark, since he was helpless and defenseless.

Your hands itch with the desire to smooth out the tightness in his face and you wish you were alone with a fierceness that threatens to tear you in half.

“I’ll show you,” he insists, his eye flickering all over you as if he’s already imagining what you would look like if Erren Florent had his way with you, as if he can already see imaginary wounds littering your body and even the mere thought of them is too much for him to bear. “I will show you and you will keep yourself safe when I cannot. You say you’re not one to share - I’m not either. I won’t be forced to suffer the loss of you. I’ve killed one Florent for you. I’ll kill another. I’ll keep slaughtering them until I’ve bled their house dry and even then, I won’t stop until all threats are gone, until you are safe in this new world that I will build for you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. “And if there’s no end to the enemies you’ll make?”

“Then I won’t stop. I won’t stop until it’s just you and me left.”

You stare at him but nothing in his face flickers, nothing flashes. He is serious. He means what he says and you feel the weight of his devotion come crashing down on you. It is the heaviest thing you have ever felt. It knows no bounds and it crushes you completely, consuming every last bit of you and leaving room for nothing else.

And you relish it.

You’re not alone in your all-encompassing thoughts. Your hunger, your aching, raw desire, has its match, its partner, in him.

The enormity of it steals your breath from you, filling your lungs.

You’re not alone. It is complete ecstasy. It is utter bliss.

He stares at you, anger and worry fading away into anxiety, when he sees you’re not responding. Try as he might, hide as he will, but he cannot escape the little boy he once was, the boy desperate to be seen, the little boy desperate to be accepted, to be taken in.

“You are mine,” you say, the words leaving your mouth as easily as air enters your lungs. He sways towards you when he hears the weight of your voice, the adoration, the worship. “You are mine and I am yours.”

His eye grows wide and he stares down at you, his mouth dropping open slightly, looking as if you couldn’t have affected him more than if you had hit him over the head with a wooden beam, and you smile finally, feeling tears prick in the back of your eyes.

You had imagined saying it differently. You had imagined the library, had imagined being alone with none to disturb you.

But somehow, you can’t imagine it any different than this, any better than a stolen moment at the edge of a dance floor.

You reach out and grab his clenched fist, wrapping your hand around it as you bring it up to your mouth, pressing a gentle kiss on his knuckles.

“With this kiss,” you say, feeling almost delirious in your desire to do this. To prove yourself. To say something that can match his endless devotion. “I pledge my love. I pledge my life. I pledge my strength.”

It’s not enough. It won’t be enough. Not until you die in service of him.

But you need it. Oh gods, but you need it.

You drop his hand when you hear Daeron’s voice call, when you hear Alicent say his name right after.

You drop his hand and you smile at him, swallowing the thick tears down.

And he smiles back.

[amaiaqt]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤミㅤhear me outㅤ⋆ ｡˚ㅤ♡ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤsituations where he felt humiliated while explaining himself ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤwanderer, cyno, kaeya, heizou !

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ｡ﾟ ⊹ㅤwanderer !ㅤ

(may be considered a little suggestive ???? kuni likes your thighs!! basta yon putek)

in his defense, it's normal for a loving boyfriend to tweet about his partner on his private account, right ? he's just flexing you !

kunxzhi tweeted: "i want to bite [name]'s thighs archons send strength" kunxzhi tweeted: "archons im no soldier im going feral for them"

he stared at his tweet notifications that displayed on your screen as you held your phone up in front of his face, giving him the most 'this you ?' look humanity has ever seen

no, you weren't mad, you were flustered actually. but you're not used to him thinking about you like that, you thought you were the one thinking about him like that

"you wanna like... elaborate, babe ?" you spoke, setting your phone down on the counter as you leaned with one arm against it, the other resting on your hip in a sassy manner, staring him down. at this, kuni got even more nervous, tugging at the collar of his loose tanktop and mustering up a crooked smile

"i uhm..... hehe ?" why the hell did he 'hehe' ?!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ｡ﾟ ⊹ㅤcyno !ㅤ

please, he did NOT mean to stare at you so much, his eyes following you like a predator, and you weren't even doing anything

you were just wearing one of his shirts with an apron tied around your waist, circling the kitchen while cooking. it wasn't anything like..... ok maybe because you were wearing his shirt and it was loose so you looked absolutely darling in it, but archons forbid the day he has to admit that

he didn't even realize he was staring until you were waving your hand in front of his face. "cyno ? darling ?" he snapped out of his trance as his lips parted, the words ready to spill out for his response, but he felt the way your hand rested on his chest softly

that hand on his chest, along with the way you looked up at him, he is about to have a meltdown

"cyno ? you've been staring at me for a while now.." "eh...." how does he even explain himself in this situation when there was absolutely no prominent reason he should be staring in the first place ?

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ｡ﾟ ⊹ㅤkaeya !ㅤ

you've scolded him about drinking on several different occasions by now, and yes, he respects your concerns and he has limited his visits to the local tavern ! but, he needs to let of some steam sometimes

tonight was one of those nights where you allowed him to go to the tavern, giving him a curfew of course

and he arrived on time to his curfew ! just... very messily...

there was a knock on the door, and to your relief, it was your boyfriend ! but, vomiting in the plant bed by the door when you opened up to him knocking. he looked up at you, wiping off his chin as he gave you a guilty, crooked smile. only for you to narrow your eyes and glare at him in return, expectant of an explanation, yet only receiving a nervous chuckle from the male still hunched over on the doorstep

may the anemo archon give you patience to deal with this charming but stubborn man

"you're sleeping on the sofa tonight." "aw love, how cruel !" "you smell." "well, true, but —"

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ｡ﾟ ⊹ㅤshikanoin heizou ! ㅤ

you two had developed a morning routine that you were both used to. you would make him some food that he can take with him, whether he's leaving for work or personal training, and he would come home at the end of the day with some random trinket and a kiss

but today, he came home with a broken leg. actually, you had to pick him up at work because he couldn't even walk

his eyes glued to the wall or the floor when you stood in front of him, waiting for an explanation that he couldn't give. it wasn't that it was bad, it was just humiliating. but to his dismay, you asked his coworker instead

"did he sprain it while practicing his stunts ?" you questioned one of his office peers, receiving a sympathetic laugh in reply. "it's ironic actually, we thought so too." they replied, making you raise your eyebrow. "then if not from that, what happened ?" "he tripped while walking into the office."

color drained from his face and his dignity dropped to the floor, making a hole for him to crawl into — not actually, but he wished

as you stepped out of the office, carrying him on your back, you planted a kiss to his cheek as he hid his face in your shoulder

"no need to be embarrassed, idiot."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ© amaiaqt, 2023 ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤdo not plagiarize !

[quinnylouhughesx43]

Champion of my Heart

Summary: requested || in which reader is a famous singer and takes a break from tour to go watch luke play in the “Hughes bowl” but gets mobbed by the media.

Warnings: use of y/n, ended up being more about reader than about luke and reader, unedited, grammatical errors, use of song added as readers “song” I do not own this song, I am not claiming to own this song

Word Count: 1.1k

Notes: requested via ask, sorry this turned out more about reader than about the relationship it just came out of me this was at 1:30am when I woke up randomly

As the pop star, y/n, stepped off the private jet that had brought her from her latest tour stop to Newark, New Jersey, she couldn't help but feel a an overwhelming sense of excitement and relief to be back in the same state as her favorite person. Y/n had been on tour for the last two months, performing to sold-out crowds night after night. Living out of a tour bus and sleeping everywhere but the once place that felt like home, and she was exhausted. She was living her dream out and she loves what she does, she’s just being run ragged.

But she had promised herself that she would take a break, even if it was just for one night, to do something she loved - watch her boyfriend, Luke, and his brother who ironically is also his brother, Jack, play hockey for the New Jersey Devils.

Y/n had met Luke one night at small show held at Rutgers University, when he and Jack had come out to see it at the college. The boys getting noticed by quite a few of the girls on campus and a few athletes, security invited them backstage to a different green room, but y/n being curious who else would be swarmed fans went to greet them . Which led to her and Luke hitting it off immediately, bonding over their shared love of music and hockey. And as their relationship blossomed, she became a regular at Devils games, cheering on Luke and Jack from the stands.

But tonight was special. Tonight, the Devils were playing the Vancouver Canucks, and y/n knew that Luke's oldest brother, Quinn, is the captain for the Canucks. Until tonight she hasn’t seen the three brothers play against each other before, and she couldn't wait to see the intensity and the competition that she’s heard all about.

As she made her way to her seat with in Prudential Center, y/n was practically mobbed by a few fans and numerous droves of paparazzi. She smiled and waved, taking selfies and signing autographs, but she was also careful to keep her focus on the game once puck drop happened. She was there to see her man and his brother’s play, and tonight she was just another Devils fan in the stands. She didn't want to distract Luke or Jack, and she desperately wanted to be a normal girlfriend there to give support.

The game was intense, with both teams fighting hard for every chance at the puck. Y/n on the edge of her seat, screaming and cheering along with the rest of the crowd. Often times she found herself clutching to the bottom of her Luke jersey, murmuring please over and over as he loaded up for a shot. Or the hitch in her breathing when he went down because of a hard hit into the boards.

When the final buzzer sounded and the Devils had emerged victorious, and y/n was over the moon. She wasn’t sure if it was because she had never been so anxious over a game, because they won, or because she gets to see Luke now.

As she waited for Luke to come out of the locker room, y/n was surrounded by reporters and camera crews.

If all the media is out here who is interviewing the teams? She asked herself.

They were all clamoring for her attention, asking her questions about her new album and her love life. She tried to brush them off, but they were truly relentless.

"Is your new album about Luke?" one reporter asked, shoving a microphone in her face.

"No comment," Y/n replied, smiling sweetly.

"But what about your ex-boyfriend, Josh?" another reporter chimed in. "Is the album about him then?" shoving a different microphone in her face.

Y/n rolled her eyes. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again - yes my music is about my experiences in life and my emotions that coincide with said experiences. That said it does mean it has to be about any one person."

But the reporters wouldn't let up. They kept asking questions, trying to get a rise out of her. That's when she spotted Luke, emerging from the locker room with a huge grin on his face. Y/n’s heart skipped a beat as she saw him, and she knew exactly what to do to nip this in the butt.

With zero hesitation, y/n pushed through the crowd of reporters and ran directly to Luke. She jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist, and planted a long, languid, passionate kiss on his lips. Probably the most PDA the two have ever displayed in their lives. The crowd around them erupted in cheers and applause, and the reporters were left stunned and silent.

Luke laughed and hugged her to him tightly, spinning her around in a circle while still having her wrapped around his waist. "I guess that answers all your questions," he said sarcastically, winking at the reporters.

Y/n grinned looking directly at her boyfriend, feeling happy and carefree for the first time in months. She knew that she had made a statement, and that the media would be talking about this kiss for weeks to come. But she didn't care. She was just happy to be with Luke, and to have been able to support him and his team.

As they made their way out of the arena, she leaned her head on Luke's shoulder. "Thanks for getting the win for me tonight," she joked, smiling up at him.

"Anytime baby," Luke replied, squeezing her hand. "And thanks for that kiss, if I had to wait any longer I might have died from lack of attention. Plus I think that shut them up pretty effectively."

Y/n giggled at her dramatic boy. "I'm always happy to help," she said, snuggling into his side. “When we get in the car, I have something to play for you. I think you’re really going to like it.” Luke gave her a questioning look as he opened her door, letting her get in first. She pulled out a demo album, and showed him the cover.

‘Champion of my Heart’

Luke held the demo in his hands and he studied it for a moment. “Is it about..” he paused looking up to meet her eyes. “Is it really about you and I?” Y/n nodded and smiled slightly. Luke moved around the front of the car quickly, anxious to enter the car. “Remember it’s not the final version, but i wanted you hear some of the songs first.” Luke made eye contact with her again. “First, as in first first?” He needed the clarification, like she needed his approval. “Yes, first outside of my recording crew. He leaned over the console and softly cupped her cheek. “I don’t tell you enough. I love you, you’re amazing, you’re beautiful, and I am the luckiest person in the wo— no entire universe to have you.” Luke placed the softest kiss on her lips as the first track begins to play.

