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ijustmissyouraccenths · 7 months ago

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I Want To Kill Her

Au where Y/N and Harry are neighbors who find out their spouses are cheating with each other.

Based off Fortnight by Taylor Swift

Part 2

CW: Smut, cursing, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink.

Word Count: 6,773

Growing up in America was a constant uphill battle for me. Every day, my family's lower middle class status weighed heavily on our shoulders, dragging us down and suffocating any sense of hope. Despite my parents' relentless efforts, we were always one step away from financial ruin. At school, I was painfully reminded of my economic disadvantage as I trudged through the halls in threadbare clothes and drove up in a battered car that served as a target for cruel jokes and vicious teasing from my more privileged peers. But amidst the constant struggle, I found refuge in my studies. The world of academia offered a fleeting escape from the harsh realities of my daily life, where I poured all my energy into excelling and proving my worth to a society that seemed determined to keep me down.

Life in our small town was like a broken record, repeating the same monotonous routine day after day. That is, until Teddy waltzed into our midst like a breath of fresh air. His tall frame stood out amongst the sea of ordinary faces, and his crisp British accent was music to our ears. The local coffee shop suddenly became a buzz of excitement as he charmed everyone with his wit and sophistication. And when he extended an invitation for me to join him in London, it was like a fairytale come to life. Leaving my predictable life behind and starting anew in the bustling city seemed intimidating, but I couldn't resist the allure of adventure and passion that awaited me with Teddy by my side.

My hand shook as I clutched the small, worn suitcase. Tears welled up in my eyes as I said goodbye to my family and familiar life. But deep down, a sense of determination propelled me forward. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the plane bound for London. As the engines roared and the wheels lifted off the ground, a knot formed in my stomach and my heart raced with a mix of emotions - fear of the unknown, excitement for new adventures, and anticipation for what lay ahead.

I pressed my forehead against the cool, double-paned window and watched as familiar buildings and streets grew smaller and smaller. A sense of relief washed over me, lifting the weight of my past struggles and hardships with every mile we flew away from them. Little did I know, the journey ahead would be filled with new challenges and lessons that would shape me into the person I was always meant to become.

As we soared higher into the sky, thick clouds began to spread like a blanket over the vast expanse of blue. The world below disappeared from view, hidden by layers of white. But as we descended towards London, small patches of land began to peek through - rolling hills covered in lush green fields and charming villages nestled along winding rivers. My heart fluttered with excitement and curiosity at this glimpse of a foreign land.

The wheels touched down on the runway, jolting me out of my daydreams. I took a deep breath as we taxied towards the terminal, ready to embark on this new chapter of my life in a place that felt both unfamiliar and full of endless possibilities.

The bright lights of London beckoned me, a stark contrast to the small town I left behind. Teddy, my generous host, had spared no expense to make me feel at home in his lavish house. Each morning, I woke up to stunning views of the city skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. The enticing scent of freshly baked pastries and rich coffee filled my nostrils, reminding me that this was a life of luxury that I never could have imagined.

But what truly amazed me was the fact that I no longer had to work. Teddy's successful business ventures meant that money was no longer a worry for me. This newfound wealth allowed me to indulge in all the things I could only dream about before. My wardrobe was now filled with designer clothes, fancy dinners were a regular occurrence, and luxurious vacations were just a plane ride away.

However, amidst all this extravagance and joy, there was always a twinge of guilt in the back of my mind. Growing up, every penny counted and financial struggles were a constant source of stress for my family. Now, with my newfound wealth, I couldn't help but feel guilty for having so much while others back home still struggled to make ends

I fiercely pushed all doubts and apprehensions aside, determined to fully surrender myself to my newfound life. And by all appearances, I succeeded. Teddy whisked me away on dazzling tours of the city, revealing hidden gems and indulging in the finest cuisine known only to elites. He also opened the door to his elite circle of friends – powerful individuals who radiated confidence and wealth wherever they went.

At first, I felt like a mere observer among them. While they boasted about their latest investments and business ventures, I could only offer anecdotes about my humble beginnings in a small town. But as weeks turned into months, they welcomed me into their exclusive inner circle. They even included us on extravagant trips abroad where we mingled with A-list celebrities and attended VIP events.

I couldn't believe how rapidly my life had transformed since meeting Teddy. Where once I was ridiculed for not fitting in with the wealthy crowd, now I lived among them, basking in their luxurious lifestyle.

But amidst all the glitz and glamour, a persistent voice gnawed at the back of my mind. It started one afternoon while Teddy was tending to the front yard. On the surface, it seemed like an ordinary chore for a homeowner, but something about it felt insidious and unsettling.

Despite the hired help we had to maintain our lavish property, Teddy insisted on taking care of menial tasks himself. At first, I thought it was just his need to be hands-on, but as the days turned into weeks, I couldn't ignore the way his eyes lingered on the woman next door. Every time she stepped outside in her form-fitting gardening attire, he would drop whatever he was doing and watch her with an unbridled hunger. Her movements were like a sensual dance, each step oozing with an irresistible seduction that captivated him. She seemed to know exactly how to entice him, bending over suggestively in her garden while his eyes greedily took in every curve of her body. But when her husband's luxury car pulled into their driveway, she would become a picture of innocence once again. It was a tantalizing game of desire and secrecy, leaving me wondering what they truly did behind closed doors.

Rosie, the woman of the house, was a force to be reckoned with, her love and dedication to her garden rivaling that of a mother's fierce protection for her child. Harry, her husband and successful entrepreneur, exuded a confident aura as he walked through their flourishing gardens, the beauty brand he created known by all as Pleasing. Despite our similar ages, their maturity and put-together appearance made me feel inadequate in comparison. Our own home seemed dull and lifeless in comparison to theirs, always offering an unobstructed view of Rosie's constant tending to her bountiful gardens, a sight that also caught my husband's wandering eyes. But it was impossible to deny the allure of their well-manicured gardens, bursting with vibrant hues and intoxicating scents that enveloped us in a hypnotic trance.

Each passing week brought a new wave of torment as I watched Teddy's eyes dart towards Rosie's garden, his gaze lingering on her while she tended to her roses. My stomach twisted with jealousy as he made excuses to be outside, his every move calculated to catch her attention.

I couldn't bear the thought of him longing for someone else, and my heart shattered into pieces with each stolen glance towards her. Desperate for answers, I confronted him about their relationship, but he dismissed my fears with a cold indifference and insisted they were just innocent neighbors. But deep down, I knew there was something more between them, and it consumed me with a fiery rage that threatened to consume us all.

As I relaxed in the comfort of my home, the noise from outside suddenly jolted me out of my reverie. My eyes snapped to the window overlooking the busy street below, and there I saw Harry's sleek black Mercedes screeching into their driveway, its engine roaring wildly. Rosie appeared in the doorway, her movements frantic as she planted a forced kiss on his cheek before ushering him inside with an urgency that made my heart race. The door slammed shut behind them, and a foreboding sense of dread settled in my gut as I realized that something was seriously wrong between them. Whatever was happening, they were clearly trying to hide it from prying eyes.

My heart raced with a mix of excitement and dread as I made my way downstairs, my curiosity burning like a wildfire. The front door slammed behind me, the sun setting in a fiery blaze behind my back. My feet carried me across the short distance between our homes, anticipation building with each step. As I approached their front step, muffled voices drifted through the open window above me, a sinister soundtrack to my racing thoughts. I could make out Harry's tense tone and Rosie's pleading replies, but not the words themselves. Their hushed argument went on for what seemed like an eternity before falling silent, leaving me standing frozen in shock. My mind raced as I tried to piece together what was happening. Had my suspicions been correct after all? Were Rosie and Teddy entangled in a secret affair that Harry had finally uncovered? The weight of the truth hit me like a sledgehammer, filling me with a mix of anger, betrayal, and fear for what would

My thoughts were racing as I tried to decide what to do next, but before I could make a move, the front door swung open with a loud bang. My heart jolted in my chest as Harry stormed out, his face contorted with either seething anger or burning embarrassment - it was hard to tell which was more intense. He didn't even spare me a glance as he brushed past, heading straight for his car.

Just then, Rosie appeared in the doorway, her eyes widening in shock when she saw me standing there. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was a wild mess, betraying some sort of frantic activity behind closed doors. "Oh...I-I didn't realize you were home," she stammered, her voice trembling with unease. She attempted a smile, but it fell short and I could see the fear in her eyes.

Before I could ask what was going on, Teddy burst out of our house and called out my name. He sprinted towards us from across the street, his brows furrowed with concern as he took in the sight of Rosie and I standing together. The tense atmosphere was thick between us all, and I knew something serious was about to go down.

"What's going on?" he demanded, his voice laced with concern as he eyed us both suspiciously.

I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, my mind racing with conflicting thoughts and emotions. "I honestly don't know," I admitted, feeling like a pawn in their complicated game. "Do you?"

Teddy and Rosie exchanged a tense look that spoke volumes about their troubled relationship. I could sense the weight of their secrets and lies pressing down on me, suffocating me with their toxic grip. Without another word, I turned and fled back inside, trying to escape the tangled web of deceit and betrayal they had woven around me. My once glamorous new life now felt tainted with suspicion and heartache.

I slam the door shut behind me, my hands trembling with rage and disbelief. My worst fears have been confirmed - Teddy and Rosie were having an affair all along, right under my naive nose. A surge of hot tears fills my eyes as I collapse onto the couch, my heart hammering in my chest. How could he do this to me? After all we've built together, all the love and trust we shared.

My mind races back through the past few months, dissecting every encounter between them that I had brushed off as innocent. His lingering looks at her, her secret smiles directed only at him, their hushed conversations that would abruptly end whenever I appeared. The pieces finally fit together, a puzzle of betrayal and deceit that I was too blind to see. How long has it been going on? Was it when he started staying late at work for that promotion? Or when our once effortless conversations turned into strained silence over dinner? My world is shattered, and I can't help but wonder if it was ever truly as perfect as I believed it to be.

My body curls in on itself, a protective barrier against the pain that radiates through me. My mind is stuck on replay, the tense exchange between them echoing endlessly in my head. Rosie's desperate pleas, Harry's explosive anger - it all points to betrayal.

The tears fall hot and heavy down my cheeks as I realize I can no longer ignore the truth. My heart aches with every beat, but I know I have to confront Teddy. Pretending everything is okay between us is no longer an option.

As I stand up and make my way to the front window, I catch a glimpse of Teddy crossing back over to our house, his defeated posture screaming guilt. The anger and hurt fueling my determination, I take a deep breath and brace myself for the inevitable confrontation.

When Teddy steps into our living room, the air crackles with tension like static electricity before a storm. The unspoken truths between us hang heavily, suffocatingly thick like a dense fog.

"Why don't you just admit it, Teddy?" My voice trembles with a mix of rage and despair.

He responds with words sharp as shattered glass, "Admit what? That you're so blinded by your own insecurity that you'd accuse me without any proof?" His betrayal cuts deep, adding more pieces to the already broken shards of my heart.

My hands balled into fists at my sides, knuckles turning white as I struggled to contain the raging storm inside me. "Don't you dare try to twist this around on me! I saw you, Teddy. I saw the way your eyes linger on her, like she's the only thing that matters."

Teddy's jaw clenched and his calm façade cracked, giving way to a simmering anger. "You're being paranoid. Rosie is just a friend, nothing more."

I took a step closer, my voice dripping with venom. "Oh please, spare me your excuses. I've seen how you look at her when you think I'm not looking."

Fury burned bright in his eyes, his voice rising in a challenge. "How dare you accuse me of cheating? I would never do that to you!"

Tears threatened to spill over as I shook my head in disbelief, my heart shattering into a million pieces. "It's not just about today, Teddy. It's been building up for months. The way you ignore me and shower her with attention... It's like I'm invisible to you now."

He scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Oh please, stop playing the victim here. You knew what you were getting into when we moved here.You want me to make you feel like you exist? Do you want me to fuck you? What do you want? You’re so needy you put your issues onto other women."

My nails dug into my palms as I fought to keep my composure in the face of his callous words. "I thought I was getting into a life with someone who loved and respected me. Not someone who sneaks around behind my back to screw the neighbor."

The tension in the room reached its breaking point as Teddy's mask slipped completely, revealing the raw emotions seething beneath the surface. "Maybe if you were more exciting, more adventurous, I wouldn't have to look elsewhere for some excitement in my life!"

His words struck me like a physical blow, leaving me reeling in disbelief and pain. The truth hung heavy in the air between us, an invisible barrier that seemed impossible to breach.

"I can't do this anymore," I whispered hoarsely, the finality of those words echoing like a gunshot in the silent room.

Teddy's expression softened for a fleeting moment before hardening once again with resolve. "Fine then! Maybe this is for the best. Actually, yeah it is. Bitch." he spat out, his voice laced with bitterness.

And with those parting words echoing in my ears like a curse, I turned away from him and headed towards the door, leaving behind our shattered dreams and broken promises in a trail of fractured memories.

The low hum of the engine filled the air as Harry sat in his sleek, black car, parked precisely outside of his modern fortress. I approached cautiously, trying to mask my trembling steps on the pavement. With a gentle tap on the window, I could feel his intense gaze burning through me from within the tinted glass. His phone slipped from his hand as he rolled down the window, revealing a sharp jawline and piercing eyes that seemed to glow with an otherworldly intensity. A commanding voice cut through the silence, "Get in." Without hesitation, I made my way around to the passenger side and sank into the plush leather seat next to him, feeling a mix of fear and excitement coursing through my veins.

As we drove away from the chaotic scene behind us, the tension in the car was suffocating. Every muscle in Harry's body seemed to be coiled with a fierce determination, his knuckles turning white as they gripped the steering wheel. I stole a quick glance at him, noticing how his usually calm demeanor was replaced by a dangerous edge, like a predator ready to strike at any moment.

A heavy silence hung in the air of the car, suffocating me as I struggled to catch my breath. Harry's voice pierced through the tension like a sharp blade, cutting deep into my racing thoughts. "Are you okay?" he asked, his expression etched with genuine concern.

I tried to speak, but my throat felt constricted and choked. Finally, I managed to whisper, "I don't know." My mind was reeling from the events that had unfolded only moments ago.

Harry's eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, his words heavy with understanding. "Life has a way of throwing unexpected challenges at us," he mused, his tone grave and contemplative. "But it's how we handle them that defines who we are."

I turned to look at him, grateful for his steady presence amid the chaos raging inside me. "Thank you," I said earnestly. "For being here for me."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Harry's lips, but there was a glint of steel in his gaze. "You don't have to thank me," he replied firmly. "I'm here because I care about you and because your husband is sleeping with my wife." His reassurance was met with a sense of relief and gratitude amidst the turmoil that threatened to consume me.

The stillness between us was palpable, a fragile thread holding back a storm of emotions. The road stretched out before us, winding through fields and forests, as if it were leading us towards a new beginning.

My heart felt heavy with the weight of our shared past, but in this moment, with Harry by my side, I could feel a glimmer of hope for the future. Together, we drove into the unknown, leaving behind the pain and hurt that had consumed us.

But as we reached our destination - a rundown motel in the middle of nowhere - the tension returned. Harry's exhaustion and frustration were etched on his face as he turned to me.

"I know neither of us want to go home right now," he said, his voice laced with bitterness. "For fuck's sake, they're probably sexing each other up as we speak.." A surge of anger and betrayal rose within me at his words. "Let's just stay here for the night, maybe two. We can regroup and come up with a plan." His proposal hung in the air like a dark cloud, reminding us both of the uncertain future that lay ahead. But one thing was certain - we wouldn't have to face it alone.

My voice caught in my throat, unable to form words as I simply nodded, a tight knot of fear and anger coiling in my stomach. My body trembled with the intensity of the situation. We both knew that any misstep could cause everything to spiral out of control. The motel seemed like a fitting backdrop for our strained emotions, its dilapidated exterior reflecting the state of our relationship. The neon lights flickering ominously, casting a sickly glow over the peeling paint and broken windows. But even this rundown place offered some respite from the suffocating chaos and turmoil surrounding us.

Panicked and unprepared for the situation I found myself in, I regretted not packing a change of clothes as my heart raced and my mind spun with fear. The events that had just unfolded left me gasping for air, struggling to stay afloat in a sea of chaos. As we rushed into the rundown motel, I couldn't help but scan our surroundings, searching for any sign of danger. The flickering lights and musty smell only added to the ominous atmosphere. Harry snatched the key from the grimy front desk man and led us down a dimly lit hallway to our room. My anxiety spiked when they informed us that the only available room featured a single king-sized bed. My nerves were on edge at the thought of sharing such an intimate space with Harry, his intimidating presence looming over me like a dark cloud.

As we stepped into the dimly lit motel room, the tension between Harry and me was palpable, hanging heavy in the air like a thick fog. I could feel his eyes on me, assessing, judging.

"I'll take the floor," Harry offered gruffly, breaking the silence that had settled between us like a heavy blanket.

I shook my head, unable to accept his sacrifice. "No, we can share the bed. It's fine," I replied softly, trying to ease some of the strain that weighed on us both.

Harry hesitated for a moment before nodding curtly. "Alright then."

The room felt suffocatingly small as we settled in, the walls seeming to press in on us from all sides. The shadows danced ominously in the dim light, casting eerie shapes across the worn carpet.

"I never thought we'd end up here," I mused quietly, breaking the somber stillness that enveloped us.

Harry's voice was gruff as he responded, "Life has a funny way of throwing curveballs at you when you least expect it."

A bitter chuckle escaped my lips. "Seems like we're both striking out lately."

We sat in silence for a while, the weight of our complicated situation hanging heavily over us. The sound of distant traffic seeping through the thin walls served as a reminder of the world outside our little bubble of chaos.

Finally, Harry spoke again, his voice softer this time. "I'm sorry you're going through this. You deserve better."

I turned to look at him, meeting his gaze for the first time since we had arrived. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that caught me off guard.

"Thank you," I whispered, feeling a flicker of warmth amidst the cold despair that had settled in my heart. We sat side by side on the edge of the bed, two broken souls seeking solace in each other's company.

We sat in silence for a while longer, the weight of our circumstances still heavy on our shoulders but somehow more bearable with each other's presence. The flickering lights outside cast fleeting shadows across the room, adding a sense of fleeting impermanence to our shared moment of respite.

"I'm glad you're here," Harry spoke up suddenly, his voice genuine and heartfelt.

Tears welled up in my eyes at his words, grateful for the unexpected bond that had formed between us in the midst of turmoil. "Me too," I whispered, feeling a sense of hope blooming in my heart despite the challenges ahead.

And so we sat together in the dimly lit motel room, two souls seeking solace in each other's company amidst the chaos that threatened to tear us apart.

My phone began to buzz incessantly in my hand, Teddy's name flashing on the screen. I couldn't bear to see his name or hear his voice, so I forcefully shut off my phone and flung it across the room with a violent toss. As it clattered against the wall, Harry's quiet voice pierced through the air.

"She called me too," he seethed, his fists clenched at his side. "In this moment, I could kill her."

I nodded in agreement, my blood boiling with rage. "Teddy had the audacity to accuse me of being jealous and then suggest that if he just fucked me, my jealousy would disappear," I spat out, feeling both hurt and incensed by his words.

Harry's voice dripped with desire as he turned towards me, his gaze burning into my skin. "Would it?" His words were a challenge, daring me to answer. I could feel the heat radiating off his body as he leaned in closer.

I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. "Would what?"

A smirk played at the corners of his lips as he spoke the words that sent a shiver down my spine. "If he fucked you, would you still be so jealous?"

My heart raced at the vulgar question and I let out a nervous laugh. Shaking my head, I replied, "No, Harry. Nothing could change how I feel."

He let out a deep sigh, frustration evident in his voice. "The timing of this is fucking terrible. I've always thought you were stunning, wondered what you saw in a guy like him. And I know I could give it to you so much better."

Our eyes locked in a heated moment and I couldn't deny the sparks that flew between us. But as tempting as his offer was, I knew I couldn't betray my feelings for another man.

I glanced up at him through my lashes and saw the raw intensity in his gaze. It was clear that he wanted me. But we both knew it could never be more than a forbidden fantasy.

“What if we had our own affair, you know, to get back at them.” He said with a smirk.

My heart pounded in my chest like a wild animal in a cage at his words. An affair? The thought sent waves of scandalous delight and sinful anticipation coursing through my veins.

"An affair, Harry?" I repeated tentatively, my voice barely above a whisper. His dark eyes were locked onto mine, the intensity of his gaze making my breath hitch in my throat. The charged silence that hung between us was as intoxicating as the raw desire smoldering in his gaze.

