#mistress of silver flames

[novaursa]

Between the Flames (Part 1)

- Summary: You and Gwayne see each other after years of separation, as King Viserys I organizes a hunt for his son's nameday. But time is a cruel mistress.

- Paring: Gwayne Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, has silver hair, is bonded with Silverwing. Time is unspecified for events that take place, and there will be part 2. If you want to read parts before this in chronological order, visit my blog, the list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (there is no adult content present, but is mentioned)

- Word count: 4 252

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

The camp is alive with the sounds of celebration, laughter ringing out over the open fields as the royal tents stand tall against the evening sky. The hunt is in full swing, with nobles from across the realm gathered to honor Aegon’s name day, a grand spectacle meant to showcase the strength and unity of the kingdom under King Viserys. The smell of roasting meat and the warmth of firelight create a welcoming atmosphere, though Gwayne Hightower feels none of it. His heart pounds with anticipation, his eyes scanning the sea of faces, searching.

It has been years since he last saw you, the young princess with a fierce spirit and a dragon’s heart. Time and distance have done nothing to diminish the ache within him, a longing that has only grown stronger with each passing day. He has resisted every effort by his father, Otto Hightower, to wed him to another. Every noble lady, no matter how beautiful or accomplished, has paled in comparison to you. The memory of your laughter, your fierce gaze, your bond with Silverwing—all of it haunts him still.

And now, with the excuse of his nephew’s name day, he has come here, determined to see you again.

Gwayne moves through the crowd, his eyes flicking from one face to another. Lords and ladies bow and curtsy as he passes, offering pleasantries and congratulations. He nods politely, but his mind is elsewhere, focused solely on finding you. 

At last, he spots you near the edge of the encampment, where the noise of the festivities begins to fade into the night. You stand with your back to him, your silver hair catching the firelight, creating a halo that makes you appear almost otherworldly. Your stance is strong, regal, a true daughter of the Targaryen line. For a moment, he hesitates, taking in the sight of you, as if afraid that moving too quickly might shatter the fragile reality of this moment.

Finally, he approaches, the sound of his boots crunching on the gravel as he closes the distance between you. When you turn, your eyes meet his, and it feels as though the world falls away. The years melt in an instant, leaving only the two of you standing there, as if no time at all has passed.

“Y/N,” Gwayne breathes your name, his voice betraying the depth of his emotion.

Your expression is unreadable at first, guarded, but then it softens ever so slightly, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. “Ser Gwayne,” you greet him, your voice as melodic as he remembers, though tinged with a maturity that comes from the experiences of the years apart. “It has been some time.”

“Far too long,” he agrees, his eyes searching yours for any sign that you might feel the same. “You are more radiant than I remember, if that is even possible.”

Your smile grows a touch wider, though there’s a shadow in your gaze, a flicker of something that he cannot quite name. “You have not changed at all, Gwayne. Still the same with your words.”

He chuckles softly, a sound that eases some of the tension in his chest. “And you are still as sharp as ever, my lady.”

There is a pause, a silence that stretches between you, filled with the unspoken weight of the years apart. Gwayne longs to reach out, to take your hand in his, but he holds back, uncertain of how you might respond. He notices how your gaze shifts slightly, as if looking beyond him, perhaps to the memories of what might have been—or to someone else.

“Have you enjoyed the festivities?” he asks, his voice carefully casual, though his heart is anything but.

“As much as one can enjoy such events,” you reply, your tone betraying a hint of weariness. “Though I confess, I find little joy in the politics that surround them.”

He nods in understanding, feeling a surge of protectiveness. “I would spare you from such things if I could,” he says softly, his eyes locking onto yours, his meaning clear.

Your gaze softens again, and for a moment, Gwayne dares to hope that perhaps you might still hold some affection for him. But then, as if reminded of something, your expression hardens ever so slightly, and you step back, creating a distance between you once more.

“We live in a world where such burdens cannot be avoided, Ser Gwayne,” you say, your voice firm. “We must all play our part.”

Gwayne feels a pang of disappointment, though he cannot fault you for it. You are a princess of the realm, your life governed by duty and expectations far beyond your control. He knows this, has always known it, but it does not make it any easier to accept.

“Of course,” he replies, bowing his head slightly. “But know that my feelings for you have not changed, Y/N. They never will.”

For a brief moment, something flashes in your eyes—regret, perhaps, or sadness. But it is gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the mask of composure that you wear so well.

“Thank you, Gwayne,” you say quietly, your voice tinged with a gentleness that cuts him deeper than any blade could. “You will always be a dear friend to me.”

Friend. The word lingers in the air between you, heavy with finality. Gwayne forces a smile, though it feels like a physical effort to do so. “And you to me, my princess.”

Just then, the sound of approaching footsteps reaches his ears, and he turns to see none other than Prince Daemon Targaryen striding toward you. The Rogue Prince’s presence is as commanding as ever, his gaze sharp as it settles on you, then flicks briefly to Gwayne, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

“Y/N,” Daemon greets you, his voice laced with a familiarity that makes Gwayne’s stomach twist. “I’ve been looking for you. The fire needs more stoking.”

You smile at Daemon, a genuine warmth in your expression that Gwayne cannot help but notice. “I was just speaking with Ser Gwayne, Uncle.”

Daemon’s smirk widens, and he gives Gwayne a nod, though there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Ser Gwayne. Always a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine, my prince,” Gwayne replies, forcing his voice to remain steady.

The moment between the three of you is charged, filled with undercurrents that Gwayne cannot fully grasp but feels deeply. He knows of Daemon’s reputation, his tendency to flout the rules and take what he desires without care for the consequences. The way Daemon looks at you, the ease with which he speaks to you—it all sends a fresh wave of unease through Gwayne.

“Well,” Daemon says, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before turning back to Gwayne. “I’m sure we’ll all have plenty of time to catch up later. But for now, Y/N, shall we?”

You nod, and as you turn to follow Daemon, you glance back at Gwayne one last time. There is something in your eyes, a silent apology, perhaps, or a farewell that cuts deeper than words could. And then you are gone, walking away with Daemon, leaving Gwayne standing alone in the fading light of the evening.

He watches you go, his heart heavy with the realization that though he may love you, though he may have refused all others for you, he is not the one who holds your heart. That honor, it seems, belongs to another—a man who is as different from him as fire is from water.

And so, as the sounds of the camp continue around him, Gwayne Hightower stands in the gathering darkness, his love for you unchanged, but his hopes for the future irrevocably altered.

The night air is cool against your skin as you walk beside Daemon, the distant sounds of the camp growing fainter with each step. The flames of the torches cast flickering shadows on the ground, mirroring the turmoil within your heart. Though your feet move forward, your thoughts remain with the man you left behind, the one whose name lingers on your lips like a prayer you cannot utter.

Gwayne Hightower.

You force yourself to focus on the path ahead, to keep pace with Daemon as he leads you further away from the others. His presence is a familiar one—commanding, intense, and undeniably magnetic. But tonight, even Daemon’s fiery spirit cannot chase away the chill that has settled over your soul.

It has been years since you and Gwayne were separated, years since the king denied his suit for your hand. You accepted your fate long ago, knowing that duty would always outweigh your desires. And yet, despite your best efforts to bury those feelings deep within, they have refused to die. The sight of Gwayne, the sound of his voice—it has brought everything rushing back, a flood of emotions you had thought you could control.

Daemon is silent as you walk, but you can sense the tension radiating from him. He is a man who thrives on attention, on being the center of everyone’s world, and he is not blind to your distraction. You can feel his eyes on you, sharp and probing, as if trying to unravel the thoughts that keep you so far from him in this moment.

Finally, he stops, turning to face you with an expression that is equal parts annoyance and curiosity. “You’re quiet tonight, niece,” he remarks, his tone deceptively light, though there’s an edge to it that you cannot ignore. “I find it… unsettling.”

You force a smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Do you now?” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. “Perhaps I’m simply tired from the day’s events.”

Daemon’s gaze narrows, and he steps closer, his presence looming over you like a storm cloud. “Do not play games with me, Y/N,” he warns, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. “I know when your mind is elsewhere. And I know where it lingers.”

Your heart clenches painfully in your chest, the truth of his words cutting deeper than you care to admit. Of course, Daemon knows. He always knows. He has a way of seeing through the masks you wear, of peeling back the layers to reveal the raw, unfiltered emotions beneath. And now, he sees the ache in your heart, the longing that you cannot seem to hide.

“What does it matter?” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “It changes nothing.”

“It matters because I’m here,” Daemon replies, his tone sharp, almost accusing. “And yet you’re still thinking of him. Of that knight who cannot give you what I can.”

You flinch at his words, the truth of them stinging like a physical blow. Daemon has always been blunt, unafraid to speak the things that others would avoid. But tonight, his words feel especially cruel, a reminder of the reality you have tried so hard to ignore.

“You think I don’t know?” Daemon continues, his eyes boring into yours. “You think I don’t see the way you look at him, even after all these years? The way your heart still aches for him, even though he’s not yours to have?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you find yourself unable to meet his gaze. “It doesn’t matter,” you repeat, more to convince yourself than him. “I made my choice. I accepted it.”

“But you didn’t stop loving him,” Daemon says, his voice softer now, though no less intense. “No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t bury that part of you.”

The truth of his words is like a knife twisting in your chest, and you feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “No,” you admit, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t.”

There is a long silence between you, filled only by the distant crackling of the campfires and the rustle of the wind through the trees. Daemon watches you closely, his expression unreadable, as if weighing his next words carefully.

“I could kill him,” Daemon finally says, his voice as cold and cutting as Valyrian steel. “End his life and free you from this torment.”

The words send a shock through you, your eyes snapping up to meet his in alarm. There is no hint of jest in his tone, no trace of a smile on his lips. Daemon is deadly serious, and the realization sends a chill down your spine.

“You wouldn’t,” you say, though the uncertainty in your voice betrays your doubt.

Daemon’s lips curl into a dark smile, one that sends a shiver through you. “I would, if it meant ridding you of this pathetic attachment,” he says, his voice laced with a mix of cruelty and possessiveness. “I’d do anything to see you truly free.”

“Daemon, please,” you plead, your voice breaking. “Don’t speak of such things.”

He steps closer, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the harshness of his words. “Then stop torturing yourself over a man you can never have,” he says, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. “He’s not worthy of your tears, Y/N. Not when you have me.”

You close your eyes, the warmth of his hand against your skin a stark contrast to the cold emptiness inside you. Daemon’s words are like a balm and a poison all at once, offering a twisted kind of comfort even as they deepen the wound in your heart.

“I don’t want to feel this way,” you whisper, the confession slipping out before you can stop it. “I don’t want to hurt anymore.”

Daemon’s hand moves to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads are nearly touching. “Then let me make you forget,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “Let me give you something real to hold onto.”

For a moment, you allow yourself to lean into him, to take solace in his strength, his unyielding certainty. Daemon has always been a force of nature, a man who bends the world to his will without hesitation or regret. And in his arms, you can almost believe that he can chase away the shadows that cling to your heart, that he can make you forget the man who still haunts your dreams.

But deep down, you know the truth. You know that no matter how hard you try, no matter how desperately you cling to the life you’ve chosen, the love you hold for Gwayne will never truly fade. It is a part of you, as much as your blood, as much as the fire that burns in your veins.

“I can’t forget him,” you say, your voice barely audible. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

Daemon’s grip on you tightens for a moment, as if in frustration, but then he lets out a low, resigned sigh. “Then live with it,” he says, his tone harsh but not unkind. “Live with the pain, but don’t let it control you. Don’t let it make you weak.”

You nod slowly, tears finally spilling over and tracing down your cheeks. “I’ll try,” you whisper, though even as you say the words, you know it will be the hardest thing you’ve ever done.

Daemon wipes the tears from your face with a rough tenderness that only he could manage, his expression softening as he looks at you. “You’re stronger than you think, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a rare note of sincerity. “Don’t ever forget that.”

You meet his gaze, searching his eyes for the truth in his words. Daemon is many things—volatile, unpredictable, dangerous—but he has never lied to you, never sugar-coated the realities of the world you live in. And as much as his words sting, you know that there is truth in them.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, to find the strength to carry the burden of your love for Gwayne without letting it crush you. “Thank you,” you say, your voice still shaky, but there’s a resolve forming in your chest, a determination to survive the pain, even if you can never truly be free of it.

Daemon’s expression softens further, and he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, a rare gesture of affection from a man who so often uses force to get what he wants. “We’ll get through this,” he murmurs against your skin. “You and me. We always do.”

You nod, though you cannot find the words to respond. Instead, you simply close your eyes and allow yourself to take comfort in the warmth of his presence, the solid weight of his hand on the back of your neck. For tonight, at least, you can pretend that the ache in your heart is something you can live with, that the choice you made all those years ago was the right one.

But as you stand there, wrapped in Daemon’s embrace, you know that the love you hold for Gwayne Hightower will never truly die. It will live on, a silent ghost that lingers at the edges of your heart, haunting you even as you move forward with your life.

And perhaps that is your fate—to live with the echoes of a love that could never be, even as you forge a path forward with the man who stands by your side, fierce and unyielding as the fire in your veins.

The next morning dawns crisp and clear, the early light filtering through the trees as the royal hunting party prepares to set out. The air is thick with anticipation, the excitement of the hunt buzzing in the air as hounds bark and horses paw at the ground. For many, this is a day of sport, of proving their prowess and enjoying the camaraderie of noblemen. But for Gwayne Hightower, it is a day of distraction, a chance to focus his mind on something other than the ache that still lingers in his chest.

He tightens his grip on the reins, trying to push thoughts of you from his mind. The night before has left him raw, your words, your eyes—everything about you has seared itself into his memory. But now, he must focus on the task at hand. He must be the knight his family expects him to be, strong, composed, and unyielding.

King Viserys leads the party, his laughter booming through the woods as he rides at the front with a few lords. Otto Hightower is nearby, his expression as unreadable as ever, his calculating gaze sweeping over the group. Daemon is there as well, his presence as imposing as always, a dark shadow against the brightness of the morning.

Gwayne tries to ignore him, focusing instead on the path ahead, on the sounds of the forest and the feel of the horse beneath him. But he can feel Daemon’s eyes on him, can sense the Rogue Prince’s amusement at the way Gwayne pointedly avoids looking at him. It’s only a matter of time before Daemon makes his move, and Gwayne steels himself, determined not to let the prince get under his skin.

As the hunting party progresses deeper into the woods, the group begins to spread out, the king and his closest men moving ahead while others fall behind. Gwayne stays toward the middle, keeping a steady pace and maintaining a watchful eye. He’s aware of Daemon’s proximity, the prince’s presence a constant reminder of the tension that simmers just beneath the surface.

Daemon, ever the provocateur, starts with small jabs, his voice carrying on the wind as he speaks to Otto with that familiar, mocking tone. “I wonder, Lord Hand, do you think your nephew here has the stomach for the hunt? He seems rather preoccupied, wouldn’t you say?”

Otto glances at Gwayne but says nothing, his expression impassive. Gwayne feels the words like a prick to his pride, but he refuses to rise to the bait. Instead, he offers a stiff smile, his voice carefully controlled as he replies, “I assure you, my prince, I am more than capable of handling myself.”

Daemon’s eyes glint with amusement, as if he’s found exactly what he was looking for. “Oh, I’ve no doubt of that,” he says, his tone laced with a challenge. “But a man’s heart can often cloud his judgment, especially when it’s not truly his to control.”

Gwayne tightens his grip on the reins, forcing himself to remain calm. Daemon is trying to provoke him, to draw out a reaction, just as he does with Otto. But Gwayne has spent years honing his control, years of learning to hide his true feelings behind a mask of composure. He won’t give Daemon the satisfaction of seeing him crack.

The party begins to separate as they reach a denser part of the forest, the sounds of the hunt growing more distant as the group spreads out in search of game. Gwayne finds himself alone with Daemon, the others having moved ahead or fallen behind. The forest is quiet around them, the only sound the steady beat of the horses’ hooves against the soft earth.

It is in this solitude that Daemon strikes.

“You know, Gwayne,” Daemon says, his voice suddenly softer, more insidious, “you’re wasting your time pining after her. You think she’s yours because she once gave you her heart? But you’re a fool if you believe that she still holds you in her thoughts.”

Gwayne’s jaw clenches, but he remains silent, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He knows where this is going, and he’s determined not to let Daemon’s words affect him.

But Daemon is relentless, leaning closer, his voice a poisonous whisper. “She’s with me now. She chose me. And every time you see her, every time you think of her, remember that it’s me she turns to when the night grows cold. It’s my name she whispers in the dark, not yours.”

The words strike deep, hitting the very core of the pain that Gwayne has tried so hard to suppress. He can feel his control slipping, the mask cracking as anger and hurt surge within him. But still, he tries to hold it together, his voice low and strained as he replies, “She may be with you, but she’ll never truly be yours. You think you’ve won her, but you don’t understand her. She’s not someone you can control, Daemon. She gave herself to me—heart, body, and soul—and no matter what you do, you’ll never have that.”

Daemon’s expression darkens, the easy smile vanishing as something more dangerous flickers in his eyes. “Is that so?” he says quietly, his voice deadly calm. “Then perhaps I should remind you of your place, Hightower.”

Before Gwayne can react, Daemon moves with lightning speed, his hand shooting out to shove Gwayne back against a tree. The force of the impact knocks the breath from Gwayne’s lungs, his back slamming into the rough bark as Daemon looms over him, his grip like iron on Gwayne’s chest.

“You think you know her?” Daemon hisses, his face inches from Gwayne’s. “You think she’ll ever love you again after what you’ve become? After what you’ve let happen?”

Gwayne struggles to breathe, his hands instinctively reaching up to push Daemon away, but the prince’s strength is formidable, his fury palpable. “You don’t know anything,” Gwayne spits back, his voice raw with anger. “You may have her now, but you’ll never understand the depth of what we had. She may lie beside you, but her heart will always remember what we shared.”

Daemon’s eyes flash with something dark, something close to true rage, and for a moment, Gwayne wonders if the prince will strike him, if he’ll go further than just a shove. But then, just as suddenly as it began, Daemon steps back, releasing Gwayne and letting him slide down the tree to catch his breath.

Gwayne’s chest heaves as he tries to regain his composure, his hands curling into fists as he watches Daemon. The prince’s expression is unreadable now, his eyes narrowed as he regards Gwayne with a mixture of contempt and something else—something more dangerous, something more personal.

“Careful, Hightower,” Daemon says softly, his voice like a blade cutting through the air. “You may think yourself noble, but in this world, it’s power that wins. And I have all the power I need to keep what’s mine.”

Gwayne glares at him, his breath still coming in harsh gasps, but he doesn’t reply. There’s nothing more to say, nothing that can ease the pain in his chest or the fury that burns in his veins. Daemon has made his point, and Gwayne knows that he must tread carefully from here on out.

As Daemon turns to leave, mounting his horse with a smooth, practiced motion, Gwayne remains where he is, leaning against the tree as he struggles to gather himself. The encounter has left him shaken, the truth of Daemon’s words hanging heavy in the air.