‘If I Could Fly’

[arctrooper69]

As Iron Sharpens Iron

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another." Proverbs 27:17

Chapter 16:

Previous // Next

Warnings: Heavy whump. Blood, broken bones, needles, battlefield medicine.

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

It felt like just a moment had passed. Something had pulled you ruthlessly back into a waking existence.

Noises. In the darkness above. That familiar voice.

Hunter?

Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe you were imaging things once again. It was so easy to lose yourself out here alone.

But what if it really is him?

Fear sprang through your chest, cracking and sizzling with electricity. Hunter couldn’t be here - not on this moon where the awful randomness of electromagnetic frequencies would surely overwhelm his senses, knocking them out as easily as they jammed any coms signal coming from the surface. It would no doubt leave him dizzy, and nauseous.

Nothing he hadn’t trained for.

The rocks that fell and bounced into the dust made it real. It was no longer a dream now.

Hunter.

Someone called your name from above. The sound echoed, dull and muffled, barely able to penetrate the haze of pain and unfocus. It was several minutes before you were able to wrench yourself from that awful dreamlike state.

“Here…” the frailty of the call surprised you, injured ribs balking, at the sudden movement of speech, drawing a sharp, sobbing gasp at the renewing of that awful hurt.

Silence. Had he heard? Had the cry for help been only in your mind - allowing you a cruel mockery of hope.

A clamor of ropes and rappelling gear.

“Hold on, I'm coming down.”

“...kay” You wanted to say more - to yell at him that there might be mercenaries still out there waiting. You wanted to scream at him to leave and save himself from this awful place, but that blessed feeling of relief swept coldly through your trembling body as he descended.

“Are you okay!?”

“N-not really….”

“Okay.”

He was calm - strong and assuredly in his element despite the awful electromagnetic disturbances that were most likely drilling through his brain not unlike the pain that wracked your own body. His well trained eyes most certainly scanned the environment, getting a read-out of your vitals, and clocking various points for extraction all within seconds.

He knows what he's doing. He's here.

That palatable relief tasted sweet, bringing tears pricking in the corners of your eyes. You couldn't stop them if you wanted to.

“Whoa, hey…” he soothed, falling to his knees, helmeted eyes surveying the way you shivered and curled inwards, protecting ribs that he suspected were either broken or badly bruised. The shallow, too quick breaths drew his concern, as did the unnatural angle of your right leg.

One thing at a time.

Though you'd managed to mostly staunch the flow of blood, it still leaked slowly, dripping into a slowly growing puddle. The sickening gleam of white stood offensively, angling awkward and wrong.

“I'm going to keep my helmet on so I can see, okay?”

You nodded, forgetting that the HUD provided him with infrared night vision - not perfect by any means, but it was something to combat the constant damp, twilight. It probably helped filter most of the noise too.

He shrugged the pack from his shoulders, placing it beside him, and drew out two small, gray-capped syringes from a pouch on his belt.

“Alright, this might hurt a little but it'll help with the pain and slow the bleeding, okay?”

You nodded, closing your eyes, giving up on stopping the tears that dripped silently into the ground. Anything was better than the nauseating waves of agony throbbing through your ribs with every breath, shooting daggers up your leg. It was more than just the physical pain that drew your tears. Shame weighed you down, drawing around your chest with a grip so tight it became impossible to know where it ended and the physical pain began.

You couldn't even do a simple job on your own. The inner, mocking voice only served to tighten the shame that locked around your chest.

It's embarrassing really. Imagine how pathetic you look lying here crying in the dirt. Mission failure. What a failure.

“Hey, look at me.” Gloved fingers touched your face and you opened your eyes. You hadn't even noticed how he'd already discarded the drugs and drew the medkit up beside him.

“You okay?” The modulated voice held concern and you wished you could see his eyes.

Those perfect dark eyes, narrowed in a focused concentration, so observant, seeing everything around him. His eyebrows would be drawn downwards in concern; lips pursed in ever moving thought. He was the epitome of a confidence born from a lifetime of training and experience, yet a sliver of doubt would be lingering just below the skin.

You knew that face well.

“Hurts…” the single word sliding over numb lips felt weak - shameful. A poor excuse for an answer to a voice like his. You could hear him breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

“I know. It should get better in a few. Give the meds some time to kick in. You'll be able to breathe a little better too.”

You nodded, once again closing your eyes.

“Hey now, none of that.” He tapped your cheek again. “Come on, you gotta stay with me, okay? I'm gonna need your help in a minute. Think you can do that?”

Your head swam. All you wanted to do was close your eyes and give into that cold and dizzy pool of relief. Spots danced across your vision, threatening to grow with every nauseating thud of your heart. You were sure you wouldn't be of any help to anybody anytime soon. “I… dunno…”

“Just breathe. Nice and slow. Can't have you passing out on me just yet.”

He was right. You thought. Breathing did come easier with that sliver of relief the painkiller provided.

“Hunter, I'm sorry…” your voice cracked.

He inhaled slowly, feeling his chest tighten and grow heavy once more in that strange mixture of contradicting emotion. He hurt because you hurt - heart weighted by the crack of your voice that vainly hid the pain. Yet a sense of relief had pierced him so strongly when he’d heard your voice from the depths. Alive. She’s alive.

A silence floated for seconds with baited breath, both waiting for a reply, hoping for that emotion ladened acceptance but expecting nothing.

All he wanted to do was hold you in his arms, running his fingers through your hair. He wished desperately to tell you that everything would be alright - that you’d be safe, and that he’d get you out of there. He would bear all of your pain without a second thought if it only meant you’d be with him forever.

He took another breath, forcing himself to exhale. No, he scolded, forcing himself to let go of the fantasy. No time. Focus. Breathe.

He turned away. “I’m gonna take a look at your leg, okay?”

You nodded, numb to everything but the fact that he’d ignored you.

What have I done?

Hunter exhaled as he knelt by your leg, gently using his fingers to further rip the bloodsoaked fabric past the knee, stopping at mid thigh. You shivered. Hunter was quiet as he placed a hand on your other leg with a reassuring squeeze.

“Alright, here’s what we’re gonna do.” He took a breath, not sure if he meant to calm his own nerves or you. He looked up, “We’ve got to splint this before I can get you out of here. The painkiller I gave you should take the edge off, but I’m not gonna lie to you,” he grimaced, “ this probably isn’t gonna feel great, but I’ll try to be as quick as I can.”

“Ok… just do it.”

He nodded, “Alright, try to stay still for me, sweetheart.”

Hunter paused for a nanosecond. Sweetheart? There wasn’t time to work out that slip of the tongue. He shook his head at the momentary lapse before turning to the task at hand.

He took a calming breath, watching as you nervously hugged yourself, gripping tightly at your own upper arms, desperate for any kind of comforting hold. It burned, deep inside his chest at the knowledge of the coming hurt he had no choice but to inflict. He squeezed the good leg once again.

“Okay, here we go.”

You had already done a decent job, packing gauze into the cavity beneath the bone, but now it was slowly beginning to saturate, scarlet blood leaking in slow rivets down the skin.

Grabbing another wad of gauze, he didn’t hesitate upon pressing it into the wound bit by bit, probing deeper into the gap where bone had once been. Muscles tensed beneath his fingers, locking up stiff and still in an autonomic and desperate attempt to stay any movement that might cause further pain. A guttural cry ripped from your throat, barely muffled by the fabric of your shirt clenched deathly tight between teeth through which he knew you were so desperately trying to fight the urge to scream at him, begging him to stop, that it hurt too much to go on.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, he wanted to say. He wanted desperately to plead for forgiveness but he bit his lip in that steadfast determination of what must be done. It broke his heart, the way you fought your own body for control as it arced and jerked longing to be free of this torment. Tears streamed through eyes screwed so tightly shut, veins in your neck bulging and shoulders moving in erratic attempts to breathe through the pain.

“You’re doing great, cyar'ika,” he soothed, “you’re doing so good. Almost done.”

Hunter’s voice felt so far away, hidden amongst the starbursts of burning white that flashed behind your eyes - nearly inaudible among the molten lava screaming so loudly you could feel it in every bone.

So great, cyar'ika. So good. You clung to that deep sincerity which came echoing from a distance the rumble of thunder before a storm. Almost done. Almost done. I’ve got you. It’s okay.

It was the only thing keeping you afloat like a lifevest in this whirlpool of icy fire that spun in a never ending confusion of flaying nerves and nothingness.

The last pull, securing resting bone onto thoroughly packed gauze brought a strange relief to the sharp, ever invading cold.

“All done. You did good.” Warm fingers gently weaving themselves through your hair pulled you ever closer to that voice you longed so badly to return to.

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

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[takes1]

daichi x track team!reader meet-cute

this was really fun and cute to write. love me some daichi. working on an osamu request rn!

warnings. none / sfw info. sfw / fluff / fem!reader / daichi being handsome / sweet daichi / first-year!reader / track team!reader / scaredy-cat asahi / daichi smells good / big hands thirst / 1.6k words 🤍haikyuu collection more links. my ao3 / masterlist / requests open!

"Hey! Volleyball team! Let me see your Captain!"

Many different tones and sing-songy renditions of 'Daichi' sounded, even though he was already crossing the lanes to speak to the track Coach. He waved off his high-spirited team, sparing a glance back to their light warm-up that he left Nishinoya to lead.

Asahi and Suga jumped over to the grass in the center of the field, but Daichi was just stepping into Lane 1 when you came barreling down:

"GET OFF THE TRACK!!" You bellowed with what little air you could afford.

It came out heartless, but with all fairness, was completely called for. This was about to be a PR, you could feel it in your bones.

Daichi stumbled out of the way just in time- he felt a whip of air from your force a second after you were gone, many meters around the curve of the track and gaining distance between yourself and your partner.

The Coach's belly-laughing brought his heart back down.

He tore his eyes away from you and laughed at the situation, much softer and carrying more relief in its resonance.

Of course, a minute after he just grilled his team on staying out of all lanes except for the last two, he gets nearly trampled.

Just now feeling Asahi's iron grip on his upper arm, he patted his fearful friend to reality.

"Man," Asahi blew a shaky breath, "Track girls are so intense!"

Your Coach kept laughing at your ferocity and resolve to not slow down in the face of a great, hulking obstacle in your way.

Suga put his hands on his hips and craned to look at you halfway across the track, snickering, "She was definitely out to get you, buddy!"

He turned to see you already on the other side of the track, in front of your competition by a narrow gap.

"I know she's little, but-" He shuddered at the jet-like wind on his face, "It felt like I was about to get shot, or something."

"That's our (L/n)! She's a pretty promising first-year. On scholarship."

Daichi raised his brows and nodded slowly, impressed, watching you finish 15 meters in front of the guy you were racing.

"Just isn't..." He seethed. They all watched you stumble and wobble to a walk. "-Very polished yet."

You looked a bit pale- chest rapidly rising and falling as you stammered to a pained limp, holding your side. You leaned over the grass, hands on your knees.

"'Ey! Hands over your head (L/n)!! Keep walki- Great."

The Coach began to jog over with superior knowledge.

Daichi scratched his face and looked away as you threw up-- his polite, averted gaze fell to Hinata, who was finishing his race against Kageyama; pale, stumbling, putting his hands over his knees.

"Hinata! Don't-!" He did the same thing all over the concrete. There went a whole lane they needed for practice.

Now they were down to one and Hinata was put out for the time being. Daichi was just a bit too slow on the uptake.

"Hey-!," You were pouring water on the top of your head, one hand on your hip, making your way towards Daichi. Asahi moved back a little, but bumped into Suga and had to stay put.

"'M sorry for yelling at you, man," A glance back to your Coach to make sure he was watching you apologize.

You looked between all of them, still peeved that they were getting in the way when they just got here. "But- seriously."

They all tensed. Some little shrimp being upfront and rude was the last thing they were expecting when they got the chance to train somewhere different. It put a huge damper on their light mood.

Daichi picked up on it quick. Despite everyone being shocked you were so straightforward with their Captain, he stayed cool and carefree with a calculated response.

"Sorry about that, I've already told the team to stay out of your lanes."

Team. I've. 'I've told... the team.' You glanced around again, brain slow to put the pieces together with all the endorphins jumping back and forth. You shook your head with a laugh.

Man, these guys were giant. It hurt your neck to look up at all of them. They all had long arms and legs.