Leaning closer, Harry's lips brushed against my earlobe as he whispered huskily, "Yes, an affair, just like what they did. Us, sneaking around, feeling each others bodies." His hot breath fanned over me, causing goosebumps to rise on my skin.

The room seemed to shrink around us as Harry moved impossibly closer, his hand finding its way to my knee. I watched as his fingers traced patterns along my thigh, desire flooding me with each small movement.

Harry's thumb traced a line up towards the apex of my thighs, igniting sparks wherever it made contact with my flesh through the thin material of my skirt. My body instinctively rose to meet him and I let out a soft gasp.

"You want this," he murmured heatedly against my neck before nipping lightly at the sensitive skin there. A delicious shiver ran down my spine and my core clenched at his actions.

"I...I..." I stuttered, struggling for words as heat pooled low in my belly. He chuckled darkly at my loss for words before returning his attention back to where his hand had slowly began creeping upwards again. His warm touch was like an electric shock, leaving behind a trail of molten desire.

Without another word, Harry pushed up my skirt and slipped his hand into my panties. His fingers brushed lightly against me and I sucked in a sharp breath, feeling a jolt of pleasure shoot straight to my core. He grinned wickedly at me and slowly began to stroke me, his skilled fingers setting my senses ablaze.

"Harry," I moaned out, clutching at his arm as he expertly worked me into a bundle of nerves. His low chuckle did nothing to ease the escalating tension.

His finger easily slipped inside me, making me whimper at the sudden intrusion. Harry pumped his digits inside me slowly at first, but quickly sped up when I let out a needy gasp. The pleasure was overwhelming and soon enough, I clenched around him, a shuddering orgasm ripping through me.

I fell back onto the bed, panting heavily as aftershocks still tingled throughout my body. Harry wiped his glistening fingers on my skirt before smoothly pulling it back down. He then lay next to me on the bed, his smirk evident in the dim light.

"That's just a taste," he said with a wicked glint in his eyes.

"I can't wait to claim you as mine," Harry whispered in my ear, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine. My heart raced as he trailed kisses along my jaw and down my neck, stopping to suckle a tender spot just below my earlobe. His hands moved sensually over my body, teasingly tracing patterns on my skin before gripping me tighter.

Desperate for more of his touch, I moaned and arched into him. He took that as an invitation and gripped the hem of my shirt, pulling it up over my head roughly. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath when he saw me bare-chested for the first time. I blushed at his appreciation but internally preened at his reaction.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he growled lowly before capturing one of my nipples between his lips and sucking hard. My back bowed off the bed as I let out a keening whimper, my fingers tangling in his hair. He had a way of making me feel wanted and desired like no one ever had before.

He moved lower, kissing and licking his way down my stomach until he reached the hem of my skirt. With a swift movement, he yanked it up over my hips, baring me completely to him. His eyes darkened even more when they met mine again, full of lust and possession.

"Spread your legs for me," he commanded softly yet authoritatively. I hesitated for only a moment before complying with his request, feeling incredibly exposed but also powerfully aroused by the thought of pleasing him in any way possible.

Harry took advantage of this vulnerability by thrusting two fingers deep inside me without any warning or preparation. I gasped at the intrusion but didn't stop him from exploring deeper within me. Instead, I clenched around his fingers instinctively while moaning out his name in ecstasy. He chuckled softly against my inner thigh before reaching between our bodies to stroke himself in time with his rhythmic fingering of me.

"You're so tight," he groaned approvingly.

As Harry thrust his fingers deeper into me, I couldn't help but moan louder. His fingers curled inside me, searching for my sweet spot while his other hand gripped my hip firmly. My body shuddered with pleasure as we moved together in this intense rhythm.

"You feel so good," I whispered between breaths. "Please don't stop."

He chuckled darkly before biting down softly on the lobe of my ear, sending a jolt of excitement through me. His hips picked up speed, grinding against me as he groaned in approval.

"That's it, baby girl," he growled. "Take what you want."

His words ignited something deep within me, making me even more hungry for his touch. I didn't hesitate to wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer still. Our skin slapped together in sync with each swift thrust and retreat as we moved together like two bodies meant to be one.

"Oh fuck, you're driving me wild," he whispered into my ear before grabbing a fistful of my hair and pulling my head back sharply. The sudden sting shot straight to my core, intensifying every sensation tenfold. He released my hair just as quickly and crashed his lips onto mine in a demanding kiss that left me panting for air.

We moved from the couch to bed floor where he pushed me down onto all fours before kneeling behind me. One hand gripped the base of my spine while the other caressed its way up my inner thigh towards my core again. He teased me mercilessly with his fingers as he trailed hot kisses down my spine and back up again, sending shivers of anticipation through my entire body.

"I know I'll fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before," he muttered darkly into my ear just before slamming himself deep inside me from behind in one powerful stroke that made me cry out loudly at both surprise and pleasure. In response, he gripped both sides of my face roughly yet tenderly and claimed my mouth once more in a fiery kiss that went on forever or at least it felt like it did until our bodies became entwined.

I could feel his cock hardening in his pants and I needed it no matter how wrong it was.

He gripped my hair tightly and pulled my head back, exposing my neck. His hot breath sent shivers down my spine as he whispered, "You're mine to fuck however I want." Wanting more than anything to feel his cock deep inside me, I moaned in agreement.

Pushing me against the bed, he roughly lifted one of my legs and wrapped it around his waist. With his free hand, he pushed his hard and heavy cock into me. I cried out at the intense pleasure shooting through my body as he began to thrust slowly yet powerfully in and out of me.

"Say you want it," he growled against my ear. "Tell me how much you need it."

"Please," I whimpered. "Fuck me hard."

His answering groan sent a wave of heat coursing through my veins as he slammed into me with all his might, claiming my mind and body as his own. The force of each thrust sent jolts of electricity through every nerve ending i body, leaving me breathless and begging for more.

As he continued to pound into me, I couldn't help but moan his name. His thick cock stretched and filled me, hitting my sweet spot with each powerful thrust. I felt my walls start to quake, ready to explode with pleasure as he took control of our encounter.

"That's it," he growled, nipping at my earlobe. "Just let go."

I clung to him tighter, my nails digging into his skin as I surrendered to the intensity of our lovemaking. Every muscle in my body was on edge, waiting for the release that felt so close yet so far away.

He changed positions again, lifting me up and pushing me against the wall. His other hand gripped my hair tightly as he claimed my mouth roughly in a deep, passionate kiss. My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively as he began to thrust even harder into me. It felt so dirty yet so good to be taken like this.

"You are mine," he whispered harshly between breaths. "Only mine. I bet your husband would be fucking dumbfounded when he sees you filled up with my babies."

His words sent shivers down my spine, and I couldn't help but nod in agreement as he took control completely. This was exactly what I needed - someone strong who would make me feel wanted and taken care of.

As we moved together in sync, lost in the heat of passion and desire, I whispered back to him between gasps for air, "Please...don't stop."

He replied by grabbing hold of my ass cheeks and squeezing them tightly as he thrust deeper into me. His rough skin rubbed against mine, sending tingling sensations all over my body. With every push and pull, our hips collided, echoing throughout the room.

I could feel him growing harder inside me, straining against the thin fabric separating us. The anticipation was killing me - I needed him to release that cock and fill me up completely. As if reading my mind, he pulled away from me suddenly and spun me around so that I was facing the wall again.

"Not yet," he growled into my ear before reaching down and teasing my entrance with his thumbs. He pushed one finger inside me slowly, then another, stretching me open until three fingers were buried deep inside me. I arched my back involuntarily as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through my veins at his tender ministrations on my most sensitive spot.

“Where is your damn phone?” Harry demanded, his voice dripping with urgency. I struggled to lift my head off the bed and weakly pointed to the device lying on the floor. Without hesitation, he leapt from the bed and strode over to it.

A sinister grin spread across his face as he unlocked the phone and shoved his thumb into my mouth, ordering me to suck on it. With a twisted sense of satisfaction, he flipped the phone and snapped a selfie, making sure to capture the tattoos inked on his arm for identification. His next move was ruthless as he pulled up my text messages and sent the photo to Teddy, effectively sending a clear message of dominance over me.

"I'll make sure that bastard knows what he's missing out on," Harry growls, his eyes filled with possessive rage. "You're too good for him, love. A fucking goddess like you deserves to be worshipped and adored, not tossed aside like a used toy." I feel a mix of anger and satisfaction as I realize that I don't need Teddy anymore, not after the wild and passionate night I just had with Harry. He makes me feel alive in a way no one else ever has.

Harry threw the phone back onto the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. I could see the fire in his gaze, the intensity of his desire for me. He reached out and ran a hand through my hair, gently tugging on it as he leaned in to kiss me. His lips were soft, but his touch was firm, demanding. I responded eagerly, meeting his kiss with equal passion.

As we kissed, Harry's hands began to wander, exploring my body with a familiarity that set my skin on fire. He traced the curve of my waist, the arch of my back, the dip of my hips. I could feel myself growing wetter with every touch, every kiss. I needed him inside me again, needed to feel him filling me up, possessing me completely.

But Harry had other plans. He broke our kiss and looked deep into my eyes, his expression serious. "Not yet," he whispered, echoing his earlier words. "I want to savor every moment with you."

He lowered his head and began to kiss a trail down my neck, across my collarbone, down to my breasts. He teased my nipples with his tongue, biting down gently on the sensitive flesh. I gasped, arching my back as waves of pleasure washed over me.

Slowly, carefully, Harry began to enter me once again. He moved slowly at first, savoring every inch of me. But as he felt me grow wetter, more responsive, he picked up the pace. He thrust deeper, harder, his hips slapping against mine. I could feel myself losing control, could feel the familiar tightening in my belly as I approached my climax.

"Turn over, want to see that beautiful ass of yours as I fill you up," he growled, his voice thick with desire.

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starsjulia · 11 days ago

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just as you are // leah williamson

leah williamson x neurodivergent!reader

a/n : everyone experiences neurodivergence differently, and this isn’t an accurate representation of all neurodivergent people, this is solely based of my personal experience with autism, though neurodivergence comes in many different forms and not just autism. based of this request!!!

It was late spring, and the air around Dorset had a gentle warmth, fresh with the promise of summer. You and Leah had been seeing each other for a few weeks now, with dates that felt both tender and easy—small glimpses of how good things could be when you didn’t have to hide yourself so much. Even if you hadn’t told Leah everything about you, each date seemed to draw you closer, as if she could sense the parts of you you weren’t quite ready to show.

Today, Leah had planned a surprise. She hadn’t given away much, only mentioning that she’d packed a picnic and that she hoped you didn’t mind “a bit of a trek.” You’d met her just outside her little holiday home that afternoon, where she greeted you with her usual warmth, her eyes lighting up when she saw you.

“Hi sweet, you ready for a little adventure?” she asked, her North London accent curling around her words in a way that made you smile.

“Yeah,” you replied, feeling that familiar mix of excitement and nerves. “Where are we headed?”

“It’s a surprise,” Leah said with a playful glint in her eye. “But I promise it’ll be worth it.”

She handed you a small, neatly packed backpack, giving you a wink as she shouldered her own. You took a deep breath, the sensation of the warm afternoon sun grounding you as you followed her down the winding forest path.

The journey was beautiful but long, winding through tall pines and wildflowers in bloom, their colors bright against the emerald green of the forest floor. Leah kept up an easy conversation as you walked, her voice a comforting presence beside you. She asked questions now and then—gentle ones, never prying too deep, like she understood you’d answer in your own time.

“How come you like the country side so much? Not like in a ew way, I just think it gets a bit boring”

You thought about it, carefully choosing your words. “I’m not to sure, i’ve always preferred somewhere quieter. Somewhere where I could have my own rhythm, I guess. The city is just… too much sometimes.”

Leah nodded, her face softening in understanding. “I kinda get what you mean. It can be a lot, all that noise and chaos. I bought the house to get away sometimes. I do sometimes like being in a place where you can actually hear yourself think,”

You gave a small smile, the warmth in her words easing some of the tension in your chest. It felt good, hearing her talk about needing her own space. It reminded you that maybe your own needs weren’t so strange.

After nearly an hour, Leah led you through a small clearing and out onto a sunlit hill, overlooking a valley where a river sparkled as it wound its way through the forest. The sight took your breath away; the view was so open, so peaceful. Leah spread out a blanket on the grass, giving you a gentle smile as she motioned for you to sit beside her.

As you settled onto the blanket, you felt a surge of gratitude toward her for bringing you here, to this quiet place. It was beautiful—and quiet. So quiet that you felt your shoulders relax as you took in the scene around you.

“Perfect, isn’t it?” Leah murmured, lying back on the blanket, her hands resting behind her head. “Just us and the whole world spread out like this.”

“Yeah,” you said softly, glancing over at her. “It really is.”

You felt a pull toward her in that moment, a soft, warm connection you hadn’t felt with anyone before. Being with Leah felt like breathing fresh air after being cooped up for too long. And yet, even with her kindness, you still couldn’t shake the lingering worry that had been building over the past few weeks—the part of you that kept wondering what would happen if Leah knew the truth. It was a fear that had become familiar, one you’d felt in other relationships before: the worry that maybe you’d be “too much” once someone really got to know you.

The thought weighed on you as you sat beside her, watching as she unpacked the small picnic she’d prepared. She handed you a sandwich, smiling as she brushed a stray curl from her face.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

You laughed softly, trying to push the worry from your mind. “Yeah, I am… I think. This looks amazing.”

The two of you ate in comfortable silence for a while, Leah occasionally making little comments about the clouds or the wildflowers blooming nearby. As you watched her, you felt a warmth spread through you, a feeling of being seen and accepted just as you were. But then, just as you were starting to relax, Leah turned to you with a thoughtful look in her eyes.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” she said softly, her gaze steady on yours. “I… I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you these past few weeks. Being with you, it feels… easy, you know? Like I don’t have to pretend to be anything I’m not.”

Her words sent a jolt through you, a strange mix of happiness and anxiety swirling in your chest. This was the moment you’d been hoping for, but the thought of her not knowing everything about you made it feel… fragile. Like you were standing on the edge of something precious and terrifying.

“Leah, I…” You took a deep breath, the words catching in your throat. “Before we… before you tell me something more serious, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Leah’s expression softened, her gaze open and patient. “Of course. Whatever it is, I’m here to listen.”

You hesitated, your heart pounding as you tried to find the right words. “I have autism.” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper, but quite blunt. “so sometimes I experience the world differently. Things that seem simple for other people can be… challenging for me. Loud noises, bright lights, weird smells—they can be overwhelming. And i don’t really get social cues properly, and i sometimes says odd things.”

You looked down, feeling a lump form in your throat. “I just… I didn’t want you to be surprised if… if I have days where I struggle. I’d understand if that’s too much for you. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

For a moment, Leah was quiet, and you felt the silence stretch between you, your heart sinking as you braced yourself for her reaction. But then, gently, she reached out, her hand covering yours in a warm, reassuring grip.

“Hey,” she murmured, her voice gentle. “Look at me.”

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to meet hers, and to your surprise, you saw nothing but warmth in her eyes.

“I kinda thought so?” she said, her tone soft but steady. “I didn’t know for sure, but… well, you’d mentioned needing time alone sometimes, and I noticed how certain things seemed to make you anxious. But you know what?” She paused, her gaze unwavering. “I like you, just as you are. I like all the little things that make you you, whether they’re easy or not.”

You blinked, her words washing over you like a balm. “You… you do?”

“Of course I do,” Leah replied,as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I mean, loving someone isn’t about expecting them to be stereotypically perfect. It’s about seeing who they are—all of them—and still wanting to be there. And I… I want to be here, with you.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “I know there might be things I don’t understand, there’s probably a lot i’ll get wrong, but I’d rather learn than walk away.”

A warmth bloomed in your chest, a feeling of relief and joy so strong that it left you speechless. For so long, you’d been afraid that no one would be willing to understand the parts of you that were different. But here was Leah, offering acceptance without hesitation, as if loving you was the most natural thing in the world.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “No one’s ever… said anything like that nice to me before.”

Leah’s smile softened as she took your hand in hers, her thumb tracing gentle circles over your skin. “Well, then, I’ll just have to keep saying it, because you deserve to be known, gorgeous,” she murmured, her voice carrying a playful warmth. “You’re incredible, just as you are. And I want to be here, even on the hard days.”

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, and Leah reached up to gently brush it away, her touch so soft it made your heart ache. The two of you sat there in silence, the weight of her words settling over you like a comforting blanket. In that moment, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to hide parts of yourself to be loved.

Taking a deep breath, you gave her hand a small squeeze, feeling a surge of gratitude for this beautiful, open-hearted person beside you.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “For… for understanding, it’s more than i could ever ask for.”

Leah gave you a warm smile, her eyes shining with a quiet, steady affection. “Always, love.”

The two of you sat in comfortable silence, the sun dipping low in the sky as the first stars began to emerge. You leaned your head against her shoulder, feeling her arm come around you in a gentle embrace, and for the first time in a long time, you felt completely at ease—loved and accepted, just as you were.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #woso #woso imagine #leah williamson imagines #leah williamson x you #leah williamson one shot #leah williamson fluff #angst

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mo0nfairy · 19 days ago

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ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ BLOMSTERTID, PART TWO !

summary :: Centuries-old mage, Y/N L/N, possesses magical abilities unheard of. A few citizens monopolize the remnants of magic they find, of which they now title “Hextech”. Hearsay of this power bleeds through all of Runeterra, until Piltover and Zaun find themselves in an anarchic war to obtain said power. Before Y/N can even blink, however, the humans neglect their plans when they realize they’d rather have Y/N instead.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 10.9k

content warnings :: NO SPOILERS! yandere!viktor, obsessive!viktor, g/n reader, violence/gore, s3lf-harm, (very light) s3xual implications, needles, vomit, & terminal illness.

viktor's yandere traits are . . .

worshiper, heroic, & obsessive

⋆ ｡ ˚ ⋆ ⸺ When the moon rises and the vibrant world eases, Viktor always finds himself dreaming of the same thing.

He imagines himself consuming the correct remedies and garnering the ability to walk, to run, to stand tall on his two feet. He is merely a child, but he is well aware of his weaker form. In the fragrance of these illusions, he can become capable and mighty; he can be the fearless warrior who protects his loved ones from lurking danger.

To heal and obtain strength — that is the haunting desire which paints his dreams.

The young boy now greets the sun in all of its blistering heat. The cloudless sky casts a shimmering glint upon the rusted scrap metal and bent screws of his handmade boat. Viktor’s frail hands place the creation upon the surface of a river stream. In the light of his childlike wonder, he imagines himself the captain, guiding his loyal crew across a grand sea overwhelmed with thunder and lightning. His dreams remain stagnant in his brain, though, where they have remained his entire life.

The jagged gears and sprockets hasten down the current before Viktor can bring himself to his wobbly knees. The boat has now accelerated to speeds little he cannot keep up with. When his crooked cane escapes from his grasp, he falls down with it. His nose aches from the harsh plummet against the ground and specks of tears begin to build in his bambi-brown eyes. He winces from the few painful jolts in his weak legs before he is finally able to stand once more.

When he searches, Viktor cannot find his beloved boat anywhere in sight. His eyes follow the stream ahead, which descends into an abysmal cave. He measures the weight of his options, but ultimately decides that his boat is too precious to abandon.

With a gulp, he carefully treads forward into the cave. Here, there is no light to guide him, only sound. And every drop of water and subtle echo of breath has his tiny heart hammering. He imagines some great, big, green-hued monster to crawl from the darkness and chow down on his thin bones. Viktor imagines the utmost worse to occur, but does not relent with his original intentions. He has to be brave, he asserts to himself.

When he rounds a corner, he spots a strange patch of light in the distance. Within this light, he recognizes the familiar cog of his boat peeking from behind a rock. He is moments away from cheering and celebrating the return of his greatest invention, until he notices the journey he will have to endure to retrieve the boat.

Viktor will have to squeeze himself through a narrow crack, threatening to release the avalanche of boulders from above. Still, he concludes his boat to be more important than his safety. He wastes no time in rushing forward to enact on such.

There is a struggle as he sinks down to lay on his stomach, but he captures success when he finds his small frame to fit perfectly through the tight gap. Chunks of rock protrude rudely into his emaciated form as he crawls, but he continues onwards. Viktor reaches his hand out, grasping air momentarily, before he finally lodges the wheel of his boat between his two fingers. With a soft “yes!”, he yanks the boat back into his possession.

Before he can leave, however, he finds something striking in his periphery. In its journey, his boat landed in a space overwhelmed with glistening crystals.

Viktor eagerly slithers himself into the expanse. Bringing himself to his feet, he proceeds to marvel at the sight before him.