But despite the prince’s threats, despite the pain that tears at him, Gwayne refuses to let go of the one thing that has kept him going all these years—the memory of you, the love that still burns in his heart, even if it can never be fully realized.

And as he watches Daemon ride off into the forest, Gwayne swears to himself that no matter what happens, no matter how much it costs him, he will never let Daemon take that from him.

[whimsi-clown]

A New Form of Psychological Torture Discovered.

Part 2 of the Reverse Isekai Disney Villains x Modern Reader AU

(Or RIDV AU for short)

Warning: Still a whole lot of swearing and OOC

"So... What would you like to know first?"

You asked with your hands clamped together, gathering the energy of minimum wage customer service workers just for this moment.

Those people have the highest patience, and you so badly need that right now.

The rest of the villains remained silent, glancing at one another until Dr. Facilier spoke up.

"How about you start by telling us how we got here... Wherever here is..."

He spoke, leaning forward against the back of the couch, the rest of the villains nodding and muttering in agreement.

"Well, to borrow your words, Dr. Facilier... You're in my world now, not your world... And you guys are the friends on the other side that I seem to have... Accidentally summoned??"

Dr. Facilier raised a brow at that, wondering how you knew that phrase. The rest of the villains, however, either rolled their eyes or groaned in irritation.

"Yea, we know that, babes. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out. What we wanna know is how we got here."

You turned to Hades, whose flaming hair was now turning light orange at the tip, showing how quickly he was losing patience with you,

You nervously gulped at that. You're gonna have to speed this up if you want your mansion to remain intact, hoping that reason will save you from 3rd degree burns.

"Alright, alright. Look, I really don't know how you guys got here, but I can tell you what I've been doing before, and you can take away whatever from there. Is that fine with you all?"

Thankfully, most of the villains agreed with reason, turning to Maleficent, who had been silent for most of this entire exchange, for the final say.

"Very well, speak."

With the mistress of all evil's confirmation, you began summarizing the events before their unexpected arrival, from your employer's death, you moving into their mansion, the mysterious door you found, the random junk on pedestals, how you cleaned them, and then the wierd lightshow that happened after that which resulted in their arrival.

By the time you were done enumerating, you were already out of breath, panting as your mouth felt like it had just gone through a marathon.

Was this karma for all those times you didn't speak up during those group presentations?

The villains contemplated your words, processing every detail (including the ones they deemed useless and unnecessary) before Jafar finally decided to speak up.

"You mentioned having cleaned some... Random junk before our arrival, correct?"

He asked with a raised brow, the other villains turning to face you for confirmation and a silent order for you to fetch those items for them.

You nodded at that, wordlessly running back to the mysterious room to gather every item in your arms and rushing back to the living room, laying them on the coffee table.

Most of the villain's eyes lit up in recognition of some of the items, snatching them off the table and inspecting them closely.

Maleficent held onto her staff, watching as the crystal orb at the top glowed a soft green. (1st mistake, letting the tall dark fae hold onto what is the equivalent of a lethal magical weapon)

Grimhilde didn't seem too fond or attached to the mirror in her hand, but she appreciated still being able to admire herself in its fractured surface.

Hades didn't seem too attached to the item he held too, inspecting the lit torch with a raised brow.

Jafar on the other hand was all too eager with the lamp in his hold, aggressively rubbing its surface with the cloth of his wrist, only to let out an irritated huff when it did not yield the results he desired.

Captain Hook was carefully inspecting the silver hook and the iron hook he had on him with a critical eye, and after careful contemplation, he decided to trade his rusty iron hook for a clean silver one, disregarding it over his shoulder as he gleefully applied the new hook onto his arm. (2nd mistake, letting the fancy ass pirate attach a deadly weapon onto their person. At least you won't get infected with tetanus when he makes good on his promise to slice your throat)

Gaston was checking his hunting rifle for any marks or scratches on the surface, doing mock firing poses before letting out a hum of approval. (3rd mistake, does not need an explanation whatsoever. He is a big dumb man with a big gun) As he was about to set the hunting rifle down, he accidentally pulled on the trigger, causing everyone within the vicinity to flinch in surprise at the loud bang, looking up to see the large bullet hole that was made on the ceiling of your home, some debris falling off. (Case and point)

Shaking his head at Gaston's mishap, Dr. Facilier continued to shuffle the deck of tarot cards in his hands, effortlessly doing card tricks like it was second nature. (You may or may not have been momentarily entraced by the smooth and eye-catching movement)

Shan Yu, who had not said a word since the "summoning incident" stood at the far side of the room, leaning against a wall as he simply watched the scene before him, the sword now kept on a sheath that was strapped around him. (4th mistake, again, very self-explanatory. Big man who's literally and probably the only person in this room with the largest body count) Shan Yu's head turned to your direction when he felt your gaze on him, his gold eyes seeming to pierce through you, causing another unsettling chill to crawl down your spine.

You decided to quickly turn your gaze away from the ruthless hun leader and focus your sights back on the rest of the group.

Watching Scar boredly play with the lion skull like it was a sock puppet of some sorts, Ursula and Cruela already wearing the nautilus shell necklace and the exotic fur coat respectively, and finally Oogie Boogie rolling the pair of die around his pointy stub of sack he called a hand. (How the dices remained on his hand despite his lack of fingers is a mystery you will never learn the truth to)

"Great. Now that I've satiated your curiosity. I'm gonna go..."

You mumble aloud, not really caring if they heard you or not. You just wanted to escape to the kitchen right now. You were starving.

Before you could make your great escape, however, a gloved hand grabbed a hold of your shoulders.

"Now hold on just a moment darling, you haven't completely satiated our curiosities just yet..."

Cruela stated, her grip surprisingly strong for someone of her age and stature.

"She's right. We've still got one thing left to ask."

Says Ursula as she comes closer to you, a tentacle wrapping itself tightly around your leg, preventing you any chances to bail.

You begin to grow nervous as they all begin to crowd you once more.

"Uhm... And... What exactly... would that be?"

You hesitantly ask.

"You referred to us as... Disney Villains... Why?"

Grimhilde commanded, glaring down at you.

"And you best not deceive us, little one, because I'm starting to get quite... Hungry..."

Threatened Scar as he licked his tongue over his canines, eyeing you like you were gonna be his next meal.

...

Oh

...

O H

...

Oh shit.

Gods you and your big mouth, why did you have to say that before them? They obviously don't have any idea that they're works of fiction and entertainment like in Mickey's House of Mouse or Once upon a Studio.

Actually, how would they react to that?

It was never really shown how the characters coped with the idea of being created for the purpose of entertaining children.

So how would they respond to the realization that their lives had been depicted for them from the very start and that they had no actual say in the course of their stories?

...

A morbid curiosity begins to settle in your mind as a smile spreads across your cheeks, making the villains unconsciously flinch at the uneasy feeling that came with your wide and ecstatic grin as you look up at them.

"How likely are you all to suffer from an existential crisis?"

End of part 2

Previous Part, Next Part

[shadowdaddies]

I neeed a jealous Nesta fic that ends in smutty punishment omg

so we're all down bad for mean domme Nesta 👀 I gotchu guys

Who You Belong To

Nesta x f!Reader smut

warnings: d/s dynamics, smut below the cut, light bondage, blindfold, impact play, toys (all the fun stuff tbh)

Music echoed through through Rita’s, a hypnotic rhythm that steeped warm pleasure through your body. Setting down your water, you’d lifted your hair from the back of your neck in attempt to cool the sweat you’d built from dancing. 

Azriel murmured a wry comment about Feyre and Mor’s dancing, your eyes flicking to where they had taken over the dance floor. A giggle escaped you at the sight of your friends, your head leaning against Az’s shoulder as the two of you admired the scene.

Scanning the room, you realized Nesta was missing just in time to catch sight of her silver eyes practically glowing in the dim club lighting. Her gaze pierced through you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine straight to your core. 

Heat pooled in your stomach at her stern glare, and feeling Azriel stiffen next to you, you realized what you had unwittingly gotten yourself into for the night. “I think it’s time for me to go,” you murmured to Az, daring to give your friend one last kiss on the cheek in farewell before moving to where Nesta stood by the bar.

She tracked you with a predatory gaze, the smile on her lips devoid of any warmth. “Did you have fun this evening?” she purred, voice deceptively even as her fingers hooked around your elbow, leading you out of the building.

“I had a wonderful time,” you replied jovially, feigning obliviousness as you curled into her warmth. Nesta hummed noncommittally, arm wrapped possessively around your waist while you walked home.

Unlocking the door to the house, you shucked off your heels, yawning lazily with a stretch as you padded towards the kitchen, when a soft hand gripped your arm firmly. You dared to turn towards Nesta, breath hitching at the flames that danced in her eyes, emanating sheer power and dominance.

“Don’t play coy, pet. It’s beneath you,” she drawled, hand sliding up your arm to settle at the base of your throat. A knuckle dragged down the bare skin revealed by your low-cut dress, Nesta’s pupils dilated as the scent of your own desire grew. 

“You knew exactly what you were doing this evening, wearing this slip of fabric,” she growled out the last word, finger hooking through the waist band of your dress with a sharp tug, “cozying up next to Azriel-“

“I wasn’t, it was-“ you tried to interrupt, but Nesta’s other hand firmly held your jaw, silencing you. 

“You acted out, and I think you deserved to punished for that. Don’t you agree, pet?” she breathed, minty breath chilly against your neck. You both knew the truth, that you were acting out, desperate for her attention. To have Nesta take control tonight, to own you.

You whimpered, thighs rubbing together as you nodded meekly. “Words, pet,” Nesta demanded, hand tightening slightly around your throat. 

“Yes, Mistress,” you choked out, heart pounding as your pussy clenched around nothing at her demanding tone. 

“Mmm,” Nesta hummed, finger nail scraping along your skin to toy with the thin strap of your dress. “I’ll be back in a moment. You know how I expect to find you.”

Without another glance, Nesta turned towards your large closet, disappearing behind the door. You stripped quickly, folding your clothes neatly in a side chair before kneeling beside the bed, head bowed with your hands on your thighs. 

Excitement shot through you as you heard Nesta emerge from the closet, heels clacking against the floor. “Hands behind your back, pet,” she ordered, honey-soft voice betraying her dark intentions. 

Breathless, you complied, allowing the silk ribbon to be looped around your wrists until they could not be moved. “Good girl,” Nesta affirmed, a light smack to your ass encouraging you to stand.

With an awkward shuffle to your feet you stood to see Nesta dressed in a black lace teddy that left nothing to the imagination, thigh high stockings and heels to match. A pathetic whimper left you at the sight, your pleading eyes quickly covered by the blindfold Nesta held in her hand.

“This is for my pleasure, not yours. Remember that, pet,” she reprimanded coolly, hand gently guiding you to bend over the mattress so that your core was spread and bare for her, no sight to hint at what she might do next.

Feeling a presence standing behind you, your hips involuntarily ground against the bed, eager for any touch. “Count for me,” was the only warning before Nesta’s hand landed sharply on your ass, a lewd moan escaping your lips before you whimpered out a weak “one.”

Mind growing fuzzy, you barely managed to keep track of each slap against your skin, soothing rubs and occasional licks to your reddened ass breaking up the pain from your punishment. “Ten!” you squealed, body jerking against the mattress as Nesta shushed you, a hand running soothing circles across your rear.

“Good girl,” she purred, long hair tickling your neck as she leaned down to kiss you. “Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes, oh cauldron, yes,” you babbled, wriggling against Nesta’s hand as you felt her presence move behind your spread legs. Another noncommittal hum left her lips, and you knew your punishment was far from over as a delicate finger slid over your core.

A rich laugh rang through the air before you felt Nesta’s finger forced through your lips. “You’re dripping for me already, pet?” she laughed, finger shoved deeper down your throat as you sucked your juices from her digit.

“Such a little whore for me, aren’t you?” she teased, swiping her hand from your mouth as quickly as you felt her settle on her knees behind you. Warmth breath tickled your center, your bound hands clutching at thin air in silent plea for more.

Nesta gave no warning before diving into your heat, expert tongue rolling and sucking your clit before lapping the slick dripping from your pussy. Her lewd moans sent vibrations up your body, your legs shaking as she wrapped her lips around your clit. Sucking in a harsh pulsing rhythm, Nesta plunged two fingers inside of you, curling against your walls at the spot she knew would send you over the edge quickly.

The coil in your abdomen tightened, eyes rolling back under the blindfold as you mumbled in incoherent warning that you were close to your high. But Nesta knew your body too well, withdrawing her touch before you could finish. 

You let out a frustrated cry, muffled against the sheets as your orgasm was ripped from you. Nesta cooed in false sympathy, the warmth of her body enveloping yours as she bent to whisper in your ear. “Oh, pet. You didn’t think your punishment was over, did you?”

A wicked laugh echoed through the room, Nesta gripping your thighs as she flipped you onto the bed, your arms uncomfortably restrained against the mattress as your back arched in the air. The bed dipped beneath you, the familiar feeling of Nesta crawling up your body combined with the scent of her arousal your only hint of what was coming.

“Open,” she commanded, a soft tap to your cheek ordering you to offer your mouth for her pleasure. “Good girl,” she cooed, warmth settling over you as her clit perched on your nose, dripping core hot against your tongue.

“Clean up your mess,” Nesta ordered casually, her hips rocking slightly as she smeared her wetness across your face. You moaned at the taste of her, the struggling breaths you took beneath her heat while your arms remained tied behind you. 

“Fuck, such a good little slut,” Nesta breathed from above you, whimpers escaping you in a plea to see her reaction to the pleasure you were giving her. With a dark chuckle, she pulled the blindfold from your eyes to reveal her tits bouncing above you, body swaying as she used you for her own satisfaction. 

The sight spurred you on, tongue flicking out in rapid movement as you bobbed your head, nudging her clit to bring her closer to orgasm. You smirked at the stuttering breath she took before crashing into her high, arousal flooding your face that you savored like the delicacy it was.

Cheeks flushed, golden-brown hair hung around her face as Nesta smiled softly down at you. “How are you feeling?” she whispered, thumb stroking your cheek.

You turned to press a kiss to her palm, grinning up at beautiful silver-blue eyes. “Never better,” you assured her. “But my arms are a little sore from being under me like this,” you admitted with a soft laugh.

Nesta smiled, a genuine joy that turned mischievous as the geared in her head turned. “Would you be better on your stomach for a little longer?” she purred, leaning down to nip at the skin of your neck.

The gasp that escaped you at her words was telling enough, and she flipped you back onto your stomach as heels clicked against the floors while she disappeared for a moment. You felt the bed shift behind you once more, eyes glazing over and lips parted as you took in the sight.

Nesta kneeled behind you, a strap-on attached to her hips as she rubbed lube across the toy. “I think you’ve learned your lesson, pet. But you still need to remember who you belong to,” she teased, grinning at the whimpers that left you as she rubbed her tip against your core.

Collapsing against the sheets, you relaxed in the restraints as you braced for a long night, more than satisfied to be reminded of whose you were.

[badgrammerlieshere]

Fire

Just thought I would throw this together. It has not been double checked :p

The flames dancing in the fireplace hardly filled the ever-cold room with any warmth. It was puzzling why the servants continued to stoke the flames as nothing would ever take away the biting cold that nipped at your bare feet and naked shoulders.  It had been hours since he had left. The minutes before, we were showered in a skittish energy. Aegon had sat on the bed, the sheets disarray a picture of past activities. The tension in his shoulders was evident with every small movement. For a man so eager for war you knew he feared it so. You had come up behind him and wrapped your arms around his sturdy figure. Aegon had taken his shaking hands and pulled you from behind him and into his lap.

“You needn't go” you had said curling the small pieces of hair that always lay near his brow.

“A king belongs on the battlefield, everyone knows that” he replied a smile not meeting his eyes as he caught your hand in his own pressing a small kiss against your wrist.

“The King belongs here. With me. You are vulnerable outside of these walls Aegon.” A real smile spread across his face this time. Aegon leaned forward pressing his forehead against your own humming softy.

“Sounds as though you worry for me. What would your mistress Sylvie think?

“She would think me very foolish.” You exclaimed moving from his lap towards the privacy screen at the other end of the room. The mention of your true nature only stood to remind you of your position in this room, this castle, this world. You and Aegon were nothing outside of this room. Just a boy pretending to be a king and a whore playing the part of a dutiful lover. Fastening the ties of your dress you took a look outside of the barrier. Aegon had resumed his distant posture. Though you had no marital ties to one another he hadn't lied you did worry for him. Aegon was never built for war. He had a softer underbelly that was easily exposed.

“Can you promise me one thing?” your voice shook him out of his stupor his hand outstretched as he beckoned you closer.

“Anything.”

“You will call upon me tonight?” you blushed at the pleading tone in your voice. To make such a demand of a king was ludicrous. Aegon also appeared shocked at your question before standing off the bed and drawing you close to his chest. His arm snaked around your waist.

“How about you wait for me? No need to waste time calling for you. Remain here until I return.” He unhooked one arm from his place behind your back and cradled the side of your cheek. Brushing over the smooth skin. A broad smile found itself on your face.

“If that is what you desire, my grace.”

That had been hours ago the sun had long set since then and the palace had been deathly quiet. Hoards of soldiers had been sent to fight. Servants had made themselves scarce and quiet. With only a few reappearing to stoke the flames of the unnecessary fire. A cat sat in the middle of your lap. Sleeping on the job. Only the distant thumping of wings attracted your attention. A dragon. The army. The battle. They had returned. Aegon. You hurriedly rushed for the door at the great upset of the cat which disapproved of its bed suddenly moving. You opened the door only slightly looking for any moving bodies there was loud chatter in the throne room. Aegon often retreated into his cups late into the night but he could never forget you. He had asked you to stay. Hoping perhaps that he would soon be appearing at the door you slowly closed it shut and awaited his arrival. But it never came. It was only until the castle fell silent once more did you made your move. With meager steps, you slunk about the corridors grasping with hope that you would encounter a head of silver hair and a playful smile. Eventually, you found yourself in front of the small council chambers an unusual place for Aegon to end up but perhaps there was an emergency meeting after the rooks rest.

Pushing the door open you were greeted by a dark room. No fire was kept stoked but in the center of the room in the chair of the king a man with silver hair sat.

“Aemond.” His name left your mouth in a whisper. And his head jerked up to look at you. He hadn't expected to see you or anyone for that matter.

“What are you doing here.” he stood and prowled around the table.

“I was waiting…for Aegon.” At the mention of his brother Aemond looked away facing the small chart of battle plans laid on the other side of the room.

My brother will not be needing a whore tonight. It will do you well if you head home. Your services aren't needed here.” His answer was curt and short. “Perhaps if you are lucky you will find a man to spare you a coin on the way home.” His answer filled you with a sickly feeling that hit the pit of your stomach. It wasn't often you found yourself in the presence of Aemond. Often Aegon had such a need for your company that he rushed you into his chambers without a moment to spare. And while the young prince had frequented the brothel he often found comfort in the company of your mistress.