"Wait-wait, you're the... volleyball team. And you're--," You motioned to him with a thrust of your bottle, face steadily sinking, then retracted it slowly, "Oh my god, I'm so sorry."

Your Captain was crystal clear at the start of practice, emphasizing how important it would be to show courtesy and respect to the Boys' Volleyball Team, since they agreed to share the track today for some joint training.

You made yourself a lot smaller being so apologetic.

"It's okay! It's okay, really, I was right in your way!"

"Oh, maaan," You looked back at your Coach, speaking to your Captain with a not-so-subtle head jerk in your direction, "Oh, fuck..."

Daichi's fast reaction left you shocked and standing alone, a bit weak in the knees, as he jogged over with a friendly, distracting wave to the pair.

You were so fucked. A first-year, yelling at the Captain of another team?

The last time you were in trouble, you got drilled so hard your teammates were scraping you off the concrete like a piece of chewed bubblegum. All you did then was line up the starting blocks backwards.

This? This was a cardinal sin.

The air was starting to feel cold again and when you turned to look at the team he left behind, they were all looming over you like a bunch of titans, ruminating all the ways they would crush you, cook you up, and eat you for dinner. The hair on the back of your neck went stock-straight and you felt your legs start to wobble.

Now your Captain was looking around Daichi with a violent, ruthless glare.

She pointed at you with a firm, crooked finger, mouthed something, then pointed at the ground. You gave a choked sound and slowly put some distance between yourself and the group of giants.

Your Coach's voice was a godsend and the guilty gavel all in one, "(L/n)! Run some 400s 'till I'm tired!"

"Moving!!!" You dropped your bottle where you stood and quickly sprinted away. The more distance between yourself and this judge, jury, executioner shit, the better.

The next morning you had to be convinced by multiple alarms to get out of bed. Your core, quads, calves, shins, ankles, hips-- they were all useless as you dragged your own body to your classroom.

You took the corner slowly because it was simply all you could do, but smashed the side of your face straight into a firm chest.

There was no give, and certainly no question that you were falling first when your legs decided this was the opportune time to give up.

You began to crumble to the floor like a sack of sand, papers flying out of the beat-up notebook in your arms.

"Watch where you're going--!"

The transgressor barely grabbed your wrist, popping it in the process, which gave you a moment to catch his.

Wide, terrified eyes flew up to an pair of kind, deep brown eyes and soft, forgiving, somewhat charmed smile.

You let go at once, opting for a cold, hard hit to your aching glutes instead of being seen anywhere near this handsome, bad-luck charm again.

"We keep just keep bumping into each other," Daichi- you learned his name after having to run a mile for each of the letters- chuckled and lifted you to your feet despite your protests with a startling ease.

Just for a moment, it felt like you were floating, finally a break off of your twitchy legs.

You stumbled forward again, onto his big shoulder, and he gave an apologetic smile, just as hunky as the last, when he realized why you were so clumsy.

His grip firmed at your waist to keep you steady. A bit warm and jittery at the motion, you smoothed out your shirt where his big hands wrinkled it once he let go.

"Thank you," You mumbled, all confidence dissipating when he leaned down to hear you, "For trying to save me."

Another chuckle. He was pretty easy-going, you learned. It helped your nerves when he bent to pick up your scattered papers.

"It's the least I could do," He held his hand up to keep you from leaning down, "Stop- stop, you must be so sore-,"

You blushed hard at his concern and his huge, rough hand. Volleyball guys were super hot.

"It's my fault you got in trouble," Daichi handed you a neat stack of papers.

The bell sounded, a gentle but dreadful reminder that you wouldn't be able to amble your way to your classroom without being late.

"Where's your class? I'll walk you over," He smiled. No bad blood. No worries.

This guy was a breath of fresh air.

It was the best 70 seconds of your day, having a strong arm around your waist, holding a third of your weight while he carried your bag over his opposite shoulder. He smelled like cotton and green tea, his voice a smooth and reassuring presence that quieted your frantic mind.

The late bell rang just as he deposited you at the door. At this point, you didn't want to go to class anymore. He handed you your bag with a kind smile.

"See ya this afternoon."

Your plans to skip practice today were entirely foiled in just four words. You had to see him much more than you needed your legs in operable condition.

masterlist.

requests/submissions are open!

[guilty-pleasures21]

Dragon!Miguel - kidnapped!

The main fic turned out much more popular than I expected, so I decided to spoil you guys with a short side story 🤭.

@captain-liminal possible art of Dragon!Miguel x Phoenix!Reader ?

Hope you guys enjoy!

Warnings: brief mention of violence.

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     He marched out of the throne room, glad that the meeting had finally ended: now he could fly off to his wife’s kingdom to join her while she visited her family for a few days. She’d left earlier that day, wanting to spend as much time back home as possible, and though he hadn’t liked the idea of sending his wife off alone, he could never say no to her.

     “Your Majesty!” A palace guard’s frantic voice broke into his thoughts of his pretty little wife and Miguel frowned as he looked up at the man. But then the guard continued and Miguel’s blood ran cold at his words. 

     “The Queen!” he exclaimed, slowing to a stop in front of Miguel. “She’s been kidnapped! We have received a ransom letter - from a group of rebel orcs, it would seem. They caught her midway through her flight back-” He broke off suddenly as Miguel flew down the hallway, racing towards the front entrance of the palace. The guard followed after him, calling after his King in a panic, but Miguel refused to slow down. 

     “Your Majesty!” 

     “Send an army!” Miguel commanded, calling back to him as he soared away from the palace. His body lengthened into its full dragon form as he climbed higher in the sky, his eyes narrowing into reptilian slits and his skin darkening into deep blue scales. He’d make them pay. He’d make sure there was nothing left of those half-witted, foul-breathed, repugnant monsters once he was through with them.

     The orc whom she supposed was the second-in-command snarled at her from between the bars of the cage they’d locked her in.

     “Just give us a feather, Princess! Or else we’ll have to let Lumdum take it from ya,” he threatened, prompting a gleeful snicker from his friend. 

     “Yeah!” Lumdum agreed. “Let me at ‘er! I got a few new fancy tools I been meaning to try out on a pretty little birdie …”

     X shuddered as the orc leered at her, his cracked lips stretching wide to reveal patches of missing teeth. She grabbed the bars of her cage and drew her brows together to galre at them in what she hoped was a threatening manner - Miguel always said she looked especially cute whenever she frowned at him like that. But she didn’t want to be cute now: she wanted to be taken seriously! 

     “You and I both know you will not be getting what you want out of me,” she said, glad that her voice came out steady despite her nerves. “The best you can hope for is to let me go this instant so that my husband might take the smallest shred of mercy on you and not obliterate you into pieces!”

     The orcs glanced at one another for a moment. Then they all burst into laughter, bending over and clutching their stomachs at how adorable she looked, wrinkling her nose at them. 

     “We’ll take our chances, Princess,” the leader - Varbu, she thought she’d heard the others call him - assured her. He started creeping towards her and X moved back to the other end of the cage. She sucked in shallow breaths, trying to stop herself from transforming out of fear - phoenix feathers were one of the most powerful objects next to dragon scales, able to wipe out an entire battlefield’s worth of soldiers if they were set aflame at the right angle, so she didn’t want to give these demented creatures a single opportunity to get one of hers. She whimpered as she pressed herself against the bars, wishing she had even an ounce as much of power as Miguel had - then she could have at least tried to defend herself against these brutes. Her heart thudded in her chest as Varbu’s fat green fingers closed around the iron bars, then the both of them froze as a loud roar echoed throughout the valley. X looked up and a felt wave of relief crash over her as she saw her husband swooping towards her, his deep blue scales glinting in the sunlight, his fiery eyes burning with rage when they landed on her.

     He drew a deep breath into his lungs, then released it again, bathing the valley in flames. The orcs scrambled around in a panic, desperately trying to put out the fire eating away at their clothes, but Miguel refused to grant them a second of respite before he staged his attack. He dived lower and picked up one of the orcs to throw him over the mountains, ignoring his terrified screams as he flew through the air to his death. Then he swiped at another with his claws, splitting him open as he batted him into the now scorched forest nearby. He descended on the last one before he even had a chance to blink, closing his jaw around his head and flinging him far out of his reach from his wife. 

     She transformed into her phoenix form as he released another barrage of flames, allowing the warmth of his fire to heal the injuries she’d sustained when she’d been snatched out of the sky earlier. She cooed happily as her husband made his way over to her, the ground trembling with every step he took. Miguel grabbed hold of the bars and pulled them apart, bending the metal to create a gap for his wife to exit through.

     She was so graceful in her phoenix form, stepping out of the wretched cage and arranging her dazzling feathers before she finally looked up at him with those big, beautiful eyes of hers. Miguel relaxed slightly at the sight of her safe before him and grunted softly before lowering his head to nuzzle her affectionately. His wife wriggled against his cheek, delighted to be reunited with him and he sighed at how soft she felt. Dios, she was perfect. He’d never let her out of his sight again. 

     She stretched her wings as he curled his large body around her and let out another coo to catch his attention. Her husband raised his head in question and she gestured to the sky, eager to get home and see her parents. Miguel snorted in disagreement as he straightened, refusing to let her travel by herself again. Instead, he turned his head to his body, gesturing for her to get on. X rolled her eyes, but flew up to his back anyway, transforming back into her human form and wrapping herself securely around him. He took off into the air once she was comfortable and together, they continued their journey to her parents’ home. 

     The King and Queen of Risendelle paced back and forth in their throne room, anxiously awaiting any news on their precious daughter. Finally, a palace guard burst through the doors, grabbing both of their attentions. 

     “Your Majesties!” he exclaimed between shallow breaths. “It is the Dragon King! He is almost here!” 

     The King and Queen rushed to greet their son-in-law, the both of them holding their breaths as they watched him ascend to the ground. They ran over to him once he’d landed and let out twin sighs of relief when they saw their daughter safe and sound on his back. X slid to the ground and let herself be wrapped up by her parents, hugging them back as tightly as they did her. 

     “My baby!” the Queen screeched. “Are you all right? Did they … Did they hurt you?!”

     “Your brother left as soon as we received the news!” the King informed her before she even had a chance to respond. “He brought some of the army with him, so they should-”

     Miguel huffed in interruption, surrounding the three of them in a circle of smoke. He grunted when they all turned to look at him, then shrank back down into his human form. His arms came around his wife almost immediately, pulling her back against his chest and holding her close. 

     “There’s nothing left of them,” Miguel informed his wife’s father. “The prince may return to spend time with his sister.”

     The King reached up and gave his son-in-law’s shoulder a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, son. We appreciate your intervention.”

     “My wife-” A growl escaped his throat as he tried to respond and Miguel tightened his grip on X as he took a moment to calm himself down. X brushed her thumbs across the back of his hands where they were clasped around her abdomen and Miguel felt some of the heat dissipate from his body. He cleared his throat and tried again. “My wife is my most precious treasure. I will never let anything happen to her!” His fangs shot out in anger and he let out an involuntary snarl at the thought. The Queen nodded in understanding and brushed a loose strand of X’s hair behind her ear. 

     “Thank you, sweetheart,” she told Miguel, glad that her daughter had found someone so enamoured with her. “Perhaps the two of you would like to get some rest after your journey? We’ll have the maids call you when dinner is ready.”

     X twisted her head back to look up at her husband, blinking at him with her curly lashes. Miguel lowered his head to nuzzle the crook of her neck with his nose and she turned back to her mother to place a hand on her forearm. 

     “We’ll see you at dinner, mother,” she agreed, before walking into the palace. Her husband’s arms stayed glued to her waist as she led them both down the hallway, making her way towards her childhood bedroom. Miguel tugged her back to him once they were alone and bent over to press soft kisses to her skin, his lips making their way up the side of her neck to her cheek. X giggled at the ticklish feeling and turned around to face him, delighting in the feeling of his hard muscles as she placed her hands on his broad chest. She stretched onto her toes to give him a quick kiss, then cupped his face in her hand when she’d lowered herself back to her feet. She brushed her thumb across his cheek and Miguel pouted down at her, allowing himself to be vulnerable enough for her to see the terror that had overcome him at the thought of her being hurt. X wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers making their way into his hair, and pressed a tender kiss to his cheek as she held him close. 