The one fraction of the area that fascinates him the most is the great boulder directly in the center. It twitches and heaves with faded life, while radiating an aura of blue and purple luster. The opalescence is muted from its old age, but the sparkles still captivate him beyond belief. It does not take much to impress a boy raised in the lanes, after all. It is beautiful, Viktor thinks to himself.

And in the height of his desire for answers, he slowly places a hand upon the surface.

His vision abruptly goes dark and flashes of images then skim through his head.

Viktor sees a person, almost. They have jagged skin and colorful flesh, with swirling hues of blue and purple levitating from their open palm. The scars treading along their skin spell out some form of incantation. The letters are ineligible, but Viktor still attempts to grasp the meaning within the short spurts of clarity casted across his brain. Incomprehensible whispers in this language permeate from every corner of the cave, as though the bats have been assigned the task of delivering a message.

Viktor cannot grasp any of the statements spoken, but one word is emphasized with acute clarity.

Y/N.

There is a vision of a grand tree, bristling with life and color, before that image is replaced by his normal sight of the cave. The floors and walls surrounding him all rumble and vibrate, threatening to crumble. A few loose stones descend from the ceiling and nick his ragged clothing.

Viktor does not waste a second more before he is scrambling toward his point of entry. Squished through the skinny gap, around the several corners, and out the sunlit entrance — he has successfully escaped the crumbling cave with his boat held tightly in his grasp.

A thundering pain then sinks into his leg. The force brings him to the ground with a violent wince. When he looks to the source, he finds that his leg is in its normal condition. What he doesn’t find, however, is his cane. Somehow, he had endured the entire escape without the support of his cane, which has now been swallowed by the tumbling rubble of the avalanche.

Viktor tries to catch his breath and find a feasible explanation. Was it adrenaline that got him to safety, or possibly… Magic?

The topic of this “earthquake” spread throughout the Under-City, before ascending into the glamorous land of Piltover. Without wasting a beat, Piltover swiftly claimed rights to the cave and utilized the expanse for resources, all of which Viktor watched from the high surface of a neighboring water tower.

Seeing the men work themselves to the bone, shipping off samples of what was his discovery, Viktor makes a promise to himself.

He will fight tooth-and-nail to cross the bridge of Piltover. Then, he will reclaim possession of those crystals and protect them as his.

He will succeed, he solemnly swears to himself.

In the span of the years that followed, this mysterious creature, Y/N, has ushered Viktor to chase after his brightest dreams: to heal and obtain strength. They have been his light as he guides himself to this goal; his lantern through a violent blizzard.

The journey to success began when Viktor first dipped a toe into adulthood.

The remaining years of his adolescence were spent in a ridiculous back-and-forth cycle with several prestigious schools in Piltover. Viktor was an exemplary student, that has been made abundantly clear. However, the elites in the academies were wary of his background as an Under-City citizen.

Time after time, he persevered past every expectation of him and flourished with flying colors. Viktor was prepared to stand outside their offices, down on his knees with fresh coffees in hand for their approval.

It wasn’t until a few days after his eighteenth birthday were his efforts finally taken into account. It was through the eyes of Heimerdinger that Viktor finally received recognition, who offered the young scholar the role of his assistant.

Viktor accepted the offer with embarrassing speed.

The role of an assistant is not his dream, though. It is merely one stepping stone toward the finish line of his goals. These are facts he has to relentlessly remind himself of. Upon scrutinizing the failed efforts of a Talis scientist, however, he realizes how difficult this task is. Possibly bridging on the edge of impossible, if he is honest with himself.

After an abrupt explosion, Viktor was sent to study the materials used in Jayce’s experiments and verify their safety. He ventured into his isolated office and began his scrutinization of the notes and toolsets scattered around. A steel metal box, adorned with intricacies of blue and gold, calls out to his curiosity. Flicking the metal tab open, Viktor lifts the heavy lid and finds the very last thing he expected to see.

Held in copper claws are fragments of the crystals he discovered as a boy. All glistening and pulsating in those tones of blue and purple.

“Y/N…” The word crawls out strangled from his throat. Accompanied with his stuttering gasps, he has been rendered to a man absolutely breathless.

His hands tremble like a thundering earthquake as they take one of the crystals into his gentle grasp. And just like that, all the resentment and festering anger he harbored for Piltover had vanished. As though merely touching these shards provided him with the impossible tranquility found in forgiveness.

All he needed now was to return to you, then anything other than serene bliss can melt away.

Viktor offered (with a stifling fervency) to join Jayce in his efforts to learn more of this magic. From here, “Hextech” was born.

Many, many years have now passed since their partnership. In these years, only puny progress has been made in Viktor’s chase for his dreams. With what success they’ve grasped, they’ve managed to capture the attention of scientists and investors across the world.

Jayce, the born-and-raised Piltie he is, has claimed all credit for the perseverance of Hextech with loud, prideful words and his chest puffed out like a bird. He revels in the bouquets of applause and praise he is drowned in.

Viktor, on the other hand (and despite being the sole reason behind Hextech’s success), cannot find it within himself to care for Jayce’s entitlement. All he has ever cared for is you and the dreams you keep safely nestled in your palms. Everything else is immaterial.

2021 has now reached its lively Summer. Unfortunately, the goals Viktor set out for himself that year are miles away from fruition. His primary focus has been the runes he saw adorning your form and what definitions remain in every scratch. Translating the characters will lead to your location, he is positive of such.

With that being said, all these wasted days have been spent finding himself in the same dead ends he’s visited countless times. He can feel his worn body eroding with every passing second, with the glimmer of his dream now beginning to flicker with old, neglected light.

Home again, Viktor partakes in his evening routine before bed, a routine he has followed for years. The thick paper in his at-home office is used to its utmost value, where the ink of his pen bleeds his heart out onto the draped scroll.

If it weren’t for his broad vocabulary and expensive handwriting, you would think these scrolls were the works of a teenage girl gushing about her crush. In reality, it is Viktor releasing the pent-up emotions he’s forced into captivity during the hours at work. Here, within the safety of his home, all of these feelings can be exposed in all of its ugly brilliance. His sentences may be frivolous, but they are overwhelmed with an ardent need.

Without realizing, he sometimes finds himself unconsciously sketching your face from his memories as a boy. That breathtaking, tragically enchanting face has haunted him beyond belief. And that is especially the case now, as he signs off yet another letter to you with his signature “Yours Forever and Always, Viktor”. He takes one last longing glance to your features he sketched over the romantic words.

Propping himself onto his cane, he curls the scroll into itself. He then treads to his bedroom and rests the scroll on the flower bed just outside the window. Joining this letter is another gift he addressed to you.

Viktor takes hold of his handmade boat he carried with him into adulthood. It is now miserable and rusted, but remains one of the most sacred items he owns. He nestles it safely beneath the thick hedges of the flowers, ensuring no gusts of wind or fluttering birds can disrupt its placement.

These actions are taken with one intention in mind: garnering your attention.

Surely, from wherever you may be, you will catch sight of the boat and be reminded of the connection you formed with him long ago. He is sure of this, despite waking every morning to the same, untouched flower bed. Still, this neglect is not anywhere near enough to hinder his efforts.

Slowly, he situates himself into his bed and faces his body toward the window. Sleep is something that rarely ever finds him, but in the midst of these rarities, he sleeps like a restless child on Christmas Eve. One day, Viktor will wake to your heavenly silhouette peering at him through the window. He falls asleep with this prayer ghosting his lips.

Another day of fruitless work is what he is met with the following morning. No soft, jagged hands stroking his hair or crooked smile to rival the early-day sun.

These failures, mended with the countless rough patches Hextech has faced in recent months, have taken a perceptible toll on Viktor. Again and again, he rearranges the runes of the Hexcore and provides it with a multitude of subjects to learn from. Still, he does not earn even a glimmer of a possible translation. All this effort forged into finding your whereabouts has resulted in defeat, yet again.

The hours of the day drag on in agonizing lethargy. The walls of the headquarters could almost resemble the metal bars of a prison. Here, however, the office space provided by Heimerdinger’s connections and Talis House money was far more luxurious than a dank cell.

A window with intricacies molded into the surface provides a blinding light from their high-view point in the city. The gold spheres painting the marble floors and bright walls could almost resemble eyes scrutinizing his every move. The space is vacant, except for the wide desk built into the wall with notes and gadgetry scattered about the surfaces.

The room is dull in comparison to others in the building, yes, but neither he nor Jayce had time to concern themselves with appearance. Maybe… Maybe you’ll help with decorations when the time comes. Maybe you’ll adorn these boring walls with those opalescent crystals and shimmering jewels of yours. You can provide this room with life, just the same as you did for him.

So engrossed in the bewitching pondering of you, Viktor fails to notice another person in the room. Sky, he thinks he can recall her name as. She rambles nervously about nonsense he cannot be bothered to discern. It is only when she treads a little too close to the Hexcore is he finally brought out of his inner turmoil. Her elbow unintentionally nudges a nearby house plant toward the Hexcore.

A scolding bridges on Viktor’s tongue, but is replaced by a suffocating silence when the Hexcore clings to the plant.

A bolt of purple springs from the runes and clasps to the plant like a hand, twitching as it absorbs the energy from the leaves. When the potted plant wilts, the Hexcore bursts with new energy and flourishes with greenery that reaches the ceiling. It radiates in the colors of blue and purple he knows all too well.

From the illumination is a character of one of the runes. Viktor watches in enraptured amazement as said rune unfolds and spells out something tangible.

“SAN T RY”, the letters speak.

Santry? Maybe it is an incantation or a phrase native to the language you speak, he is not sure. Nonetheless, the heavy ache in his chest eases and welcomes the light of excitement.

His brain dares to assume you would then somehow blossom with the flowery, there to breathe life into the dream he’s spent years striving after. Much to his horror, however, all the thriving organic matter soon withers away. As the decaying fragments descend, Viktor rushes over, discarding his cane. He clings to the dead remnants piling on the floor as though it were you who died in his hands.

As quickly as it had begun, it has now ended. And through the shocked silence, he is sure he can hear the tortured remains of his heart die alongside this damn house plant.

Still, the tortured soul does not impede his intentions of translating the runes of the Hexcore. If anything, his motivation has endured an incredible increase.

His crafted boat and another written scroll have found their home on his flower bed, once again, but Viktor is far from his bedroom. He remains in his at-home office, grinding the hours of the past week into understanding the meaning behind this groundbreaking discovery.

Why was there such a dramatic reaction to biological matter? Does this serve as a step forward in the direction of his dreams or does this eradicate all his original effort? Will he have to scour through every note he has written in the past decade to find something that explains this revelation?

And could it… Is it really you?

The runes scribbled on his notepad may as well have been chicken scratch. Despite his unwavering intelligence, he still cannot piece together the meaning of the characters the Hexcore had given him. At this point, translating a mere syllable would be enough for Viktor to shout “eureka!” from the highest building in Piltover.

“Viktor.”

Time stands still.

The voice that permeates through the office is almost strangled, as though his brain can’t quite grasp what the voice actually sounds like. Still, it is an elegant conundrum of the most ethereal music he has ever heard. And he knows, he just knows where this beautiful melody has perfused from.

Oh, Y/N.

My angel. My dearest.

His brain begs for him to turn around and bless his vision with what he knows will be the most perfect sight he’ll ever witness. His body, however, has been reduced to that of a frozen statue, completely stiff and still.

“Look at me.”

The demand falling from your tongue erases all of that.

His body seems to move on its own, beginning to slowly, breathlessly, turn around. He knows it will be too much for his weak body to endure, yet still, he cannot stop himself. It is as though you’ve plunged a hand into his nerves and began conducting his movements like a puppeteer.

Viktor finds you standing across the room and a sob is yanked from his chest. Your figure has personified in a mess of blinding brightness and confusing colors — a watercolor portrait detailing every speck of the word perfection. It strains his eyes to look at you. Yet still, he cannot bear to look away. Not now, not ever.

What is clear in his vision, though, is what you present in your hands. You hold the rusted boat he crafted as a child, with your fingers exploring the gears and cogs plastered against the scrap metal. As you fidget, you tread closer to where he sits. And with tears seeping down his face, Viktor watches your every move in absolute devastation.

“I’ve been searching for this for quite a while.” You hold the boat in an admirable presentation. “For you, as well.”

His heart exhales, almost. As though something had been digging their tight nails into the gooey tissue and finally, finally eased their grasp.

When you bend down beside him, glorious face just inches away from his, Viktor can truly feel his freed heart melting down to puddled nonsense. Your hand then finds his cheek and you cup his boney face in your palm. Your touch feels like fuzzy static from the devices he tinkers with. Electrifying, and most imperatively, warm.

“My beautiful masterpiece.” Your voice still remains a mellifluous scratch and punctures his soul with every timbre and tone.

He can’t help but feel small beneath your gaze. Like a nasty insect. Weak, immaterial, and easy. Skittering across your flesh and ensnaring his prickly limbs around this grand sugar cube he’s stumbled upon. He is something so trifling in comparison to you. Potent, imperative, and intricate. Exuding saccharin with every step you take and indifferent to this foul pest lapping up any sliver he can get.

“How could you let this drag on so long, Viktor?” You question. “You were cut from the cloth of my flesh. Soaked in the rivers of my blood. There is no you if not me. You and I are one.”

Viktor has been rendered to a man overcome with twitter-patted hysteria. He is shocked he is even still able to breathe, no less, maintain consciousness in a moment of such frenzied elation. No words escape him in response; all he can do is stare and revel at the sight he’s been slaving his entire life just to find a glance of.

Another euphoria-induced beat passes before you do the unthinkable. With a few measured glances to his mouth, Viktor watches in astonished rapture as your eyes flutter close and your mouth subtly parts. Then, you lean into him.

Just before your lips touch, impaling him with the inevitable exaltation he’ll surely die from, he blinks and finds himself face-down at his desk.

Reality may as well have slapped him across the face.

A light, delirious gasp leaps from him as consciousness settles in. Viktor finds his lips puckered against his knuckles, where drool seeps from the corner of his mouth and onto the notes beneath his head. He buries his face into his hands with a jagged, frustrated groan.

Dreaming of kissing the partner of his dreams, is he a teenager again? Then again, you’ve always had your clever ways of making him feel as such. This romantic disposition of his did not flourish until the later years of his adolescence, of which he assumed were the normal changes every young man faces. Then, as a mature adult, he can continue his efforts of translating the runes with complete clarity.

Bridging on almost two decades later, these feelings have yet to cease. Viktor is still horrifically and irrevocably in love. Not even the promise of heaven could help fizzle out these emotions. What is heaven compared to you, anyway?

He peeks his gaze through the creases of his fingers and finds he had fallen asleep on his planner. In the ink (now diluted and splotched from drool), he finds the date of the fundraiser he had promised Jayce to attend. With a glance at the clock, he realizes he has several minutes to prepare himself until the event begins. Another groan rumbles from his throat.

All Viktor wants is to return to the dreamscape of your enchanting words and magic-spun lips. Is that too much to ask for?

Dusk has now begun to fade down the horizon, illuminating the artwork of Mel Medarda in a scintillating glow. The art is irrelevant to all, however, as scientists and engineers across the globe have traveled here to sell their million-dollar ideas to Piltover’s greatest investors.

Viktor now stands behind Jayce as they saunter through the gallery, stifling a grunt with every dry conversation he’s unnecessarily dragged into. The scientist they’ve found themself shackled in a conversation with trails on about his success in other nations. He is quite famous for his fruitful discoveries and resolute intelligence, but Viktor could not care less about what this stranger has to offer them.

Standing here, idle chatter and rich laughter perfusing from every corner, all Viktor can find himself thinking of is you. He juggles with the reality of the previous events, trying to differentiate whether it was another sugar-spun dream or a message sent straight from your pen. He’s never had a dream so explicitly vivid before, after all. Could it have been a sign? Was this your reciprocation? Do you truly possess the same feelings for him as he does for you?

“That sounds incredible. Doesn’t it, Viktor?”

A nudge from Jayce and Viktor is barely yanked back to reality.

“Ehh, yes. Yes, it does…”

Without another click, Viktor then returns to his favorite place: the thought of you.

That dream was the encapsulation of his greatest desires falling into his palms. The only proof he has that it was an actual dream and not reality were the current speeds of his fluffed-out heart. To witness you through his naked eye, to feel the genuine touch of your hand, to mold his needful lips against yours — it would kill him instantly. The fact that he is still alive now is all the evidence Viktor needs to realize that, unfortunately, it was just another dream in a sea of thousands.

This does not halt his brain from soaking in the contents of his dream, however. All he could think about in the midst of this stupid cocktail party was your face, your body, your voice. God, could there be anything so indubitably perfect in this world?

And your kiss, oh, the things Viktor would do to receive such vehement affection. Your presence is enough to kill him, yes, but your kiss would revive him, just to kill him all over again.

A delicious juxtaposition between life and death — that is what you are made of. This lethal, intoxicating essence swims through your veins and weeps from your soul; it is a weapon any sane man would be ecstatic to succumb to. Viktor surely would, he has no hesitation with his judgment. He merely thinks of your face and is moments away from collapsing to his knees.

A server treads by with a platter hoisted over their shoulder. On the surface are several gold-painted champagne glasses. Viktor has no second to think before the server is shoving one of the glasses into his hands, no regard for his resistance.

He makes the motion to grasp the server's attention and return the glass, but something about it stops him. Twirling the glass in circles and watching the liquid swirl with the motions, he finds himself entranced. Viktor has never been one to drink alcohol, as it does more harm than good for his feeble body. With this glass now in his hand, he can’t prevent himself from contemplating the flavor. And perhaps the flavor could even be similar to you, maybe.

Would your kiss be as smooth as the thick liquid? Would it sting like the bubbling effervescence of the champagne? Just like the bolts of fervent electricity he garnered from the Hexcore? Would it be rich? Sour? Sweet? Maybe a mouthwatering collision no one has ever tasted before?

Viktor’s mouth waters as these thoughts invade his brain. If he were correct, he’d bottle the essence and get himself drunk on the taste for eternity. Even if it was poison, he would welcome the paradisiacal venom with a sun-bright smile.

Just before his lips meet the edge of the champagne glass to truly test what his angel may taste like, something captures his attention.

The words “Hextech” and “sell” should never exist within the same sentence, yet Viktor hears them crystal-clear from the mouth of this scientist. All bubbly, blissful nonsense frolicking through his mind is brought to an abrupt cut.

Viktor has caught the man halfway through a proposition regarding the sake of Hextech.

“Just between us scientists, you can tell me the truth. You’re surely getting nowhere with your experiments in that cramped office, no?”

Viktor tries to intrude and bring an end to the idea before it is even spoken aloud, but he is rudely interrupted.

“Imagine how much prosperity and success you can bring to the Hextech name with me there! All the profit you’d earn with my skills and experience.”

His nails dig violently into his palm as he drags on with his proposition. Like hell will he let some greedy capitalists put his hands on what sliver he has of you. It hurt to simply let Jayce touch the Hextech materials, despite the fact they were originally in his possession in the first place. To send it overseas to god-knows-where would wound him in ways he would never heal from.

A brutal rejection bridges on Viktor’s tongue. Maybe even a foul remark to add insult to injury. When he glances at Jayce, however, he finds the man's expression to be scrunched into puzzlement. Almost as though he were considering this scientist's offer.

A sharp shatter then pulsates through the room.

Viktor looks to his hand and finds he had shattered his glass in the height of his fury, cold champagne seeping down his folded sleeves.

A few partygoers fall silent and look at the sudden intrusion of volume, but soon return to their chit-chat when nothing feasible comes from the noise. Jayce, on the other hand, wastes no time in trying to inspect the glass shards punctured into Viktor’s pale palms. He yanks himself away before he can place a finger on him, however.

“No!” Viktor asserts.

He is not embarrassed of his outburst, either, despite how composed he presents himself to be. Not when you are on the line. How could he ever remain calm with this prospect knocking on his door?

A sharp glare to Jayce and the man begins fumbling through an explanation.

“I-I never said we would take the offer, just that-”

“Just what, Jayce?”

Viktor’s voice increases in volume. Eyes follow, but he does not care.

“It-It’s just… I’m worried, Viktor. You are clearly not in good shape and I don’t think the future of-”

Viktor swings his frail arm behind him before surging it toward Jayce’s face.

The punch does not land, as Jayce dodges it with ease, ultimately resulting in Viktor to trip over his leg. He lands on the marble floors with a violent thud, piercing pain spreading through his sensitive body upon impact.

All eyes are locked on the two now, hushed whispers drifting through the silent room. As fast as it had begun, it was now over.