“Where is he? Before I take my leave that's all I wish to know.” You moved slowly behind Aemond trying to catch his gaze. While it was true Aegon could be cruel he would never abandon you like this. The only time in which he had cast you aside was the night of his father's death. And since then you had scarcely left his side.

“Arent whores supposed to be agreeable. I've said leave.” Aemond finally turned to face you. “Aegon is indisposed.” A small smirk graced the prince's face. Which only further fueled the small pocket of hate and worry in your heart.

“Have you done something?” The words took to the air before you could fully process them and from the look on his face, they shocked him as much as you. Aemond quickly schooled his face.

“You speak of treason.”

“It's only a question.” Your fear of what the answer was pushed you to grasp for answers. What had happened to Aegon? Only this morning he had been in your arms. Now his presence was a mystery. Aemond’s lack of answer made the flurry of nerves erupt in your body.

“You have, haven't you? Though I'm sure it was nothing but an “accident”. Your hate consumes you Aemond. It makes you foolish.” The bite of your words through themselves into the air.

“Don't pretend to know of my hate.” Aemond stepped closer to you putting his hand against the hilt of a dagger at his hip.

“You're not quite as hard to read as you think. Your thoughts soak through these layers you wear. Not to mention my madame has a penchant to talk.” At the mention of Sylvie, Aemond recoiled and with it, you took another step forward. “Kinslayer. That's what they call you in the streets. She tells me of your guilt and remorse, but I see none. Besides what's a brother when you've already killed a cousin?

Like a flash of light Aemond had you turned your back to his chest as he placed his dagger against the soft hollow of your throat.

“You will do well to hold your tongue when you speak to me or it shall be your last words.” He pulled you closer to himself and traced his eyes across the slope of your nose.

“A shame your beauty was wasted on him.” Disgust was evident in your eyes as you eyed Aemond.

“Don't bother my prince. I'm not sure my age would appeal to you.” He roughly pushed you away looking embarrassed.

“Leave.”

“What of Aegon?” The thoughts of your young king still swirled. The One-eyed prince looked up and surveyed your worried expression before saying nothing and turning back to the board of war details. It was an obvious dismissal. You would get no answers here. With that, you turned and left the room.

[cressidagrey]

you'll be made of ashes too

Summary:

Elain Archeron makes the most beautiful bride.

Azriel...Azriel copes. 

Warnings:

Rhys Bashing, Azriel has a horrible time

Notes:

Mostly Canon Compliant Through A Court of Silver Flame including the Azriel Bonus Chapter with some teeny tiny changes, which are explained in the story (a difference in the necklace arc). Set around 1 year into the future from that point, where it veers off wildly.

(thanks to @firefly-graphics for the super pretty dividers!)

Elain Archeron was the most beautiful bride the world had ever seen. 

Azriel was sure of that . 

A flower meadow come to life , clad in a white dress that was shot through with her favourite blooms, sparkling with every step she took. Hair falling down her back like spun gold, whiskey brown eyes filled with the kind of happiness that nothing could touch. 

She was irrevocably happy as she married her husband. 

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind how much she adored him as she gazed at him with such love in her eyes. 

Lucien looked at her in awe as if she were a precious, precious thing he didn't deserve. 

Azriel watched from the shadows as the person he loved found her happily ever after with somebody other than him. 

Elain Archeron married Lucien Vanserra on a gorgeous spring day in the garden of his townhouse in Velaris. 

The garden bloomed with the couple’s love and Elain’s love for the flowers that she had planted, roses and lilies and daffodils. A whole ocean of them, blooming brightly for their mistress. 

Azriel watched. 

It was all he could do. 

All he had done over the last year as Elain and Lucien had fallen in love. 

After that catastrophic solstice. 

That would-be kiss. When Azriel still thought that maybe…maybe he had a chance. 

He hadn’t. 

Rhys had made sure of that. 

So you will leave Elain alone. If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her. 

Like that was all he had wanted from her. 

Like that was all Azriel was good for. All that he wanted. It hadn’t even passed Rhys’ mind that Azriel had actual feelings for Elain. Or maybe it had and he hadn’t cared. Azriel didn’t know which was worse. 

But it hadn’t mattered either way, because Rhys had pulled rank. It hadn’t been his brother saying these words, but the High Lord of the Night Court. 

What Azriel wanted…it hadn’t mattered. 

Not that it ever had before. 

He should get used to that by now. 

He had followed that order. What else was he supposed to do? He had left. Left their friendship in tatters…and Feyre had played matchmaker. Elain had moved on. Lucien had a chance. They had fallen in love. 

Just like the cauldron had wanted. 

He had gotten to see that every family dinner he attended, even when his attendance got rarer and rarer. 

Saw how Elain, beautiful Elain bloomed under Lucien’s attention. When Azriel could stomach to look at her. When there wasn’t Rhys reminding him with harsh words if he so much as dared to look at her for too long.  

He stopped coming so often.

It was better that way. 

The question was just for whom. 

He thought that maybe if he didn’t go…then it wouldn’t quite hurt so much. But that wasn’t true. It still hurt. Even more maybe. 

Likes somebody cleaved his chest open and burned out his heart. 

And then they had announced their wish to marry and…well. 

That was it then. 

The people around him found their happily ever after. 

Rhys and Feyre. 

Cassian and Nesta. 

And now…now Elain and Lucien. 

It seemed like the cauldron knew what it was doing after all, didn’t it? 

There weren’t even words that could describe his bitterness. And he cut off that line of thought before it could…result in anything unpleasant. 

Not now. 

Not here. Not where Rhys could hear.

He could feel his shadows curl against him as the evening progressed. Trying to offer him any comfort they could, regardless of how little it was. They slithered against every bit of skin they could find, cloaking him in darkness underneath his clothing, as he was reduced to watching. 

Mor pulled him to dance once, because, of course, she did. 

Morrigan. 

So beautiful, so unattainable. Pining after her had been safe, because why not want the unattainable? 

It wasn’t like he had ever really had a chance with her. And a part of him had known that from the start. 

Morrigan had been unattainable. (And so Azriel hadn’t…hadn’t needed to think about it. Not really. Whether he deserved her or not, because it was Mor and he wouldn’t be able to have her anyway.)

But with Elain…with Elain…Azriel had thought he had a chance. 

Elain in all her beauty and softness and gentleness…Everything good in the world…He had seen her and he had fallen in love. 

And then it had been taken from him before he had ever had a chance to go for it. 

He watched. The Bride and Groom. The friends and family surrounding them. 

He slipped into the shadows because that was the one comfort he had right there. The one thing that he could do. 

He waited and he watched…he saw Nyx in Feyre’s arms, looking halfway to sleep already, saw Feyre watching the other Faes dancing… He slunk out of the shadows. They followed along with him. 

They had clung tighter to him over the last months, ever since that solstice, slipping underneath his leathers, clinging to his wrists and ankles, like they wanted to assure him that they were there. Or maybe to shackle him. 

He wasn’t sure anymore. 

Not anymore. 

He didn’t care anymore either. 

“I can take him,” he offered to Feyre. Holding out his hands for his nephew. He could do that. Hold him. He didn’t want to dance. He wanted to go back to the shadows. 

She exchanged a look with Rhys. “Thank you, Az,” Rhys said as Feyra passed Nyx over without hesitation. Azril took him, just about a year old, wings sleepily fluttering as Nyx yawned and moved closer to him. 

“Good boy, Nyxie,” Feyra whispered before she grasped her mate’s hand and pulled him towards the fun part of the party. Azriel quietly swayed in place, Nyx sleeping against his shoulder, a scarred hand gently holding him in place. 

He wondered if Nyx was ever going to look at them in disgust. 

They were dripping in blood, but for just a moment, he could forget that. 

He forgot all of that. 

Until he felt nothing, was nothing at all. 

He was good at that. 

If he wasn’t…well, then he wouldn’t be there anymore. Then Azriel would have ended his horrible existence already. 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it through half a millennia of life. 

Or especially over the last year. 

Sometimes he sparred with Cassian and the instinct of self-preservation wasn’t there anymore. He wondered what would happen if he just…stopped to fight back. 

He never did. He wouldn’t hear the end of it from Cass. 

But the thought was there as he watched the love of his life falling in love with another male. 

Nyx slept until his parents returned… until it was late enough that Azriel wasn’t the first person to go…until Cassian was drunk enough that he didn’t try to get Azriel to get drunk as well. 

He said his goodbyes. 

Although it felt like he was ripping out his heart, he forced a smile on his face as he congratulated Elain and Lucien. She smiled at him. He wanted to hoard that smile away somewhere, wished it was…wished it was there on her face for another reason entirely. 

But it wasn’t. 

It didn’t matter. His pain didn’t matter. 

It never had. 

It never would. 

And then, finally…He let the shadows take him. 

He resurfaced in the forest, feet away from his house. 

His house. Because as much as he loved Cassian, spending time with him and Nesta at The House of Wind was not his version of a fun time. Especially not with everything that had gone down. 

Being surrounded by a freshly mated pair, watching his brother being so utterly…in love and happy…Somebody thrust a knife into his chest and twisted. 

And so he had bought this house, hidden away…still in Velaris, on the outskirts, built into the mountains, surrounded by forest…

Alone. 

Nobody would hear him scream. The wards would take care of that.

He staggered as he hit the ground. 

And then Azriel gave up trying to push it all away from him. 

It didn’t matter anymore. Rhysand was far away enough from him that he wasn’t going to be the witness to Azriel…falling apart. 

Nobody would be the witness. Just the forest and the sky and stars. 

The shadows converged upon him.

Maybe it should scare him, but it never had. They talked to him, told him stories… were always there, even when nobody else was. The shadows were a part of him as true as his right hand was. 

And right now they muffled his screams as he bellowed into the sky. Pain apparent in every single second of it, as he screamed his pain and grief into the void. 

The shadows tried to comfort him. They always did. Many voiced, bundled into one. Master…

They tried. 

But even they couldn’t stop the pain that threatened to rip him apart.  

Azriel thought he knew pain.

Of course, he did. 

He just needed to look down at his hands to get a reminder. Grotesque, half-flayed skin that covered his knuckles. Every winter they hurt. It didn’t matter that it had been 500 years since he first received these scars. 

The pain of having his wing tied up, two emaciated things weakly, uselessly hanging off his back…he remembered the phantom of that every time he stretched them nowadays. 

And then there were dozens and hundreds of other pains…scrapes and bruises, broken bones from practice gone wrong, knife wounds and sword nicks…ash arrows. 

He knew it all. He had experienced it all.

Physical pain and emotional one as well. 

Born a bastard, step-brothers loving to torment him…spending the first years of his life in a dark cell without even a window…seeing his mother one hour a week, used by his father to hurt his mother… He had lived through all of it. 

But somehow a part of him had believed that maybe…maybe that was over now. He had found and fought for his family. Right? 

And still, somehow, losing Elain was…Losing Elain was the pinnacle of half a millennia of torture. 

He screamed. 

He didn’t know how long it lasted. Did it matter?

Not really. Nothing mattered anymore.

Nothing mattered as he cried and sobbed and railed against the forest ground, pounding it with his fists, burying them in the damp ground…

For the first time in his life, Azriel thought…that maybe giving it all up was worth it. 

Why not? What did it matter? 

All life had for him was more pain. The cauldron may have given other faes their perfect mate. Not him. 

Who would even care ? 

His brothers? Sure, for a moment. But they had mates that would take care of them. They had each other.  They wouldn’t be alone. Everybody seemingly had somebody . 

Just Azriel. He was…alone. 

Master isn’t alone!

Right not alone. 

The shadows weren’t amused by that thought at all, poking him in the ribs. He wanted to laugh at how sharply they disagreed. 

Normally, he was disciplined about them. He never let them talk to him like that, berate him into anything…but the last year he had depended on them…more often. Let them shoulder the brute of…everything that had gone on. Let them hiss comforting things to him and complain about Rhys…let him feel like maybe he wasn’t the only one who thought something was unfair. 

Shadowsingers were rare for a reason. They died young because they couldn’t live with the incessant hissing of the shadows surrounding them. And Azriel…he wallowed in them. 

Why not? What did it matter?

He stared unseeing into the night sky. 

He should get in the house. He didn’t want to. 

The shadows slivered up, against his neck, rubbing against his skin. They never felt hot or cold to the touch, just a velvety sensation…not unlike a snake. He couldn’t even remember the last time another person had touched him like that. It must have been decades ago.

Master should go into the house, they whispered. Master needs to rest. 

(Did he mention that they could be surprisingly pushy? But did it matter? Not really.)

He wanted to protest. Why did it matter? 

It didn’t. 

None of it did. 

And his chest still felt like it was caving in.

Master…Master, please.

Even his shadows were worried about him. That was the only reason he could fathom why they would ask him something like that. Soft. Imploring. 

Like…Like a friend? Or a lover? 

He forced himself up from that forest floor. The shadows gently pressed down onto his body, nearly like they wanted to praise him. Good, Master. 

He trudged up into his house. 

Open the door, the shadows whispered. Master, open the door. 

He opened the door

He hadn’t even bothered to furnish it.  He had survived a childhood with nary a bed, so what did it matter now? Neither he nor the house were anything more than empty shells.

He could have used magic to make it inviting, to light the fireplace, to maybe do something that wasn’t just opening the door…but it was all he could do. 

The house was dark. 

That was alright. 

Darkness was what he knew. Darkness protected him. 

Always had, ever since his childhood cell. Why change it now? It didn’t…

The shadows spilled into the house and he stepped in after them. Pulling his jacket off, his shirt…all of it muddy with forest grounds. He never wanted to wear it again. Didn’t want to ever remember this night. Didn’t want…Didn’t want to live through this anymore. 

That was as far as he came. 

He didn’t want to go further into the house. He didn’t. 

So he just collapsed into one corner, wings curled protectively around himself. 

He had sat there that morning, trying to force himself to attend the wedding. 

He had done it. Pure willpower. Or maybe stubbornness. He had been known for his stubbornness for centuries, after all. But now there was no more stubbornness left. There was nothing left anymore. 

The shadows swirled around him, like even they didn’t know what to do anymore. He thought about sending them away, but he couldn’t. They were the one comfort he had. 

What did it matter? 

What did that say about him ? 

He closed his eyes. 

He couldn’t help but see Elain. 

It was all there in front of him, every moment they had shared. Every conversation they had. Every smile she had gifted him with. 

The headache powder she had given him…He had never used it. He had stared at it when he couldn’t sleep, he had kept it on his bedside table in the House of Wind and…It had been comforting. For months it had been comforting. How often had he held it in his hands and tried to smell if maybe there was still a whiff of Jasmine and Honey clinging to it?

The pair of earplugs meant as a joke to help with the noises of Cassian and Nesta’s nightly activities…The Rosequartz necklace he had given her. Or tried to give her. Before it all went to…when she had given it back to him, he had wanted to return it to the shop he had bought it from first but then finally he had hung onto it.

He had held it in his scarred hands so often, thinking about how he didn’t deserve to even look at the beauty before him. 

And then they had announced their wedding and in a fit of rage, he had thrown all three things into the Sedra. 

He shouldn’t have done that. 

But he was already a monster, so what did it matter?

There had been no gifts this year. 

It was better that way. 

The tears fell down his face but he couldn’t even bother the energy to wipe them away anymore. 

Tomorrow he was supposed to do his job. Azriel had no idea how he should do that when it felt like a knife was lodged into his chest. 

He would get used to it. He would. 

He always did. 

It had been a crazy hope anyway. 

Monsters like him didn’t get…what they wanted. They got what they deserved . 

And Azriel knew that he simply wasn’t good enough for a cauldron-blessed mate. 

He closed his eyes, tipping his head against the wall. The shadows seemingly pulled tighter against him, trying to cover him whole…they had done the same back then as well, trying to offset the lack of a blanket with their very presence. 

Master…Master, go to sleep, they whispered to him, the voice, their many voices, an echo. Soft, indulging…trying to be comforting. 

He wouldn’t be able to sleep. He knew that. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, he didn’t want to sleep, not to be greeted with nightmares and memories. 

He didn’t know what was worse: The things he had done or the things he hadn’t. 

He had drenched his hands in blood to protect the Night Court and Prythian. Or at least that’s what Azriel told himself. To pretend that the things he had done were…just. Not right, never right, but maybe he had a good enough reason to do what needed to be done. 

He was an expert at that after all. 

Cloaked in shadows, that whispered the secrets of the land to him, with Truthteller on his thigh…he was the Night Courts spymaster after all. 

He did what needed to be done. Until he felt nothing, was nothing. 

It was all he could do after all. And still, he knew…He was simply not good enough. 

Not good enough. 

The words followed him since he could think. Born as the bastard son of an Illyrian noble who was well known for his cruelty and not much else, used as punishment for his mother and a plaything for his half brothers…not good enough for a stepmother that kept him locked away in a cell without even a window. 

Not good enough once he reached Windhaven camp, without even knowing the one thing that every Illaryan should know…how to fly. 

Not good enough . 

He wished he was like Cassian, had his brash extroverted personality, believing in the good of people…he wished he was like Rhysand, a powerhouse with mythical powers, who had that inbred arrogance….

Not good enough. 

He was neither. 

He just…existed. Surrounded by the shadows that always surrounded him, the one thing that he could count on that would never leave him. 

They pulsed around him like they tried to promise him that they would stay with him. 

That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Back to only his shadows as a company, just like in his cell. There was some humour in it, he was sure. But then, in his cell, he had known that every day would be worse than the day before. Outside of it…outside of it, he had hoped that day one day there would be…more. 

He had been wrong. 

So back into the cell with him. 

Sometimes he wished that he really felt nothing. He was good at pretending. Of course, he was. He was a spy. 

He was good at pushing it all away until he felt nothing, was nothing…

But still, he felt things. 

He didn’t know if it was love, didn’t know if he was capable of love at all. He wondered if his brothers knew that. Maybe that’s why Rhys had warned him off. Elain deserved better than him. Rhys must have known. 

Stupid, Stupid, Stupid…

Master, stop, the shadows whispered, tightening around him. A reminder perhaps? That they were there? Wouldn’t leave him? Would be there even if nobody else was? 

He wanted to thank them. He couldn’t. 

He could just feel the pain deep within him, welling up once again. 

It didn’t matter. 

Not anymore. 

Though now…now with Elain happily married, with his own heart burned out of his chest…maybe finally he would get that.

Nothing . 

An existence bookended by nothing. 

He would do his job. His duty. For the Night Court, for Pyrithian. 

Of course, he would. 

But if…if something happened to him…then that was alright as well. 

It was. 

He felt nothing. 

He was nothing. 

What did it matter?

It didn’t. 

It never would. 

[obsessedwhyyes]

A Tale of Fools and Tricksters (2)

Chapter 2: Looking Glass

Summary: The lingering tendrils of Astarion's enchantment take Elysia firmly in their hold. His glances, his gestures - they must surely be signs laid out just for her. Determined, Elysia sets off to find the elusive ringmaster, but confrontation, mystery, and reflection await her instead.