     He stroked her back gently, focusing on the familiar smoky scent of her to soothe his pounding heart. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, showering her with the occasional kiss as she tickled his scalp softly. Finally, he pulled back and trailed his gaze over her, taking her in and reassuring himself that she was safe. She stretched up to kiss him again and Miguel bent over to repeat the gesture before taking a step back. He shook his arms out and transformed into full dragon form, his large body taking up the entirety of the room. X raised her eyebrows at him in question and he circled the room before settling down on the ground, his head resting on her bed. 

     She could still feel some leftover adrenaline from her ordeal, but she didn’t want him to panic any more than he already had. So, she sighed and flashed him an exasperated look, her lips curling at the ends with amusement. Miguel gave her a beseeching look in return and she shook her head before transforming into her phoenix form. 

     He wagged his tail excitedly as she fluttered into the little nest he’d created for her with his body. She was so beautiful in her creature form, her golden feathers glimmering in the light, her brown eyes wide and alluring, her slender body stretching out so gracefully. He reached over to nuzzle her with his cheek, relishing the feeling of her silky feathers against his scales, then he rested his head back on the bed. He watched quietly as she shifted around, getting herself comfortable. Then she closed her eyes and drifted off into sleep, safe in the knowledge that her husband would protect her. Miguel lifted his head to stroke her feathers again, unable to resist how adorable his pretty little wife was. X opened one eye and cooed at him in irritation, and Miguel gave her one last nuzzle before laying his head back down and quickly falling asleep himself. 

     The maid knocked on the door to the princess’s bedroom, then gently pushed it open. “Ma’am? Dinner is- Oh!”

     She startled as she was met by an enormous dragon filling up the entire space. Miguel opened one eye to look at her, his expression unreadable as he flicked his tail back and forth, waiting for her to speak. The maid gulped and lowered her head before gesturing outside. “T-The … The Queen … D-Dinner … is ready … Your Majesty.”

     She snuck a glance at Miguel and he huffed at her request before nodding to his wife, firmly asleep in his embrace. The maid nodded quickly, her eyes widening with understanding. 

     “O-Oh!” she gasped. “Yes, Your Majesty. I shall inform the Queen that the Princess is still resting.” She fell into a bow as she backed out of the room, staunchly avoiding Miguel’s gaze as she closed the door quietly and left. X wriggled around as she started to awaken and she blinked up at Miguel sleepily before cooing at him in question. Miguel reached over to brush her feathers with his cheek, gently nudging her back to sleep, but she transformed back into her human form instead.

     “Miguel? ¿Qué pasó, querido? What time is it?” She patted his nose, then started trying to climb over his tail to get to the door. Miguel transformed back as well and rushed over to grab her waist, turning her around and pulling her against him. His wife laughed as she wrapped her arms around his neck and he sprinkled kisses along her cheek and down the side of her neck. 

     “Querida …” he whined, not wanting to leave their little cocoon just yet. “Te amo, mi reina.”

     “I love you, too, Miguel.” She ran her fingers through his hair, then smiled up at him when he straightened. “But I’m starving, mi amor! Let’s eat!”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 11: I Know This Hurts, It Was Meant To]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), lots and lots of death and destruction, literally nothing good happens in this chapter don't even read it, a Wolfman sighting, a wild Alys-Whent theory appears, more witchcraft! 🔮

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

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“Why isn’t Aemond back yet?”

You’re standing in the Dragonstone rookery with your arms crossed, brow furrowed, ravens pacing through straw and flapping their dark captive wings inside the cages. Through the window, you are watching the waves break against rocks where the Narrow Sea meets the shoreline. Outside it is overcast, misty, grey, cold. When you stepped into the gardens this morning—while Aegon was still sleeping, something he does with ever-increasing frequency, though you aren’t sure if it is more of a physical necessity or mental escape—frost crunched beneath your boots. Lord Larys Strong has shuffled into the room, his cane tapping on the stone floor; that is why you have spoken.

“Perhaps my sister was wrong about Daemon being at the Gods Eye,” he offers demurely. He is trying to be helpful; he is trying to comfort you. But you remember how vividly Alys showed you Everett being murdered by a mob in King’s Landing. You remember his screams, his flailing arms, men ripping the rings off his fingers and women stabbing the blades of their rusty kitchen knives into his eyes. Alys has never met Everett; she could not possibly have known what he looked like, what his voice sounded like, without gifts beyond what you once believed to be possible. Her sight is true and terrible.

“No,” you reply softly, still gazing at the iron-grey ocean. Any minute I’ll hear Vhagar flying over again. I’ll see her vast, reptilian shadow and know that Aemond has won and the war is all but over.

“Perhaps Aemond felt compelled to go south immediately after defeating Daemon and Caraxes. Perhaps he’s with Prince Daeron now, and they’re burning Northmen in the Reach. Perhaps he wants to return with Cregan Stark’s severed head.”

There’s no logical reason why this can’t be the case; but in place of relief, what you feel instead is a heaviness like stones being piled up, like ships filling with seawater. You turn to Larys. “If the king asks about Aemond, I want you to reassure him the same way you’re speaking to me right now.”

He bows his head. “Of course.”

“But I want you to do it more convincingly.”

Larys startles a bit, then regains his composure. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Is Aegon awake yet?”

“He was just getting out of bed when I checked on him.”

And that’s what you’re always doing now, you and Larys and the maesters and the guards: always looking in on Aegon, always making sure he’s not in too much pain, reminding him to eat, distracting him, soothing him, lifting his spirits. “Good. Have the cooks make something that will give him strength.”

“Not crab?”

“No. Something heavier. Beef, venison.” You recall the feast in King’s Landing to celebrate Rhaenyra’s taking of the city, slabs of rare meat glistening with blooddrops like rubies. Red like war, red like the banner of the house you were born to. “Boar, if the kitchens have any.”

In his bedchamber, the king is gazing out of his own window, but slumped in a velvet-cushioned chair instead of standing. He’s sipping a cup of red wine languidly, glazed eyes and slow blinks. There’s a dagger on the table beside him, the one he uses to cut his hair when it starts to grow too long. There are locks of white-blond hair scattered around him on the floor like a thin dusting of snow. Outside, grey clouds churn and waves shatter when they meet jagged boulders and cliffsides, the earth’s own bones.

Aegon glances over at you and says thoughtfully: “Where’s Aemond?”

“He’ll be back soon. I know he will.” He has to be. We can’t win without him. You go to Aegon and kneel down on the floor beside his chair. You lay a palm on his thigh, light as a feather, like you’re just a ghost or a memory. He places a hand over yours. Seconds tick by, late-autumn wind rattles the glass of the window.

“Aemond used to talk about us not being real Targaryens,” Aegon tells you. His voice is faint and dreamy. His eyes are still cast outside—miles away, years away—where he is willing Vhagar’s monstrous shadow to appear. “When we were very young. The Hightowers don’t have any Valyrian blood, they’ve been here in Westeros forever, since men lived in caves and worshiped…” He gestures flippantly with his wine cup, rolls his eyes. “I don’t know, I don’t care, sticks or rocks or whatever. That bothered Aemond. He felt that made us less than Rhaenyra and Daemon. Our father rejected us, he ignored us, he broke every precedent to keep us from the throne. Being a Targaryen…it didn’t matter to me.” He smirks wryly and looks down at the flurry of silver hair around his chair. “I didn’t want it anyway. Sunfyre was the only part of my inheritance I didn’t think was a curse. But Aemond needed that legacy. He always wanted to be a hero. He was willing to put in the work, he had the discipline, he had the skill. It meant so much to him, and I…” Aegon shakes his head, his voice breaking. “I shouldn’t have said those things before he left.”

“He didn’t think you meant it. He knew you were speaking out of pain and frustration.”

“I have to be able to apologize to him.”

“You’ll get the chance. He’ll be back soon.”

And Aegon’s eyes—huge and shimmering and a tumultuous blue like the ocean—drift to yours. The words are there, though you don’t hear them aloud: Will he really?

You have to divert him. You have to make him smile. “And don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll bring your favorite swamp witch with him.”

Aegon laughs; crinkles spring up around his eyes, pink rushes into his pale cheeks. “Oh, seven hells. He better not expect us to host her here while he flies south to roast the Stark men.”

“You don’t enjoy her company?” you tease.

“I’d throw crab shells at her. I’d make her sleep in a tree.” He sighs. “Borros Baratheon is going to be furious.”

“I suppose we don’t always get much of a choice in who we fall in love with.”

“No,” Aegon agrees. “We certainly don’t.” He sets his wine cup on the table, leans down to cradle your face with both hands, draws you in close to him and kisses you, deep and tender and slow. He tastes like wine, and weakness, and heat that he is fighting desperately to keep kindling. Everything he does now is full of effort, even just speaking, even just love. He moves like his arms weigh a thousand pounds, like his jaw is iron and his spine is lead. But he lifts it all for you, for you.

Your palm skates to the apex of his thighs. He is hard, he is hungry for you; but he breaks the kiss and covers his face with both hands, moaning. “Aegon?” You thread your fingers through his choppy hair, tuck his braid behind his ear, bring your lips to his forehead. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He chokes out: “I’m so fucking pathetic.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. I’m just this scarred, crippled, useless man. And everyone I touch is ruined by me. I can’t let anything bad happen to you. I don’t understand how you could still want me.”

“I do want you,” you swear, taking his hands from his face: the tears glistening there, the rough red burn on his right cheek. “You and no one else.”

Aegon stares at you with his wet, wounded eyes. “You can’t just give in because you think it’s something you owe me. We can’t allow this to become something that’s poisoned.”

Poison. You think of the tea you brewed Baela, of the milk of the poppy in the glass bottle on Aegon’s bedside table across the room. You think of the night you surrendered to Aemond for nothing, no gain, no strategy, no heir, just treason that grows heavy and unmistakable within you like a child would. “It’s not poison with you, Aegon. It’s the only time I feel pure.”

Aegon staggers to his feet and kisses you again as the wind howls outside. His tongue darts between your lips; his arms circle around your waist to help him keep his balance. He follows you to the bed, a moon chasing its planet, and helps you shed your gown of emerald green velvet, just one of your many skins. He’s lying beside you, he’s touching you everywhere, he’s nipping ravenously at your throat, your breasts, down to your belly, your hips. He’s parting your thighs like pages in a book. He’s dragging his tongue through your drenched folds. And then it flashes in your skull like lightning: memories of Aemond, of betrayal, shame and nausea and scalding blood rushing into your face.

“Come back,” you murmur, and Aegon obeys. But then he does something strange. He heaves himself up with great effort, repositions himself behind you, kisses the bumps of vertebrae down the back of your neck as the scars that riddle his chest scratch against your shoulder blades. When you try to roll towards him again, Aegon stops you.

“No,” he pleads in a whisper, hushed and desperate through your hair. “Don’t turn around. Don’t look at me.”

And before you can protest, his fingertips have skimmed over your hip to stroke you where you are warm and slick and aching, and you are gasping helplessly, begging for more, and his cock slips into you with slow, powerful thrusts that he battles not to break the rhythm of until you’ve come. But in the midst of the pleasure, you are aware that just like the moon in its withering phases, Aegon is somehow less, and so are you, and so is everyone, and so is the world itself.