Jayce attempts to assist his partner, but Viktor bluntly slaps his helping hand away and brings himself to his feet. If he has proved anything over the past decade, it is not Jayce he needs. It is you and only you. When he is met with the possibility of losing you, he cannot restrain the rampant, infuriated emotions coursing through his bloodstream.

Viktor then limps out of the building with rage still perfusing from him like a thick perfume. Jayce acquiesces, but does not attempt to follow his lab partner. The Talis name cannot be tarnished, after all.

He apologizes to the scientist with shame plastered across his expression. With a paranoid glance over his shoulder, he speaks in hushed tones and proposes the topics they spoke of beforehand.

Meanwhile, Viktor hastens to the sanctity of his home. It is the only safety he has been nestled with in the trajectory of his life. It is all done by your hand, as his home is where you are. Yes, with a slyly-sewn excuse, he was granted permission to keep the Hexcore in his possession, of which he wasted no time in snagging away. Now, he will protect and nurture this fragment he has of you by whatever means necessary.

Viktor soon trudges past the threshold adjacent to his living room, the mahogany doors creaking as he does so. Sauntering through, he is then met with an instantaneous peace.

His library is the place he possesses the utmost pride for, since all books present have been written by his hand. Here, every etch of ink correlates to you.

You are not something he can contain within the whorls of his mind, no. You must be expressed in any form of physicality Viktor can garner. Writing assists him in translating the runes, but it also serves as another desperate attempt to assure himself you are real and not just some psychic phenomenon he experienced as a child. You are real, you must be. You do not have a choice.

Many of the books detail your physicality, as much as his fuzzy, muddled brain can decipher. Other books are unorganized gibberish regarding your whereabouts. The runes, the crystals, the Hextech — all this science is just stepping stones leading him closer to you.

The other pieces, the more hidden ones, are for more frivolous exertions. Nights when these fantasies cloud his mind, he jots them down in messy splotches of ink and marvels at the ideas he bleeds onto paper. Said ideas are too intimate for him to revisit without flushing like a young boy stepping into the world of puppy-love. Nonetheless, they assuage him on the lonelier nights cramped in his office.

All of these books overwhelm the several isles of shelves within the grand library. Through the warm wood and soft lamplights, Viktor rushes past and does not bother to drag his thin fingers across the leather spines, as he usually does in admiration of his work. Instead, he rushes to the set of double-doors opposite to the other doorway.

Through this entrance is his at-home office; the room in which most of his time is spent. The area is nothing short of dull, but serves its purpose — that being supporting Viktor’s hard work and delusional fits.

That is certainly the case now, as the man chucks his cane to the ground and collapses onto a neighboring sofa. The materials are bristly and jut into his skin uncomfortably, but he cannot find it within himself to care. Not when his precious Hextech is at risk of being sold off like livestock. Not when you are moments away from being shoved onto a ship and sent overseas.

“Ridiculous. Selling you? How dare he even consider it!”

Viktor’s gaze finds the rolling chalkboard situated just beside his desk. On the green surface is a sketch of your face, drawn perfectly centered in the mess of numerous equations and jotted formulas.

“There is not enough money in the world- in the galaxy for me to even consider disposing of you!”

He stands to feet, wobbling slightly, before he limps over the chalkboard. He rests a gentle palm upon the surface where your cheek would be.

“No… Never you…”

Viktor had not realized how shockingly realistic the drawing of you was until this moment. All the hours spent sketching your face have resulted in him becoming quite savvy in his artistic abilities, as it shows, to a degree where he finds himself captivated with the sight. As though you were standing right before him, just as you were in his dreams.

“Never you…” His thumb caresses the jut of your traced cheekbone. “Perfect, magnificent you…”

With a light thud, his weary head lands against the board, where your foreheads align. From here, the neglected taste of champagne then returns to his memory. Truly, how would you taste? What emotions would he be flooded with if his dreams weren’t so rudely halted?

Viktor is now breathing heavily before the chalkboard, practically panting against the rugged surface. The idea of kissing you is not foreign by any means, but as he is still fresh out of the arms of his fuzzy dreams, his body cannot restrain itself from reacting dramatically to the concept.

He then presses a languid kiss to your chalk-drawn mouth. Sure, the surface may not have the softness and jagged texture he is certain you possess, but the concept alone is enough to get his heart burning.

Viktor’s mind becomes overwhelmed with the thought of you, like some hungry parasite latched into the fleshy grooves of his brain. How you’d taste, like lapping up the juice seeping from the forbidden fruit. How you’d feel, like the warm blanket of heaven’s clouds embracing him. Viktor is overwhelmed with the contemplation of everything; all the madness and repose that would follow with your lips on his.

The kiss hastens, until he begins utilizing his tongue in the state of vehemence. Thick chalk pervades through his mouth, but he is too far muddled by the fantasies bleeding through his head to pay any mind. He is messy and inexperienced with his mouth, yes, but the feverish need seared into his affections eradicates any nervous ticks or fearful hesitation.

Viktor’s efforts are abruptly cut short when he is overwhelmed by a coughing fit. He failed to anticipate how his fragile body would react to the thick chalk. It is an inevitability he should have realized sooner, had he not been so blissfully blinded by the imaginary, dusty lips of his lover.

What was expected as a few coughs to rid his throat of the dust resulted in him choking on rugged gags. His body slams against the surface of his desk as a desperate means for support.

Blots of hot blood and chunks of chalk amalgamate and splatter out from his retches. Far too light headed to notice, a few drops of this excess land on the Hexcore. Immediately, it begins pulsating with new life. From this vibration, a heavenly aura of violet and blue perfuses and sways in languid circles. A new set of runes he has never seen before join the cloud of color, which spell out incomprehensible letters as they glisten and churn.

This sudden change soon grasps Viktor’s attention, who is now met with a new sense of clarity upon discerning the sight. When the revelation simmers, he may as well have died right at his desk.

“Oh, dearest…” A wide, almost manic smile stretches on his thin face. “Is it me you need?”

The emotions swarming through his body have rendered him weak, but he has never known strength like he does in this moment. Viktor should have known from the beginning: you have always been calling out to him. It was never the measly plants that triggered a reaction, it was him! It was always him!

And so fervently will he give himself over to you. Whatever it is you desire, Viktor will personally deliver on a golden platter. He will be your warrior and your servant; he will set the world ablaze to ensure your happiness.

“Y/N… I promise…”

Viktor collapses before he can bring this new revelation to fruition.

The sounds of a robotic beeping is what greets Viktor next. The steady rhythm guides him as consciousness pervades his body. Through his blurry vision, he finds white walls, white floors, and himself in a white bed beneath white sheets. Everything is stale in its dull, depressing appearance.

Turning his heavy head, he finds a figure seated beside him with their head buried in their hands. A glimmer of hope sparkles through him.

“Y/N?”

Jayce raises his head with sharp speed and Viktor is met with acute disappointment. He fails to notice the trepidation and pity in his partner's eyes.

“Viktor… The doctors, they, uh, they said…”

He sinks further into the mattress. His goals, his dreams, everything he has ever wanted — none of it will be his.

Even beneath the weight of shocked grief, all that permeates through his weary head is you.

The runes inked on your flesh, how he’ll never caress them. The crooked frame of your smile, how he’ll never earn it. The contours of your jagged hands, how he’ll never hold them. The symphony of your musical voice, how he’ll never hear it. Viktor will never be able to have the one thing that matters most to him and this fact punctures him worse than any weapon forged by man.

“I-I know- I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but…”

Viktor’s waiting gaze deepens. “But…?”

Jayce’s eyes dart around the room, searching for something other than Viktor’s eyes to look at. With a deep breath, he breaks the silence.

“Hextech is going nowhere, Vik. We just keep finding ourselves at dead ends and clearly, it's taking a toll on-!”

“Wait, what are you suggesting?”

“What I’m saying is…”

Jayce stammers before finding the words to speak.

“Some scientists arrived overseas and I gave them a tour of our office. I think we should-”

“You what!?”

“I-I just showed them around and they provided some guidance. All I’m saying is that I think it’d be best for us to-”

“Absolutely not! I will not give up Hextech!”

The beeping of his heart monitor accelerates.

“You’re not listening, Vik. There is no you, anymore.”

Beep, beep, beep.

“What is that supposed to mean!?”

Beep, beep, beep.

“With how much… time you have left, I-I made the decision to give your role to one of the scientists.”

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

“I’m sorry it had to be like this.”

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

“No, no, Jayce. Please- Please don’t do this.”

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

“I’m sorry, but I promise this is for your own good.”

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

“I will do- I’ll do anything, Jayce, don’t- don’t do this to me!”

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

“There’s nothing I can do, Vik. It’s out of my hands.”

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beepbeepbeep.

“We’ll be collecting the Hexcore from-”

BeepbeepbeepBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP-

“I WON’T LET YOU HAVE THEM!”

Viktor falls to the tiled floor, his shout spurting out like a glass shatter. Sharp and ragged, it is a tone he cannot recognize; the picture frame displaying the heart-shattering devastation of his unmet dreams.

The tubes strapped to his narrow limbs snap and spring into the air. Tears seep down the jagged juts of his cheekbones. Viktor’s slender, ghastly fingers grip the edge of the bed frame and he drags his limp body forward. Crusted fingernails dig into the ankles of Jayce, who abruptly stands from his seat and cowers away from the crazed man.

“They’re mine!”

The door bursts open and a gaggle of nurses and doctors follow the intrusion. They swarm into the scene like a school of fish darting away from the jaws of a great-white. Before Viktor can merely blink, they ensnare their hands around his thin body and restrain him to the cold ground. Despite his resistance, the needles of their syringes glint in the glow of the lamp.

Jayce mumbles another apology under his breath before he scurries away from the mess he has made.

The night passes quietly. So quietly, in fact, the staff that had stuffed Viktor with needles before had forgotten of his existence altogether. The door to his room has remained closed since their departure, and obliviously, they remain unaware of what remains beyond that threshold.

Just after the clock strikes three, the door peers open. A tiny squeak perfuses through the lengthy halls of the hospital, but the quiet night does not react to this intrusion. A head of brown hair peeks out from the opening. Assuring the coast is clear, Viktor takes a careful step out. He takes another, then once more, before he finds himself in a hurried limp out of the premises.

The streets are cold and unforgiving. Every street lamp and drunk pedestrian has his heart hammering. The sight of a horribly-emaciated man in a hospital gown will surely raise a few eyebrows, but nonetheless, he perseveres. As he stated before, nothing else matters when it is you on the line.

Viktor soon reaches the doors of his home. He wrestles with the key momentarily before the lock clicks and he’s barreling through the entrance. It is a weakened effort, but he rushes through his home and arrives at his office. When he finds his beloved equipment safe and sound, he releases a pent-up sigh of relief. His lanky hand rests upon the arm of the neighboring couch, as his body is just mere inches away from sinking into unconsciousness.

Viktor’s gaze, swaying with dizziness, then finds the rendition of your face he sketched on the chalkboard (which has since been smudged by the works of his mouth, but not that he’ll ever admit that to anyone). In a dazed attempt at finding your chalk-ridden lips again, Viktor begins to limp over to the chalkboard. In his efforts, his weak body fails him and his hands reach for his desk to maintain his balance. Here, he is greeted by the sight of the Hexcore, still glistening and pulsating with its hues of blue and violet. Still beautiful as ever, he thinks to himself.

He sits himself in the adjacent chair and continues to marvel at the runes illuminating the dim room. Viktor’s brain, always hungry, then treads toward the runes etched into your flesh, spelling out the same vocabulary scribbled across his desk.

As a child, he always wanted to be you. His mother often found him etching these runes with markers across his arms and legs, scolding him as she scrubs the doodles. As an adult, however, he found he’d rather be with you. Now, those inked stains have since washed away and he can’t help but ponder over their permanence.

An idea then flickers in his brain.

Viktor grasps the letter opener left languidly on the surface of his desk. With a few rushed breaths of fear, restless assurances begin permeating his brain. He no longer has a choice anymore. A second more of waiting and you’ll be ripped from his weak hands like candy from a baby. Spending his entire adolescent years without you was torturous enough. To do so for the rest of his lifetime will kill him before this illness does.

He faces this revelation head-on and begins reminiscing about the day he spoke to you. The day you truly spoke to him, no dreams or fantasies in sight. When you grasped one of the plants on his desk and gifted them life, before scribbling out a message just for him.

“SAN T RY”, you spelled out in magic runes.

Forever the mad scientist he is, Viktor has dissected every scratch and itch of this rune, trying so desperately to decode your letter. Now, things are different. There is no ‘tomorrow’ to start anew, there are no more second chances. All he has left is tonight. And he will stop at nothing to understand the words you whispered to him.

The tip of the letter opener punctures into his thigh with a wet squelch. A muffled groan of pained agony fights against his clenched teeth as he finishes carving the first character. Then, Viktor moves onto the next. Moist blood seeps down his thighs and spills onto the marble floors as he continues, spreading like the excess of a thick soup.

Sweat cascades across his body. His legs begin to quiver. The blistering ache almost becomes a second home. Still, Viktor refuses to relent and soon, he sits in a pool of his warm, oozing blood and gapes at his work of art. Sloppily engraved into his pale-white flesh are deep-red incisions spelling out your last distinguishable message.

A sense of pride fills his chest at the prospect of displaying his level of reverent devotion to you. At the prospect of earning his place at your side, to a degree where the pain seems like an afterthought. Huffs of lightheaded, delirious laughter fill the empty silence. Unbeknownst to him, a lazy finger makes contact with the Hexcore.

The Hexcore then begins to tremble, palpitating like the speeds of Viktor’s heavy heart. A light then floods from the runes and drowns the room in its blinding effort. Through the flashes of white, Viktor is overwhelmed with visions of an uncharted territory. Tall trees align the edges of a pathway, where whispers of incomprehensible incantations dance with the cold winds.

“SAN T RY”, the phrase that has haunted him for weeks, finally receives its final pieces.

A few bolts of prismatic lightning from the Hexcore and the word “SANCTUARY” glistens in a blinding presentation on his thigh.

And without another second wasted, that is exactly where he rushes to.

On the outskirts of the Under-City, Viktor stands at a clearing in a deep, overgrown forest. The trees that swayed in his vision from before are identical to those here, aligning the path he has been treading on. Blood continues to hasten down his thighs and into the dirt beneath his bare feet. Despite the searing pain, he continues forward. With the inevitability of losing you just upon the horizon, no pain in the world could falter his efforts now. The fear is more formidable than any torture he could endure.

As he continues limping forward, the ground suddenly begins to rumble violently. The force of it sends him to his knees, his frail hands digging into the soil for stability. A whirlwind then sprouts from the ground, forming a thick cloud of dirt and wind around him. Viktor cowers into himself in a desperate attempt at protection.

This tornado accelerates and spreads, engulfing him in its entire wrath. Roots then pierce out the soil and stretch into two tree trunks, chunks of dirt spattering upon the aggressive intrusion. The roots soar into the air and intertwine with one another, intricate grooves of warm brown slithering up their jagged bark. They soon meet and their limbs intertwine like two loving hands, forming an oval shape.

Just before he is sure the force of this whirlwind will take his body with it, the wind reaches its breaking point and bursts into the air. The storm has now been reduced to a gentle fog resting against the forest floor. The ground stops rumbling, the whirlwind eases, and Viktor can finally see the night sky in sheer clarity.

Trailing his vision forward, his attempts at standing are halted when he finds the newly-grown trees. The space within the oval has been filled by a sort of gray haze, almost like a portal. It is reminiscent of a surface of water, Viktor notes. Glistening like a midsummer lake beneath sunlight, with hues of violet and blue swirling around the edges. There are icicles descending from the leaves of the two trees like a weeping willow, as well, which sparkle in swaying hues of the same tones.

Scrutinizing further, Viktor is almost certain he can discern what lies beyond this newfound portal, but the mist is too distorted for him to reach a conclusion. When the image of you flickers through his mind, he garners strength he did not know he possesses. He then barrels past the threshold in animalistic speed. His vision is overwhelmed with a blinding white as he lands with a violent thump, before it eases back to its normal precision.

The clean pavement is harsh against his skin as he stands to his feet. Illuminated by heavy moonlight, Viktor finds himself on a quiet street. There are a myriad of shops and centers aligning the pathway as he saunters through. A library, a performance hall, an alchemist’s laboratory, a farmers market — an entire civilization has been cultivated right beneath the nose of the Under-City.

He limps over to several of the locations, pounding his fists on the door, calling out his lover's name, but none of his efforts are brought to fruition. Soon, he abandons his intention of entering the locked premises and continues onwards.

When he reaches the end of the street, Viktor discovers a tree that could touch the moon with its tall height. The trunk is almost as thick as a building with several holes punctured into the wood. From these holes, a blue and violet hued sap bleeds out and cascades into a fountain centered in front of the tree. Blossoming leaves adorned in these same colors stretch down from its branches and nearly graze the ground.

Through the leaves, golden lights flicker with warmth. Here, the broad branches of the colossal tree support the weight of several homes, all connected to one another with wooden bridges. One of the larger branches hidden beneath the canopy of leaves serves as a form of bridge. Surrounding this tree are towering mountains, which this bark-woven bridge leads to.

Viktor thought crossing the bridge to Piltover would reach the height of his amazement, but Topside riches have never left him this breathless. Then again, he has yet to find something that engrosses him with wonder the way you do.

When the tip of his foot collides with the edge of the fountain, he realizes he has been mindlessly wandering forward, too enthralled with the sights he has discovered to care for clarity. He attempts to scrutinize further, before his body is overcome with a sudden rush of lethargy. He collapses against the edge of the fountain and clings to the corners for stability. Blood seeps from his nose and oozes onto the pristine stone.

Before Viktor can scold himself for this disgusting weakness of his, two pairs of arms ensnare around his waist and hoist him to his feet. A sparkle of hope tells him it is you, but with flesh too smooth and bones too prominent, his delusions are brought to a halt before they could even run free. The appearance of these two remains a mysterious blur as they guide Viktor forward.

In his sluggish state, he watches his feet travel up the staircase wrapped around the trunk, limping past the lively houses, and across the bridge connecting the tree with the mountains. And passing this bridge was not reminiscent of his previous journey into Piltover, no. Had it not been these strangers keeping him upright, he’d have collapsed to his knees upon the newfound sight before him.

Nothing short of a palace has been built into the mountainside. Those familiar tones of blue and violet paint the expanse, accentuated with a rich gold. Stained glass windows reflect in the moonlight and irradiate the land in its colorful glow. Ensnaring the walls is a beautiful ivy, where Dusk-Petals and Moonflowers adorn the growing vines and blanket the intricate, elegant architecture.

A grand waterfall descends from the mountains above the palace and into the several rivers spreading throughout the land, meeting the fountain below in its journey, as well. The palace is almost a moat, but the sea of trees disturb any attempt of obtaining the title. The trees resemble the several he has already seen with drooping leaves and twinkling icicles, painting the land in heavenly hues of that familiar azure and violet.

It is far more extravagant and palatial than anything he has ever seen in Piltover. It is more grand than anything he has ever seen in his entire life, for the matter. He couldn’t conjure a better estate for you than this, as you deserve to rest in the pinnacle of luxury and opulence. And this palace is not lacking in those areas in the smallest slight.

Dragging forward (as Viktor has completely abandoned using his feet anymore), they pass through the stone-carved doors and enter the palace. Once through the entrance, Viktor begins to study the interior. And the interior is an almost perfect reflection of the exterior.

Blue and violet permeate the expanse through surrounding furniture and decor, most of which support the weight of art sculptures and trinkets Viktor fails to discern in his lethargic state. They go hand-in-hand with the spreading greenery, which you have evidently and happily allowed to perfuse throughout the entire place.

These details spread through the several twists and turns these helpful strangers drag Viktor through. They finally reach a halt in one of the numerous rooms.. Softly, they loosen their grasp and guide him to the ground. They promptly take their leave without a single word spoken.

A greenhouse is where he has found himself, he assumes. The walls and ceilings all consist of windows, with intricate white frames woven across all surfaces. The edges of the stone pathways beneath his feeble body are adorned with hedges and flowers, all varying in different colors. They compliment the wisteria drooping from several miniature trees, their thin branches adorned with several ornaments that exude a golden light.

Languidly bringing himself to his feet, once again, he finds one of the larger wisteria trees hovering over a pond. It resides in the corner with a small arrangement of rocks surrounding the edges, supporting the stream of a small waterfall leading into the pond. Here, birds surround the stream and bathe their feathers.