Rating: M Chapter Word Count: 5134 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC Content: Alternative Universe (Circus), Ringmaster Astarion, mild horror elements, eventual smut, eventual romance, basically a big whimsical (slightly dark, slightly trippy) fairytale of an AU. Chapter 1 can be found here.

A/N: This is what I like to affectionately call, ‘The Delulu Chapter.’ She will only be insufferable for a little while, I promise. She’s just having her Alice in Wonderland phase - she’ll grow out of it.

A thousand breaths caught in perfect unison. 

A thousand hearts skipped the same beat.

Gasp. Cheer.

Sigh. Swoon.

The sounds rippled through the crowd in perfect synchronicity, rising and falling like the tide.

Elysia couldn’t recall sitting down, nor how she’d come to be in this seat, surrounded once more by the plush velvet and soft murmur of the audience.

Thoughts of the past felt, simply, weightless, drifting beyond her reach.

She was here now. And that was all that mattered.

The Ringmaster spoke, with sweeping gestures befitting a man of such grandiose.

"Now, while I'm captivating enough on my own..."

Elysia's lips curved upward. She hadn't chosen to smile.

"... I suppose I should share the stage with our other little wonders. Our family has prepared something special for you tonight.”

With a flourish, his cane conjured a shimmering curtain of starlight. The glowing veil parted to reveal the first performer.

“May I present… Aurelia, mistress of flames.”

A woman stepped forward, her crimson and gold costume gleaming like embers as hoops of fire encircled her body. The flames licked and coiled around her, alive, feral, yet completely under her control.

Elysia’s heart fluttered. Aurelia was extraordinary.

But she wasn't Astarion.

“... Leon, who gives weight to dreams.”

The strongman emerged next, the stage dimming as his large frame became the focal point. His arms, broad and powerful, lifted a shimmering, gilded ring that seemed impossibly heavy, its edges glimmering as it reflected the light of Aurelia’s fire.

Elysia’s pulse quickened. Leon was a marvel.

But he didn't wear the crowd’s adoration like Astarion wore his charm.

“... And Violet, who dances between stars.”

A silver hoop descended from above, and Violet with it. Suspended high in the air and wrapped with silks, she moved with an ethereal grace, her body twisting and arching as though weightless.

Elysia couldn't help but gasp. Violet was breathtaking.

But she didn't enchant like Astarion did.

He stood apart, just behind the performers, his cane in hand, mask gleaming faintly in the ethereal glow. He wasn't the one leaping or spinning or commanding the elements. Yet, he was the axis on which everything turned; the force that made the whole performance possible.

His eyes found hers in the crowd as she watched him.

Or did she imagine that?

Surely he saw her.

Surely he felt it too.

Elysia had often wondered if love at first sight truly existed.

Often, she told herself it was simply the fancy of poets and dreamers, a comforting illusion woven to make life feel fuller. No - to Elysia, love was something that grew slowly, like tending a garden through the seasons. Something that needed patience and time to truly take root.

Yet here, now, she had never been so certain of its existence.

Was it not love to hold a person the way Astarion held her? To pull her close, until her world narrowed to his smile, his lips, his gaze? He was like a vision from a dream half-remembered, and he held her there, suspended, bound by starlight and shadow, captivated.

Yes. Yes, this was surely love.

If it wasn't love, what else could it be?

The performers took their positions. At Astarion's signal, they began.

They moved as one, their acts weaving seamlessly together like threads in an intricate tapestry. Violet soared through the air on her silver hoop, her silks trailing in elegant arcs as Aurelia’s flaming rings spiralled around her, fire and starlight intertwining. Below, Leon’s gilded ring spun like a celestial anchor, catching and refracting the light as Violet leapt from her perch, her movements mirrored by the rise and fall of the flames. A dance of fire, silk, and shadow. Three acts became one impossible dance.

The stage was like a living dream. It compelled her to...

Rise. 

The audience stood. 

Lean forward. 

Their bodies tilted as one. 

Hold your breath. 

Elysia's lungs burned with the others'.

A thousand faces turned at once, a thousand smiles stretched in unison.

The finale built higher as a crescendo of daring and grace. Violet dove through a ring of flames, her silks igniting in a burst of golden light as Leon caught her descent.

Colours blurred. Sounds merged. 

Fire and shadow. Music and motion. 

How long had it been since Elysia felt this light? This free? The weight that normally pressed against her shoulders - responsibility, duty, the relentless presence of death - had dissolved like morning mist in the summer sun. Here, she felt as though nothing could touch her. Not grief, nor guilt.

Looking at the audience, she saw faces slack with wonder, eyes glazed with absolute adoration. They were gleeful in their rapture, yet none of them had danced with him as she had. None had felt his magic against their skin, the intimate press of starlight binding them together.

None of them had what Elysia had with Astarion. Of that much, she was certain.

Fire and starlight spiralled together as the performers created their final masterpiece of the night.

Then everything stopped.

Light itself seemed to hold its breath. Violet hung suspended between earth and sky, caught in Leon's impossible hold. Aurelia's flames froze mid-flicker, crystallising into fractals of burning light. For one eternal moment, reality balanced on a knife's edge.

At Astarion's gesture, the frozen tableau shattered into pure starlight. The performers emerged from the glittering cascade, moving in perfect synchronisation as they took their final bow. Above them, the last fragments of their magic rained down like falling stars.

The audience erupted in applause. 

Elysia’s hands moved to clap with them before she realised. 

She couldn’t resist. She would never want to resist.

“Thank you, thank you, dear souls.” Astarion held his hand to his chest, dipping his head once more in a theatrical bow that made the light catch in his silvery hair. “May your dreams find you, even as you find yourselves.”

His gaze swept the audience one last time. 

Elysia could have sworn his eyes rested on her for just a moment longer than the others.

The slight tilt of his head, the way his fingers traced the handle of his cane - they can't have been mere gestures.

They must have been a silent invitation. A promise.

Elysia could never miss such glaring signs, clearly made just for her.

The need to understand, to unravel the mystery surrounding him, pulled at her, stronger than the remnants of the spellbinding performance.

It wasn’t just curiosity - it was a hunger. To know him - to be near him - felt as necessary as breathing.

Astarion was leading. Elysia must follow.

As the lights dimmed, the audience, still humming with awe, began to drift toward the exit, their faces glazed with dreamlike adoration. But Elysia hung back for just a moment before beginning her descent towards the stage on subtle steps, her gaze fixed on the velvet curtain where Astarion and the performers had disappeared. Her breath caught as she saw them slip through, leaving a ripple in the fabric.

But what caught her attention was the faint, rhythmic chime that followed each figure as they passed through the curtain.

Her eyes narrowed. Bells. A line of small, silver bells was strung along the top of the curtain, barely visible unless you were looking for them. They swayed gently with each movement, their delicate chimes swallowed by the crowd’s applause. The purpose was clear: the faintest disturbance would alert those beyond.

Clever, she thought. But it was not enough to deter her.

Elysia’s heart could never be deterred.

She studied the curtain for a moment longer. The performers moved with such grace that the bells just barely sang as they passed. The key was clearly precision, not speed.

She waited until the crowd’s murmurs swelled, the noise rising like a tide. Then, as carefully as a surgeon threading a needle, she slipped forward. Her steps were deliberate, her movements measured. She placed her hands on the edge of the curtain, just below the bells, and pushed it aside with the lightest touch, letting the fabric shift naturally around her.

The bells quivered. Elysia froze, holding her breath. 

But no sound came.

She sighed in relief.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she eased herself through the opening, the dim light of the backstage area welcoming her into its shadows. She let the curtain fall back into place, the bells swaying gently above her head.

No one had noticed. Yet.

The backstage air was a stark contrast from the grand theatrics of the stage area - muted, cooler, dimly lit by flickering lanterns. The faint scent of smoke and incense tickled her nose as she pressed herself against the nearest wall. For a moment, she allowed herself a quiet breath, her heart still racing.

She made it in.

Now, she just had to find him.

Elysia moved deeper into the warren of corridors, each step careful and measured. This place felt like another world entirely - a place where magic shed its glamour and revealed its seams. Props leaned against walls like sleeping creatures. Costumes hung from hooks like shed skins, still holding the shape of their wearers.

Gaps in curtains revealed brief glimpses of the performers as she explored. There was something oddly intimate about seeing them outside the allure of their performance - like seeing a bird folding its wings after flight.

But then a familiar voice caught Elysia’s attention.

Following the sound, she found herself near an ornate door left slightly ajar, golden light spilling through the gap. She pressed herself against the wall beside it, drawn forward by the familiar cadence of his voice.

Astarion. She had found him.

Though, his voice was accompanied by another.

“... and there you go again.” This other voice - it too was familiar, though dripping with barely contained contempt. “Such pride from someone who–”

“Who actually holds their attention?” Astarion cut in. “Yes, how terribly proud of me. Tell me, Petras - how does it feel to be forgotten the moment I take the stage?”

Petras. The name stirred something within Elysia, but she couldn’t work out what. Had they met before?

"At least I know my place," Petras spat. "I don't delude myself with dreams of–"

"Delude myself?" Astarion's laugh held no humour. "How amusing, coming from someone who spends his nights rehearsing my routine. Tell me - has my shadow filed a complaint yet? Though I suppose it must be used to you chasing it by now.”

Elysia risked a glance through the gap and had to stifle a gasp.

The dressing room was filled with mirrors. They were everywhere: lining the walls, standing on ornate frames, creating an illusion of infinite space. Each reflection caught and multiplied the candlelight, creating a kaleidoscope effect that was both beautiful and disorienting. She caught a glimpse of the two men, and the contrast in them was uncanny. Petras’s simple gold mask seemed plain, almost crude, compared to the intricate filigree of Astarion's.

"You forget yourself," Petras said. "The master has schedules for a reason. And when you deviate–"

"The master," Astarion's voice took on a strange tone, "has more pressing concerns than your petty jealousies over a few minutes' delay, don’t you think? Or have you forgotten last month’s little incident?"

Silence as Petras’s words seemed to fail him momentarily.

This was it. This was Elysia’s chance.

"I’m sorry to intrude." she stepped forward tentatively as she spoke, her voice hopeful. "I hoped I might find you..."

Both men turned sharply in her direction.

Astarion’s fingers brushed the silver filigree at his throat before smoothing out the coif of his hair in one fluid motion. "My, my… aren't you the determined one?"

Petras appeared rather vindicated. "The master needs to hear about this.”

"Must he? And I suppose you'll explain how she got past your... what was it you called it? Your 'enhanced security measures'?"

The blond man stiffened. "I hardly think–"

“No, you so rarely do.” Astarion's smile didn't waver, but his eyes kept darting to the shadows behind Elysia. "Perhaps we should discuss your recent performance evaluations while we're at it?"

Something in the threat landed. Petras's eager reporting instinct warred visibly with self-preservation. After a moment of tense silence, he backed towards the door, pausing only to give Elysia a look that might even have been pity if it hadn’t looked so much like bitter indignation.

Elysia found herself quickly irked by him.

“This isn't over, Astarion,” Petras said as he slipped out the room, punctuated by the sound of the door latch clicking into place as he closed it.

Being alone with Astarion felt different than she'd imagined - more real somehow. Her heart fluttered against her chest like a trapped bird.

But she was nothing if not determined. She knew she was right where she needed to be.

His smile brightened, though there was a tightness to it that Elysia couldn't quite place. “Forgive the uncouth display, darling. Some people simply can't help but be tiresome.”

"I came as quickly as I could," Elysia said quickly, watching as his fingers drifted again to his collar, then to adjust his already-perfect hair. “I know I should’ve waited for a proper introduction, but sometimes…” She felt heat rise to her cheeks at her own boldness. “Sometimes the heart knows when something is important.”

"You know," he began, "most admirers content themselves with flowers. Or swooning. Swooning is traditional. But you had to make things interesting, didn't you?"

"I suppose I'm not very traditional." Elysia smiled, her heart fluttering as he approached. In the mirrors surrounding them, a thousand reflections of Astarion moved in perfect synchronisation. And Elysia’s reflection was there with him. 

They were a study in contrasts - Elysia in her simple dress and blouse seemed grounded and unadorned, like earth; Astarion, in his intricate attire, was otherworldly in his theatrical splendour. Yet somehow the juxtaposition felt right - as though her very plainness made his ethereal beauty more striking, while his presence lent her simplicity a kind of grace.

Her lips parted as the thought flitted through her mind: We look good together.

“Our dance earlier - I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

“Few have. The magic of the festival is rather unique, wouldn’t you say?”

"And the way you commanded the stage..." Elysia began, but something in his posture made her pause. Even in the mirrors, she could see the slight tension in his shoulders.

"Command?" His laugh was almost musical. “Darling, I merely... suggest. Guide. Though speaking of guidance..." His eyes darted again to the shadows behind her, quick as a heartbeat. "You realise, of course, that I'm being remarkably generous about this whole affair. Most who find their way backstage discover a far less..." Another touch of his collar. "...accommodating reception."

Elysia’s pulse steadied, her smile turning faintly knowing. Of course, he had to maintain this necessary pretence - charm wrapped in formality, words dipped in grace. It wasn’t for her benefit, not truly. After all, what would the others think if they knew he'd invited someone backstage? No, these little warnings were just another performance, meant for any eyes that might be watching. Beneath it all she could feel it - something unspoken.

"I know this is a little unconventional…” 

"Unconventional? What a delicate way to phrase it. You do have quite the gift for making impropriety sound almost charming."

Elysia’s smile faltered as she met his gaze. “I just thought…” Her voice softened, the words catching like a hesitant breath. “I thought you wanted me to find you. It– it felt like I had to.”

Why? The question rose sharp and sudden in her mind. The urgency that had drawn her here felt familiar somehow, like an old song played in a different key.

“And here I thought I was the one with a penchant for dramatics,” Astarion said. “You give me far too much credit, my dear.”

His words were laced with humour, yet, he hadn’t denied it. The pull she’d felt couldn’t have been imagined. It was too strong, too undeniable. Surely he had wanted her to find him. Surely he’d left some trace, some sign meant just for her.

Hadn’t he?

Her lips parted, but the words she wanted to say dissolved before they could take shape. She glanced away, her gaze catching on the mirrors around them. Her reflection stared back infinitely, as though mocking her uncertainty.

And Astarion… there was something tight in the way he held himself now, like a performer who'd spotted a crack in their stage.

"Come, darling. Let’s not tempt fate by lingering here any longer. You’ve already wandered somewhere terribly dangerous.”

He took a step closer, his presence commanding her attention as though he’d physically pulled her from her thoughts.

That silken voice. 

That perfect presence. 

He's so close.

Her thoughts - those pesky doubts - scattered like startled birds.

He offered her his arm, a gesture so effortlessly charming that it made her heart flutter. 

He was right. 

Of course, he was right. 

There was nothing for her here. 

Only him.

And so she followed.

She hesitated for only a moment before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. His closeness brought with it a scent she hadn't noticed before - herbal and bright, with citrus and the faintest hint of something darker, richer; elegant as everything else about him. The kind of scent that made you want to lean closer, to search for its source. It took all her composure not to do exactly that.

"Consider this a gift. My generosity in exchange for your… discretion.”

He paused at the room’s threshold, glancing as though expecting something to appear from the shadows. “Shall we? The night market is particularly enchanting at this hour. All manner of delights to distract from more... dangerous pursuits."

"The night market?" Something about his insistence made her heart beat faster. 

The dim lantern light flickered as he escorted her through winding corridors, throwing his silhouette into sharp relief against the shadows.

"Oh, the things you'll see there," he continued, speaking faster. "Delicacies that would make your finest confectioners weep. Treasures that would make merchants' hearts stop. All manner of pretty little diversions. Much more interesting than these tired old backrooms.”

His steps were swift. Hasty.

Elysia fought to keep pace.

“And of course,” he said suddenly, his voice carrying a cheerfulness that teetered on the edge of too bright, “there’s a spectacular display of silks at one of the stalls. Ah, you’d adore them - exquisite craftsmanship, really, though I must admit I’ve never been terribly partial to magenta myself.”

The sounds of laughter and music drew closer. 

He glanced at her briefly, his eyes catching the light before darting back ahead. “Oh, and Dalyria with her card readings, the truths she reveals are quite– ah, but did I mention the night market?”

“You did.”

“Well, it bears repeating,” he replied too quickly. “Because it truly is a marvel. So much to see. So much to enjoy.”

The cane in his free hand tapped out a rhythm that didn't quite match his steps.

“Perfectly harmless, of course,” he added, his gaze darting briefly to the shadows behind them, before he turned back to her with another dazzling smile.

They emerged from behind the heavy curtains into the festival proper, where the eternal twilight cast everything in soft, dreamy hues. Something about the change in lighting made the shadows under his eyes more pronounced – had those been there during the performance?

"There now," Astarion said. His fingers found his collar one final time before dropping away. "Isn't this better? All the wonder, none of the... complications. Though do remember, darling - you now owe me quite the favour."

"Will I see you again?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Astarion stilled for the briefest moment, his smile frozen in place. Then he laughed.

"Oh, darling, the festival has a way of bringing people together, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t fret too much about when or how."

His answer wasn’t what she wanted, and something in her bristled. "That’s not what I meant," she said. "I think… I think I need to see you again."

That made him pause, his eyes catching hers. There was something almost imperceptible in his gaze - whether it was curiosity or resignation, Elysia couldn’t tell.

"Need is such a dangerous word," he murmured, tilting his head just slightly. "You sound so certain, yet you hardly know me."

"But I do..."

Did she? The thought disappeared as quickly as it came.

"... I feel like I do," she continued, looking to her feet.

"Do you, now?" he asked, his voice soft, almost indulgent. “What is it you think you see in me?”

“I…”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he closed the space between them in an instant. He reached out, his fingers brushing her chin, tilting her head so she was forced to meet his gaze. Her breath caught, the world narrowing until there was only him.

He leaned in, his gaze holding her captive. “Or perhaps you don’t see at all. Perhaps there’s something else you want.” His hold on her jaw firmed for a moment. “Ah. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself in me?”

The words hit her like a physical blow. Her chest tightened, heat rising to her cheeks as she struggled to find her voice, but it was useless.

He held her gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

But then he sighed.

"I thought so," he said quietly, almost to himself. "They always do."

He stepped back, his hand falling away.

"You’re bold, love," Astarion said at last. "It’s a charming trait, truly. But sometimes boldness gets people hurt."

"I’m not afraid.” Elysia held his gaze as steadily as she could muster.

"Of course you’re not," he replied, his smile broadening slightly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Fear rarely has a place here. It’s part of the magic, you see. But magic is just smoke and mirrors, isn’t it? It’s the truth underneath that tends to cut."

She felt the weight of his words but couldn’t fully grasp their meaning. His presence seemed to drown out everything else.

"The festival is a place for dreams, my dear," he said, taking a step back and sweeping into a graceful bow. "Don’t waste yours chasing shadows."

And then he was gone. The ripple of velvet curtains was the only trace of his departure as he returned to the shadows of the Big Top.

Elysia was alone.