When it’s over, Aegon doesn’t hold you like he usually does. He doesn’t sink into sleep like deep water. He rolls over, fumbles for his bedside table, pours himself a cup of milk of the poppy with shaking hands.

~~~~~~~~~~

You sit on the bottom steps of the stone staircase, your bare feet in cool wet sand. Your gown is scarlet velvet, a bear fur cloak clutched around your shoulders. You are reading a book from the castle library about the medicinal uses of berries. Across the beach, Aegon is trying to coax Sunfyre into eating a goat that the guards have brought for him. The dragon is sluggish and flightless, and his own blood stains his muzzle; but he peers at Aegon with pained golden eyes like he wants so desperately to please him. And for the first time, you are at last able to see dragons as something more than animate destruction. You see intelligence in them; you see what might even be love.

There are distinct footsteps approaching as Larys descends the staircase, his cane tapping ever-closer. News of Aemond? News of his victory? You twist around to greet the Master of Whisperers. “Do you bring something to lift our spirts, Lord Larys…?”

But no; his face is grim, and he’s holding a bundle of fabric under one arm. He lowers himself down onto the step where you are perched, sets his cane aside, and grasps the bundle with both hands. He stalls for a moment before he speaks. He is in shock, he is terrified. “I’m afraid, Your Grace, that I must inflict great heartache upon the king.” His eyes flick to you. “Perhaps you could help me. I don’t even know how to begin.”

Your veins feel icy; your pulse is thundering in your ears. Aemond? Vhagar? “What’s happened? Is it…about the Gods Eye…?”

“No.” Larys gives you the fabric, folded into a neat square. You pull it apart to examine it.

“What is this…?” But then you know. It is a cape. It is not a regal emerald color, nor a deep envious viridescence; it is a vibrant seafoam green, bright and bold and showy. The clasp is still attached, a gold that glints like the dragon ring on Aegon’s left hand. And the cape is riddled with dark maroon smudges and places where the fabric was singed away, leaving only a gash like the puncture mark of a fang. It smells like smoke and the coppery sickness of blood. Soot rubs off on your palms. “Daeron,” you breathe.

Larys nods gravely. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“How? How did you get this?”

“I have informants in the Reach. After the battle, one ensured that this made its way to me. It should be preserved. It should be given to his mother when we are reunited with her, I believe. Perhaps it will bring her some small consolation. It is the only relic of him she will have to bury.”

“Daeron,” you say again, and you can see him like he’s standing in front of you: daring, arrogant, brave, capable far beyond his years, cunning blue eyes, a shock of silver hair that he was so proud of. Alicent has lost two children. Can she survive this? Will she want to? “I don’t understand, what battle…?”

“Cregan Stark and his men met the Hightower army at Tumbleton,” Larys explains. “Addam Velaryon returned on Seasmoke to join the Blacks and prove his enduring loyalty to Rhaenyra. Perhaps the bastard was genuine, perhaps he only wanted to convince Rhaenyra to free poor Corlys from the Red Keep’s dungeons. It doesn’t matter which now. The boy is dead.”

“Dead,” you repeat. Addam Velaryon may have been a boy, but he fought for Rhaenyra. He fought for Cregan Stark. And you say before you can stop yourself: “Good.”

“Daeron on Tessarion, Hugh Hammer on Vermithor, and the Velaryon bastard on Seasmoke tangled in the sky above the battle. Vermithor was killed by a scorpion bolt fired by the Northmen. Seasmoke was killed by Tessarion. Daeron fell from his dragon in the midst of the clash. Once the Blacks emerged victorious, Tessarion was found alive but mortally injured, and she was shot to death by Stark’s archers.”

“And Cregan Stark, he’s…he survived?”

“Yes. He is unharmed. But the Hightower army was devastated.”

“What about the other Betrayer? Ulf the White? Could he and Silverwing—?”

“Ulf slept through the battle. Drunk to the point of unconsciousness, I’ve heard. He was slain afterwards. The riderless Silverwing has vanished.”

No Tessarion. No Vermithor or Silverwing. Sunfyre is dying. The only Green dragon left is Vhagar. You can’t believe it. You won’t believe it. “But…but Aemond was supposed to fly south after the Gods Eye, he and Daeron were supposed to fight together, and if Vhagar was there this never would have happened—”

“No, it wouldn’t have,” Larys concurs somberly. “But evidently, Aemond has not yet left the Riverlands.”

You study the cape, this ash-and-blood tapestry of the youngest Targaryen brother’s demise, the fifteen-year-old boy who was so much like Aegon. Where is Aemond? Still waiting for Daemon and Caraxes? Holed up inside the crumbling towers of Harrenhal with Alys? Where the hell is he? We need him. We need him. We can’t win without him.

“Your Grace,” Larys says gingerly, like trying not to creak floorboards. “I think it’s time for you to consider what your options are if a Green victory no longer appears to be viable.”

If the Greens lose, Aegon will be executed. You shake your head. “No.”

“I don’t say this to cause you distress. I do it to save your life if that time ever comes. The king would want you to survive, and so would Alicent.”

You hug the mangled cape to your chest, your throat full of embers and your eyes blurring with tears. “There’s nowhere else for me to go.”

“To Claw Isle?” Larys suggests. “The Blacks believe you to be innocent. Your family would take you back.”

“Clement is the head of my house now. He idolizes Cregan Stark, I think he loves him more than he ever loved me. If Cregan is still alive when the war is over, Clement will give me to him. How can I marry a man who fought against Aegon’s cause? Who murdered Greens?” Who is, at least in part, responsible for his death?

Larys scrambles for another solution. “I could try to send you somewhere far away. Dorne, Essos.”

“And then what?” you demand; and Larys cannot answer. You do it for him. “I’d be a woman alone in the world. I would be vulnerable and friendless. I have no idea how to fend for myself. Autumn knew it.” And you remember what she told you before she accompanied you to Dragonstone, a journey that feels like a lifetime ago: I mean no offense, my lady, but you know nothing of the world beyond your castles and gardens and books full of naked men drawings. You would not last a day on your own.

“You read, you write, you study medicine,” Larys says, rather frantic now. “Perhaps I could arrange to have you taken to the Citadel and you could train under the maesters there…I could try to contact some who are sympathetic to the Greens, and if they agree you should depart immediately—”

“I won’t leave Aegon.”

“Your Grace, if the Greens lose this war…I fear the king will not survive. He is already weak. He is already ailing. There is very little you can do for him now.”

“I won’t leave him,” you hiss fiercely. “As long as he breathes, I belong where he is.” He’s risked his life to save mine. He’s taught me the joy that can be found in marriage. I will never stop repaying that debt.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Larys concedes. Then you refold the cape and walk barefoot across the beach to meet Aegon.

Sunfyre has at last appeased the king by setting the goat ablaze with a sickly gasp of flames. Now he is gnawing listlessly at the corpse. His golden eyes catch on you and track your steps as you approach, dully curiosity but with no malice. Aegon takes his leave of the dragon with a gentle pat of his angular face, struggles to his feet, and joins you under the bleak grey sky. Once he could not step into the sunlight without it burning him; now the sun rarely shines at all. He knows there’s something wrong. He can read it on you like clandestine letters.

“Angel?” Then he sees the cape that you’re holding. “What is that, a banner? A blanket? My bitch half-sister’s funeral shroud, I hope.”

You give it to him. Aegon shakes the cape open, surveys it, then gasps, a sharp inhale like the whistle of a blade through the air. His knees buckle; the fabric flutters to the wet sand. You drop down beside Aegon and embrace him, shelter him, shield him. He grabs at you desperately, like a drowning man clawing for scraps of buoyant wreckage in the waves.

“It was quick,” you murmur as you hold him. “He fell from Tessarion. He didn’t suffer.” You don’t know that, you have no idea what Daeron’s final moments were like. “The battle happened at Tumbleton. The Northmen are in the Reach.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Aegon rasps. “I don’t want to be the king. I never wanted it. I want to go back to before everything happened. I want to give Rhaenyra the throne. She can have it, I don’t want it, I don’t want it. Can we go back to when my father died? I’ll let Rhaenyra have the Seven Kingdoms. I don’t care what Otto and Mother and Criston say. They wouldn’t fight for it either if they knew what would happen. All of us are dead or broken. It’s not worth it. Nothing could be worth it. I don’t want to be the king. I don’t need the Iron Throne. I need everyone I’ve lost back. And I need you.”

“I’m so sorry, Aegon.” Your fingers are snared in his windswept silver hair; your heartbeat is thudding against his. There’s salt on your cheeks: his tears, your tears, the spray of the ocean. “It’s not your fault. Rhaenyra had the chance to end the war. She was offered terms and she refused them over and over again. Daeron’s blood is on her hands. She will pay the debt.”

And a tiny voice inside you says: Hasn’t she already lost four children? Hasn’t she paid enough?

The answer is dark and resounding. No. Nothing will ever be enough. But her life is a start.

“Where was Aemond?” Aegon sobs. “Where the fuck was he? Daeron wasn’t supposed to face the Northmen without him. He was a kid…just a goddamn kid…”

“I don’t know.”

“Are Daemon and Caraxes still alive? Is Aemond at Harrenhal?”

“I don’t know, Aegon. We haven’t heard anything.”

“I should have been there.”

“You would have been if it was possible. But you’re not able to fight. Sunfyre isn’t either.”

“I’m useless,” he weeps bitterly. “I can’t win the war. I can’t save anyone.”

And you brush his hair back from his face and feel his forehead for fever as you say: “You saved me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“What’s she like?” Lord Bolton asks as he and Cregan Stark warm their large, weathered hands by the fire, their breath foggy in the wind and the stars glimmering in a cold cloudless sky.

The Northmen are still clearing dead and wounded from the battlefield at Tumbleton. Split bones must be forced back into place, infected limbs amputated, gouges scrubbed and stitched, burns treated, corpses buried, soldiers who cannot continue evacuated back to Winterfell via the Kingsroad. All of this must be attended to; Cregan Stark is a man of honor, and honor demands that he care for those who have pledged their lives to him. When the task is done, the Northmen will begin their assault on King’s Landing. The riots must be put down, the rightful queen must be protected, the succession must be secured. And Cregan must find and claim the woman he has been promised and yet denied by the wickedness of the grotesque, amoral, soulless Usurper.

“She’s beautiful, of course,” Cregan says. He speaks in subterranean rumbles, dark and rolling like thunder, booms and quakes, always a little louder than he means to be. He takes up space; he bends the light and gulps down the air. He smiles wistfully, remembering. “But that’s not the important thing. She’s clever, she’s tough. She’s not afraid of gore. I’ve seen her help set a compound fracture that pierced straight through the skin. She had blood all over her hands.” He grins and holds up his own, stained with earth and ash and half-dried maroon that looks as black as ink in the firelight. “We are made for each other.”

Lord Bolton whistles admiringly, his breath like mist. “She is a rarity.”

“Like treasure, like gemstones.” Cregan lays his blade across his knees, a longsword taller than some men and with a hilt carved in the shape of a wolf’s head. He cleans it, he tends to it, it is a part of him as immutable as his spine or his heart. “But she is not prideful. She behaves like a true noblewoman. She is quiet and modest. She defers to her father, to her brother, to me. She obeys.”

“That is essential,” Lord Bolton notes. “Nothing breeds discontentment like a willful wife.”

“She will give me sons with Valyrian blood. She is fertile, surely. Her mother bore six children.” Cregan polishes his blade, his unruly dark hair blowing in the night wind. Now he is pensive. “Her maidenhood was entrusted to me. It was a great honor, a great responsibility. It was something only I ever should have had. It is not her error, but she is less now.”

“You are a good man to still take her, the way she is now. The very best of men.”

“I cannot seem to forget her,” Cregan muses, quiet in a way that is rare for him. “I dream of when I first met her at Winterfell, snow in her hair and pages of books rustling beneath her fingers.”

“What will you do when you capture the Usurper?” Lord Bolton asks; this is the part that most interests him. “Burn him? Gut him? My men have brought their flaying knifes with them from the Dreadfort. They are eager to use them.”

“No,” Cregan says firmly. “No flaying. It is against the laws of war.”

“What use are laws to animals like Alicent Hightower’s children?”

“They preserve us. They safeguard our own humanity, our own honor.” Cregan holds his longsword aloft and scrutinizes it, gazing at his own reflection in the glinting blade. “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

“So you will do it yourself,” Lord Bolton says with grudging awe. His own flaying knives are suddenly very heavy in his pockets; his fingers itch to use them.