The embodiment of tranquility, that is how Viktor would describe this. He almost considers the possibility he had died in that hospital bed and this was the heaven waiting for him. All that is missing in his nirvana is you- oh, God, it’s you.

Simply shifting his gaze to the left, he finds a slab of stone residing in the middle of all this greenery. Upon the surface are several clay pots and cloth-woven bags overflowing with fertilizer. And tending to these products is no other than you.

A strange, overwhelmingly perfect light radiates from your body. Beneath this light, he finds you are draped in a cloak of varying adornments, all shimmering in opalescent hues. There are jewels and crystals sewn into your torso, pearls and wind chimes dangling off shoulders. There are feathers draped down your arms, with seashells aligning your ankles. Harp strings are woven around your every limb and tied into pretty knots. Your body is a centuries-old story told through the embellishments aligning your flesh.

And Viktor, oh Viktor.

No words could encapsulate the ethereal, deific, uncanny, godlike emotions this moment has overwhelmed him with.

There is no room to merely think with these feelings suffocating his brain. It is as though the melody of your love has swelled in their highest magnificence, the Dusk-Petals and Moonflowers blossoming into its most surreal beauty. It is the perfect moment.

Everything he has ever wished for conjured up into a single creature; the light at the end of the tunnel every sorry soul dreams of reaching — he almost doesn’t even believe it to be true. As though the creeping hands of his desires have ensnared their hands around his throat, allowing him one last morsel of illusory bliss before his life fades.

When you then turn over your shoulder, blessing him with the sight of your beautiful, tragically beautiful face, there is no denying the authenticity. This moment leaves a harsh toll on his physical state, as well.

Viktor’s eyes begin to roll back into his skull, but he strives against the force to continue indulging his vision in this glorious sight. Nausea pulsates in his stomach like a wrangling insect, but a few hard swallows keep the sickness at a weak bay. His knees tremble, threatening to buckle once again, but he maintains his posture with acute effort.

It is a battle against him and his body, of which inevitably, leads to failure. Throat pulsing with gagged coughs, Viktor then leaps to the ground and finds a nearby, empty plant pot. He empties his guts into the container. The excess looks like coffee grounds; all blood-stained and chunky. Guilt and shame are expected, but they have no room to thrive. Not when you are here.

He is, in fact, met with the very opposite when he watches from his periphery as you tread closer and bend down to his level. Weakness overwhelms him as he begins to digest more of your physicality. His body sways again from the weight of it all, beginning another descent back to the ground. You halt the motion by catching his cheek in your palm. The effort is enough to set his skin aflame, with a simultaneous bitter chill tickling down his spine.

His body is overwhelmed with these suffocating emotions, but is also blissfully light and peaceful. Horrifying euphoria stirred with devastating tranquility — a delicious juxtaposition.

And the way Viktor looks at you could rival the most devoted of religious followers finding the face of heaven. Eyelids lazy and drooping, framing the glassy tears building in his honey-brown eyes. His gaze is buried into you, more attentive than he has ever been with his brows furrowed into a weak, stuttering curl. Mouth hung agape in fervent shock, drool pools on his tongue and his bottom lip trembles like a child who skinned their knee.

He doesn’t even think before he’s leaning in to kiss you.

“This was not an easy effort, I can imagine.”

His intentions are bluntly interrupted, yes, but he could not have imagined a better way to be halted. A deific incantation, a call straight from heaven, a harmony the world's best musicians have devoted their whole lives trying to emulate — that is how Viktor would best describe the tones that drift from your lips. In fact, your voice catches him off guard to such an aggressive degree, he forgets he had even tried to foolishly kiss you in the first place.

“If I may ask, how did you find us?”

A flurry of words drift through Viktor’s head, toppling out of his mouth through stuttering gasps and pathetic attempts at the human language. It all becomes a mess of English and his mother tongue the further Viktor trails on of how he found the sanctuary, his first encounter with you as a child, and all the turmoil he gleefully endured just for this moment. Sprinkled in with gallons upon gallons of praise, of course.

There is some clarity, however. Fragments, albeit, but he does manage to establish coherency. One statement strikes abundantly clear.

“My Y/N, there is not a line in the world that I would not cross for you.”

And of course, inevitably…

“I love you.”

Those three words, heavier than the world he’s been blessed to stand on with you, continuously tumble out of his mouth. Viktor repeats the same sentiment again and again and again, each time possessing the same heart-shattering devastation.

You do not react, however. Despite his wishes for you to be overcome with euphoria upon receiving his confession of devotion, all you do is stare. You do not return his affection, either, but he is too muddled to notice this.

“You work beside Jayce Talis, correct?”

Viktor’s eye twitches. A flicker of betrayal catches flame, but the ignition is weak.

“Then, I am sure you have heard the Council speak about the influx of ‘Shimmer’, as they have titled it.”

The jealousy (that failed to overpower the miserable rapture, albeit) is eased instantly. If it is not Jayce you are concerned with, then what is it about Shimmer that has engrossed his beloved so?

“As gutted as I am to admit my faults, I am partially responsible for this distribution.”

Through the distorted daze of Viktor’s jubilation, he clings to your every words. You? Y/N? A drug lord? This does not make any sense…

“I am not aware how, but someone has grasped possession of my Dusk-Petals. They are only bred at my hand, so I fail to understand where they have retrieved them, but nonetheless, they have obtained them. They have derived the possessive component of my Dusk-Petals and have utilized the essence as the major component in this “Shimmer”. All for the sake of power and profit.”

Not a word is uttered from Viktor as your explanation settles. His darling has been so overcome with guilt and he was so oblivious! He attempts to scavenge the power to adorn you in reassurances, but beneath the weight of your light, he might as well have been a lifeless corpse on the stone pavements of your greenhouse.

“If I had a…”

Your gaze returns to his, expectantly. He nods along dumbly to every word parting from your mouth.

“Messenger, of sort, I may garner the opportunity to halt the expansion of this poison.”

A gasp, equivalent to that of one witnessing a murder, flees from Viktor’s chest. Yes, yes, yes, a million times, yes!

“Oh, my Y/N, you do not have to ask! Of course I will help you!”

He attempts to scoot closer to you, practically throwing himself into your warm arms. You hinder this effort.

“You… Y/N, you could shatter this entire world to nothing but scattered shards and I would crawl over the sharp glass with utter elation! As long as I can deliver whatever demand you send directly into your palms, I will do it all with a smile-!”

He interrupts himself with a coughing fit, rendered breathless from his own blabbering. He scrambles to wipe his hand of the inevitable blood that has spattered from his throat. In this effort, however, he is startled to find no blood at all. Not even a mere drop.

His gaze returns to you in all your heavenly form. You return his gaze, almost knowingly. His body cannot resist just melting beneath your attention.

“I love you, sweet angel.” Viktor confesses for the umpteenth time. “I cannot feel anything but my love for you.”

Your expression remains blunt and calm, as it remains stagnantly. Nothing short of utterly bewitching.

“Very well.”

Like the triumph of a curtain call, Viktor’s dreams have come true: to heal and obtain strength. After an entire lifetime, he is finally strong. Here, beneath the light of you, everything sings.

Now, his dreams have shifted. Viktor will be your loyal warrior.

No matter what it takes.

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

❝ I WILL LOVE YOU TILL I DIE AND

I WILL LOVE YOU ALL THE TIME . . . ❞

gif creds.

(you are free to imagine Y/N however you’d like to. nonetheless, this and this were my inspiration for what Y/N looks like, in case you were wondering. (nothing adhering to the gender or physicality, just their style and character!)).

tag list: @honey-beeuwu @mrprettycom @makangelo @thelonelyme @solavily @eldritch-bunny @decaffeinatedclodbagelweasel @orbitingmarswithp @frickidyfrog @phantomdomi @mermaidm0tel6 @numbu5 @applepinsss @anon34570 @biohazardousbunny @vogelaqwry @lorely788 @mellowangeltree @myathegoat @alix-37 @lavandercinnamon @vrnicky @mellowfishauthoreggs

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sirenmoontarot · 2 months ago

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How do you need to nurture yourself? ☁️🕊️

𝑀𝓎 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓅 ~ 𝒫𝓈𝓎𝒸𝒽𝒾𝒸 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ~ 𝐻𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈

~~~~~ 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 ~~~~~

Welcome to the cottage! I am Alla <3 Sit with me in the garden and let’s have some mystic tea as we see what the Oracle has to tell you. Take what resonates and leave the rest!

Pile 1

Okay guys so for this first group i feel that what you actually need to do is to shine on and embrace yourself as how you are and instead of giving into the chaos of uncertainties and your emotions, allowing yourself to gently flow through those emotions in order for you to be fully yourself. We have the moon theme twice, you would benefit from connecting with it, and using the full moon to manifest. I strongly feel you need to expand your energies, you are constrainign yourself a lot of the time, you dont know how to navigate in your own emotions, this pile is encouraged to believe in your power to create, vision, manifest, create the lifeyou want. The power of the yet-not-created is yours. However in your journey this is continuousl affected by pains and shadows of the past, making you sttray away from you power and purpose. I sense many people of this pile have number 11 prominent in their numerology or birthday. Indicating you are called to lead in this lifetime and you also have a strong purpose here that could be related to spirituality, but it often is hard to manage or not fall in the negativity that makes you sabotage everything. The moon reminds you you are in constant fluctuation and you should embrace the ‘’becoming’’ and the feminine principles of flowing, and embracing your emotions. Times of rest and restoration are needed for you to recharge and connect deeper. A new depth of your spiritual practice is calling you. You should aim for ease and stillness, this will help your mind and life overall. The archeptype you have to heal within yourself is ‘’the judge’’ are you using this to be critical ofyourselg, punishimg, unforgiving, building walls around you? This is a powerful energy and it is a gift of discernment, to do the right actions, power, advocacy and compassion but you have to be careful if you are channeling it wrong towards yourself and therefore others…

Pile 2

First of all I am hearing guys you should believe more that you are on ther right paht, because you are. Start walking more confidently in your life, be in presence, strongly with the conviction that you are where you need to be. You need to work on your shame feelings, everything that doesnt let you live as you would wish. You need to meditate more to calm down those thoughts and dissolve those traumas. To find an inner temple inside. Stop hesitating so much, it all comes from childhood wounds. Many people of this group will resonate with the childhood wound of humiliation. You need to feel mothered, some of you in this group need this very strongly, due to mother wound. Connecting to the earth can help you on this, and after that, you will also learn to mother yourself. You also struggle to fully connect to yourself and find yourself a reliable, sacred space. This is normal it also comes with growth, but you are led to do this now, find or create a sacred space within yourself. The feelings of safety are necessary to you as well. sometimes trauma gets embedded in our system, but we are not always in danger. Practicing the mantra ‘’ i am in peace ‘’ can help you a lot. You need to find security in yourself! Also remember to give yourself the space to evolve, change, with ease, grace, and nurturing. Let yourself shed as many skins as you need. Life might have been extra tough for you lately, as if Saturn was lashing you, lol but you are called to breathe and find activities, places that allow you to breathe, expand, release the tention, stress and burden, and this way see the colours of life again. I am seeing lots of green so again, for this group connecting to nature specially trees and rivers will be very nourishing for you.

Pile 3

Okay you guys for this group the energies are very clear, i am getting PRAYING, connecting with the divine; you should hand over your worries, problems and burdens to the Divine. Put your hands on to work, on what you can control and let God do the rest. Hand it over, The thing is, the Divinity wants you to, not put your energies, focus, power in the wrong things. Some things have to end from your life, for actually better things that would be surprising to you will come. Don’t attach yourslef, mainly is out of fear or unawareness of the wonders of the universe. Do not force, let thing run its course, and count on the Divine to help you out, ask God and your angels for an easy path, for the solution, for them to guide you in ease and out of stress. The Divine wants you to start living your soul’s path, and not to focus elsewhere, things that may seem shiny are actually a void, there are other paths that are more aligned to our soul’s nature, abilities and evolution. You are called to go to a temple, you could also create one, or make your house/room a little temple. You are also called to nurture your human vessel, both physical and spiritually and actually embrace this term of Vessel to know more about what it means and might represents for you.