The festival’s brilliance seemed to dim in his absence, its colours muted, its magic just a little less potent.

The crowd moved around her, their faces alight with joy and wonder, yet, with the Ringmaster gone, she felt curiously untethered. She glanced up at the sky, expecting some shift in its eternal dusk, but it remained unchanged. The colours of twilight bled together seamlessly, the horizon a perpetual liminal space between day and night.

Just how much time had passed?

A flicker of movement at the edge of Elysia’s vision caught her attention. She turned her head - an elderly woman brushed past her, a golden locket swinging from her neck.

Elysia blinked, confusion blooming in her chest. She looked strangely familiar.

The realisation came slowly. She had seen this woman before - on the journey to the festival. In the carriage. But the details of that memory felt slippery, like trying to grasp water in her hands. The more she reached for it, the more it eluded her.

Her movements were strange, almost mechanical, as though her body remembered how to walk but her mind had forgotten why. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides, and her lips moved soundlessly.

Elysia’s heart stirred with unease. She didn’t know why, but the sight of the woman set her teeth on edge. She couldn’t name the feeling, only that it was urgent and wrong. Her instincts flared, urging her to follow, even as another part of her hesitated.

It doesn’t matter. She’s not your concern.

No, Elysia thought. That’s not right, is it?

Elysia’s steps moved before she could think, her feet carrying her toward the woman. She didn’t know what she hoped to accomplish. But the woman needed help. Elysia didn’t know how she knew that - she didn’t know much of anything anymore - but the certainty burned fiercely in her chest.

“Excuse me! Miss?” she called. “Wait, please!”

The woman didn’t respond.

Elysia pushed through the thinning crowd. The further she followed, the harder it became to focus. It was like wading through molasses, her thoughts sticky and sluggish, her body pulling toward retreat.

The woman turned down a dim, narrow path that branched away from the bright stalls. Elysia froze at its threshold. The glow of the festival barely reached this place, its light casting weak, flickering shadows that clung to the walls like cobwebs. Something about this place felt hidden. Forbidden.

But the woman was already disappearing into its depths.

“Wait!” Elysia called again, stepping onto the path despite the gnawing unease in her chest.

Go back. It’s not your ti–

No. She’s unwell.

Her legs kept moving. Her pulse raced. It thrummed in her ears as she quickened her pace.

The path twisted unpredictably, narrowing with every turn. The vibrant energy of the festival dimmed further with each step, the laughter and music fading into a distant hum. The air smelled stale, yet sickly-sweet.

A glint caught Elysia’s eye.

The locket around the woman’s neck caught the light as it tumbled to the ground. She didn’t seem to notice.

Elysia bent to retrieve the locket, its metal surprisingly cold against her palm. When she looked up again, the woman was already disappearing down a narrow corridor she hadn't noticed before - a space between tents that seemed to fold in on itself, as though reality had developed a crease.

"Wait!" She started forward, locket clutched tight. "Please, your–"

The passage seemed to narrow as she followed, the walls of fabric pressing in until she had to turn sideways to continue. Each step forward made her heart beat faster, a creeping anxiety that whispered she should turn back, return to the lights and music and…

The thought slipped away as she caught sight of something ahead - not the woman, but a glint of light where there shouldn't be any. A broken mirror propped against what might have been a wall, its surface reflecting impossibly deep shadows. Something about its angle seemed wrong, as though it were reflecting a space that didn't exist.

She reached out, meaning only to steady herself against its frame.

But then her hand went through.

And then, she was tumbling.

The fall lasted both forever and no time at all.

Darkness rushed past her like silk against her skin. Stars wheeled overhead, though there was no sky - only the endless sensation of tumbling through space. The air grew thick, sweet, then suddenly thin, as though she were passing through layers of different worlds.

But then she landed as though caught by unseen hands, placed in a world that was eerily still.

When she stood, she found herself in a sprawling room filled with broken reflections. Mirrors upon mirrors. But they were broken, fractured, warped, split into jagged shards.

She moved through the space carefully, each step stirring motes of dust.

Around her lay forgotten remnants of the festival - tattered banners drooping limply from hooks and, scattered like silent witnesses, old stuffed animals. Two of them caught her eye. Two foxes, one bound tightly in rusted shackles. It seemed so small, its fur faded to a dull grey. The second fox lay unshackled, its chains broken and discarded at its feet. But it was no better off. Its seams were split, its stuffing spilling in soft piles onto the floor.

Her gaze flicked back to the rippling mirror she had stepped through. Unlike the others, it was untouched by age or damage, its liquid-like surface shimmering faintly in the dim light.

The air felt… different here. Clearer. Like breaking the surface after being underwater for too long - that first gasp that makes you realise how thick the water had been. Like waking from a dream you can't quite remember.

Like… shattering an illusion.

She took a step back. The clarity struck her like ice water. She could think here. The enormity of it made her stomach twist. What had been clouding her mind before? And why did the thought of returning to that haze terrify her as much as it tempted her?

Elysia pressed a hand to her heart, desperately trying to will away that ache that lingered in her chest.

Looking up, she saw her reflection watching her, the fractured edges of the mirrors around it splintering her image into countless fragments. Some stared back with clarity, others with a dazed, almost blissful expression. She reached out toward the nearest shard, then stopped herself, her hand trembling.

‘Lose yourself’…? She recalled Astarion’s words.

The foxes seemed to watch her in silence.

Astarion looked at his reflection in the mirror.

The Ringmaster stared back.

Isn't it funny how, with all these reflections, you can never truly see yourself?

He tilted his head slightly, studying the masked man before him. The sweep of his silver hair, the gleam of his skin, the curve of his lips - all perfect.

As they should be.

He sighed and allowed his gaze to drop, breaking the spell of his own stare.

He was alone. 

As he should be.

His eyes fell to his hands. They rested on the dressing table, pale fingers curling loosely around the carved wood. Such pretty lies they weaved tonight.

The silence of the room pressed against his ears, but he welcomed it.

It was better this way.

No expectations. No deceptions.

His hands tightened on the table.

The sound came softly at first. A faint jingling. Like the rattling of bones.

His stomach twisted.

No.

It wasn't his turn.

The sound grew louder, steady and deliberate. The delicate chime of something unnatural.

It can't be my turn.

Mist began to coil at his feet, swirling around his boots. The sickly-sweet scent of it clung to the air.

He'd done the right thing. He'd kept his smile, he’d played his part.

As he always should.

The jingling stopped.

He willed his face into stillness, smooth and unreadable.

A new sound emerged, sharp and distinct.

Tap.

Pause.

Tap.

Pause.

Claws against wood. They tapped slowly against the wooden door frame behind him.

Astarion raised his head slowly, forcing himself to meet his reflection once more.

The Ringmaster. Perfectly composed. Perfectly in control.

A thousand masks, a thousand lies, and somewhere beneath them all, a scream that never ended.

But, in his periphery, he saw him.

Standing in the doorway, motionless, bathed in shadow.

Watching him.

Smiling.

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[imagine-darksiders]

The Human Influence.

Samael X Reader.

This is a 10,000 word continuation from this little ask I received a while ago.

Summary: Lilith brings her Prince a 'gift,' all trussed up in a silver chain and collar. To her credit, if anyone were to ask her if she thought Samael had a soft spot, she would never in a million eons dream that the answer might be 'yes.' Unfortunately for the demon queen, Samael's little 'soft spot' just so happens to be attached to the chain she grasps in her sleek, black claws.

-----

Samael won’t even vaguely pretend that he’s pleased to see Lilith when she comes strutting with a purpose through the doors to his throne room, her pretty, painted lips black as night and twisted into that self-assured grin he so detests.

The demon prince’s cragged chin sits perched upon his knuckles as he lounges inattentively in the seat of his throne, tracing Lilith’s sauntered path towards him over the black, basalt floor.

Neither of them bothers to pretend they’re especially pleased to see the other, even if it has been several months since Lilith set foot in Shadow’s Edge. She, however, puts in just slightly more effort than Samael, lifting her lips into a sultry smile when she catches him looking her way.

Just as he begins to wonder what kind of favour she might try to curry from him today, something glints in the light cast by the moat of lava that surrounds the room, and he drops his gaze slightly to find a silver chain clutched between his mistress’s talons.

Thick and cumbersome, it disappears behind her inverted wings, pulled ever so taut, doubtlessly locked fast around the neck of her latest little plaything.

Heaving a great sigh through his nostrils, the prince casts a bored glance between Lilith’s coiled horns in an idle attempt to catch a glimpse of the unfortunate creature that’s stumbling along in tow.

If he weren’t such an expert in maintaining his impenetrable countenance, he might have lurched forwards in his seat and crushed the armrests beneath his claws at what, or rather who he spies at the end of his mistress’s chain.

As it is, Samael’s only outward reaction is in the barest twitch of his pointed tail and the quirk of a scaly brow.

Inwardly however, a spark ignites.

‘She didn’t,’ he seethes to himself as an ugly, howling rage begins to stir in his belly, whipped up like flames in the wind, ‘Not this human… Any human but-…’

You.

His little storyteller…

It can’t be you. Not so soon after the Horsemen took you back from him the first time.

Questions fly around his skull like rapid, biting gnats. It’s hardly been a full Earth month since you were here last. He’s been keeping close tabs on your movements, not to mention the Four have barely let you out of their sight for a moment – How could Lilith have sunk her claws into you!?

Mistaking the subtle shift of his attention as a show of interest, the demoness’s lips carve upwards into a sharper smile as she blows a lustful breath between her fangs, prowling to a halt at the foot of Samael’s throne with her hips cocked.

“My Lord,” she all but purrs, dipping into a low bow and very deliberately exposing more of her chest than Samael finds either tasteful or necessary, “It has been far too long~.”

Alluring, golden eyes flick up to peer at him through her lashes, yet her smile wavers ever so slightly when she finds that his attention is fixed elsewhere.

He can’t tear his eyes from your face.

Samael’s nostrils flare wide to inhale the tangy scent of iron on the air. He’d know that smell a mile off. After all, he’s well acquainted with blood. It rises above the chamber’s usual aroma of brimstone and dank moisture, with a source that his well-trained nose can trace directly back to you.

Lilith, it would seem, hasn’t brought you to him unscathed.

Even the Prince of Hell himself is taken aback as the anger churning in his guts starts to boil, bubbling up from his stomach like putrid smoke and rising to fill the crevices of his chest.

A trickle of scarlet blood runs a track from your swollen, purpling nose down over quivering lips to gather at the bottom of your chin, where it drips steadily to the ground by your feet with soft, little splats that permeate the silence sitting like a smog between you.

One of your captivating eyes has swelled shut behind a dark bruise, and from your other eye – the one he tries and fails to meet – streams a veritable river of tears, cutting a path through the dirt on your cheek and mingling with the blood in the dip of your chin.

Like an ancient building falling to ruin, Samael’s unshakable composure slowly starts to crumble. Lowering his fearsome, yellow eyes to your neck, he locks his sights on the metal collar that Lilith must have fastened tightly around your throat, causing every breath to leave you in tiny, pitiable wheezes.

The delicate skin below it has been rubbed red and raw…

Inhaling sharply through his nose, Samael barely manages to compose himself, ducking his head and attempting to catch your eye again. And yet, your gaze slides away from his, fixing itself resolutely on the ground below your bare feet.

Lilith must have snatched you away in the dead of night, if the white, cotton sleepshirt hanging from your frame is any indication.

She stole you when you were at your most vulnerable…

Coward.

Easing his clenched jaws apart, the prince aims a poisonous glare over at his queen, his lips curling down at their corners. “Lilith,” he utters, his voice like tar moving under the earth, low and dangerous, “What… is the meaning of-?”

“- A gift, my Lord,” she interrupts smoothly, proud as a cat with a dove in its jaws, “A present, in part, to…. apologise for the time I’ve spent absent from your side…”

Frankly, he muses, her absence in itself has been gift enough.

Twitching her head sideways to peer over her shoulder at you, Lilith’s expression suddenly contorts into a snarl that mars her attractive features as she gives the end of your chain a jarring, vicious yank.

Samael’s spine snaps straight as you’re wrenched forwards by the neck with a strangled croak, collapsing onto your knees and throwing your trembling hands up to claw feebly at the collar, but the hateful piece of silver has been cinched so tightly around your throat, you can’t even squeeze your fingertips beneath it to relieve some of the pressure.

Curling his enormous hand into a fist, Samael raises his chin and stares down at you, his burning, fire-laden stare aflame with anticipation.

As much as he dreads the thought, he half expects a groan of pleasure to tumble from your lips.

Lilith’s… obscene influence is as powerful as it is repulsive. It’s an ancient, inherent magic that can pervert the mind of even the most pious angel and turn them into just another of the demoness’s depraved and lustful thralls.

She’s tainted the sanity of far more powerful souls than yours, through no effort at all on her part. And yet…

And yet, to the prince’s astonishment – and surprisingly, his relief - there are no needy moans, no adoring looks at his mistress, no grasping hands that stretch out across the space between you and her skin as if you couldn’t possibly live for another second without feeling her scales roll beneath your fingertips.

All Samael can see in your eye is a bone deep terror, all he can hear from your lips are quiet, wheezing breaths. Your hands are still your own, still clutching and scrabbling at the collar locked around your throat.

As twisted as it seems, he’s glad to see your terror, but… How are you still in your right mind?

“Bow before your betters, Ape!” Lilith spits, hauling on the chain once more so that you’re yanked forwards, thrown off balance and landing harshly on your hands and knees beside her with a strangled sob, “Or else I shall feed your legs to the Hell hounds!”

Now, Samael is the furthest thing from a saint. His cruelty, depravity and occasional grabs for power might be considered by many to be on par with Lilith’s own, craven deeds.

He’s a Prince of Hell, after all. The enemies he’s slain could fill all the rivers of Eden with their blood.

But… you’re not one of Samael’s enemies…

You’re not even a political target, despite your affiliation with the Four Horsemen.

You’re just…

You’re you.

For what you’ve had to endure, during the Apocalypse and your journey alongside the Horseman, Death, to bring your species back from extinction, for being the foremost intermediary between Humanity and the rest of Creation, you’re worthy of respect. Not… this.

Seeing his little storyteller bloodied and broken, bound on your knees in front of him doesn’t stir anything in the demon except a… a heaviness in his chest. He’s never once given his cold, ancient heart much consideration, but he certainly notices it now when it gives a sudden and unexpected twist.

He can only think to attribute such a sensation to the rage swelling behind his ribs.

Fire ignites beneath his scales and burns a path through his veins until he’s contemplating simply tearing Lilith to pieces for laying her vile claws on you. But… that would be showing his hand…

And Samael hasn’t been on the throne this long by showing his hand…

If Lilith catches the slightest whiff of a weakness in him, she’ll try to exploit that weakness to her own advantage.

She could kill you if she thought for a moment that your death would get to him.

As much as he’s loathe to admit it, it would.

Unfortunately for her, Samael was always better at playing high-stakes games than she ever was…

Plastering a sultry grin on her lips, she watches as her Prince leans himself forwards in the throne, balancing his chin atop steepled fingertips.

She must think him a fool…

You were never intended to be a gift for him.

This isn’t her attempting to win her way between his sheets after several months spent away from his fortress.

All this is, is Lilith drawing the Four Horsemen right to his doorstep.

When he brought you here the first time and the Horsemen arrived to rescue you, the only reason he came out unscathed was because you yourself were unscathed. Unharmed. Untouched. He’d kept his word to you, and never once laid a finger on you in malice.

You’d even vouched for him when War exploded into his all-powerful Chaos Form and charged hell-for-leather at the demon.

“War! Don’t!” you’d pleaded shrilly, hurling yourself between the charging behemoth and a bemused Samael, “He didn’t hurt me! Look at me! I’m fine! Please, just… just take me home…”

You knew the demon wielded powers that could easily match those of the Horsemen, and you weren’t willing to risk the safety of your friends.

Samael had been counting on your intervention. Without it, he’s sure his fortress wouldn’t have been left standing in once piece after an all-out battle between himself and the Four.

But if the Horsemen were to turn up now to find you in this state…? And they surely will, because Death won’t neglect to investigate the prince’s involvement for a second time.

Well… Samael is sure to come out of it losing something, even if not his life.

The tenuous reinstatement of peace between Hell and the other realms would no doubt be ripped up.

The Horsemen would declare war on him in your name. You’re one of theirs, after all.

And Lilith knows that.

“Let me see if I understand your intentions here,” Samael rumbles, planting his massive palms on each of the throne’s armrests and curling his black claws into the stone, “You have brought me.. this human…“

He has to bite his tongue before he almost says your name, though Lilith gives no indication that she’s noticed the near miss.

Sweat has begun to bead between her scales, and the stench of it drifts into his nose.

She’s nervous.

“Not just any human,” she rushes to assure him, twisting her fist into the chain and hauling you -hacking and spluttering – back up onto your feet, “Allow me to introduce you to the little pest that belongs to those treacherous Horsemen.”

Samael’s fangs grind together as she extends a sleek, ebony claw and slides its point beneath your chin, pushing your head back, and for the first time since she brought you before him, your eyes finally lock with his.

He almost wishes they hadn’t.

Samael must favour you more than he assumed, because the look you’re sending him empties the fury in his chest until it merely feels hollow and cold.

Even with one eye wedged shut and blood painting your lips crimson, he can easily make out the betrayal pinching your expression. It’s an expression he’s well-accustomed to.

But on you, it’s hard to look at. Predominantly because there was a moment, however briefly, where you seemed to trust him, if only a little – which was a damn sight more than anyone ever has before.

It wasn’t… an unwelcome feeling, to have someone believe him at his word. Not even his own troops would trust him. Lilith – the very demoness who used to share his bed – knows better than to trust him. And, yes, while it was terribly naïve of you, Samael had ended up proving you right, in some small way.

You trusted him when he said he wouldn’t hurt you, and he hadn’t.

Until now, evidently.

He can understand why he’s getting this look from you now.

He once swore you’d never come to harm within his walls, not by his hand nor any of his ilk’s.

Of course, it would be Lilith who shattered what fragile and hesitant faith you’ve granted him. In your eyes, by mere affiliation, Samael is responsible for his former mistress’s actions.

“You’ve brought the Horsemen’s human right to my doorstep?” he growls heavily, pushing himself up onto his taloned feet.

His chest gives an unexpected twinge when you take a step back, though he’ll admit it’s gratifying to see the confidence drain from Lilith’s face as he rises to his full, imposing height.

“And what do you suppose they’ll do, Lilith,” he adds, “When they find their precious friend in this condition, hm?”

A heavy, thundering step carries him down the stone staircase towards her.

The demoness’s forked tongue darts out to moisten her lips. She matches his advancement with a backwards step that brings her up alongside you. “This,” she starts apprehensively, “This is your chance… to take revenge on-!”

“-Revenge!?” Samael’s thunderclap of an interruption stifles the last remnants of cockiness in her tone and she hastily retreats as he draws closer, letting a few links of the chain slip through her slender fingers.

As soon as it goes slack, you take the opportunity to stagger sideways, putting as much distance between yourself and the two, massive demons as the chain will allow, your wary eye affixed on Samael, as if he’s the greater threat.