Cregan Stark—the Warden of the North, the new Kingmaker—nods under the starlight. “Yes. I will end the Usurper. It can’t be anyone but me.” He sheaths his longsword, gliding it into its leather scabbard, thinking of his long-awaited wedding night with the woman whose purity was stolen from him like pieces of gold thieved from a vault. “And I will enjoy it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In bed, surrounded by candles that flicker when cold drafts blow in through the crevices of the castle, you read to Aegon from a book cataloging all the bones of the human body. He doesn’t care about the content, you know that; he just likes to hear your voice. As you read, Aegon—his arms linked around your waist, his chin resting in the dip of your clavicle—interjects with drowsy commentary. “I’ve broken that bone,” he says. “Oh yeah. That one too.” “Grandsire almost cracked my radius in half when I was ten and I replaced his beard cream with cake frosting. He put it on just before going to sleep and woke up assailed by stray cats.”

You chuckle, a lightness that lasts mere seconds. Now Lord Larys Strong has appeared in the doorway, the orange-gold glow like dusk on his face. He rests both hands on the handle of his cane like he often does, but his expression is one you have never seen before. He is not just mournful. He is paralyzed, he is shattered. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, blank. He swallows noisily. He opens his mouth, but no words escape. He closes it again.

“Don’t tell me that,” Aegon says, deathly quiet, winter still. He pulls away from you. You shut the book and place it on the bedside table beside his glass bottle of pearlescent milk of the poppy. Then you watch Larys.

The Master of Whisperers takes a deep, tremulous breath. “I have received word that both dragons disappeared into the skies above the Gods Eye, and then—”

“No,” Aegon whispers. “No, he’s coming back.”

“Your Grace…”

“No, he’s coming back!” the king roars. “He has to, he has to, you know we can’t win without him!”

Aemond? you think, terror-stricken.

“I have three separate reports. They all agree. Caraxes and Vhagar destroyed each other. They plummeted into the lake and sank, along with their riders.”

“No—”

“Both of their riders,” Larys says.

Aemond??

“The reports are wrong,” Aegon counters. “They have to be.”

You can picture Aemond: smirking, teasing, bitter, brilliant, thoughtful, visionary, blind. How can he be at the bottom of the Gods Eye, eternally chained to Vhagar’s saddle, fish nibbling at his fingers and lips and the gristle between his ribs? “Aegon,” you begin, reaching for his hands; but he flinches away from you.

“No, no, he’s coming back!”

Larys says gently: “Your Grace, I am so profoundly sorry for your loss.” But of course, it is every Green’s loss. Who is left to stand between them and Cregan Stark’s army of archers, cavalry, Boltons with their flaying knives? The Baratheon men? And does anyone truly believe they can defeat the Northmen, assuming they arrive to wage war at all?

“He’s coming back.” Aegon is hysterical. His murky blue eyes stream like riptides. “He has to. We need him, Larys, you know how much we need him. It’s a mistake. Aemond is okay, he’s coming back, he’s coming back, we can’t win without him!”

You try to take his hands again. “Aegon, it’s not over yet, we’ll—”

“Don’t touch me!” he cries, breaking down in breathless sobs. Then he covers his face, ashamed, broken. “Everyone I touch dies. I’m a curse, I’m a monster. I ruin people.”

Larys rushes to comfort the king. You retreat from the bed, watching Aegon as he howls and moans, feeling that although there is one of Alicent’s children left alive, all of them have already been taken from you.

The witch, you think, poisonous, venomous, bloodthirsty. She led Aemond to the Gods Eye, and now he’s gone. He’s dead, he’s nowhere, he’s doomed us all.

What had Alys said before she returned with Aemond to Harrenhal? I can appear and speak to you briefly, perhaps for five or ten minutes. I will be like a mirage, a ghost. Find a closed door and write my name upon it in blood. Then knock three times and open the door. I will be there.

You dart to the table beside Aegon’s favorite chair, cushioned with deep red velvet, and snatch the dagger he uses to cut his hair. Clutching the hilt of the weapon, tears searing in your eyes, you bolt from the room and out into hallway. Dragons of stone and steel, fire crackling in their gaping jaws, watch as you flee past them towards the bedchamber Aemond always used when he visited the castle. You can’t fathom that you will never see him again. He was a weed that grew into you and put down roots, he became a part of your landscape. He was dandelions, he was clovers, he was ivy, and now he is earth scorched to ash.

I’ll never speak to him again. I’ll never see him again. How is that possible?

Blood. You need blood. Would there be any in the kitchens? Should you have a goat or a boar butchered?

No, no. Your mind is a maelstrom of storms and rage, fire and blood. I can’t wait.

You go to the closed door of the room that was once claimed by Aemond. He never owned anything; he only took things and penned his name to them in void-black ink. You take the blade of the dagger and rip it down the length of your left palm. Then you write on the wood of the door two words in a rust-colored scrawl, one on top of the other: Alys Rivers.

You ball up your bloodied fist and knock on the door three times. Then you throw it open. And in a black mist, there she stands: onyx gown, obsidian hair, black moonstone eyes, tears of blood that fall in a torrent down her alabaster cheeks. She is grief-stricken. But you have no compassion left for her; your mercy was once an ocean and has now receded to a creek, a puddle, sparse raindrops that people pray for during droughts.

“You told Aemond that Daemon and Caraxes would be waiting for him at the Gods Eye. You encouraged him to go.”

Alys shakes her head, an inhumanly slow motion. Her voice is deep and echoing, like a shout through a long tunnel. “I didn’t know this would happen.”

“You see things, don’t you?!”

“Not everything,” Alys sobs. “I saw him take flight. I didn’t see the rest of it. I didn’t know. I never would have let him go if I’d known.”

“And you killed him. You murdered him, you ruined him, you might as well have driven a blade into his heart.”

“Aemond went of his own volition,” Alys says. “I told him the truth of what I saw. He was certain that Caraxes could not meet Vhagar in battle and emerge unbroken. And he was right. Caraxes did not survive. But neither did Vhagar.” Her blood-streaked face crumbles again. “He was stabbed through the eye. His beautiful sapphire eye…”

“You’ve doomed us. Vhagar was our last adult dragon, Aemond was our best warrior after Criston died. You’re a murderer. You’ve killed us.”

Her glare turns hateful. “You are not such a stranger to killing.”

“Careful, witch,” you warn. “Or when Aegon sits the Iron Throne, we will send men to the rubble of Harrenhal to burn you alive.”

“No. My son and I will live. And I’ve seen your children, too,” Alys says, and for all the times she did not intend to be cruel, now she is grinning with savage madness.

Panic rises in you; you try to conceal it. “I don’t believe I’ll ever have children.”

“Oh, you will,” Alys insists gleefully. “You will. I’ve seen it. Snow in your hair, furs around your shoulders, children who are dark and rugged, wolf pups with dirt and ash on their faces.”

The North. The Starks. “No,” you say, horrified. I can’t marry Cregan Stark. If I’m given to him, that means Aegon is dead. “No, no, you’re lying. You’re lying!”

“You are not a woman who motherhood will come easily to. It will take time to conceive, but you will give the Warden of the North heirs. He will enjoy putting them in you. He will have to try often.”

Your voice is hoarse and helpless. “You’re just trying to hurt me, it’s not real—”

“Wolf pups,” she says again, insistent. “After Aemond died, I saw them all in a row. And my son,” Alys continues dreamily, tracing her belly with one palm, not showing yet but full of potential like blue-white lightning flashing from inside a storm cloud. “My son will be a knight of House Whent.”

“There is no House Whent, you lunatic.”

“No.” Alys smiles, leers, gloats. “But there will be. I will be driven from Harrenhal, but they will reclaim it. And a Whent will marry into Tully, and a Tully will marry into Stark, and your blood will mix with Aemond’s after all. Isn’t there a certain poetry in that?”

Your hands have flown up to cover your ears. Aegon can’t die. I won’t survive it. “No, no, no!”

“The blood of wolves will always sing to dragons. And that is because of you, I think. The mind forgets, if it ever knew at all…but the bones remember. Pieces of you threaded into the marrow. Murmurs of your voice in their dreams. Do not attempt to resist it. This is your fate, and it could be far worse. The wheel goes around and around, and we all take our turn being crushed. Be grateful you’ll still be alive. Be thankful you had the time you did with your broken king.”

“No!” You slam the door shut. The blood on your palm is drying; the slit you cut there burns.

She’s lying. She’s mistaken. She’s a witch and a madwoman and I don’t believe a word she says.

And before you can dwell on how little comfort this brings you, you hurry to return to Aegon’s bedchamber.

“Borros Baratheon will expect you to take his daughter as your wife,” Larys is telling Aegon. “He was promised a royal marriage. With Aemond and Daeron both gone, you are the only suitable Targaryen left.”

“I won’t do it,” Aegon says quietly. He looks bloodless and haunted; he looks half-dead.

“Your Grace…please…failure to appease him might inspire Borros to withhold his military support from us. His army is the only substantial force the Greens still possess. It is not a personal decision. It is a strategic one. And without having an heir with the queen, her political utility is minimal…”

“No,” Aegon snaps. “I will not be parted from her. Do not ask me again.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Larys yields, bowing deeply. You know he does not act out of ill-will towards you. He is an advisor, and he is trying to advise. You are not the logical choice. And if Aegon loses, you will reap no rewards because he chose to call you his queen. The world will end for you as well.

“What is that?” you ask, and they both jolt to see you in the doorway; but you aren’t looking at Aegon or Larys. You are peering out the nearest window at pinpricks of firelight that dance over the waves. Larys shuffles to the window, his cane rapping against the floor. With agonizing effort—though he refuses your help—Aegon crawls out of bed and stumbles across the bedchamber to join you and Larys.

“It’s her,” Aegon says; and you can hear the vicious satisfaction in his voice like glistening strands of saliva dripping from the jaws of a ravenous animal, a wolf or a bear or a dragon. The fire is from the glass lanterns they carry. There are no signs of Syrax or Sheepstealer, not even little Tyraxes, no squeals or shrieks or shadows that pass over the moonlight.

Stepping off a tiny boat moored at the end of the pier—attended by only a handful of servants and tugging her white-haired son along behind her—is Rhaenyra Targaryen.

[icanhearcolors]

Close Encounter pt. 2

I couldn't help myself :p

Again if ya see any spelling or grammar errors lemme know

pt 1 | pt 3

Word Count: 4k

You’re falling.

Chunks of giant tentacles from a living mind-flayer ship fall with you as you watch one of the dragons that rent the nautiloid apart soar victoriously away from the carnage it created. The air stinks of burning flesh, and there’s a stabbing pain behind your eye caused by a living being squirming around in your skull. All things considered, you’re not panicking as much as you thought you would be. You reach for the weave, but you used all the spells that you possibly could fighting the intellect devourers, imps and whatever else was on that retched ship. Falling from such a height will be unavoidably fatal, and somehow you’ve accepted that. Now you have nothing but a few more seconds left to live and your thoughts. You wonder for a moment if anyone will miss you. Could that be why you were chosen by the mind flayers? You have a job you are proud of, but no family, and if you’re being honest very few friends. Your disappearance will probably be attributed to whoever you last crossed in the courts in your role as magistrate. It will be news for a bit, but nothing shocking for the lower city of Baldur’s Gate. 

The ground is rushing up faster now. A flash of white sand and blue water. A beach. You hate the beach. How ironic that you’ll die there. You close your eyes for one final time and brace yourself as best you can for what death by meteor impersonation will feel like-

except…

It doesn’t happen.

You open your eyes.

You are suspended upside down, face a couple inches from the ground that would have killed you. You stare at a seashell for a moment in numb shock, before every emotion you’ve ever felt bombards you. Terror, rage, elation, relief, exhaustion, grief, they wage a war in your head until you are completely overwhelmed, and everything goes black.

—-

For the second time in a day you awake in an unfamiliar place, only this time it’s on fire.

Your eyes snap open, seeing nothing at first except for the beautifully blue sky above you. It’s almost peaceful, but you can’t shake the nagging feeling that something is wrong. Then it hits you.

Why is it so quiet? 

You hear nothing. There is no wind rushing, birds cawing, waves crashing, you hear nothing but your own blood rushing in your ears. You sit up, your muscles aching, and immediately grimace in pain as something inside your skull moves. Your ears begin ringing with a high pitched screech that pressing your palms into your ears does nothing to stop- and then nothing. 

As quickly as it came it fades again, and when you remove your hands from your ears- sound comes flooding back, along with the rest of your senses. Your skin is rubbed raw from the sand, you taste smoke and blood in your mouth, and you fight the urge to vomit when you smell the rotting carcass that is the nautiloid. Intellect devourers scuttle across the fleshy ground with wet slaps in one direction, the ocean is all that waits for you in the other. You reach for the weave and find that you were at least asleep long enough to recover your spells. You stand carefully on shaky legs, stumbling to avoid glowing red jagged metal wreckage and pools of black congealed blood. Bodies of the less fortunate passengers litter the sand. You turn their pockets and grab a weapon or two as you pass by. They won’t mind. You waste no time, marching toward the burning chunk of the nautiloid that seems to be the only way forward. Three intellect devourers block your way, but they’re hurt, and seeing the beaten path on the other side of them gives you enough reckless inspiration to take them on. Crouching behind a rock, you summon the weave and give it form with a simple incantation.