~~~~~ 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 ~~~~~

Thank you for reading! Remember, take what resonates, leave the rest. Lots of blessings ☁️🪽🌙🕊️

~~~~~ 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 ~~~~~

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daycourtofficial · 4 months ago

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I got cursed like Eve got bitten - part IV

Pairing: Azriel x Rhysand's sister!reader | WC: 2.5k | Warnings: none

Summary: reports of a rare powered fae popping up in Illyria send Azriel and Rhysand on a journey through the past, unraveling a truth they thought long buried

Previous part | Next part | Masterlist

You took the High Lady’s arm, accepting her offer to show you about the palace. You had heard about her through harsh tones and loose lips - human, cursebreaker, the High Lord’s whore. The males of your village already did not like Rhysand, but when the news reached your village that he had made a human ‘High Lady’, they were less than receptive to both her new position and her personally.

You didn’t dare repeat the disgusting things you had overheard them saying they would do to her if they got the chance. Instead, you matched her steps as you walked the hallways, her lilac scent swirling around you.

Their home was gorgeous - large hallways spacious enough for winged fae, the walls lined with various paintings, each one depicting various moments in the night sky. You stopped before one of them, eyes moving over the brushstrokes used to depict the night sky on Starfall. It was a landscape painting - the stars falling in hues of green and blue and purple, streaking across the land. The painting was massive - the canvas was the same height as you, but the size was needed to show such detail. It showed the mountains in the background, the lights reflecting off their snow capped peaks.

The focal point of the painting was the stars showering down the town, what you assumed was Velaris. The stars sprinkled down on the clustered buildings, lighting the city below.

The whole painting was stunning, but your eyes lingered on the left side of the painting, a river flowing beside the streets of the city. The water captured the starlight just perfectly, and something about it called for your attention.

“I just finished this a few weeks ago. It was last year’s Starfall. We usually host a grand ball, but this year we flooded the streets with people. We had businesses open their doors and the people of Velaris would come and go as they pleased.”

Feyre’s voice was soft as she recalled the memory, a smile on her face at how well the event had gone, her blue-gray eyes alight.

“I’m sure it was lovely.”

You had spent that same Starfall also gazing at the stars, however your mind had been preoccupied with questions you would never receive answers to rather than flitting in and out of shops. You had stayed home, your small home above the tavern just large enough for one, gazing through the window at the cacophony of colors. Something about Starfall always made your head throb, the holiday eliciting something from you that was unidentifiable. It was this overwhelming sense of sadness and longing, mixed with what felt like hundreds of emotions.

It was too much, the annual holiday seeing yourself locked away in your home as the rest of the village flew through the stars, the males carrying their wives and children through the sky. Illyrian culture viewed the falling stars as lost souls - cursed to wander the skies in search of where they truly belonged. Perhaps your own soul left the confines of your body for one night, searching for a place it would never find.

It was silent, and you looked to Feyre to find an expectant look on her face as she tucked her golden brown hair behind a pointed ear.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

She smiled softly before asking, “what did you do for Starfall?”

Your bed was the first thing that came to mind. How every year it was nearly impossible to leave your bed the morning of. How it felt like a great trek across the mountains to use the restroom or to get a mug of water. How, despite the difficulties, every year you dragged yourself across your apartment, peeking out through the curtains to get a glimpse of the sky.

“I spent it at home.” You watched as her mouth began to move, about to ask the question you hated more than anything. You coughed. “Alone. I spent it at home, alone.”

She nodded solemnly and you turned back to the painting, letting your thoughts get lost in the blending of the night sky or how she made the lights touch everything else in the painting in some way.

All of this was so new - you still couldn’t quite wrap your head around being in Velaris, a city no one knew about until a few years prior. You had had several dreams of a quaint town on the river, but you always chalked it up to something you had read in a book once. Perhaps you had merely dreamt of a sanctuary like this.

Your eyes traced the buildings of Velaris, looking vaguely familiar. Your dreams lead you nowhere - you would wake with only vague descriptions and occasional flashes of images.

A city hidden for millenia. It all felt surreal to be here, in the High Lord’s estate, the High Lady giving you a personal tour.

You weren’t even that sure of the High Lord’s reasoning for letting you come.

You had accepted their offer with little consideration. Perhaps it was foolish. But tensions were high between you and the males of your village - you were unwanted, and the males were tolerating you less and less.

Besides, entrusting the High Lord to leave you alone after knowing something so sacred about you seemed unfathomable. He didn’t strike you as someone who accepted the word ‘no’ easily.

“Naturally, we’d like to keep you safe while you’re here. If you want to visit Velaris, please just let one of us know so we can show you around first. It’s a beautiful city, but we would hate for you to get lost.”

You mulled over her words, not even having thought about being able to see the city, you turned to her, watching her hands move as she spoke.

“This house is close to the city, it’d be quite easy to walk. We can show you the best places the city has to offer.” She looped her arm back into your elbow, steering you from the painting. “Besides, I’m hoping you can settle a debate we have - we’re all split on the best place in Velaris to get pastries from. Rhys is convinced…”

Her words trailed off as something flashed in your mind, a brief image of eating at a cafe with Azriel, his face lit up in laughter. He had bitten into a powdered treat, the powdered sugar coating the front of his black shirt, leaving it speckled. His shadows swirled around him as if they too were laughing. The image came and went so quickly, you assumed Feyre’s words did a great job at visualizing the town and her friends.

But the rest of the tour left you distracted, constantly trying to bring that image back to the front of your mind.

Your first lesson with Feyre was the next day. She had told you to stop by her study whenever you felt ready, having shown you where it was on her tour before showing you to your chambers, the room you were going to stay in down a hallway of other closed doors. You wondered how they filled the space in such a large house - empty rooms just waiting for inhabitants.

You were fairly certain the room they put you in was larger than your entire apartment. The bed was spacious - large enough for at least two Illyrains to sleep in. You had packed a bag before you left, telling the High Lord that you lived above the tavern and to wait a few moments while you packed. The bag now sat on your bed, having left it behind for Feyre’s tour.

You pulled your clothes from the bag to hang them, noticing they were very different to what everyone else wore - so far Rhys, Azriel, and Feyre had only been wearing shades of black, but your wardrobe was almost entirely made of hues of blue.

When all of your clothes had been put away, you looked toward the window, the dark night sky inviting you to curl into bed, but you knew sleep wouldn’t come to you. You felt too awake. You opened your door, peaking your head out to look down the hallways. Finding it empty, you padded down the halls, trying to retrace your steps to the library Feyre had shown you.

After trying a few wrong doors, you found the library, slipping in and shutting the door behind you. Without Feyre here, you allowed yourself ample time to search the stacks. Your hands pulled books from the shelves non stop,until you eventually found you had a stack that reached your chin.

You left the library, pattering back to your room, more certain how to get back to it now that you knew where the library was. You turned down the hallway to your door, seeing Azriel at the other end of the hallway. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him, the small shadows whirling around him.

He looked tired, as if the weight of the world laid on his shoulders. Dark bags beneath his eyes did little to deter how beautiful he was, even in the limited light. The shadows on his shoulders danced around his head and you watched as his eyes lifted to yours, looking straight at you.

His gaze was impossible to put into words, but you imagine it’s similar to how sailors from the continent felt when they saw the shores of Prythian for the first time after having spent months at sea.

Impossible. Beautiful. Resolution.

You kept his gaze as you neared your door and he stopped at the door across the hall from yours.

“This is where I’m staying.”

He nodded at your words, slipping into the room without reply, the lock clicking into place before you slipped into your own room. You placed the books on the bedside table before walking over to your wardrobe and changing into a nightgown. You didn’t feel like bathing tonight, opting instead to pull whatever laid at the top of the stack of books, curl up into the bed, and read until you fell asleep.

After you had bathed the next morning, you came back into your room to find a tray of breakfast foods. A variety of scones and jams decorated the platter, as well as some sausage and some porridge. You smelled each of the jars of jam, trying to figure out what fruit they consisted of. One of them was a dark purple, its color called to you as you slathered it onto a scone, the flavor bursting in your mouth. It was sweet and bitter with notes of honey, and before you realized it, you had eaten several scones slathered in it.

You moved down the halls, everything brighter in the daytime, searching for Feyre’s office. You knocked softly on the dark wood, and the door opened before you, Feyre’s smiling face greeting you. “Good morning!”

You nodded your head in greeting, peering about the room. It felt incredibly homey in this room - you could smell the incense burning from down the hall, but the room inside shocked you. Gone were the dark blacks and blues lining the halls - her study was covered in light blues and silvers.

You gazed about the room as you followed her in, sitting in the chair she pointed you to.

You had skipped the pleasantries, the scones you had eaten still on your mind. “What were those jams?”

“Which one did you try?”

“It was almost black, kind of bitter.”

You looked up, the ceiling of the room showing the phases of the moon in beautiful detail. You could make out individual craters of the moon as it moved through its cycle.

“That was the moonberry jam.”

You tilted your head, looking back at her, “a moonberry?”

Feyre grinned, sitting on the ledge of her desk, “I’m assuming moonberries don’t grow on your side of Illyria? They’re a fickle fruit - according to Rhys they only grow in some parts of Illyria. My sister has finally gotten them to grow for her and is over the moon about it.”

You nodded, trying to recollect what you knew about her sister. She had two, you thought. The rumors swirled of two sisters that were dumped into the Cauldron, blessed with new life. Several of the fae of your village spit vitriol about them - seething jealousy that now even humans had been chosen over Illyrians for such blessings.

You often hid your hair over your ears for good reason.

“I mostly wanted to spend today talking about your powers.”

You quirked a brow, the sight not going unnoticed by her. “I mean, I want to know where you stand. Do you have any control over them?”

“Not really. It’s mostly random.” You weren’t sure how to discuss your powers - they had been a well-guarded secret for centuries. You really weren’t sure how to talk about them to others, much less talk about how they worked.

She nodded, jotting down notes onto some parchment. “By random, is there any pattern? Perhaps something big emotionally?”

You thought to the most recent time your powers had flared - a few weeks ago one of the tavern’s patrons had pushed you, causing you to spill wine all over yourself and him. His response calling you a “simple barmaid” did little to control your powers, and he sat down after his eyes went wide, feeling the anger coming from you.

As you thought, her voice perked up. “Remember, we know next to nothing about empaths. There is very little written or known about the powers.”

You breathed through your nose, trying to stay calm. There were some things that always made them swell, but you never had much connection to them. They surged during Starfall or if you spent too long looking at rivers. Those felt too personal, too much a part of you to tell her. So you told her some of the more innocuous ones.

“At night, sometimes my powers flair when I’m falling asleep.”

She jotted that down, the pen scraping the paper making a crisp sound. “When do you usually fall asleep?”

“Right around midnight each night.”

“Does anything draw your attention whenever you’re falling asleep that sets it off?”

You thought about how it felt to lay in your bed, sleep not coming easily. You would relax your gaze, allowing your mind to make shapes from within the shadows, your window open letting the night air in.

“I like to make shapes out of the shadows. Try to see things in them that aren’t there. I do it with clouds during the day, as well.”

Your mind lingered on how most nights you tried harder and harder to form the shape of a man from the shadows, never successfully.

“Do the shadows or clouds bother you?”

Feyre’s voice brings you back to her office, the bright light from the windows illuminating the room. “No. No, they don’t.”

Author’s note: how are we feeling 👀 what do we think’s going to happen 👀👀

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @berryzxx @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @milswrites @the-golden-jhope @hannzoaks @secretlyhers

Azriel taglist: @brieflyclassymortal @thisiskaylin @magicstrengthandcourage

I got cursed series taglist: @doodlebugg16-blog @ceoofyearning @saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofbatboydreams @willowpains @anarchii @i-am-infinite @bsenpai @sstrohma @teenagellamaangel @allthatisbuck1917 @elsie-bells @rcarbo1

Thanks for reading ❣️

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #acotar writing #i got cursed like eve got bitten #azriel x y/n

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bodhrancomedy · 3 months ago

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The Bard Who Returned to Fairyland in Search of a Name by Bodhrán M.

It was the ferryman who met the bard first, a beardless lad in a ragged cloak, broadbrimmed hat, and carrying nothing save an iron knife and one small pack across his shoulders. He watched with mild interest as the bard picked his way down the grassy knoll and onto the black-wood of the small dock, coming to a halt directly before the little boat.

Neither of them moved for a long while. Somewhere in the distance, an eagle screamed.

Finally, the bard spoke.

“I wish to cross the river,” he said.

The ferryman leant on his oar and regarded him with rheumy eyes, pushing a lank hunk of wire-grey hair from his face. “Is that so?” he replied. “Do you have payment, my boy?”

“Yes, I do.” The bard withdrew a coin purse from beneath the green cloak.

“Coin won’t do, boy. Not what I dabble in.”

“I know,” the bard said quietly. He had an odd voice, the ferryman noted, with no hint of fear or trepidation or awe. “I bring seashells from the coasts of Ireland,” he continued, “filled with the songs of the selkies. I bring spices from the borders of India and China with many healing powers beyond that which we can understand, and a trollish crystal gifted by the giantess-queen of Iceland. I deal as little in money as you do.”

The ferryman was impressed, even if he didn’t show it. He dug a filthy black pipe from a salt-encrusted pocket and stuck it between his teeth. He waited, but the bard made no move to light it for him. Finally, he took a tinderbox from another pouch (this one being an oilskin gifted many years ago by a Swedish princess) and struck a spark.

“So,” the ferryman said, his words curled about the billowing black smoke, “you know what is across this river?”

“I know.”

“And yet you wish to cross it.”

The bard shrugged, almost as if to say that the statement was obvious enough that it did not need to be said. “Have I brought enough to pay for passage?” he asked.

“Of course,” the ferryman said as he stepped aside to allow the man to board.

But the bard did not. Instead, he gripped the brim of his hat and pulled it further down over his eyes. His voice was as steady as before, but lower and intertwined with steel. “Both ways?”

The ferryman’s eyes narrowed.

The bard stood there, waiting for an answer, one small hand on his knife.

Hemming and hawing, the ferryman felt a sting of disappointment and suspicion in his gut. He had ferried more hopefuls across this river than he had ferried back and there was almost nothing which he liked more than the faces of those who had returned to his boat having not taken the first precaution. They had thought ahead enough – many of these wanderers and seekers of mysteries and gold – to have gotten his word not to throw them into the cold water or have their treasures taken before they reached human land again, but they had not thought about payment for the return journey.

But seashells and spices were twice the payment for a crossing – and he had never owned a troll-crystal before. He’d heard that they could outshine the sunrises even in the frozen northern plains, that they were rainbow stars from deep within the ground. It would be something to treasure in the dark.

It was through gritted teeth, therefore, which he gave his answer. “Yes,” the ferryman said.

The hat bobbed as the bard nodded. “And I will reach each shore in the same condition as I board your boat, sir? Each way.”

“Yes,” the ferryman agreed sullenly. Then he thought and tried to not brighten in anticipation.

The bard either did not notice or did not care, but he stepped aboard with the ease of one used to the pitch and swell of river boats. He sat in the prow, half-turned so he could look across the water and still see the ferryman.

Clever, that.

Carefully, the ferryman untied the mooring rope and then pushed off the knoll with his oar. He began to pull through the water with broad, powerful strokes and so it was a matter of minutes before they reached halfway.

It was then that the ferryman felt safe in speaking again. Too soon and sometimes the young fools would see the error of their ways and pitch themselves into the water. Once you reached halfway, you were falling into enchantments rather simple cold. It did make him laugh, sometimes, to see them flail and splash their way back to safety. He liked to wave at the ones who lived, standing sopping wet and humiliated on the dock, and sing mocking laments at those who did not.

But he did not think that this young man would do so. Still, he waited.

“You off to fairyland, boy?” he asked cheerfully, “Here to see for yourselves the wonders your bardic forefathers taught you? To see if they’re as real as they say?”

The bard tilted his head and the ferryman saw a flash of white teeth from beneath the hat brim, bared in a savage grin.

“No, sir,” the bard said, “I am not merely going to fairyland, sir ferryman. I am going back.”

“Well, that’s a thing!” the ferryman exclaimed. He rubbed his chin with his free hand and added, “Not many people wish to test their luck twice.”

The bard shrugged again.

“And why have you returned?”

The hat tilted back and suddenly the ferryman saw the bard’s face clearly for the first time. It was even younger-looking than he’d expected, suntanned and heavily freckled, but harsh and set in furious determination. “That is my business and my business alone, sir ferryman,” the bard replied in cold tones. “For I know what you are as we have met before, and you told me in the mistaken belief that we would never cross paths again. And I know that changelings would do what they can to gain favour in the eyes of fairyland’s mistress. I would not give up my slightest advantage to satisfy your curiosity.”

Knocked back a little by the intensity of this speech and suddenly slightly afraid of why he would not remember this young man, the ferryman opened and shut his mouth a few times and said nothing in reply. He rowed on in silence, feeling sweat prickling on his brow. Either this passenger was a grand sorcerer of some great power, or he was an overconfident boy with a head full of stories. But he could not place a finger on either option without some unease. Neither felt right.

“It was curiosity, nothing more,” the ferryman mumbled. “I meant no harm in asking.”

“But you did mean harm in knowing,” the bard replied lightly. “And you could make harm in telling. I am no child, sir ferryman, and I understand how this all works.”

#the bard who returned to fairyland in search of a name #writing #writeblr #long post #fairytales #fairy tale

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gadriezmannsgirl · 4 months ago

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can you do a Ruben Dias one with a Portuguese reader where she comforts him after the quarter finals?

As a Venezuelan and also as a Portuguese, I cried more than four rivers combined last Friday, I truly wanted to see my countries winning both Copa América and Eurocopa, penalties are so unfair😭 This req had me a bit emotional and that's why I'm doing it right away, I truly hope you enjoy this!

Warnings: some swear words

No Matter What -R.D3

Summary: In good and bad moments, you'll always support Ruben.

Penalties. Fucking penalties. Your hands were shaking and your heart was beating so fast you thought it would come out of your mouth.

As a Portuguese, you wanted this win with all of your being, along with every other Portuguese in the stadium and the ones supporting from home all over the world, you hoped, prayed and wanted for your country to get through the semis. But you've always said that penalties were the most unfair thing in football.

Your eyes scanned the pitch but it wasn't hard to spot the one you cared the most for, your 3 years boyfriend, Ruben Dias. Your eyes locked with his, you could see he was exhausted but he never gave up for his team, much less for his country, you were extremely proud of him.

He got a smile from you when he throws a wink at you, he always knew how to calm you down even from afar. You see him walking over to his teammates while the captains go over to the referees and soon you could see Diogo Costa line up in the goal.

France was shooting first.

"Foda-se" (Fuck) You curse out seeing the French player score the first one. Cristiano was next and you cheered when you saw he made it.

In the next round, the two players, Fofana and Bernardo did their shots, both of them going inside the net. You did a knot of the green-red flag around your neck and hid your face in your hands while Koundé prepared himself.

You were praying for Diogo to catch the ball but when you heard the cheers of the French fans you knew it was another goal against you. However, when you heard the regrets and cries of the Portuguese you lifted your head to the screen to see Joao Félix had missed his penalty.

A knot was made in your stomach, you felt your legs wobble and you let yourself down on your seat. The feeling only grew more and more each player passing, until you hear the roars of the French and realised you had lost 3-5.

Your eyes were glassy and could only think about how your boyfriend was feeling. You wanted to run into the pitch and hug Ruben with your everything.

He was too excited, he was dreaming about this euro, he often tells you how amazing would it be for him to win something with his country and to see him now so heartbroken, thanking the public, the fans while being sorry for not being able to get through, made the loss more difficult for you.

Along with Ines and other WAGs, you went into the changing rooms and waited for the Portuguese team to go out.

You hugged Bernardo, Bruno, Cancelo, Lēao, Diogo and Félix giving him some encouraging words since the poor guy was beating himself up. You waited for Ruben who came out last, you gave him a small smile and offered your hand out to him, one that he took instantly.

Going back to the hotel was quiet, no one was speaking but Roberto who gave the guys a small speech 'bout their good journey in the Euros.

"You want to eat something?" You whisper to Ruben passing your fingers through his wet locks as shook his head

"Só te quero a ti" (Just want you) He replied in the same tone as yours, you nodded gripping his hands.

"Come on, let's get some sleep then. We've got a busy morning tomorrow"

You entered your shared hotel room and Ruben quickly undressed himself to get into his pijama pants and laid on the bed.

You undressed yourself but went to the bathroom, he might have showered but you haven't.

"Where are you going?" He asked

"I'm going to take a shower" You said looking into his eyes "Why? You feeling good?"

"Can I shower with you?"

"I thought you already showered in the stadium?"

"I did but I want you" You smile walking over to him and kiss his lips.

"Let's take a shower, meu amor" You grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the bed and into the bathroom

You undid the knot of his pijama pants and pulled them down, you weren't watching him but you knew he had a smirk on his face

"Whip it off. I'm babying you" For the first time in the evening you heard his laugh, you smiled going up and kissed him once again, his arms wrapped around your waist to pull your closer.

He, undid the hold of your towel and let it fell into the floor picking you up and going into the shower to open the cold water

"Ruben, põe-me no chão!" (Put me down!) You yelled in laughter as the cold water soon turned warm and that's when he got underneath.

Both of you were laughing until you stopped, both of you looking into each others eyes, his arms wrapped around you as yours were around his neck.

"I'm sorry"

"What for?"

"We did not go through"

"That wasn't your fault. Things happen"

"I know but I wanted it, you wanted it as well"

"Everyone did, Ru" You shook your head "But this one wasn't meant to be, maybe next year it will" You went to grab his shampoo but he hums in negation "What?"

"Can we use yours?" You smile nodding

"Better now?" You ask whispering as you start washing his hair, he nods.

You wash both of yourselves up

"Can we cuddle after this?" You nod grabbing your towel to dry you up and then his

"And we'll also watch some movies if you want, I ordered room service so we can eat as well"

"I said I wasn't hungry"

"And I know you were lying, amor" You pecked his lips "C'mon, let's baby you"

"Eu amo-te" (I love you) "Obrigado por cuidarem de mim" (Thanks for taking care of me)

"Sempre Ru... Eu também te amo, meu amor" (Always Ru... I love you too, my love)

°°° °°° °°° °°°

Taglist: @gaviymarcsbride @stuckinaf4nfiction @elijahslover @azzpenswrld @http-isabela

If you want to be added into the tag list let me know!😊

#gadriezmannsgirl replies #gadriezmannsgirl writes!#ruben dias #ruben dias x reader #ruben dias fic #ruben dias imagine #ruben dias one shot #manchester city #man city #portugal nt #football fanfic #football players x reader

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sunandsstars · 2 years ago

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YAWNETU

CHAPTER 7

Tonowari x Ronal x Na’vi!Reader

Summary: With her arrival in Awa’atlu, reader seeks to find a sanctuary for her family, one that she may find in two particular individuals Warnings: N/A Word count: 2.2k A/N: Sorry for any wait guys! I’ve not been feeling myself lately, but doing good now! 🙈🫶🏼 Enjoy baes