“And what offence have the Horsemen cause me that would warrant revenge?” the demon prince demands, endeavouring to keep his gaze trained on Lilith.

Her slitted pupils shrink as badly concealed irritation flashes across her face and her lips twitch with the beginnings of a snarl. It must have occurred to her, at last, that she isn’t fooling anyone.

This was never about Samael’s tenuous alliance with the Horsemen. It’s only ever been about Lilith, as always. Once again, her desire for vengeance for what the Four did to her Nephilim children has superseded her common sense.

Even thousands of years after the massacre at Eden, she still seeks retribution.

She always has been a master of manipulation - Pit the Horsemen against the Prince of Darkness, and no matter which of them emerges the victor, it’s Lilith who ends up reaping the spoils.

If Samael succeeds, she’ll have finally had her revenge on the Horsemen, but if the Four succeed, she’ll be free to move in and take the prince’s throne.

She certainly knows how to play the game.

It’s just unfortunate for her that he’s been playing it a whole Hell of a lot longer, and he always has so hated to lose.

Her first mistake was taking him for a fool.

Her second, and far more grievous, was taking you at all.

She’ll face retribution, for that he’ll make certain, though her punishment won’t necessarily be for the reason she expects.

Lilith’s mouth twists. He can already hear the venomous words curdling on her tongue, no doubt readying a jab at his cowardice for being unwilling to face the Horsemen’s wrath. She never gets the chance to voice whatever cruel sentiment rises behind her gorge.

Without warning, Samael’s hand snaps out, his fingers curled over and aimed straight at his former mistress. Before she can even utter a squawk of alarm, a dark, festering tendril of magic slithers into existence, ripped from between the fabrics of space itself and sent to coil around her neck like a serpent, crushing in on her throat with a pressure that only increases with every flex of Samael’s fingers.

At once, and as he’d hoped, Lilith drops your chain to throw her hands up and scrabble uselessly at the magic strangling her. But magic, by nature, is intangible. Her claws can’t make purchase.

“What say you, Lilith?” he growls, a vindictive smirk revealing two rows of gleaming, wicked fangs, “Is this still as gratifying as you remember?”

The demoness’s mouth hangs agape as she collapses heavily onto her knees. ‘There,’ he muses, letting a wave of sick satisfaction roll over him, ‘At last.’

Poetic justice if he’s ever seen it.

The feeblest sound twitches his ear, and he stills, flicking his gaze down to the human in their midst.

A single, undamaged eye shines back up at him, sparkling in the firelight that glints off the tears rolling down sodden cheeks. In a lone blink, Samael’s dark magic falters and the snarl on his lips withers as he studies your face.

You’re still crying… A sight that should have gladdened and satisfied him only renders the demon unpleasantly hollow. Perturbed, Samael tries to shake off the unexpected weight of your distress piling up on his shoulders… He soon finds, however, that he can’t.

Lilith’s wheezing gargle that sounds a little too much laughter snaps his attention back onto her and he growls, his fingers quivering with the pressure of closing the magic coil even more firmly around her throat to cut off any other, sinful sound she tries to make.

Sudden movement to his right draws his scorching glare down to the spot you’d been hunching in mere seconds ago, only to find it empty.

Inverted, leathery wings stiffen as he whips his gaze up and finds you stumbling away from him as fast as your wobbly legs can carry you, heading in a backwards run for the exit of his throne room to the corridors beyond. The silver chain rattles along in your wake.

It’s only by a fraction... just a fraction… but Samael’s wild and wrathful gaze starts to soften.

Heaving a sigh, he turns his focus back to Lilith once more.

She’s still on her knees, still choking on the magic locked tight around her throat, but her eyes are fixed coldly on the prince’s, her pupils narrowed to thin, catlike slits.

He knows then that she saw it. She saw the malice fade from his snarl as he looked at you…

Bristling, Samael peels his lips back and bares his teeth down at her. He can tell she’s trying to do the same, throwing as much hatred into her glare as she can, despite the agony that no longer seems to bring her any semblance of sick pleasure.

Right now though, he has more important matters to attend to.

“Begone from my sight,” he hisses. And with a final, dismissive flick of his wrist, he disperses the band around her neck.

Lilith’s gasp is loud enough to echo through the cavernous chamber.

Crumpling forwards onto her hands and knees – just as you had only moments ago – she greedily sucks down several lungfuls of air as Samael sweeps past her, his nostrils flaring, hoping he’ll catch your scent before you can run too far.

He barely makes it to the entrance before a cold, breathless chuckle reaches his ears.

“Oh~” she rasps in a haggard voice, “Oh, isn’t that precious…..”

Like a dark moonrise, Lilith picks her head up and spins it over a shoulder, glaring maniacally after his retreating back.

Samael doesn’t linger to hear what else she has to say, but the fortress rings with the shrillness of her cackles, her voice chasing his shadow as he in turn follows after the trail of blood droplets you’ve left to seep into the cracks of the basalt floor.

“The Horsemen will hear of this, my love! They will know! Who would have guessed that a human will be your doom!?”

-----

If nothing else, at least the stench of blood is easy enough to track.

Samael is not the kind of demon to hurry, but he’s well aware that his fellow demonic hordes can sniff out a wounded human from a mile away. So, if his thundering footsteps fall a little more hastily that usual… well, that’s his business.

For someone so injured, you’ve made good ground.

Unrelenting in his pursuit, the prince follows your scent up a winding, spiralling staircase and along a vast corridor all the way to a room that had seen much use just last month.

“Ah,” he muses aloud. Of course, it would make sense you’d come back here.

He finds himself standing outside the doors to your old prison.

The bed chambers he’d kept you in after he stole you from Earth.

His fortress is large and labyrinthian. It’s likely you fled along the only path you could recognise.

The moment he ducks his horns through the entrance and steps into the dimly lit room, he’s struck by an acrid concoction of blood and terror.

The bed to his left sits innocuous and innocent, perfectly unassuming.

But he’s the one who had it put there, so he knows of the small space between the springs and the floor, just enough of a gap for a human to squeeze themselves into, should they be so inclined.

Turning towards it, he carefully lowers himself onto a knee, breathing a sigh as he reaches for the silken, burgundy sheets that hang over the side and drape all the way to the ground.

“I wish I could tell you I’m not glad to see you again so soon, little one,” he rumbles, pinching the sheets between his thumb and forefinger and raising them slowly off the ground, “But in truth, I’ve been hoping our paths would cross again, though perhaps not under these circumstances…”

Stooping low, his burning gaze illuminates the dark, dusty space between the mattress and the ground, and there, in the shadows, he finds you.

“There you are…”

Curled into a tiny ball, you peer up at the demon’s colossal face, your pretty eyes blown wide with horror. That wretched, silver chain is still digging like teeth into your neck, rendering each breath that passes your lips small and lacking.

The prince’s browbones dip into a frown. “Come here…” he utters, neither commanding, nor passive. Just a request.

Yet still, you flinch at it despite its gentleness.

The smell of liquid iron – once so tantalising – now itches at the insides of his nostrils. You’re still bleeding freely, but…

That isn’t all that troubles Samael.

He doesn’t know how long Lilith has held you, and you haven’t yet said a single word to him.

He doesn’t like this silence, not from you.

A sudden urgency strikes him in the chest, though he mistakes it for impatience, and he emits a low growl from his throat, a sound of frustration, not anger.

Without giving you a moment to prepare, he promptly slides one, enormous paw beneath the bed frame and simply tips the entire thing up onto two of its legs, exposing you completely to his searching glare.

Recoiling in shock, you immediately heave yourself off your stomach and try to get your feet underneath you, only to find the escape attempt thwarted by a gigantic, leathery hand that closes swiftly, yet gingerly around your torso, plucking you up off the cold ground.

Samael’s shoulders drain of tension once he has you safe in his clutches. Swallowing back a throaty rumble, he raises you towards his chest and stoops to lower the bed once again, all the while subjecting you to his unflinching scrutiny.

The demon’s lips peel back to reveal his teeth as he takes a closer look at the swelling around your eye and the crookedness of your bleeding nose. At the sight of his fangs lingering dangerously close to your face, you utter a pitiable whimper and clutch frantically at the fingers circling your waist, making a valiant, yet futile attempt to shove them away from your night shirt.

You may as well be trying to bend steel beams.

“Did she touch you?” he suddenly urges, his voice strangely thin and ragged.

He needs to know… He needs to confirm for himself that Lilith hasn’t spoiled his little storyteller’s soul.

Your struggling pauses briefly as you tip your head back and fix him with an incredulous, pinched look, your bruised eyelid twitching as if to say, ‘What the Hell do you think?’

‘Ah…’ he realises, ‘You misunderstand.’

“I can see she has hurt you,” he elaborates with an uncharacteristic patience, lowering his gaze to that intimate place that’s safely hidden behind his fingers, just below your naval, “I need to know if she touched you…”

Perhaps the angle of his stare is a little crass, but at least you catch on swiftly, and begin to squirm unhappily in his grip.

The fact that the fierce shake of your head is delayed does little to ease his flaring temper.

“I need to hear your words, little storyteller,” he murmurs in his low, resonant timbre.

Your good eye grows wide as he raises the forefinger of his free hand and brushes it over the silver collar wound around your neck.

The anticipation screws your face up tight and you flinch back, eye squeezing shut. Yet rather than pain, you’re instead hit with shocking and blessed relief.

At the demon’s touch, the collar comes apart with a jarring snap and the whole thing slides from your throat, rattling down to the ground below your dangling feet.

A gasping breath is sucked down into your lungs too quickly, causing you to lurch forwards over his thumb with a grating cough, lifting your hands up and stroking at the tender, red flesh left behind with trembling fingers.

Without the chain obscuring them, Samael is given an uninterrupted view of the dark band of bruises that have been burned like a brand around the circumference of your throat.

Sparks of white-hot fire burst from his lips as he spits a curse in the demonic tongue.

You’re still breathing raggedly, choking on each grateful sip of the tepid air.

Samael’s tail coils and lashes as he waits for you to catch your breath before his patience runs thin and he bites out, “Do not make me ask you a third time…” Raising you up to dangle in front of his fiery eyes, he makes sure you meet them. “Did she touch you?”

“N-No!” you finally manage to gasp, watery and weak, thumping at your sternum, “Jesus, not… not like that.”

You shrink as best you can within his fingers as a hot breath washes across your face, averting your attention to the ground beneath him when he spins himself about and sinks down on his haunches, lowering you both onto the bed. The demon’s tail drapes across the silken sheets and a tension he hadn’t yet acknowledged drops from his mighty shoulders.

Mortified at the relief your words lend him, he furrows his brows into a scowl, his eyes fixed on your neck.

“You… lied…”

He blinks at your words, flicking his gaze to your face as a sardonic laugh, devoid of humour, bubbles up and falls out of your mouth. “Of course… you did,” you continue, shaking your head, “Prince of Lies, right? Can’t believe I trusted you…”

It’s an expected remark, but it still hits the demon like a hammer to the chest.

He’d worked damn hard to maintain that tiny little flicker of innocence. To have lost it feels like a devastating blow.

A prince of Hell never apologises, not even to the object of his… concern. But he will at least try to explain himself.

“If I had known what she planned,” Samael begins, carefully lowering you down to his bent knee and settling you onto it as gently as a brute like him ever could, keeping his fingers coiled securely around you lest you try to wriggle free, “I would have tried to stop her.”

You snort sceptically, though you soon cut yourself off with a gasp as the motion sends a shock of burning agony shooting through your nose bone. “Ah! Shit,” you hiss, tugging an arm out from the cage of his fingers and dabbing your own underneath your nostrils, feeling about tentatively for fresh blood.

The most abnormal urge nearly seizes him then, an impulse to bend down and brush his lips tenderly against the skin below your broken nose, using his coarse tongue to wash you clean of blood as he might have done when he first begun courting Lilith, aiming to show her that she’d be well-taken care of should she choose him.

That was, of course, before he discovered how much she abhorred a gentle lover.

Which was a pity. For all his strength and power, Samael rather prides himself on his ability and inclination to remain gentle between the sheets.

Still, he can’t imagine you’ll appreciate the gesture of a cleaning, regardless of his benign intentions.

As swiftly as the urge arrives, he’s beaten it back and sealed it behind a wall of stoic self-restraint.

Perhaps he ought to be less concerned with how you’d react to his courtship, and more concerned with why he’s considering courting a human at all.

A conundrum, he decides, that can wait for another day.

Right now, there’s damage to be undone, not least that which afflicts your nose, eye and neck.

Samael would rather not have you despise him, not after he’s had the fleeting taste of what a cordial rapport with you could feel like…

He begrudgingly finds himself shying away from the term ‘friendship’ because demon lords don’t have friends, especially a lord with his grim and destructive duties.

Absently, he lifts his unoccupied hand up and aims to crook a long, warm finger beneath your chin. His movements pause however, once you catch sight of the claw in your peripheral vision and throw your hands up, catching the tip of his approaching finger before it can come anywhere near your throat.

“Don’t!” you snap, aiming for stern but landing on squeaky.

Samael’s pupils expand to soft, round pits of darkness in a sea of gold as he takes in the miracle of your comparatively tiny hands pushing back against just one of his fingers. A wayward rumble sputters to life in his chest and threatens to travel up his throat where you’re sure to hear it, but with a hard swallow, he smothers the sound of contentment before it can gain traction.

That could have been embarrassing.

He presses his finger closer.

“Don’t touch me!” you reiterate with a particularly hard shove that gets you nowhere.

It’s almost a relief to see the spark of fire behind your eyes. There’s still fight in you. Lilith hadn’t managed to snuff that out either.

“You think I mean to hurt you?” he hums curiously.

Quick as a flash, you retort, “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Hm. He supposes that would be fair… if it were anyone other than yourself.

Scolding eyes flare with dangerous luminosity as they scan across your face, and the damage his former bed mate has left behind like cruel reminders of his failure.

“Contrary to popular belief, I hold very little sway over Lilith’s actions,” he points out, “I did not orchestrate what she’s done to you.”

With a resentful huff, your arms sag and he’s allowed to freely bring his fingertip to your chin, tilting your head back to take some of the pressure off your nose. You’ve been hurt – badly – because of him, which is……

… disquieting.

“Perhaps,” he begins slowly in that bone deep murmur, “You would allow me to amend her transgressions against you.”

Suddenly, you grow very still between his fingers, sitting rigidly as suspicion creeps into your brows. Squinting up at him dubiously, you ask, “Why… would you do that?”

Honesty has never been Samael’s favourite policy, and even now, he avoids answering you directly, instead opting to tell you just a fraction of the truth.

“You were not hers to take,” he growls, the undertones of a possessive prince almost broiling up to the surface. He can see your brow furrow even further as you no doubt try to read his expression in that way humans are so adept at, but Samael won’t allow you to ponder too long.

“Do you know any healers?”

Blinking, you fling your eyebrows up at his unexpected query. “Do I…. I’m sorry? What?”

By way of an explanation, the demon flexes his hand on the bed sheet and flicks his tail, grumbling, “I imagine it won’t surprise you to learn that I’m not well-versed in healing magic… So, if you can think of someone who is, I’ll…”

His statement remains unfinished, hanging like a hushed confession, bright and glaring in the air between you.

He’ll take you where you want to go. All you need to do is ask.

What you can’t figure out is why.

There’s a reason the Horsemen are so wary of Samael, why they were all so agitated when they got you back from him the first time. He’s dangerous. You knew that when he took you, and you still know it now.

What does he have to gain by letting you go?

Peeling your tongue from the roof of your mouth, you decide to ask him as much. “You’re… gonna let me leave?” Though you tremble in his grasp, you manage to jut your chin out at him in what little defiance you dare to show.

Samael has always privately commended you for your courage, or at least, your ability to pretend that you’re brave. He knows you’re afraid of him.

Wise. And yet, ironically, you’re perhaps the sole human in existence who has the least reason to fear him.

His great, horned head dips slightly and you don’t miss the throaty hum that sounds far too much like a purr to suit such a brute.

“If that is your wish,” he breathes across your face, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

His gargantuan face looms even closer, unblinking, yellow eyes peering into your own with unnerving scrutiny that renders you suddenly and painfully shy, enough that you drop your gaze to the massive expanse of scarred flesh that stretches over his chest.

“I… don’t need a healer,” you mutter, “I just want to go home. Please?”

‘Please.’

How could he refuse you when you continue to be so genial with him, despite your pain, despite being back here in this dreary place? He’s never been granted kindness so freely before - kindness without an ulterior motive hidden behind it like the blade beneath a matador’s cape.

You are… an interesting change to the monotony of his gloomy existence.

It isn’t a change he doesn’t intend to lose.

While he’d much prefer to keep you in his fortress a little longer and let your laughter and stories chase away the lonely shadows, Samael’s pragmatic side reminds him resolutely that it would be far more beneficial in the long run to return you to your true home on Earth before the Horseman come kicking his door down.

The demon’s nostrils widen and close as he draws in a long, lazy breath, inhaling the soft scent of your shampoo that sits just below the smell of blood�� You must have bathed only a few hours before Lilith took you...

If home is where you want to be, then that’s where he’ll take you.

“Very well,” he announces, raising his unoccupied hand and turning his palm to face the wall nearby.

He doesn’t need to look at your face to know it’s fallen slack with shock. Apparently, his easy acquiescence wasn’t expected.

Smirking to himself, he concentrates on pulling the threads of the Universe apart at their seams to create a hole – a doorway.

Deep in the depths of his mind, an image of your house emerges – your second house, the one the Horsemen had hurriedly moved you into because they thought the old one was compromised with his knowledge of it.

He latches onto the image fast, feeding powerful and ancient magics into the tips of his fingers, sensing the air around him grow hot and charged with energy.

After another moment of letting his magic build, he finally releases it in a rush.

The portal swirls into life right in front of him. One moment, there was nothing, and the next, a large, glassy surface ripples and hums gently on the opposite side of the room, beyond it, the unmoving image of your den beckons.

The change in you is immediate.

“That- that’s my house!” you exclaim in disbelief, leaning forwards over the demon’s thumb to stare gobsmacked at the view beyond the portal.

Flicking his gaze down at you, Samael grants himself the luxury of a rare, genuine smile.

By the time you twist around in his grasp to peer up at him, his usual frown is back in place.

“Shall we?” he asks.

-----------

“Samael?”

“Mm?”

“How’d you know they moved me here?”

All at once, the demon’s long tail ceases to drag itself back and forth across the plush carpet of your bedroom, plunging everything into a heavy silence.

He doesn’t turn to face you, though he can feel your eyes drilling a hole into the back of his skull.

Samael’s own gaze stays adhered to the little bookcase that sits proudly in the corner of your room, its shelves filled to bursting with dog-eared tomes and well-loved stories you couldn’t part with for all the world.

He should have known you wouldn’t miss such a glaringly obvious detail.