“Ignis!”

The first devourer drops dead immediately. You stare incredulously at the hand that guided the flame as if it could explain to you where all that firepower was when you needed it on the ship. The other two devourers sprint toward you on broken twisted legs, and you firebolt them too. They both get a hit in on you before they die, shredding your skin with their claws, but it’s nothing a healing potion or two won’t mostly fix. You uncork a small red bottle and down its contents, watching in wonder as in this small contained way, time moves backwards. The blood pooling at your feet and staining your clothes is pulled back into your body, and your wounds seal closed almost instantaneously. The shredded fabric of your clothes is the only indication that you were ever hurt at all. Staring down at the creepy burning brain creatures, you begin to wonder if this is your life now. Your previous reluctant companion Lae’zel told you on the ship that the tadpole you now unwillingly carry will turn you into a mind flayer within a matter of days, so you do not allow yourself more than a moment of reflection before you step over the bodies and begin walking the path behind them. A path means people walk this ground often, and if you follow it far enough, surely you’ll find some sort of civilization. 

You don’t make it far before you hear shouting.

You take off running on instinct. There’s an actual living person somewhere up ahead of you, potentially another survivor, and by the sounds of it they need help.

You turn a corner and skid to a stop in the sand, panting, staring at the back of an oddly familiar looking stranger. He turns to you, and your heart stops in your chest as you recognize the vampire you met in a tavern some odd years ago. He looks different in the sunlight, even paler, his red eyes brighter, anyone would be able to see vampire written all over him if it weren’t for the fact that he was standing before you in broad daylight. Were you wrong about him being a vampire? You can’t imagine how else he’d have red eyes and fangs but there has never been a vampire that could walk unharmed in the sun. He doesn’t even blink at your approach. Expression urgent, he ushers you over to the group of bushes he’s standing in front of, and you take a few steps forward in mute astonishment.

“Hurry! I’ve got one of those brain things cornered. You can kill it can’t you? Like you did the others?” 

He must have seen you fight off the devourers at the beach. You take a second to recall his name. Astarion. He doesn’t seem to recognize you at all. You can’t find any of the shock and recognition you’re feeling in his eyes. You can’t read his expression at all actually. 

You begin to nod as you process his words. The devourer is a problem you can solve, the vampire-but-maybe-not-a-vampire is a mystery you don’t think you’re capable of handling just yet.

You tell him to step back and observe the rustling in the bushes, preparing to firebolt the illithid creature to the hells where it belongs. You take a step forward, and out of the rustling bush explodes a boar, not a brain. 

You huff a quick relieved laugh and turn to face Astarion when you feel two things in quick succession, the cold sharp edge of a dagger against your throat, and a hand sliding up the back of your head, gripping your hair in a fist and yanking you to the ground.

“I thought I told you to run the next time you saw one of my kind, not save them from a mind flayer’s dog” Astarion admonishes, using his grip on your hair to force your head back even further. It seems he does remember you after all.

The air is knocked out of your lungs, so casting a spell isn’t an option. You do the only thing you can think to do. You reach up to grab his wrist and fight to push the dagger away from your throat. Even using both arms, you aren’t strong enough.

“Shhhhh shh shh, not a sound. I’ve been on the receiving end of the daylight spell too often to trust you spell casters. You’ll hold your tongue if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.”

You keep both hands around his wrist, hoping if he does try to kill you, you’ll be strong enough to maybe disarm him at least. You say nothing.

His answering smile scares you more than the knife at your throat.

“There’s a good girl. It seems you can follow instructions after all. There’s hope for you yet. Now, I saw you on the ship didn’t I? Nod.” 

You try your best to nod considering the circumstances.

“I want to know how you survived the crash. If you say anything that sounds like it even might be the start of a spell it’ll be the last thing you ever say. Speak.”

“I-I don’t know. I was falling, and then I wasn’t. Next thing I knew I was waking up on the beach. How did you survive?”

“I’m not easy to kill,” his words are both an answer and a warning.

“Now you’re going to explain to me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks did to me.” 

Your mouth drops open in shocked indignation.

“What I did to you?! We were both abducted! Have you lost your mind?”

Faintly you hear a high pitched ringing in your ears but you ignore it. You probably have hearing damage from the ship explosion.

“Don’t lie to me! The first person I refuse my master in over a century finds her way to me again just seven years later on a mind flayer ship of all things and you want me to believe it’s a funny coincidence?”

“Oh well yeah when you put it that way my kidnapping you and the other fifty people on the ship with my mind flayer best friends makes so much sense!” You practically shout.

Astarion presses the dagger a little further into your skin, just short of drawing blood, and you wince.

“Ohhhh you little-” Whatever he was about to say is cut off by both his cry of pain and yours as the ringing in your ears drowns out all other sound. Something twitches in your head and for a few moments you are looking through eyes that aren’t your own, prowling the dark streets of Baldur’s gate. You feel nothing but a soul deep hunger, starvation feels more accurate a term. 

In a flash the memory changes, and you’re in a cellar of some kind. The first thing you notice is that the floor under your bare feet feels wet. The second thing you notice is the immobilizing pain radiating from your shoulders to your lower back. Your arms are shackled to the ceiling. You are standing in a puddle of your own blood.

“Please” You groan in a voice that isn’t yours.

“Petras says you let a mortal escape.”

You don’t have a response to that. Unbearable pain lances through your side. You jerk, and a skeletal hand grabs your shoulder. 

“Hold still boy. I’m trying to avoid the scars.”

Your soul is slammed suddenly back into your own body, vision Astarion’s scream blending with your own as you wrench yourself away from the hands holding you. Amidst your panicked scrambling the dagger cuts a searing line where your neck meets your shoulder. It would have sliced your throat if Astarion hadn’t pulled it away in time. You pull your cloak over the injury and lean against a nearby tree, sliding down the rough bark until you’re sitting with your knees pulled to your chest. Your back throbs with echoes of the pain you experienced in Astarion’s memory. He looks just as shaken as you do, though perhaps less terrified.

“What… was that?” You hiss through your teeth.

Astarion rolls to his feet and sheaths his dagger, apparently deciding you’re not as much of a threat as he thought you were.

“What did you see?” He asks warily, noting your less than jubilant reaction.

“You-” You hesitate, not wanting to trigger a potentially dangerous response by reminding him of a traumatic experience.

“Ohhh I’ve never seen you tongue tied before. Was it scandalous?” He asks teasingly in a low voice, as if someone on the empty path next to the burning ship wreck would be listening in to this ridiculous conversation. It irks you enough that you snap the real answer at him.

“You were being tortured.”

Astarion looks at you expectantly, as if waiting for you to continue.

“And?”

“What do you mean and?”

“That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”

“It doesn’t?!”

His laugh is dark and devoid of any real humor.

“Not in the slightest.”

An uneasy feeling settles in your stomach as you recall Astarion’s rambling from the night you met. He said a man named Petras would tell someone if Astarion didn’t return with you, and implied he’d suffer for it.

“Someone was speaking. They said you ‘let the mortal go.’”  

“Ah. That was your doing.”

Shock and confusion flood your system for a moment before they’re drowned out by a much stronger emotion.

Anger.

“Oh I would love to hear how you think I am to blame for whatever the HELLS I just witnessed.”

Astarion crosses his arms and levels you with a withering glare

“What you just witnessed was my punishment for not bringing you back to Cazador.”

The name is familiar to you. You remember Astarion saying it that night, and you vaguely recall that he’s someone important to Baldur’s Gate.

“Cazador Szarr? The creepy noble who lives in the giant gothic castle in the lower city? He wants me dead?”

Astarion sighs.

“Not you specifically, no. Unfortunately for us Baldurians he’s rather indiscriminate with his murder.”

You shake your head, more confused than you were when you woke up in a mind flayer pod.

“You lost me.”

“He’s a vampire lord.”

Your jaw drops as you realize what exactly he’s saying.

“YOU WERE GOING TO FEED ME TO A VAMPIRE LORD?” You shout.

His eyes widen at your sudden outburst and he raises his hands, speaking slowly as if he were trying to placate a rabid animal.

“Okay so you’re angry. Perhaps understandably, but I didn’t have a choice. Do you know anything about vampires?”

“They drink blood, avoid the sun, live in covens, sleep in coffins?” You offer.

Astarion nods,

“All true, but more goes on in those covens than you know. Turning into a true vampire corrupts you completely. Most people think the biggest threat to them is a cleric with a stake. That's not true. The biggest threat to a vampire is another vampire. When a vampire drinks the blood of a mortal they turn that mortal into their vampiric spawn. We have the red eyes, the fangs, the bloodlust, the enhanced senses, but that’s it. We would have to drink the blood of our maker to become a true vampire, but what maker would allow such a thing given the choice between having a slave or a potential threat? Cazador turned me when he found me dying in an alley in the lower city. He gave me a list of rules,” Astarion begins speaking in a nasal, probably quite offensive caricature of who you assume to be Cazador.

“‘First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures. Second, thou shalt obey me in all things. Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed. Fourth, thou shalt know that thou art mine.’"

“What are non-thinking creatures?”

“Animals mostly. Usually he had us drink the blood of dead putrid rats his servants would find around the castle.”

You shiver as a wave of nausea hits you at the mental image. He continues,

“What I’m trying to say is when I found you in that tavern my entire reason for existing was to lure pretty things back to my master. I didn’t have a choice.”

“You did have a choice though,” You remind him. “You let me go.”

“I may have rebelled a little, but I couldn’t disobey the order I was given. I found another victim, and they suffered the same fate you would have. I paid in blood for sparing you.” He says bitterly. 

“What do you want me to do? Apologize for the fact that you didn’t want to kill me?” You ask exasperatedly.

Astarion tilts his head inquisitively, considering your words.

“Yes, actually.”

“How is that my fault?”

“It’s your fault because you, the only good person in the entirety of the under city, ended up in my usual tavern. A tavern I never could return to by the way- lest you be there. Usually I can’t stand good people but you just had to be a magistrate for the same judges that led me to drink on more than one occasion when I was mortal and when I kissed you I-” He pauses mid-rant when he sees your owlish expression. 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks, his tone skeptical, as if he believes you're plotting something.

He's right in a way, you're considering your options. You’re unsure what to do with this stranger. He’s dangerous for certain. You’re not entirely sure what the outcome would be if you tried to take him on, especially now that you’re running low on spells and health potions. Even if you managed to limp out of that fight alive, the next devourer or goblin to happen upon you would easily kill you. 

The thought suddenly occurs to you that maybe you two could travel together. You obviously don’t trust each other, but a dangerous ally seems like the best type to have these days, and you share a common enemy.

In the silence that follows his rambling, a question you’ve been dying to ask slips out. 

“Wait, can you walk in the sun because you’re only a spawn?”

Astarion places a hand over his chest in feigned offense.

“Only a spawn? That hurts my feelings.”

You return his snarkiness by pretending to be deeply confused.

“Wait…you have those?” 

“Not often, no.” He sighs. He reaches out past the shade of the tree he’s standing under and allows the sun to warm the palm of his hand. “But that, I feel. It kind of tickles,” He smiles with real astonished happiness. You never thought you took the sunlight for granted before but you’re reminded in this moment that you had more to lose than you thought. 

“Spawn burn to ash in the sun just the same as vampires, I haven’t seen daylight in centuries.”

“So what’s changed?”

“Probably the same thing that allowed you to see my memories and I yours. The thing we had rather rudely forced into our skulls.”

You nod, and tell him about your githyanki ally who warned you what the tadpoles would do to you both if you didn’t find help soon.

“So it’ll turn me into a monster. You’d think by now that fate would be tired of playing that joke on me.” 

It’s that sentence that cements your decision to take him with you. You did not meet in the best of circumstances, and yet you feel a very unsettling but genuine connection to this vampire. For better or for worse, he’s all you have right now.

“Astarion?”

His head snaps up, pulled from his thoughts. 

“Yes?”