Taglist: @itsyoboysparkel @dumb-fawkin-bitch @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @fanboyluvr @mooniequeen @berrybluez @bajadotcom @alwaysinwritersblock @pandoragalora @perfectprofessorloverapricot @lvrcpid @answer-the-sirens @phantomalex14 @neteyamforlife @bat1212 @sadforeversblog @ducks118 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @1800imgay @soushswag @honeybxes @lola-bunn1 @alldaysdreamers @doggodorime @theesexystallion @scarlettwch @annamarieisbae @wallpaintt @zatarias-pandora @daoyus @ambria @simp-erformarvelwomen @simpliheavenli @tojidilfs @automaticwizardnerd @lexasaurs634 @symptoms-of-moonlight @avtprint

@deviismynamewritingismygame @sunrays404 @tsireyassgurl @xx-kaitlyn-trixx-xx @that-one-daydreamer @yeosxxx @noname2246 @ok-boke @rubyrubyruuu @diosmilkymommers @annaleesworld @jiminsthickthighs @holysaladapricothero @peaches-peach-peach @enochi @thispussyshouldcomew @ihonestlydontknowwhattonamethis @kirisimpster @pompompomegranate @stevebuckysdoll @midhito @any-maybe @nyylovestowrite @omnimaki @blueberryfailureclinic @degenweeb @tejas-kris

The reflection of the sun casted a nice warm glow onto the already lukewarm waters of Awa’atlu, the day was just starting and the Na’vi of the reef headed out to do their chores.

Ronal decided to oversee ___, become her teacher and show her the way of water. Of course anyone else could have done it but as a strange Omaticaya stranger who has had no real experience with the ocean, the Tsahìk decided to pay her extra close attention. Or so she told herself.

“Are you sure they will be ok?” ___ glanced back to where the elderly situated themselves with her babies, cooing and tickling their feet. She did not doubt the older Metkayina’s at all, but they were strangers to her. Ronal watched her from the deeper ends of the shore, the waters just touching her upper waist.

“They will be fine. Za’u” she beckoned the anxious woman over to her and took her tiny wrist, noting the lack of fins and feeling the bony edges of her arm. ‘I must remember to give her extras for lunch, she is too skinny’ her mind turmoiled with the thought of this sweet girl going hungry on her long journey, just to feed her boys, it took her back to the question on why she was really here. ‘In due time Ronal, in due time’

___ nervously waded in and fought against the soft currents, yellow eyes glancing across the expanse of ocean. She was not at all used to this, coming from the forest it was just rivers she swam in, avoiding the harsh rapids and only choosing to glide in calm, flowing streams. The Tsahìk looked back at her and smiled, it was barely noticeable but it was there, bringing the blue woman comfort. Then, they dived in, taking deep breaths to fuel their journey.

Ronal swam ahead, letting go of ___’s wrist and using her own arms and tail to propel herself foreword, hips shaking softly from side to side from the momentum. She turned back to sign “Come, just a little further” and watched with confusion when ___ only stared on with a blank look “do you not understand?”. Taking the lack of signing as an answer she shrugged and continued on, slowing down just a little and checking back once in a while. For a forest Na’vi she is breathing quite well.

The corals of the reef were beautiful and vibrant, colours ranging from greens to bright pinks. Fish big and small swam around her, eyes blinking in curiosity at the newcomer in their home. ___ stopped her movement, turning around to admire the sights she has never seen before and watched as the creatures of the reef circled her feet. Her grin was large and pure, heart beating just a little bit faster from nervous excitement. Unbeknownst to the Omaticaya, soft blue eyes watched her every move and observed how curious ___ was in her home.

Suddenly the mother of two felt her lungs constrict and knew it was time for air, she pushed against rocks to go up to the surface, breaking the barrier and gasping for air. Ronal’s head popped out of the water, second eyelids blinking back the excess salt from her blue spheres. “You have done well for a forest girl, but you must learn to hold your breath for longer…and to learn our language”

“Is that what it was?” ___ panted, “the movement with your hands?”

“Srane” Ronal nodded “We cannot speak underwater, and making noises like we do for calling ilu takes up too much air, so my people adapted, created sign language”

“Your people are amazing for doing that. The only thing we have done in the forest is create different calls and noises for communicating when we are on our ikran”

“And that takes skill on itself” Ronal nodded, admiring how their cultures are so similar, yet so far. It reminds her that at the end of the day, they are both Na’vi and Eywa deems them the same in spirit and soul. “Let us dive again, I want to see how far you can go. Then, I will teach you to breathe”

Time flew by so fast, the lessons Ronal gave her on ‘breathing’ took a long time to get right, posture was important, breathing from the stomach was important, calm mind, no racing heart. It was a lot, but ___ felt confident in her abilities to go under the waters for longer than she had. But in due time.

For now she rests in her marui with her boys, whom the elders say were a delight to take care of. Apparently Sylwaì and Syatxì both loved eating the fruit which was gathered deep within the forests of the mangrove trees, they were mushed and paired with various bits of soft fish which was chowed down in an instant. ___ observed the soft flesh of Syatxì’s belly and giggled, noting the large rolls and the slow rise and fall of his chest. ‘Sleeping so heavily, he has eaten his fill for the rest of the day’ she mused.

The padding of footsteps made her ears twitched, hearing the bounce of the netting outside and in front of her home, she turned and saw Tonowari looking in, holding various items in his strong arms. “I have came to drop these off for you, it is your first night here and we want to make it as comfortable as possible for you” he proceeded to step in and place some woven blankets on the floor, along with a basket of fruits in case she got hungry during the night.

“Irayo, Tonowari” ___ nodded in thanks, smiling at him. Sylwaì cooed at the man, taking note of him in the room and reaching out to grab him by his akula teeth necklace.

The Olo’eyktan grinned and held out his large hand, watching as only his finger was grabbed with the babies four fingers, he shook it gently and watched as the boy gave him a gummy little grin which matched his own toothy one. “He is strong for his age. A mighty warrior in the making. Him and my son, Ao’nung will do just fine together”

___ chuckled “maybe the old ladies were right about him being a warrior, a fierce hunter is what Eywa wills for his future” she turned her head slightly and noted how close hers was to Tonowari’s, blue eyes clashing with bright yellow. ___ turned her head back and coughed a little, ears twitching, not getting the chance to see the slight purple on the clan leaders face.

“Srane” he nodded slightly, Ronal was not lying when she told him the Omaticaya woman’s eyes were the nicest shade of amber on the whole of Pandora, rivalling even the most brightest of fish in the bioluminescent night. “Well, I will leave you and your sons to rest. If you need anything, please, we will be happy to help you” ___ thanked him as he left, sighing in slight embarrassment.

Oh Eywa, what was she going to do.

“Good morning ___!” One of the older ladies, Naola, called out to her as she walked down the beach towards them. “How are you and your little ones?”

___ stopped right in front of the group, adjusting her grip on her twins and smiled “We are good, Syatxì is hungry though, even if i fed him a couple of minutes ago” the mother sent a playful glare to him, the baby looking at her with wide eyes in return. ‘too cute’

She handed the two to Naola who cooed and wiggled her fingers at them, Sylwaì giggling. “Well, you best on head out to Tsahìk, she does not take kindly to late comers” ___ nodded, kissing the heads of her sons as goodbye and headed off towards Ronal’s home, as instructed last night after her lessons.

The Metkayina women was inside, grinding herbs and powders into a mortar. Her head snapped up at the cough ___ let out to indicate she was there, “Ah, you are just in time. Come, sit. I have decided to spend our morning today doing my duties, you will join me”

The blue lady blinked in surprise “Ronal, I am not Tsakarem, I do not need to learn”

The said Tsahìk shook her head, frowning. “No you are not, but Eywa sees potential in you” she then smiled slightly, blue eyes twinkling in the morning sun. “During my prayers, she has willed me to teach you, to help you learn. You were a skilled healer back with the Omaticaya. You will do well here”

___ smiled back “irayo…what are you doing now?” she squatted and observed the clay bowl and noted that the ingredients were different to that she was used to at home. Or her old home.

“This is to treat scrapes and cuts, one of our hunters came back earlier with wounds from the coral outside the reef. Luckily it was not life threatening. But it must be treated soon” Ronal turned back to her task and continued grinding the paste, adding more water and herbs when necessary. She glanced at ___ from the corner of her large eyes and watched the way her thin tail moved about in genuine curiosity.

It made her heart flutter just a bit.

“Za’u” the Tsahìk snapped herself out of her daze and stood up, walking out of the marui and towards another a few ways down where the hunter laid, talking to his mate. “Txatì. Your husband lives, he will be fine”

Txatì looked to her clan leader with glistening eyes, “Sorry, Ronal. I am just worried about him” she then turned to ___ who stood behind the healer. “What business does she bring?”

“___ will learn my work. As is willed by Eywa” Ronal saw the look Txatì gave the Omaticaya and decided to shut her down. Who would deny Eywa’s will? She understood the girl wanted the best for her mate and may have not agreed for an outsider to be in the hut with them, but that was no reason to be rude.

Fortunately ___ did not notice the harsh glance that was directed to her and immediately focused in on the grazes that adorned the man’s skin. “Does it hurt?” she knelt down and observed it, not too deep, not too large. It should scab within a week if he was lucky.

“Kehe. I will be fine, thank you Tsakarem” he nodded to her in gratitude for her kindness and hissed when his Tsahìk applied the cool paste into his wound.

Ronal gave him a look “you are a warrior and yet you cower under mere herbs” her ears twitched when the soft giggles of ___ echoed through the marui, pupils dilating. She did not dare look in her direction, afraid she would make her budding infatuation more obvious.

But it was noticeable to the hunter, who turned to his wife and winked slightly, speaking with his eyes. He remembered when he was the same with Txatì, giving her admiring looks but trying to act calm and cool whenever she was around.

Once Ronal finished with her job, guiding ___ on the pastes and the dangers of the coral that can come in and outside the reef and healing other hunters that came and went, she stood and nodded to her last patient and swiftly turned around and lead ___ outside. “You learn fast I have noticed” she turned her head back to watch her “let us go see your boys, I am sure they miss their mother”

They traveled along the ropes above the waters, bouncing slightly with each step. Eventually they jumped down to the beach, the sands getting in every crevice of their feet and leaving footprints when they padded along, searching for the group of elders who held ___’s children.

“Hey! Over here!” A man waved at them from afar, holding a laughing Ao’nung in his strong arms. Ronal grinned at the boy who made grabby hands at her, thanking Lìtxan who passed him over.

The mother brushed the little hair he had over his head and bounced him in her arms, watching ___ pick up her own sons. “Have they been behaving?” she heard her softly ask.

“Oh! No they have been terrible! Always demanding teylu every minute of the morning! Any more and they will sink to the bottom of the ocean!” Naola cried out in jest.

___ let out a loud laugh, blowing into Sylwaì’s little tummy “is that right ‘itan?” the boy squealed in happiness, feeling the love his mother holds for him.

The Tsahìk watched on with admiration in her eyes. Heart thumping in her chest. She understood what these feelings mean, she has the same feelings with Tonowari, she likes ___, really likes her. But she does not know her, not really. She still does not know why she came to Awa’atlu, to live among the Metkayina.

One strong thought plagues her mind though, one that would stop her from ever pursuing the Omaticaya.

Her mates, what happened to them?

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#*ੈ✩‧₊˚ yawnetu #avatar the way of water #atwow #x reader #avatar x reader #atwow x reader #avatar the way of water x reader #neytiri #jake sully #aonung #OC #ronal and tonowari

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osco-rabel · 1 year ago

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#irpinia #italy #osco rabel #green #nature #water #trees #falls #river #wonderful #trip #journey #travel #places

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humanpurposes · 1 year ago

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De Facto

She can't afford to fantasize over Aemond Targaryen, he's her boss and the Prime Minister... but stopping is easier said than done- this fic now has a part two :)

Main Masterlist

PM!Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, mentions of SA, questionable power dynamics, politics (putting my degree to good use), unnecessary world building

Words: 7700

A/n: Thanks for the inspo @ewanmitchellcrumbs, sorry it's not Dishy Rishi tho :(

Throughout the whole train journey into Central King’s Landing, she’s sure she’s dreaming. Her body feels strangely light, her hands are restless and her heart is beating steadily in her chest.

She flows effortlessly with the stream of commuters, along the platform, through the station’s glass atrium, then left towards Conquest Street. She knows her way around this part of the city already, and though she’s never been inside, she’s walked past Hightower House countless times.

This time is different. Now she walks up to the iron gates, pressing her thumbnail into her index finger, because the armed guards are making her nervous.

She tells them her name and one of them mutters into a radio.

Her eyes run along the gold crest that marks the gate, a shield divided into seven, a sun for Dorne, a rose for The Reach, a stag for The Stormlands, a Trout for The Riverlands, a Falcon for The Vale, a Kraken for The Iron Islands, a wolf for The North, and at its heart is the symbol that unites them, the three headed dragon (although strictly speaking, Westeros abolished its monarchy centuries ago).

Suddenly one of the guards catches her attention. He opens the gate for her, and says she’ll be given a security pass and instructions to use the staff entrance following her official induction.

Hightower House stands proudly before her, an ornate facade of balustrades and columns, order and symmetry, an obvious juxtaposition of the medieval majesty of the Red Keep, just down the road.

It all feels very daunting, but the last five years have led her to this moment, the entirety of her adult life. She keeps telling herself that she deserves to be here, after all, she was the one who made it through the first round of applications, who made it to the shortlist and the final interviews, and she was the only one of hundreds of applicants who received the phone call, offering her a position as a personal advisor to the Prime Minister.

The contract only lasts two years, but it is the most effective stepping stone into a career in politics that she could ever ask for.

The entire morning is spent working out formalities. First she meets the deputy chief of staff, a handsome man named Criston Cole, who she’ll directly report to. He shows her through mountains of paperwork and gives her a brief overview of her role. Essentially, she is to assist the Prime Minister on whatever he deems necessary, policy aims, speeches, media coverage, political rhetoric, public image.

“You’re a glorified assistant,” Cole says as she reads and signs page after page of her employment contract, “but with a salary to reflect it, so don’t feel discouraged. There will be some admin work which can get tedious, but you’ve been selected for your expertise and your passion for the party.”

That’s the crucial part of the job. Everything she does will be to benefit Mr Targayren as head of the Green Party, still running off the high of their victory at the last general election, just under a year ago.

She signs her last signature triumphantly, despite the ache in her wrist, and hands the pen back to Cole with a smile. “All done?” she asks hopefully.

Cole grimaces sympathetically. “Not quite.”

There are four people to meet before she’s officially in. She takes a deep breath to soothe herself. It’s all just more formalities, which she can understand, given the weight of this job.

The first is the Prime Minister's private secretary, a glamorous woman with black hair and piercing green eyes, named Alys Rivers. She greets her warmly, having already spoken over the phone with her several times. She also knows her CV off by heart. It’s a little strange having someone know almost everything about her education and employment history when her face is unfamiliar.

The next is a young woman named Maris, the other of Mr Targaryen’s personal advisors. She has dark hair and a look of determination in her grey eyes. She explains that there are always two personal advisors, but hired on alternating years. She was hired at the start of Mr Targaryen’s premiership, and has a year left of her contract.

There are a thousand questions she wants to ask Maris, but before she can even scratch the surface, Cole’s checking his watch and dragging her off to another office.

Otto Hightower is the chief of staff. He’s thin and wiry, but incredibly intimidating. He has tired, sunken eyes that seem to glare right through her, and a passive but severe expression on his face, as though he’s scrutinising, having already decided she’s a waste of his time.

It’s not a great feeling, being looked at like that by a man she’s idolised for years. She knows his career timeline by heart. He earned his bachelors in Politics and Economics from Oldtown, before doing a masters in International Relations at King’s Landing, where he met and befriended Viserys Targaryen. He worked his way to becoming an MP and soon into Viserys’ cabinet when be became Prime Minister.

But things changed when Otto’s daughter married Viserys. No one really knows the whole truth, but Otto resigned from the Black Party, and took over from his own brother as leader of the opposition.

Now he works in the background, the mastermind behind his grandson’s remarkable successes.

Cole explains that Mr Hightower had the final say in the shortlist and determining which applicant would be given the final job offer.

“You had an impressive application,” he says, briefly looking up from a document. “I’m sure you’ll do well with us.”

“Thank you, Mr Hightower,” she says through the slight tremble in her jaw.

Other than that, the interaction is brief, and soon Cole is ushering her out of the room, back to Alys’ office, as richly decorated as the rest of the building. Maris is sitting at another desk, typing away furiously on a laptop.

“Tea? Coffee? Water?” Cole offers her, gesturing for her to take a seat on a green leather sofa.

“Water would be lovely,” she says.

“Maris,” he calls.

She glares up from her laptop. “That’s not my job.”

“No, but it’s courtesy,” he says.

Alys’ slight smirk doesn’t escape her attention.

Maris purses her lips, but she closes her laptop, pointedly slams her hands against the arms of her chair, and marches out of the room, her shiny black heels clicking against the dark wood floor.

“She’s nice really,” Cole says, “just a bit… direct at times.”

“Direct,” Alys groans to herself.

She feels her brow flicker into a frown but stops herself.

“She’s good at her job,” Criston says like he might say something else, but he doesn’t.

When Maris returns, she seems a little less on edge.

She takes the glass of water with a cautious hand, Maris’ eyes lingering on her maroon painted nails.

“I like your top,” Maris says.

She glances down. It’s nothing special, black and long-sleeved, to go with her long blue and green patterned skirt.

“Thank you,” she says.

Maris hums to herself before she goes back to her desk.

“Do you often work in here?” she asks.

Maris shrugs. “It depends.” She doesn’t care to explain further.

Alys is smirking again.

“Mr Targaryen was in a meeting with the cabinet this morning,” Cole says, then checks his watch. “He has a few phone calls to make, but he should be ready to see you at about 4pm. Maris?”

“Yes?”

“Will you show her in around then?”

“Yeah,” she says, flatly, “of course.”

Cole shakes her hand before he leaves. “Alys will show you out when you leave. I’ll see you on Monday morning.”

She continues to wait on the sofa, restless in the silence that follows once the door has shut. Alys and Maris are both typing, their nails clicking against their keyboards. She starts to bounce her leg and stops herself.

Her mind is racing. The day seems to have gone well so far, but what if she meets Mr Targaryen and it all falls apart? What if he decides he doesn’t like her and sends her packing?

She’s too lost in her own head to notice the flash of Alys’ emerald green dress as she stands in front of her. That is, until she’s leaning down and waving a bar of chocolate in front of her. “Get a bit of sugar in you,” she says, “and breathe slowly.”

She smiles as she takes the bar and places a single cube on her tongue. She lets it melt, savouring the sweetness and the slight bitterness of its taste.

You can do this, she thinks to herself with every inhale. And then she exhales. You are here for a reason.

The phone on Alys’ desk rings. She checks her own phone. It’s exactly 3:59.

“Yes, sir, Maris will show her in now.”

Aemond Targaryen is on the other end of the line. Her heart drops at the thought.

As the second son of Viserys, it seems like he was always destined for the family business. He differs from his father and grandfather in that he did Politics and Philosophy at Sunspear, before going on to do his masters in History at Oldtown, and then another masters in International Relations at King’s Landing. By all accounts, he is fiercely intelligent, mature beyond his years, with the right balance of intimidating and charismatic to command the support he needed to get in as MP for Rosby, then as party leader.

In fact, it had been his first campaign that inspired her to apply for a degree in politics in the first place. She loved how he spoke, how he managed to strike a balance between grace and passion, and how deeply he cared for his policies. He was poised and perfect, but driven by a genuine want for improvement.

He perfected his craft within a matter of years. With the mess Rhaenyra Targaryen had made of the country, it was all too easy for him to win a majority with a few winning speeches, a hand running through his silver hair, that lazy half-smirk and the intense look in his eyes that just made you want to fall at his feet. And people do. The press adore him, his party worships him, foreign dignitaries often remark on his charm but also his capabilities as a negotiator and a leader.

Maris leads her out of the office, along a quiet corridor. She stops outside a door with gold lettering: Office of A. Targaryen, Prime Minister

Seeing it in front of her, strangely, seems to subdue her nerves. Her chest flutters, but the anxiety is more manageable than before.

Maris taps her knuckles against the door three times.

From the other side of the door she hears a gentle but chilling voice. “Enter.”

She follows Maris inside.

He’s perched against his desk, his long, silver hair falling around his shoulders as he looks over a few pieces of paper. He wears a white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, black slacks and brown leather shoes.

He looks up slowly, the light of the early Autumn evening beaming through the windows, over the sharp features of his face, his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, his neck.

His eyes find hers, unashamed and curious.

Suddenly she can feel her heart in her throat.

Maris introduces her. “I’m sure Alys already debriefed you, but she’s here for her induction. Cole said you wanted to meet her as a formality and–”

It feels awfully like she’s talking for the sake of it.

“That will be all, Maris,” Mr Targaryen says softly. She can’t help but watch the way his lips move when he speaks.

“Oh, are you sure, sir?” she asks. Her face is twisted into a slight frown but her eyes are wide. “I just thought, for her sake, it might be useful if I’m here to explain everything.”

“I’m sure, thank you.”

She stands with her hands clasped in front of her skirt as she listens to Maris’ footsteps move towards the door. It opens and closes, and now all she can hear are her own breaths, gently flowing through her nose.

She doesn’t know where to look. At the patterned carpet on the floor? No, it would be rude of her to hang her head. At the portraits that line the wall? At the bookshelves? At the desk? No, that all seems too intrusive. Out the window? No, that might seem like she’s not paying attention.

So her eyes settle on him.

He hasn’t moved from his position, but he’s placed the paper on the desk behind him, leaning with his palms at the edge. His eyes glance over her once, up and down.

Fuck, he’s so much better looking in person.

Then he stands to his full height, and picks up a clipboard from the desk. He flicks through a few of the pages and hums softly to himself.

“You had an impressive application,” he says.

She swallows through the slightly dry feeling in her throat. “Thank you, sir.”

“And an excellently written cover letter.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You did your masters in Comparative Politics at Sunspear. Oberyen Martell is still head of faculty there, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir. He taught one of my modules, Security Studies.”

“He’s an interesting character,” he muses, smiling to himself. “He was my supervisor for my undergrad dissertation.”

She already knew that. Dr Martell loved to go on about his star student. She would too if she taught the future Prime Minister.

He flicks to another page. She watches as his eyes skim over the words in front of him. “And you came with glowing reviews from Tyland Lannister.”

She’s not sure how she’s supposed to respond to that– it makes her sound more like a product than a person– so she just smiles, as delicately as she can, making sure not to squint her eyes too much.

She had spent the last year as Mr Lannister’s Parliamentary Assistant, at his office in the Red Keep, starting just as he had been appointed as Foreign Secretary.

“How was he as a boss?” Mr Targayren asks.

Straightforward, she thinks. He took his job seriously and was decidedly not a fan of smalltalk. His office often worked in silence, and even when he was stressed he was efficient.

“No complaints,” she says.

“I’m sure you were all kept busy, cleaning up Corlys Velaryon’s mess after the Stepstones.”

A minor military excursion to defend a few key trading routes, or at least that’s how it had started. Within a matter of months the Stepstones had spiralled beyond control, costing Corlys Velaryon his seat and the Blacks their majority in Parliament.

“If I remember right, it was Daemon Targaryen pushing that particular policy,” she says.

The corner of his mouth curls upward. It could be a smile but she’s not entirely sure.

“Sir,” she adds, hoping to soften the blow of her unintentional insult; what idiot tries to correct the Prime Minister on their first day on the job? She does, clearly.

He doesn’t seem irritated or angry, more amused. A cryptic “hmm” sounds in his throat as he flicks back to the first document. “And before that you were a campaign manager for the party, yes?”