The Horsemen had moved you to a new house a little further out from Haven’s suburbs after they got you back from Shadow’s Edge last month. It was laughably easy for your former captor to track you down again – solely for the purpose of keeping a watchful eye on you, of course…. Though look at the good that had done, in the end…

Still, for once, he doesn’t think it’ll make much difference if you know the truth.

“I’ve been watching you,” he hums casually, swinging his clawed hands behind his back, clasping them together just below the juncture of his wings. As he starts to haul his body around to face you, the tips of his spiralling horns scape the ceiling, forcing him to duck his head a little to spare the plaster.

He’d asked, upon setting foot inside for the first time, why it seemed a place more adequately suited to accommodate a maker than a human. It came as little surprise for him to learn that it was, in fact, makers who built the place, and it had been at your own request that they fashioned a home that could easily fit all manner of guests, regardless of their size or species. All of your usual amenities – your bed, your kitchen, are perfectly suited for human use. But the ceilings, doorways and even the windows are grand enough that even Samael can move almost entirely freely inside without having to bend-double to avoid piercing the ceiling with his horns and leathery wings.

Once he’s turned towards the sound of your voice, he has to suppress a smirk at what he sees.

You’ve just emerged from your adjoining washroom, face clean of blood and dressed in a new set of fluffy, blue sleep clothes. In addition to your fresh ensemble, you’ve slapped a bag of frozen vegetables over your bad eye, apparently to relieve the swelling, or so you claim.

And yet, despite the amusing state of dress, you somehow still find it in you to look downright affronted.

“You’ve been watching me?” you echo accusingly, taking a bold step across the room towards him before you seem to think better of squaring up to a prince of Hell and halting in your tracks, “What, it isn’t bad enough you kidnapped me, now you’re keeping tabs on me too?”

A look of abject horror passes across your visible eye and you hasten to glance at each corner of your room as if you’re going to find something heinous lurking in the shadows. “Oh god, have you bugged the whole place?”

Samael hasn’t heard the term, but he can connect the dots.

“I can assure you,” he says, “I have only caught the occasional glimpse of your home from the outside…”

A half-truth. Those ‘occasional glimpses’ had turned into hours of lounging on his throne whilst gazing through a window into your world as you pottered around it. When the weather was fair, he’d see you in the allotment beside the house.

He found it restful to watch you go about your tasks, digging your trowel into the soil, gasping in delight if a bird were to land on the fence nearby.

You’re his own little taste of nepenthe.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” you huff, pulling the bag of vegetables away with a grimace, “God… why are you even… Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Watching me!” you wheeze, throwing a hand up in exasperation.

You may have gulped down a couple of painkillers the moment you got back, but straining your voice still twinges your damaged neck. “Why bother!? I’m not a threat to you! Or are you just keeping an eye on me because you plan to steal me again?”

Admittedly, he’s been tempted to do just that several times, but each time, he’s refrained, if not to spare himself from the Horsemen’s wrath, then to keep himself as endeared to you as possible.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he hums.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You stare him down for several seconds through one, narrowed eye, when all of a sudden, your face breaks apart into a wide yawn that seems to catch you wildly off guard.

Throwing a hand up to cover your gaping mouth from view, you half turn from the demon, fighting off the uninvited wave of fatigue.

With the grace of a predator but not the intent of one, Samael pads towards you over the carpeted floor. “You’re exhausted,” he remarks coolly.

Giving your head a rough shake, you sigh and grumble, “Yeah, well… It’s been a long night…”

His encompassing shadow falls across you, blocking out the light from the fixture overhead. Whipping your head around, you glance up and blanch upon realising he’s crept close enough to snatch you.

However, rather than make a move to sweep you off your feet, Samael only flicks a pointed glance down at your cozy, inviting bed. “You should rest.”

“I’ll rest when you’re gone,” you retort, crossing your arms.

‘Fine,’ he snorts to himself. And that’s when he finally makes a move.

All at once, you’re sent stumbling backwards towards the bed as he drops onto his large hands with a thud and begins to prowl towards you like a wolf stalking a doe.

“Woah! Hey!” you bleat, all bravado vanishing in an instant, “What’re you doing!? Stop that!”

The backs of your knees hit the bed and you tumble backwards onto it, dropping the vegetable bag in the process as you scramble to pull yourself upright again, raising your legs off the ground and retreating towards the headboard.

“Perhaps…” Samael growls – or does he purr? “… I am not yet ready to leave…”

He lays one, colossal paw on top of the mattress.

The bed groans suddenly under his weight as he pulls his upper body onto it and begins to settle down amongst the crumpled duvet. Letting out a rumble of contentment, he folds his arms beneath his chin and slumps heavily onto the mattress, causing the springs below you to buckle and screech in protest while he merely gives you a lazy blink.

The sight is so strikingly familiar, you feel the fear drain out of you with a whoosh.

‘Son of a bitch…’ you gripe to yourself, ‘The overgrown lizard’s just getting comfortable for story time…’

Slowly, your brows ease into a flat, unimpressed frown. “Are you serious? Right now?”

Samael only offers a warm chuff and sticks his nose into your heaped duvet, drawing a massive lungful of your smell into his airways.

‘Ah…. There you are…’ he muses.

It seems you’re the only one to have slept here, which he’s glad for. The sheets don’t stink of another’s flesh, nor can he detect the scent of sex…

The prince’s pleased hum is powerful enough to rattle the bed knobs against the wall.

“Don’t you dare start getting comfortable,” your voice pipes up warningly, and he drags a half-lidded eye up to meet your defiant glare.

“I’d like to go to bed,” you forge on, “And I’m not your prisoner anymore. I don’t have to tell you another story for as long as I live.”

You know this routine of his all too well.

When he’d held you captive, he’d often crawl up onto that gigantic bed and drape himself across it whilst you lay in your little corner beneath the silk sheets with his chin resting near your feet. For hours, he’d laze there like a massive, deadly lion, his tail flicking idly as he listened to the stories you’d spin for him, those you could remember from books you read and retained as a child.

You never thought, for one minute, that he’d want to continue that practice outside of his fortress walls.

“I mean it,” you hiss, shoving your legs under the covers and prodding his heavy arm with your toes, as if you might be able to nudge him off the bed, “Thank you for bringing me back, but I am still in a lot of pain, and I’m not in the mood to entertain you tonight.”

Blinking his luminous eyes at you slowly, Samael disregards your protests and utters, “You never finished your tale of the little monarchs by the creek…”

Something in your expression shifts at that, a mote of surprise soothing the wrinkle of your brows.

“You… you remember the Bridge to Terebithia?”

It was the last story you tried to tell him, recounted from memory on the night the Horsemen finally tore the doors down to save you.

“I remember every one of your stories,” he thrums deeply.

“Well… They’re not mine,” you point out, “I just told you what I could remember of the books I used to read…”

“Will you indulge me, little storyteller?” he presses, cocking his horned head sideways until his cheekbone rests upon a broad, scaly forearm, “The tale intrigued me. I’d like to hear how it ends.”

It’s selfish of him to do this, to stay when you’re in dire need of rest… but once the Horsemen see your injuries and inevitably convince you to tell them what happened to you, he anticipates that he won’t be seeing hide nor hair of you for a long, long time. If Death is sensible, he’ll take you off-world and stash you somewhere even Samael can’t reach you. Maybe to that family of makers you’re always gabbing on about.

This moment here and now may well be the last chance he has to speak with you until you persuade the Four to return you to your home on Earth.

“Tell you what,” you grumble, taking him off guard by kicking away the covers and sliding your legs over the side of the bed, “You can read what happens for yourself. I’ve got the book right here.”

The demon raises his head, watching as you cross the room to your bookcase. Drawing to a halt in front of it, you run a finger delicately along the collection of spines before you eventually stop and dig out a book that’s nestled snugly between a pair of thick, glossy tomes.

Flicking this pointed ears forwards, the prince chuffs softly in his throat - a sound born of instinct intended to call you back to the nest. He barely even registers having uttered it.

Soon enough, you’re slipping back underneath your duvet and retrieving the bag of not-so-frozen vegetables, pressing them tenderly to your eye once again.

As Samael lays his head back down, you toss the book across the bed where it lands with a dull thwack beside his chin.

“There,” you huff, sagging backwards into the pillows, “Happy?”

You nearly let out a loud groan when the book is promptly nudged back towards you with the tip of his forefinger.

“Oh, come on, big guy,” you complain, oblivious to how the impromptu nickname sends a spark of interest shooting up the demon’s spine.

“I want you to read to me,” he sighs and settles down again, allowing his eyelids to droop halfway shut, his pupils blown wide like black holes in a thin ring of gold.

“Ugh!” Exasperated, yet more than aware that the prince isn’t one to take no for an answer, you snatch the book off the duvet and start thumbing irritably through its pages. “Why do I have to be the one to read it?”

Your fingers pause briefly, however, when Samael shifts and a warm, solid knuckle suddenly alights upon your arm.

The breath catches in your throat. You hardly dare move. Frozen, you dart a glance down to see his colossal, red hand hovering beside you, the back of his forefinger stroking a gentle line down the bare skin of your shoulder.

His voice reverberates up through the bed, deeper than the purr of a motorcar.

“I like the sound of your voice,” he utters.

The words fall softly, like a prayer sliding off a sinner’s lips.

Hesitant, your gaze moves up to his cragged face and you have to swallow a gasp, admittedly startled by the look you’re receiving.

Why is he staring at me like that?

The demon’s knuckle rolls up to the top of your shoulder again, sending the hairs along your arms standing to attention.

He’s watching you closely through hooded eyes, his smile lopsided and his pupils abnormally large and round and...

Oh dear.

Oh dear, this… could be bad.

Perhaps it’s just your imagination, but… It might explain the gentle looks, the lingering stares, the rage in his eyes when he took in your bloodied face in the throne room… It would definitely explain why he’s still here in your room, and the slow stroke of his knuckle up and down your arm.

You don’t want to even entertain such a foolish notion.

‘I like the sound of your voice.’

Your stomach twists itself into anxious knots as you start to wonder if Samael likes more than just your voice…

Wetting your dry lips, you try to give your arm a slight shrug under the guise of opening the book, conveniently shifting backwards closer to the wall and pulling away from his tender strokes.

“Um, in that case, you’ll have to remind me where I left off…” you manage to eke out, clearing your throat.

If the prince of Hell is stung by your subtle rejection, he makes no mention of it, though his pupils shrink by a fraction as he lays his palm down on the mattress beside you, exhaling warmly across your face.

“The young human… Jess,” he mumbles into the scales on his arm, “He had just returned from the gallery with his tutor…”

Good memory.

“Yes,” you reply quietly, “Yes, that’s right.”

Trying desperately to ignore how suddenly suffocating the demon’s proximity has become, you prop the book up in your lap and start to read.

-------

“The boy was right.”

You startle awake from a light doze, jerking upright on your pillows with an undignified grunt.

‘Did I fall asleep?’

The book sits open in your lap, held loosely between limp fingers.

And Samael is-

You have to resist the urge to kick out your legs when you raise your eyes to find his colossal face resting peacefully between your parted knees. You’ve never been more thankful that you’d put your legs under the covers earlier, though suddenly the duvet doesn’t feel like such an adequate barrier against monsters as it used to be when you were young.

“Huh?” you blurt eloquently, still in the clutches of sleepiness.

Two walls of flesh shift on either side of you, and it’s only then that you realise you’ve been more or less surrounded on all fronts.

A pair of thick, muscle-bound arms are curled loosely on the bed to your left and right, close enough that you can feel the demon’s preternatural heat radiating off his skin. To your back is the bedroom wall, while ahead of you lays Samael’s red, rough-hewn face. The black horns jutting from his chin create deep divots in the mattress where they’re pressed.

“The boy,” he repeats, prying an eyelid apart and casting a yellow glow over your face, “He was right. She should not have trusted that rope.”

Oh… Right. The story…

Raising your hand, you nearly pinch the bridge of your nose before a painful throb reminds you not to do that. You’ll have to take some more painkillers soon…

Emitting a sleepy hum, you flop back down amongst the pillows and give a rough exhale. “Wasn’t the rope’s fault it snapped.”

“… Her caretakers did not blame him.”

Ugh. If this is going to turn into another long-winded discussion like the Rainbow Fish….

“Of course they didn’t,” you sigh, tilting your chin down to meet his gaze, “It wasn’t Jess’s fault either.”

“But he could have prevented her death.”

Samael’s probing insistence drags you a little further into the waking world and you start to sit up, propping your weight on your elbows to squint at him.

The demon’s face is like stone, hard and cold. “He could have asked her to accompany him,” he adds in a growl, “But his selfish infatuation with the older human kept him from doing so.”

A gentle frown tugs at your brows. “Jess wasn’t to know what would happen,” you point out, wondering why Samael seems so fixated on the matter.

Lifting his chin off the bed, his nostrils flare and his eyes flick down to the bruises on your neck, staring at them unblinkingly as he retorts, “He knew the rope was untrustworthy. He could have kept her away from it.”

“Well… Sure but… then it wouldn’t have been such an effective story.”

“Mph,” he grumbles, scowling at the wall behind your head, “I seem to recall telling you that I prefer stories with happy endings…”

You chew on that for a minute before closing your eye and offering him a drowsy shrug. “Good stories don’t always have to have a happy ending,” you tell him, your voice thick with fatigue, “Happy endings are nice, but it’s important that we’re told stories that… you know, like, challenge our morals and stuff.”

“… Go on,” he nudges when you fall silent.

Heaving a sigh, you whine, “I don’t know. I am way too tired to be having in-depth discussions like this at the crack of dawn.”

“Why read stories of tragedy and death? The tale only upset you.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper in exasperation, resigning yourself to the conversation, “I guess, because… if all we’re consuming is clean and good and happy, then when bad stuff does inevitably happen to us, I don’t think we’re ever really prepared for it. If that even makes sense.”

Samael’s lips quirk up at their corners, and he slides his gaze down to you again. “The way your mind works never fails to intrigue me.”

“Pft, it’s not working much at all at the moment,” you huff.

He hadn’t realised before meeting you, that this is what his relationships had always lacked. This is what he’s been missing.

Dialogue.

Nothing more than that. The simplest thing of all.

This sleepy conversation with you is ten thousand times more preferable to the cold, empty silences that would stretch across the massive void of bedsheets between he and Lilith.

His smile fades slowly as he finds himself drawn, as ever, to the band of bruises around your neck.

He knew not to trust Lilith. He should have kept you away from her. But he didn’t.

“The boy,” he murmurs deeply into the quiet of your room, “Do you suppose he was right to blame himself for what happened to her?”

“Right?” Humming, you lean back on one arm and exhale a slow breath. “No… Not right. Normal, though? Yeah. I reckon it’s normal that he’d blame himself. I think most people would do the same in his shoes.”

“Does that not then make them right?” he puts, “If that is the general consensus? To blame oneself?”

After a longer pause, you eventually shake your head and reply, “No.” Then, parting your jaw in another wide and toothy yawn, you add, “It just makes them human.”

Human…

How can blaming himself for what Lilith did to you make him like a human?

Hmm… While not the feel-good ending he’d been hoping for, it wasn’t necessarily a bad one either, and once again, whether knowingly or not, you’ve given him much to ponder over. He plans to do just that while you sleep. Already, those dainty eyelashes are fluttering against your cheeks as your head droops, exhaustion proving a fierce adversary on this long night.

Perhaps it’s time he let you rest. Of course, that doesn’t mean he’ll be leaving your side just yet.

Tyrants are seldom granted solace. Most would argue that they don’t deserve it.

Ironic, that it almost feels sacrilegious for Samael to be laying here on your bed with his mouth resting a mere foot from the most confidential part of you, and doing nothing but talking to you in soft, dulcet tones. Talking… it’s more intimate than the depravities he’s performed with his former mistress.

How laughable.

It’s inevitable, then, that the prince’s wonderous moment of peace should be so rudely shattered by the dull thud of a door closing downstairs.

Samael’s head shoots off the mattress with a snarl so quickly that it startles a yelp out of you.

Heavy footfalls – too heavy to belong to any human – pause in the room directly below your own. Then, all at once, there’s the unsettling sound of them starting up again at a far more urgent pace.

Your yelp hadn’t gone unnoticed.

The demon’s tail twitches irritably as he glares hard at the door.

… Just when he was really getting comfortable…

“War…”

The name whispered breathlessly from your lips draws Samael’s focus back down to you, silencing the growl in his throat. You’re staring at the bedroom door, brows screwed together in worry.

For the Horseman? Or for him?

Somewhere a few rooms away, metal boots begin to thunder up a flight of stairs.

Samael parts his lips and flicks a hot, red tongue over his canine, lowering his gaze to your exposed neck. He knows he has to leave. He isn’t about to let your night be ruined by a brawl in the middle of your bedroom. But… there’s one last thing he’s compelled to do.

Demons don’t apologise.

Not aloud, anyway.

Trapped below his bulk by enormous arms, you tear your eyes from the door and shakily raise them to his, swallowing a thick lump of apprehension that sends a dull ache through your bruises.

You don’t like the way he’s suddenly staring at your throat, the points of his fangs gleaming out from behind barely parted lips.

He looks agitated.

He looks hungry.

Your heartbeat steadily begins to reascend the mountain it had worked so hard to climb down from.

“Samael?” you peep.

The footsteps are on your landing now, shaking the foundations of your home with their weight.

Towering high above you, the demon’s fiery eyes flash with intent, like a predator tensing to pounce.

You aren’t even given a second to admonish yourself for letting your guard down before that mouthful of wicked, sharp teeth lunges for your neck, stealing a final cry of alarm.

It’s instinctive when you throw your head up and to the side so as to avoid having to see the enormous fangs flying in your direction.

You brace for agony.

However, what you feel instead is the furthest thing from it.

… The gentlest press of rough, warm lips lands upon the column of your throat, directly over the purpling bruises stained into the flesh.

Your good eye wrenches itself open like a shot.

You’re too stunned to turn your head, and your chest feels tight with the breath you’re keeping trapped inside it, afraid of what the slightest exhale might provoke.

The corner of your vision is almost entirely swallowed up by Samael’s head and horns. His flared nostrils glow with internal fire as he puffs swathes of hot air across your jaw, whilst the scratch of his lips tickles your skin when they seal together into a tender kiss just below your bobbing gorge - far too tender and painless to be given by a demon, let alone one of his size and reputation.

Up until now, you might have been able to convince yourself that the prince’s attentions had been born of mere curiosity.

Now though? The hope that you’ve just been misinterpreting his advances flies out of the proverbial window.

Samael, prince of Hell, Head of Satans and Chief of Devils… is placing a kiss on your bruised throat so gently that the only coherent thought flashing through your brain is that you must still be dreaming.

A resounding ‘boom’ alerts you to your bedroom door being kicked viciously off its hinges and the clank of metal announces War’s entrance.

The unswollen eye in your head swivels away from Samael and for one, damning moment, your fearful gaze locks onto the wild, infuriated blue shining out from beneath your Horseman’s crimson hood.

"Something to remember me by..."