“I’m going to find a healer that can remove this worm from my head. I might take a few of the other survivors with me if I can find any. You should come.”

Astarion looks you up and down, considering his options.

“I was ready to go this alone, but you seem to be a useful person to know. I’ve tried and failed to kill you twice and truth be told I’m quite good at killing people.”

As weird of a response it is to the horrific thing he just said, you feel hope for the first time in a very long time. With Astarion by your side you won’t have to navigate the wilds alone. 

“Don’t make me beg.” You joke, a small smile forming as you realize he’s going to agree.

“Don’t tempt me.” He holds out his hand palm up.

“I’m not getting that apology am I?” He asks.

Wondering where this is going, you reach for his hand.

“Not any time in this millenia.”

“Unlike you I can wait until the next one.”

He grips your hand in his and pulls you to your feet.

“Assuming I don't kill you first.”

“Ha! I like you.”

“Did you figure that out the first or the second time you tried to kill me?”

“Definitely the second. The first time is always so dramatic and emotional, the second go around is where the real fun begins.”

“You’re not talking about attempted murder anymore are you?”

“What else would I be talking about?” He winks.

“Fuck you Astarion”

“Ask me nicely and I might consider it.”

Such forwardness shocks you despite how much of a flirt you already knew he was. You stutter for a moment, unable to come up with a response, and decide to half heartedly swat at his shoulder instead. He catches your wrist before you land the blow, and when your eyes meet his he’s grinning in a way that flashes those fangs of his. “You’re a violent little thing aren’t you? I think I will travel with you. I could use the protection.” 

You know he's being sarcastic, but your response is real.

“You watch my back, and I’ll watch yours.”

Astarion's amused expression sobers.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” he agrees plainly, without a trace of sarcasm. You almost raise your hand to his forehead to check his temperature when you realize that joke wouldn’t work on a vampire. With your life no longer in danger, the adrenaline high from the last couple minutes fades rapidly, and you begin to feel the extent of your injuries. You reach up with your free hand and rub the back of your head, wincing at the sting from where Astarion yanked you by your hair. Understanding dawns on his expression and he has the decency to at least look apologetic.

“You know, under the right circumstances I’m usually much better at that sort of thing.” 

Aaaaand he’s back. You open your mouth to respond when he stills suddenly, inhaling deeply through his nose. His eyes snap to your shoulder,

“Why are you bleeding?”

You remember the cut from the dagger and try to take a clumsy step back, but it isn’t quite the retreat you hoped it would be. Your back hits the tree you were sitting against. His grip on your wrist tightens, and he takes a step forward as you take one back, eating up the already dismal distance between you two in one stride.

“Someone held a dagger to my throat,” you attempt to deflect some of the tension.

Astarion’s pupils dilate, his movements are predatory, and you fear you’re about to be the prey he breaks his maker’s first rule with.

“Who?” His voice is low and melodic, almost hypnotizing. “I’ll kill them.”

You laugh nervously,

“Apparently he’s hard to kill.”

His answering smile is sharp as his dagger.

You begin to seriously question your choice in allies. This is the third time you’ve feared for your life because of this man, and you doubt it’ll be the last.

He drops your wrist and steps back, swallowing thickly. He tosses you a corked red bottle, a healing potion.

“I won’t bite, not unless you ask me to of course.” 

He begins striding up the path, correctly assuming you’ll follow.

“But drink that before you drive me absolutely insane.”

You down the contents of the tiny bottle and toss it into the sea, speeding to catch up with your new friend, the sun walking vampire. 

Life couldn’t possibly get any crazier.

Right?

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

hiiiiii! I'm not sure how tagging works but I'm gonna try to tag the people that showed interest in me writing a sequel because that's so cool and I love you guys

@aoirohi

@tamwritesstuff

@smaranshakthi

@perseny

@stronglycoffeescented-blog

@hadesbabygurl

[schrodingers-romy]

Care [Madarame Shion x Reader]

Pairing: Madarame Shion x GN!Reader Word count: ~700 [Ao3 Link]

Summary: Caring for Shion after he gets a stomach ache

Warnings: none really; reader has no gendered pronouns

Notes: short lil fluff piece for my boy's belated bday <3 barely edited but I think it's cute

“I can’t believe you’re being so cruel to me,” your boyfriend moaned, still clutching his stomach.

“It’s hard to feel sympathy for you when you did this to yourself.” Despite your somewhat harsh words, you were still gentle with him. You grabbed his hand, pulling it from his abdomen so you could replace it with a warm water bottle. Shion let out a small sigh of relief once the warmth hit his muscles and melted into the heat. You tried to drop his hand, but he refused to let you go, instead threading his fingers through yours and yanking you onto the bed with him.

You pulled an awkward half-shoulder-roll to avoid flopping down onto Shion’s already painful stomach, instead landing on your back next to him with an overdramatic “oof”.

Shion took the opportunity to snuggle into your side, wrapping one lanky arm around you while the other kept the warm bottle pressed to his abdomen.

You let out a light huff of a laugh, letting yourself be held. You stretched one arm around his shoulders so you could scratch your fingers through the long blond hair on the unshaven side of his head. He pressed his head up into your hand, like a fussy pet demanding more attention from its owner. “You’re not a mad dog, you’re just a little puppy, aren’t you,” you cooed.

Shion pouted up at you. “That’s not fair! I’m sick, I need the attention.”

“You wouldn’t BE so sick if you hadn’t decided to eat all that spicy curry yesterday.”

He doesn’t reply to that.

You had tried to stop him from having that curry yesterday, knowing how sensitive his stomach was, but he wouldn’t listen. Your boyfriend liked to brag about having an iron stomach (like an absolute liar). He especially liked to keep up the illusion in front of his Tenjiku friends, as if they all weren’t aware about his belly issues after knowing him for years. But it was his birthday, so you decided he could be allowed one bad decision as a reward for surviving another year (with your help, of course).

And now here you both were, dealing with the consequences of Shion’s actions.

“Do you want any tea?” you asked him softly, noticing him wince a bit, no doubt at another wave of cramps.

He shook his head. “Jus’ wanna cuddle.”

You relaxed into his side and continued your ministrations in his hair. Your boyfriend was a warm, comforting weight next to you as the two of you laid together, simply basking in quiet companionship.

Shion was the first to break the silence, his tone uncharacteristically soft. “…thank you.”

“For what?” you murmured.

“For takin’ care of me,” he said. He suddenly seemed very interested in the bottle on his stomach, looking down at it as his blunt nails picked at its edges. “I know I’m a hassle sometimes…an’ I’m glad you put up with me.”

You were silent for a moment. He was right; he was a hassle. He didn’t think before he spoke, he got into fights, he got beaten up in half of those fights, he gave himself stomach aches eating spicy food, and he flunked out of school. He was loud, cocky, and a bit stupid. But in the end that didn’t matter, because you knew that he was more than that. Shion was so sweet underneath all his bluster. He looked at first glance like he spent his time terrorizing children and kicking puppies, but instead he let his younger cousins hang off him when they visited and gave his neighbor’s dog leftover pieces of meat from his dinner. Around you, he stuck his foot in his mouth a lot, but he was always kind, and he always held such a genuine admiration for you; the sort of admiration you had never felt from anyone else before. All of this and more went through your mind, but you weren’t sure how or even if you could communicate it to him.

So instead, you gave his hair a light tug, causing him to let out a small whine. “Of course I put up with you, idiot,” you said, tone unbearably fond. “You’re my boyfriend, and I care for you.”

He let out a single, quiet, “oh.”

It was the closest either of you had ever come to a love confession, and you both knew it.

“I care for you too. ‘Cause you’re mine jus’ like I’m yours,” he said, twisting to press the lightest, barely-noticeable kiss to your shoulder.

You said nothing, but the way you clutched him tighter and kissed him on the forehead was enough of a response for both of you.

[philistiniphagottini]

- 🚧

HAII!! I'd like to request reader getting pampered by their yami during some abnormally painful period pain!! > <

take care xx mwamwa ^ ^

Hello again friend! As someone who suffers from really bad menstrual cramps, I understand the need to be pampered by your faves. Hope you like this little piece, and take care xoxo

cw. period pain, fluff

You were incapacitated. Buried amidst a sea of blankets, wrapped in a cocoon of stifling heat as you were slowly compressed into your mattress like a panini. Warm and toasty. Just the way you wanted to be as it felt like something was sticking a hot iron prod in your gut and slowly twisting it. You were curled into a protective ball, knees clutched to your chest and breathing haggard as you did your best to endure the seemingly unending pain ripping through your belly like a thousand razors. You were in so much pain it felt like tears were going to start falling down your cheeks. The pain meds had yet to kick and you were counting the seconds until you could start feeling the effects and obtain even just a tiny droplet of sweet, sweet relief from this unending torture of your menstrual cycle.

You stirred in your nest of blankets and pillows when you heard your bedroom door creak open, followed by heavy footsteps. Your ears perked up as you moved beneath your mass of weighted blankets. At last, your saviour had returned. Yami had been kind enough to spend the day with you, arriving at your house in the early hours of the morning when you texted him about your plight. He had been so kind and patient with you while you struggled through what you thought was one of the worst periods you had ever suffered in your existence. Whatever you asked for, he did without hesitation.

"I filled the hot water bottle like you asked" Yami said, voice gently piercing through the thick layers of sheets.

He placed his hand gently on top of your blankets, eyes scanning for an opening in the blankets to offer you what you needed. He pat his hand along the large mass of fluffy blankets as you stirred once more, slowly shifting and wriggling until you managed to worm your arm out of your fortress of solitude. You wriggled your fingers to gain his attention, offering out your hand for the item you so desperately needed. Once your fingers curled around the neck of the hot water bottle, your arm immediately retreated back into your nest to be buried with the rest of you. You shoved the water bottle down your shirt and placed it against your stomach, a pained groan of relief rumbling in your chest as the heat touched your sore belly. It was a temporary relief but it made the pain just that little bit more bearable.

"Thank you" you mumbled.

A soft sigh of air breezed past Yami’s lips and you could hear the smile in his voice as his hand continued to rub along the blankets.

"You are welcome."

The mattress abruptly dipped when you felt Yami sit beside you, the springs creaking in protest from his sudden weight. The pain in your stomach continued to ebb and flow, the sudden spikes of pain now coming in waves as you cuddled further into the warmth of your hot water bottle as it worked to soothe your cramps.

"Are you hungry?" Yami asked.

"No."

"Do you want something to drink?"

"No."

You groaned softly when your nest was disturbed, layers of blankets peeled back until your face was revealed. You had to squint against the onslaught of your bedroom light flooding your vision. The strain in your eyes was lessened when Yami leaned closer, engulfing your face in his shadow as he hovered ever closer. His fingers ghosted over your skin, touch featherlight as he brushed wisps of your hair out of your eyes. You could see the concern tinting his bright eyes as he gazed down at you and his obvious care for you made your chest feel right.

"I’ll be alright" you said. "I’m not dying."

Although, it sure felt like you were. You little poke at humour made the corners of his mouth twitch as he gave you a fond smile.

"Can I do anything?" he inquired.

You shook your head. "You’ve done enough."

"Are you sure."

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes a little. Yami cared so much for his loved ones that it could sometimes be just that little overbearing.

"If you want something to do, you can cuddle me" you suggested.

Yami’s eyes scanned your nest of blankets and pillows. He was a little hesitant to be assimilated into the mass. Because once he was engulfed by your warm embrace, he silently feared that he wouldn’t want to leave.

"Come on" you gently encouraged. "I promise I won’t bite~"

A soft sigh fell from his parted lips before he leaned down and brushed his soft lips against your forehead.

"Scoot over."

You did as he said and wriggled away just a tiny fraction, allowing Yami to peel back the layers of blankets. He decided to stay sitting up in case he needed to get you something else, his back hitting a pile of feathery pillows as he slipped under the blankets with you. Once he settled, your arms immediately snatched his waist, coiling around his slender figure as your head fell in his lap. A contented noise stirred in your throat as he placed his hand on top of your head, fingertips curling around soft locks of your hair as he gently massaged his fingers against the back of your scalp.

You were settled for the moment, snuggled up in your boyfriend’s comforting embrace and listening to his soft, buttery voice talk about card games and his friends as you slowly drifted off into a comfortable dream.