“Yes,” she says brightly, grateful for the change of subject. “I was working in the Stormlands in the lead up to the general election.” The region was formerly a Black stronghold, but turned Green thanks in part to her efforts.

“Excellent work,” he says.

The smooth, seductive tone of his voice seems to come so naturally to him. She bites her tongue at the image it prompts in her head, of his lips brushing over her ear, his hands resting on her waist, she can almost feel it–

No. That’s wrong. So wrong.

Fantasising about the Prime Minister of Westeros is not a habit she can afford to keep up, not when she’s supposed to be working with him in such close proximity.

But that’s easier said than done.

Cole enters his office, bright and early on Monday morning, before the rest of Hightower House is awake.

Aemond’s routine is the same every day. Up at 5am, run a few laps of the expansive gardens or spend an hour going through his meticulously planned gym routine. He showers, shaves, applies his skincare and haircare products, dabs some perfume on his wrists, dresses, and takes breakfast and a black coffee in his office. By 7:30am he’s ready to work.

He needs the routines and the outlets. They help keep him sane.

He’d seen how this position twisted his father into a tired, irritable and irrational man, how it got to Rhaenyra’s head until she became a liability to herself. He won’t be like them. He has a reputation to uphold, a legacy to claim.

Cole places a folder on his desk. “The background check you ordered, sir.”

He thanks him, quietly and sincerely, and waits until he’s left the room to open the folder.

His new personal advisor intrigues him. He’d made the request for the background check as soon as their meeting had ended on Friday.

She has no criminal record, which is unsurprising, that definitely would have come up sooner if she had one.

He browses through her education history, a star student at Storm’s End Grammar School, a bachelor’s in history from Rainwood, a masters from Suspear, where she was head of Debate Soc and Amnesty International, while working various internships and retail jobs in between.

The next page is full of articles from student publications, The Importance of Integrity in Politics for the Rainwood Student Journal, Sovereignty in the Stepstones for Red Sun Rising. He reads through them both. Her writing is immaculate, concise and convincing.

The final page is more personal, social media profiles. It’s nothing scandalous, but she clearly has a certain image she wants to project. Her Instagram is full of art and history museums, coffee shops and preppy outfits. She has a few pictures on her LinkedIn of her at the Green Party conference last year, pictured with a group of girls her age and a caption that talks about the importance of representation in politics, with links to various charities and initiatives. In the photo she’s wearing a white silk shirt, open just enough to show off a dainty gold necklace and a hint of the swell of her chest.

She seems perfect. Too perfect for his own good.

The first months go smoothly enough.

Maris is a practical person. She’s good with numbers, good for bouncing off ideas for economic policies and analysing data for him, even if she is a little overbearing at times.

But she fills the gaps perfectly. He secretly looks forward to their meetings and debriefings, when he asks her to write or edit speeches for him, or run through questions with him before a press conference. Politics is never easy, but she has a remarkable talent for keeping a level head. He likes that she’s always calm and composed. He likes her soft, reassuring smiles and the sharp look in her eyes.

They just click. She’s always switched on, always knows the right things to say and do, always knows what he needs.

Every moment they are alone feels monumental; the settled quiet of his office when she first walks in and takes a seat on the other side of his desk; when they make an exchange, debriefing papers for an empty coffee cup, and their fingers will brush over each other; when he stands over her shoulder to read the document she’s working on, close enough to smell her perfume and feel a heat simmering under his skin. It’s starting to become unbearable, and yet he craves that feeling.

And then, one morning, he gets a phone call from the Crownlands Messenger. They’re about to publish a story. His brother has been accused of inappropriate conduct by no less than three women.

Fucking Aegon.

The entire country is in an uproar. How can anyone trust their Parliamentary representatives when they do shit like this? Is Aegon an outlier or is this just scratching the surface? What will his punishment be? What else are the Greens hiding?

There are hundreds of emergency meetings with his grandfather, tense phone calls, bearating headlines, and onslaughts of outrage online. There’s no question about it, Aegon has to resign as an MP, but the damage is done. The polls are turning Black instead of Green. People don’t trust the ruling party, or its leader.

It’s late. Aemond paces his office while a headache pulses in his head. He’s long ditched the coffee for whisky, swirling it about in his glass. He sent Maris home hours ago. He doesn’t have the patience for anyone at the moment. Except for the woman leaning against his desk, flicking through news articles and the pages of notes she’s prepared for him.

Tomorrow is PMQs. No doubt there’s only one topic the Blacks will be asking about. He can already see Rhaenyra and Daemon’s smug faces, the delight they’ll take in watching him fall apart. There’s just no way he’s getting out of this easily.

He feels so restless. His hands are trembling and his lips won’t seem to stop moving, so he places himself against the wall, mindlessly tapping his fingers against his glass as he takes another generous sip.

From the desk he hears a heavy sigh that hums slightly in her throat. “Is there anything else you want to go over, sir?” she asks.

“No, I think we’ve exhausted the hypotheticals,” he says, running his free hand through his hair. He resists the urge to pull at the roots, to take his frustration out on something. “It’s just– fuck’s sake, I’ve been saying Aegon’s a liability for years. But no, Otto always wanted to keep pushing for him. Said it was good for the family’s image.”

She places her phone and the document behind her, and takes a few steps towards him.

He glances down at her, at the way the low light of the lamps and the fireplace glows against her skin, the contented sort of look in her eyes.

Her eyes flicker down at his now empty glass. “Refill, sir?” Her lips stay slightly parted once she stops speaking.

Then he realises he’s staring.

“No, thank you,” he mutters, tapping his finger against the glass. “I should probably stop now.”

She takes the glass from him with her middle finger and thumb, avoiding touching his hand before she takes it away. Maybe it’s the alcohol getting to his head but his heart sinks at the lack of contact.

What is he doing? It must be after 9pm now and he’s still keeping her here without a real reason.

She’s standing by the drinks cabinet, carefully placing the crystal bottle of whisky away and setting the empty glass out for housekeeping to clean up in the morning.

Instead of thinking about her, the way her hair looks, the way her skirt hugs her waist and the curve of her backside and thighs, he tries to think about how much he hates Aegon. This only makes him more agitated.

He closes his eyes and throws his head against the wall. His heart is racing and there’s a hollow feeling in his chest. He’s craving something, not another drink, not a smoke (he quit once he was first elected as an MP). He wants something else, something dangerous and damning.

The heels of her shoes tap softly against the floor, until she’s standing in front of him.

He opens his eyes.

She frowns slightly before lifting her hand and delicately placing it on his shoulder. “You need to relax, sir,” she says.

He lets out a low “hmm,” as he weighs out his options. This seems like a bad idea. A really, really bad idea.

“That’s not going to happen with you here,” he says.

Her calm, somewhat smug expression falls. She looks so innocent now, so sweet. “What does that mean?” she says.

He leans in closer to her, until the tip of his nose barely brushes against hers. “I think you know what it means, darling.”

She hesitates, before her mouth spreads into an eager smile that shows off her teeth.

Her hands find his, ensnaring him under a soft but commanding grip. She leads him away from the wall, to the sofa by the fireplace.

He settles on it, leaning against the arm as she comes to her knees before him, spreading his legs apart to make room for herself.

She palms her hand over the hardness that’s been straining painfully against his trousers for hours now. She feels along his clothed cock, pressing her cheek against it and gazing up at him with a look of teasing innocence.

Aemond knows he is done for, jaw slack, chest rising and falling as he breathes. He would have never presumed he would find himself in this kind of position, not after all the work’s he’s had to do cleaning up the mess of Aegon’s fuck ups, not after working this hard to get where he is, and least of all because he believes himself to be a decent man.

But he doesn’t stop her as her fingers undo the button and the zip on his trousers, and he doesn’t make any kind of protest as she takes his freed cock in her hand and teasingly strokes along it.

He keeps his hands firmly on the sofa, digging his fingertips and his nails into the leather, as if he hasn’t been dreaming of having her like this for weeks, as if he hasn’t fucked his own hand countless times pretending it was her.

He doesn’t have to pretend anymore. He looks down, his jaw slack, barely containing his strained breaths, and there she is, doe-eyed and eager as she places a delicate kiss to his flushed tip. Her lips barely brush against him before she pulls away, keeping a hold at the base.

His arousal stains her mouth and she fucking grins.

“Enjoying yourself?” he says through gritted teeth.

“Yes, sir,” she says, sweetly, earnestly.

He runs his hand against her hair, gently, as if trying to soothe her. It seems to take her by surprise which only serves to excite him further.

She leans into his touch, lips parting, her eyes half-lidded and dreamy.

Until he grips his fist and pulls. He tilts her head up. It shouldn’t hurt, but it’s enough to bring her attention back to him.

He decides he won’t tell her what to do, not directly, but she’s a smart girl, she knows what he wants.

With her eyes wide again, she opens her mouth and inches his cock past her lips. The tightness in his gut starts to burn as she works up and down his length, slowly– excruciatingly slowly. It’s not in anyway relaxing, he thinks, but it’s a nice kind of torture.

He loses himself to the warmth and the wetness of her mouth, her tongue running over the underside of his cock, her lips teasing over the tip before she moves back down, using her hands where her mouth can’t reach.

He chokes out a throaty “fuck,” knowing there’s a security guard outside the door, and probably a few of the staff still lingering about.

But she looks so beautiful like this, her brow furrowed in determination as she tries to take him deeper and deeper, desperate to please him, happy to make him suffer for it. And the little noises she makes, the gags and the moans. He imagines that she likes this, that she’s been wanting this for as long as he has, and if he pulled her onto his lap and slid his fingers under her skirt, he’d find her drenched.

She starts to up the pace until he brings his hand to the side of her face again, his hand large enough that he can rest his palm against her cheek and tease his fingers through her hair. Her eyes dart up to his, wide and teary.

“Good girl,” he whispers, “nice and slow, just like that.”

She whimpers around him, breathing desperately through her nose.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he coos, “you started this, didn’t you? Wanted to taste me? Wanted to feel my cock in your mouth?”

She hums in agreement.

“Just fucking take it then,” he says with a clenched jaw, gripping her hair to bob her head up and down, keeping that torturous pace.

The pleasure builds slowly, running hotly through his body, but he fights the urge to clamp both hands around her head and buck his hips up to fuck her throat.

He comes harder than he thinks he ever has before, keeping himself sheathed within her as he paints the inside of her mouth, and pulls her head away to see the last few drops spill against her lips.

She gazes up at him with dazed and glassy eyes. She’s panting, trying to catch her breath. Her forehead glistens with sweat, mascara runs down her face and his spend drips over her chin.

He wipes some of the mess away with his thumbs, cradling her face in his hands. “Swallow,” he orders.

Her mouth closes and her throat bobs. He can already feel the tension in his gut tightening again.

If only he could keep her like this forever.

She makes it to Hightower House at the usual time of 8am, despite leaving work so late last night. Despite the hours she spent consumed by thoughts of Aemond Targaryen as she rode the train and dragged herself into her bed. Despite the aching arousal that went unfulfilled. Despite the marks on her knees and the stiffness in her jaw.

When she walks into Alys’ office to sign in, she’s already there, perfectly poised and typing away on her laptop.

“Morning,” she says brightly.

Alys looks up from the screen. The white light shining from below makes her face look a little eerie. “Morning,” she says with a smug look on her face.

She ignores it, scrawling down the time and her signature beside her name.

“You were working rather late last night,” Alys says.

“Yeah, I was,” she mutters, placing the pen down and straightening her spine.

Alys is staring at her. Her eyes are unnervingly bright. “He never asks Maris to work late.”

Her heart drops.

It’s like she can feel the weight of him in her mouth, the taste of him on her tongue.

“I bet he’s just realised I’m more of a people pleaser,” she says.

Alys hums and smiles. “Yeah?”

She doesn’t have time for this. She hangs up her coat and her bag, and picks up two black coffees from the coffee machine in the kitchenette down the hall.

Aemond is in his office, leaning back in his chair with his mobile pressed to his ear. He doesn’t react much when he sees her, he just watches her as she sets one of the cups in front of him. He raises his eyebrows in thanks and brings it to his lips.

She imagines the person on the other end of the call is starting to bore him.

“Yeah… yeah… I know… well there’s not much to be done now but get it over with.”

She takes a few sips from her own cup, wiping the corners of her mouth. Aemond follows her fingers as she does.

“I’ll speak to you after. Yes, thank you, grandfather.” He hangs up the phone and tosses it onto a stack of papers on the desk. “Seven fucking Hells.”

“How did that go?” she asks.

Aemond rolls his eyes and huffs a tired laugh. “He wants to talk through candidates for the by-election in Duskendale. I said I’ll think about it if I survive PMQs.”

She sets her coffee cup down. “What are you most worried about? You’ve prepared for this. What’s worrying you?”

Aemond taps his fingers against the desk. She tries not to ignore the thrill it sends through her belly.

“I’ve never had to deal with something like this. I’ve never been this worried about the party’s image, but that’s usually because I do everything right.”

The whole Aegon situation is beyond his control, and yet he’ll be getting the scrutiny for it.

“People need to be able to trust you,” she says.

Aemond looks up at her expectantly.

“Is Aegon still a party member?” she asks.

Aemond’s expression darkens. “That was discussed. Otto wants him to remain an official member.”

“You’re the Prime Minister. Put your foot down.”

“I can’t,” he says, standing and fixing the rolled up sleeves and undone buttons on his shirt before he reaches for his tie.

“You can’t afford not to. If you go easy on Aegon, Rhaenyra’s going to play to some kind of ‘the Greens are anti woman card.’ Your voters need to know you’re taking this seriously.”

“And throw my own brother under the bus?” he says, sternly.

But she can tell he’s still nervous. His hands are shaking as he ties the tie around his neck.

She pauses, wondering where the line is here. Aegon Targaryen will be fine. He’ll be put under investigation and keep getting bad press for a while, but he can live off daddy’s money in the meantime, and in a few years the whole scandal will be forgotten.

She takes a few steps towards him and comes close enough to smell the dark, boozy smell of his perfume, and shoos his hands away.

“What would be better for the country,” she asks, tilting her head and keeping her eyes focused as she fastens his tie, “presenting yourself as a leader who is committed to integrity and respect, or leaving yourself open to further criticism?”

She pushes the knot up tightly against his collar for emphasis.

Aemond just smirks. “You’re very persuasive,” he says.

“That’s my job, sir.”

She gasps as his hand grabs her hip and pulls her against him. His breath runs hotly over her face as he tilts her chin up to look at him. His throat hums as he breathes.

She could fall apart then and there.

Until a knock on the door has her practically shoving him away.

Aemond chuckles and shrugs on his suit jacket. “Enter,” he calls.

She turns her back to the door to hide the flustered look on her face, pretending to look through a bookshelf that she’s never really looked at properly before.

“Car for you, sir,” Alys says from the doorway.

Aemond calls for her by her surname. Fuck– she was supposed to pack his briefcase before he left. She takes a breath and goes about collecting all the pages of notes and briefings he’ll need.

She brings it to him, and notices Maris standing in the hallway behind Alys. Maris usually goes with him to the Red Keep for PMQs, but today he requests that she accompany him. She supposes it makes sense, she’s been the one helping him prepare after all.

Maris’ face is a storm. Alys looks down at her feet and tries to stifle a giggle.

The next few hours are a blur. She trails after Aemond through the ornate corridors, keeping her eyes on his silver hair, flowing down the back of his black suit jacket. Somewhere along the way, Cole and the head of security, a man Aemond greets as “Mr Westerling”, joins them.

They leave through the front entrance, into the sharp September air and into a black car. The hum of the engine and the smell of leather makes her nauseous, but they’re only in the car for a matter of minutes before the door swings open and she’s been ushered towards the Red Keep.

Once a seat of Kings, now the red stone castle seems a little out of place with the rest of the city. This is where Parliament gathers.

As they walk through its halls, Aemond tells her to throw a few questions at him. She has them all memorised in her head, able to recite a few without really thinking about it. Aemond mutters the answers they’ve rehearsed under his breath, smiling politely and waving as they pass by civil servants, MPs, Green and Black party members alike. They even pass Cregan Stark, leader of the Northern Independence party. He whispers all of their names in her ear.

There’s a small room where Aemond waits in before he enters the Great Hall. She can hear the noise and the chatter on the other side of the double doors, engraved with the same crest that marks the gates to Hightower House.

He won’t stop moving, adjusting his tie and his cuffs, tutting and pursing his lips.

She makes sure Cole and Westerling are muttering to each other before she leans into Aemond, putting her hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” she whispers, “don’t see it as a chance for them to criticise you, see it as an opportunity for you to reassure everyone else of how brilliant you are.”

Aemond turns his head towards her. He’s not touching her but she feels the proximity.

“That’s an interesting way to look at it,” he says.

She smiles. “It’s all perspective.”

Before Aemond is called into the hall, Cole directs her to the gallery, above the benches where the MPs sit.

She and Aemond meet eyes before she leaves. She stops herself from reaching for him, not wanting to leave his side.

“Good luck,” she says.

As if he needs it. She watches everything unfold from the gallery, the MPs sat below her like she’s watching a play in a theatre.

Aemond starts off with an amazing opening speech which, at her recommendation, doesn’t shy away from the issue of the whole Aegon scandal. He affirms his commitment to ensuring that central government is a safe and inclusive working environment, which is when he announces Aegon’s resignation as an MP, as well as his removal from the Green Party.

The chamber in an uproar. A few members of the Green Party make a bit of a fuss, but mostly Aemond’s announcement is applauded, even by a good number of Black Party members.

Rhaenyra, Aemond’s sister and predecessor, is at a loss for words, as is her deputy, Daemon.

Aemond seems to get a boost of confidence from this and takes every question in his stride, using elements from the answers she had rehearsed with him and even throwing in a few one liners which has half the room cheering him.

And he’s fucking hot when he’s cocky.

While he speaks all she can think of is how he sounded while she was between his legs. “Good girl… just fucking take it…” she has to clench her fists and her jaw at the wave of arousal that rises within her.

Afterwards she walks with him to the car. A whole host of Green Party members crowd him as they walk through the hallways, praising him, commending him. He smiles graciously, looking over his shoulder every so often to look at her, to make sure she’s not fallen behind.

The silence of the car is unbearable with Cole and Westerling in the front, and Aemond beside her, drumming his fingers against his thigh and running his other hand through his hair.

She presses her thighs at the obvious arousal pooling at her centre.

Seven hells, she’s acting like she’s in heat.

She follows Aemond back through Hightower House, past Alys’ office, to his own office. When he closes the door behind them, he locks it.

She leans against the desk, keeping her hands on the wood behind her.

Aemond turns back to her with a ravenous look in his pale blue eyes. He reaches into his pocket, effortlessly pulling his hair into a low bun, as he usually does in informal company.

She can’t take her eye off him as he tosses his jacket over the sofa, and begins to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. Then he stalks towards her, his chin tilted down and his lips in a tight line, until he’s close enough to paw at her waist.

“I suppose I should thank you for your help,” he says, eyes fixed on his hands as they tease over the fabric of the red mini skirt she had picked out this morning, the way she squirms underneath him.

“Oh,” she breathes. One of his hands trails up, untucking her blouse from her skirt and brushing his fingertips against the bare skin underneath. “Just… doing my job, sir.”

He hums to himself as his hand works its way round to her backside, squeezing gently. “Do you like calling me ‘sir’?”

She can’t help but nod, dazed at the feeling of his hands tracing the shape of her body.

“Yeah, I think you do,” he says, leaning in to press a slow, firm kiss to her neck.

Her resolve is shattered. She throws her hands around his neck, pulling herself into him, desperate to feel him against her, to stay close to him.

She almost whines when he moves away, much to his amusement, feeling her mouth fall into a pout.

“Don’t tell me I’ve got a brat,” he says, taking her chin in his hand. “Are you going to be good for me, pet?”

“Yes, sir,” she utters.

“See? You don’t even need to be told,” he says with a smile. “You’re going to turn around and lean over the desk.”

She follows his instructions without missing a beat, bracing herself on her forearms, against the surface. She feels her skirt being pushed up over her hips, her tights and panties pulled down in one go, fingertips trailing over her thighs. Then she feels his breath against the wetness of her bare pussy.

She can’t help but let out a quiet moan, pressing her nails into the wood in anticipation.

“Haven’t even fucking touched you yet, are you that desperate for me?”

“Yes, sir,” she whimpers, trying to look over her shoulder.

Aemond’s hand finds its way against her head, pressing her down. And he doesn’t let go.

His fingers drag through her folds, teasing her entrance and her clit before he slides in a single digit. It feels so different from her own, longer and thicker, pressing into her at an unfamiliar angle. She feels utterly weightless, the obscene sound of him moving in and out of her only adding to her arousal.

Aemond’s voice is dark and husky, as it was last night. “Good girl,” he coos, “that feels good, doesn’t it?”

When she doesn’t reply, he withdraws and lands a stinging slap against her cheek, before he pushes into her again. “Answer me,” he says, clearly and firmly.

“Yes, sir,” she says, frantically trying to nod against his hold of her head. “Feels so fucking good.”

He increases his speed, pumping in and out of her until her climax washes over her. It happens gradually, building and building before a pleasant numbness washes through her, to every corner of her body.

While she comes down from her high, her attention is caught by the sound of a belt buckle and rustling fabric.

The tip of his cock presses into her without warning. He inches further and further in until he bottoms out, the material of his trousers pressing against her skin– the cunt hasn’t even bothered to take off his clothes.

He finally relents his hold of her head, grabbing at her waist as he ruts into her. It’s fast and primal, adrenaline pumping through her blood, Aemond’s fingers digging into her flesh, her breath coming out in moans, his belt buckle hitting the desk with every harsh thrust.

“Knew you were a little slut,” he grits out, grabbing at her cheeks and spreading them out to watch his cock moving in and out of her. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

She covers her mouth with her hand to hold back the wanton noises threatening to slip past her lips.

Suddenly a hand comes to her shoulder, pulling her up against his chest. One hand kneads at her breasts through her blouse and her bra, while the other slips between her legs, tracing quick circles over her clit.

“I wanna feel you come,” he rasps into her ear, “wanna feel my good girl clench around my cock.”

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She clings to his arms and digs her teeth into her bottom lip. She can feel herself hurtling towards her climax, if only he would move his fingers a little faster.

“Please,” she whispers.

“What was that, pet?” Aemond asks, brushing his lips over her cheek. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to come!” she whines. “Fuck– please… please, I just want to come, sir.”

She feels him smiling against her as his fingers rub faster over her clit. She can feel how deep he is inside her, how his cock bullies against that sensitive spot, over and over again, until her orgasm tears through her.

She tries to keep her mouth shut but she can’t help the pleading groan that hums in her throat. Aemond holds her as she falls apart, fucking her thoroughly through it all.

Until finally, he reaches his end, hissing through his teeth and pulling out to spill himself onto her pussy. She feels the warmth, how it drips through her folds, for now uncaring of the mess they’ve surely made.

Aemond keeps holding her against his chest. His forehead falls against the back of her head and his hot breath echoes over her neck. “I really appreciate the work you’ve done for me,” he says breathlessly. “I think you and I make quite a pair, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir,” she mewls, letting her head fall against his arm.

Aemond hums a laugh to himself, it rumbles in his chest and against her back. “So pretty and polite,” he coos, “how did I ever manage without you until now, pet?”

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @targaryenrealnessdarling

A/n: I might do a part 2 to this so let me know if you would liked to be tagged :)

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