The single lap of a scorching tongue coaxes a gasp from you when it eases over your bruised neck, and then, in a flash of fire that sends you screwing your eye shut against the intruding light, the pressure on your throat, and the weight on top of your bed vanishes, as if a demon prince had never been there at all.

[santoschristos]

I beheld a great wonder in heaven, a woman clothed with the Sun, with the Moon at her feet. And on her head was a diadem of the twelve stars.

Hear me, O Lady Isis, hear and save.

O thou queen of love and mercy, thou crowned with the throne, thou hauled as with the Moon.

Thou whose countenance is mild and glowing, even as grass refreshed by rain.

Hear me, our Lady Isis, hear and save.

O thou who art in matter manifest.

Thou bride and queen as thou art mother and daughter of the Slain One.

O thou who art the Lady of the Earth.

Hear me, O Lady Isis, hear and save.

O thou Lady of the amber skin.

Lady of love and of victory, bright gate of glory through the darkening skies.

O crowned with the Light and life and love.

Hear me, our Lady, hear and save by thy sacred flower, the Lotus of eternal life and beauty; by thy love and mercy; by thy wrath and vengeance; by my desire toward thee, by all the magical names of old hear me, O Lady, hear and save.

Open thy bosom to thy child, stretch forth thy arms and strain me to thy breasts. Let my lips touch thy lips ineffable.

Hear me, O Lady Isis, hear and save.

Lift up thy voice to aid me in this critical hour.

Lift up thy voice most musical.

Cry aloud, O queen and mother, to save me from that I fear most.

I invoke thee to initiate my soul.

The whirling of my dance, may it be a spell and a link with thy great light, so that in the darkest hour, the Light may arise in me and bring me to thine own glory and incorruptibility.

Isis am I, and from my life are fed all showers and suns, all moons that wax and wane, all stars and streams, the living and the dead, the mystery of pleasure and of pain.

I am the Mother. I the speaking sea. I am the Earth in its fertility. Life, death, love, hatred, light, darkness, return to me, to me.

Isis am I, and to my beauty draw.

All glories of the Universe bow down, the blossom and the mountain and the dawn. Fruits blush and women are creations crowned. I am the priest, the sacrifice, the shrine. I am the love and life of the Divine.

Life, death, love, hatred, light, darkness, are surely mine, are mine. Isis am I, the love and light of Earth, the wealth of kisses, the delight of tears, the bowel and pleasure never come to birth, the endless infinite desire of years. I am the shrine at which thy long desire devoured thee with intolerable fire. I was sung music, passion, death upon thy lyre, thy lyre. I am the grail and I the glory now. I am the flame and fueler of thy breath. I am the star of God upon thy brow. I am thy queen enraptured and possessed.

High do these sweet rivers welcome to the sea, ocean of love that shall encompass thee.

Life, death, love, hatred, light, darkness, return to me, to me.

Hear, Lady Isis, and receive my prayer.

Thee, thee I worship and invoke.

Hail to thee, sole mother of my life.

I am Isis, mistress of the whole land. I was instructed by Hermes, and with Hermes I invented the writings of the nations in order that not all should write with the same letters. I gave mankind their laws, and ordained what no one can alter. I am the eldest daughter of Kronos. I am the wife and sister of the king Osiris. I am she who rises in the dog star. I am she who is called the goddess of women. I am she who separated the heaven from the earth. I have pointed out their paths to the star. I have invented seamanship. I have brought together men and women. I have ordained that the elders shall be beloved by the children.

With my brother Osiris I made an end of cannibalism. I have instructed mankind in the mysteries. I have taught reverence of the divine statues. I have established the Temple precincts. I have overthrown the dominion of the tyrants. I have caused men to love women. I have made justice more powerful than silver and gold. I have caused truth to be considered beautiful.

Come unto me and pledge unto me your loyalties as I pledge mine unto you.

Oh mother Isis, great art thou in thy splendor, mighty is thy name and thy love has no bounds.

Thou art Isis, who art all that ever was, and all that there is to be, for no mortal man hath ever unveiled thee. In all thy grace thou has brought forth the sun, the fruit that was born forth for the redemption of man.

Oh Isis, Isis, Isis, graciously hear our cry unto thee, we mourn for thy blessings on us this day, every day, to nourish, to aid and to fill the emptiness within, that only you our beloved mother can satiate. Unto thee do we pledge our solemn oath of dedication, and for the power and glory of him the Unknowable One to witness our devotion to thee. For as we now receive thee into our hearts, we ask that you never leave us, in times of trial and joy, and even unto death."

art: Goddess Isis - Mistress of Magick Jewel of the Nile

[anthurak]

Random Old Theories/Headcannons: Wyrd RWBY

So those who have been following me for the last few years might recall that prior to us actually knowing anything about Volume 9, some of my theory posts touched on Team RWBY returning to Remnant changed by their time in this mystical realm beyond their own, wielding weird and strange powers.

Anyway, this is a WIP from a couple years back that went into some fun ideas for these changes for ‘Wyrd RWBY’ that I thought I’d touch up and finally post.

Enjoy XD

---

Yang doesn’t seem much different at first. Just that her hair seems to be a bit wavier than before, like she’s using her semblance all the time now. And the air around her always seems to be at least a few degrees warmer. But then you start noticing other things. Like how sometimes her right arm isn’t made of metal and circuits but instead wreathed in some kind of tangible flame. Or how the fingernails on Yang’s left arm now look more like claws. Or how when Yang’s eyes turn red, they now also become slitted like the eyes of a lizard. Or the golden flakes that now dot Yang’s exposed skin. Flakes that will sometimes spread. Sometimes they spread so much they look more like golden scales. Yang always laughs this off. Which is also when you can see that her teeth are quite a bit larger, and sharper than you remember.

Blake herself isn’t the one who seems different at first. It’s her shadow. Like how it often moves independent of Blake. Or is somehow able to grab things for Blake. Sometimes you’ll see Blake’s shadow moving along a wall with Blake herself nowhere in sight. Sometimes Blake’s shadow won’t look like Blake at all, but rather some manner of very large cat. And sometimes you’ll see a large black cat wandering the back allies with the shadow of a person.

Weiss… where to begin with Weiss? First off, you wouldn’t expect a girl like Weiss to be into tattoos, but now Weiss seems to be covered in them. On almost every bit of visible skin, Weiss has these strange, arcane symbols, glyphs and runes. They tend to glow whenever Weiss uses her semblance. Speaking of which, you know that the Schnee semblance is versatile to say the least, but you’re pretty sure they at least needed to dust to do some of their crazier feats.

What Weiss is doing feels less like a semblance and more like actual magic.

Then there’s Weiss’s Grimm. Not Grimm like everyone knows. No one would mistake these creatures for the Grimm that humanity fears. With their bodies and fur the color of freshly fallen snow and icy blue eyes. You’ve seen Winter and Willow Schnee summon ‘white’ Grimm before, but the creatures that Weiss calls to her side seem so much more tangible. Not some construct of aura that will vanish as soon as its mistress stops focusing on it, but something REAL. And there’s always at least one or two with Weiss wherever she goes, sometimes more.

And Ruby? Well, let’s just say the fact that she somehow has wolf ears and an eye-patch are probably the least weird things about her now.

Like how her silver eyes were always unique, but now it seems they often glint and shimmer and otherwise catch the light in ways eyes don’t. Even when there isn’t any light for them to catch…

Ruby also uses her semblance more. A lot more. As in, unless she’s accompanying someone else, you can expect her to enter a room not through a door, but via a trickle of rose-petals blowing in through an open window. Or a vent. Or just appearing out of basically nowhere.

In fact, it seems like there are always a few petals flaking off of Ruby’s cloak, only to vanish before they even hit the ground.

And it feels like any time Ruby might be struck or otherwise injured, her semblance will activate.

You remember one time when Nora tried to give Ruby an affectionate punch to the arm, only for her fist to travel through the arm as it suddenly burst into petals before reforming a moment later.

Come to think of it, you’re pretty sure you haven’t seen anyone actually TOUCH Ruby. Aside from her teammates…

Speaking of which, Team RWBY together brings even more strangeness.

Like how they’ll sometimes speak amongst themselves in a strange language that sounds more like a whistling breeze or a crackling flame than anything someone might actually speak with.

Or how they will sometimes move and act together without need for words at all. And that’s just the least of it…

Like you’re pretty sure you’ve seen Blake’s golden eyes flash just a bit when Yang uses her semblance. Or Yang’s violet eyes shimmer when Blake uses hers. Or how Yang’s semblance now creates a fiery, shadow-like afterimage of herself that looks a bit more like Blake than her. Or times when Blake will gain some sudden burst of strength while fighting that causes her hair to start flickering like a flame.

Meanwhile you’re pretty sure you’ve seen some of Weiss’s runic tattoos briefly appear on Ruby’s skin, or the edges of Weiss’s hair briefly turn red. And there was that one time Ruby and Weiss went out to save a group of incoming refugees being attacked by a horde of grimm, yet those same refugees swear they were saved by a mysterious woman in red and white.

Oh, and there’s also Ruby’s new pet mouse who actually seems pretty normal. Aside from the fact that some people are saying the mouse talks.

But that’s just silly!

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Semper Eadem (V, ao3)

Chapter five: As the pageant nears its end, there are fireworks all around as Nesta and Cassian find themselves on the same page at last.

(The final chapter of Elizabethan!Nessian is here and posted for @nestaarcheronweek free day, which is incredibly fitting as chapter one was posted for Nesta Week last year 🥹 thank you to all of you who have put up with my ridiculous Elizabethan ramblings over the past year, and rest assured this will absolutely not be my last historical AU ���️)

(Chapter one // chapter two // chapter three // chapter four)

The sea was a cruel mistress indeed, Cassian thought as he dragged his fingers, idle, through his bath water— but not half so cruel as Nesta Archeron. 

After the trumpets and the fanfares of the Queen’s hunt had subsided, she had left him at the castle gates with naught but a parting smile tossed over her shoulder— one that had cut clean through his heart like a silver-tipped arrow. Cassian was no stranger to feeling at sea, to feeling the waves tip the world beneath his feet, but nothing could have prepared him for this; for the way his bones seemed hollow whenever she was near. Indeed, there was no storm or tempest that the seas could boast that could have had the breath in his chest failing quite like it had as she rode away. No sea sickness compared to this— to the way that just one look from her had him so consumed that the rest of the world simply ceased to be. 

And just as each ship’s captain must ultimately yield to the almighty power of the sea, so too would Cassian surrender everything he was to her— ready and willing to lay himself bare afore a force too great for any mortal man to withstand.

Love.

A wry smile tugged at his lips as he watched the water shift around him, because yes— he loved her.

It was no false declaration, no game of affection, that had him feeling this way. In his bones he knew that Nesta Archeron was the only woman in the world for him, and as he watched each current and small wave lick against the wooden sides of the bathtub that had been hauled to his chamber and set before the hearth, he recalled the words that had set his world on fire.

I suppose, then, that you can be forgiven for ignoring my letters.

He hadn’t realised how desperate he had been to hear her say them until they had left her mouth. Until he was left on his knees, mouth agape, watching her as she rode away. And now the flickering flames housed in the stone hearth reflected and danced in the depths of the small tub, and as the glow glanced off the warm and fragrant water, Cassian watched as the dust and dried mud were lifted from his skin, marvelling at how much had changed over the course of a few hours— and how much every inch of that freshly cleansed skin now yearned for her touch more than ever before. 

That’s not how I imagined you asking me to undress, he had drawled, but the bravado had been so false that his chest had felt tight. Not that Nesta had seemed to notice, but God— he didn’t think it was dramatic of him to admit that he’d been thinking of her divesting him of his clothes for months now, and though his fingers had been steady on the laces when Nesta had demanded he remove his shirt, his heartbeat had trembled, quivering like the plucked string of a musicians lute.

And he hadn’t missed how those tempest-blue eyes of hers had widened, dragging over his chest and dipping lower. A blush had stolen across her cheeks, beautiful beneath the dappled sunlight, and he had known - known - that whatever it was she had begun to contemplate, it was a thought far from befitting one of the Queen’s ladies.

The thought brought an easy grin to his face, a lightness to his chest.

Deep in the woods, Nesta Archeron had been almost as undone as he.

He might have lost the race with Eris, but he had won something far greater, and he allowed the thought to bolster him as he reclined in the water, allowing the heat and memory both to soothe his aches as best they could. At his back, a linen sheet lined the tub and prevented the wooden surface from giving him splinters, and as the warmth bade his sore muscles relax, he thanked the Lord for small comforts. One of the maids had even scattered lavender in the bathwater, giving the whole chamber a delicate fragrance that reminded him of the heather that grew by the northern borders; the lands he might have once called home.

Not that he hadn’t grown accustomed to discomfort. Months on a ship had calloused his palms and blistered his knuckles, and he was all too used to the feel of coarse rope winding around his hands, burning as it slipped through his fingers.

It all felt rather inconsequential, now.

Lifting his hands from the water, he watched the rivulets trace a path across hands scarred and marked by months at sea, and he thought suddenly that he didn’t want those hands to feel only the hilt of a sword or the bite of a rope anymore.

He wanted to feel her.

Wanted nothing but her skin beneath his palms for the rest of his life.

Her fingers had trailed lightly across his ribs, and in that moment Cassian had known that he would do anything to feel that touch again. He could have sworn he had died and ascended straight to Heaven, and if that made him heathen then so be it. The only altar he wanted to worship at was hers, anyway.

I forgive you.

Her words drifted back to him once more, just as precious to him as every jewel in the Queen’s crown, and just as glittering, too. Cassian had done nothing but stare after her as she had left, trying to find even a scrap composure, and once he’d risen from the mud and followed her - because he’d follow her anywhere - they had rejoined the royal party, where Nesta slipped away back to the Queen’s side, like nothing had happened between them at all.

But still Cassian felt the ghost of her touch lingering on his chest, her fingers skimming his ribs.

And when they returned to the castle, Nesta had reached the gates and turned back, searching for him in the line of courtiers trailing behind the Queen. When she found him in the crowd, she had smiled.

He always stopped breathing when she smiled.

The memory of it was the only thing that stopped him sinking back down into his bath and letting the heat seep into his bruised bones. He couldn’t linger— Nesta would be waiting, and the prospect of being on the receiving end of one of her smiles - or, indeed, one of her scowls - had Cassian rising swiftly from his bath, leaving ribbons of lavender-scented water behind as he reached for a towel. 

There was to be a grand banquet this evening. Fireworks, too. And if Cassian played his cards just right…

He smirked to himself as he eyed the doublet already laid out on his bed for the occasion. Crafted of a deep red velvet with blackwork embroidery at the edges, it was the most expensive thing he owned, the most courtly attire he could boast, and since he fully intended to get down on his knees for Nesta Archeron, he figured he ought to dress for the occasion. 

He added a small ruff around his neck as he dressed, one that peeked only barely from the edge of his collar. The starched lace brushed lightly against the skin of his neck, and as he ran his fingers through his hair to tame it, he pulled gently at the pearl hanging from his earlobe. Even dressed in so much finery, Cassian rolled the pearl between his thumb and forefinger and couldn’t help but feel that something was missing. 

His eyes landed on the ribbon lying on a table before the window, where he had left it before taking his bath.

Is that— my ribbon?

Nesta’s voice came back to him, and Cassian snorted at the memory before taking up the sky-blue ribbon and tying it around his wrist. It sat so smoothly against his skin, the blue satin shining against the dark skin marked by scars, proof of a life spent with a sword in hand. Softly, he brushed his finger along the length of that ribbon, and felt his heart swell behind his ribs.

It had never been just a ribbon.

Not to him.

His eyes shifted back to the table, catching on the box he’d set out beside Nesta’s ribbon. It was a small thing, wooden and lined with velvet to nestle the treasure inside. He didn’t need to open it to know— he’d already done so a thousand times, ever since he’d walked out of a jewellers in Portsmouth bearing it in his hands. What lay inside that box had cost him a small fortune, but it didn’t matter. Every gold mark that had ever crossed his palm was worthless to him now anyway. Months spent plundering the seas might have filled his coffers, but it wasn’t stolen coin that had made him rich. 

He reached for the box now, dragging a thumb along the seam. 

Flicking the lid open revealed a pendant of solid gold cushioned in the velvet, polished and shining like a beacon against the darkness of its wrappings. Crafted in the shape of a heart and studded with garnets that winked up at him as he traced a finger over the intricate pattern carved into its surface, the necklace was a thing of unparalleled beauty. 

Well, Cassian thought as he paused to imagine the neck he planned to hang such a necklace around— the woman the jewel had belonged to ever since he’d bought it, even if he’d yet to gift it her. Almost unparalleled. 

Suspended on a golden chain crafted of delicate links, a Tudor rose bloomed across the precious pendant, carved in fine lines and inlaid with crimson stone. An elegant scroll had been engraved at the bottom, surrounded by vines and golden leaves, and even though the inscription was in French - and Cassian had never been all that fluent in the language - even he had been able to decipher it. 

Always yours.

Wasn’t that the fucking truth.

He had walked into that jewellers with nothing but a purse full of gold and bucketful of hope, not knowing what he was looking for. But he had seen that golden heart-shaped pendant and known. 

Just like every last piece of him, it had seemed like it had been made for Nesta. 

And as the sun beyond the window began to dim, Cassian dragged his thumb along the edge one more time, allowing himself to wonder how warm the gold might feel once pressed against Nesta’s skin. The thought was damn near enough to make his knees tremble, but before he could wax poetic about the beauty of the thing, a knock at the door had him snapping his head to the other side of his chamber. 

A fist pounded, insistent and unimpressed, at the other side of the wooden door.

“Are you ready yet, Cass?” 

Rhys’ voice was muffled by the thick oak of the door, but drifted through nonetheless. His brother sighed so loudly that even the solid inch of wood separating them did little to mask it. 

“We’re already late, and the Queen will have me sent to the chopping block if we tarry any longer.”

With a grin, Cassian plucked the pendant from the box, wrapped it in velvet, and tucked it inside his doublet before closing the lid with a snap. He snorted as he crossed to the door, patting his chest to make sure the pendant was safely stowed before he pulled open the door and shouldered Rhys out of the way. 

His brother’s fist had been raised to knock again, a look of abject irritation on his face, but it did little to smother the grin still plastered across Cassian’s mouth. They had agreed to meet in Rhys’ chambers and go down to the banquet together, but his brothers had, it seemed, grown tired of waiting. Cassian offered no apology as he stepped lithely into the stone hallway, but catching Rhys’ grimace, he gave the Queen’s councillor three irreverent pats on the cheek. 

“And what a pretty sight it would be indeed,” he said brightly, “if your head were to end up on a spike. Decapitation would really bring out your eyes, don’t you agree?”

Rhys batted Cassian’s hand away with a muttered curse and a roll of those eyes, and leaning against the wall, Azriel snorted. 

The Queen’s spy stood with one booted foot crossed over the other, his arms folded over his chest, with a dark half-cape slung over one shoulder. Where Cassian wore a pearl earring, Azriel sported a simple hoop of hammered silver, and there was a wry smile on his face as he pushed away from the wall.

“You took almost as long as Rhys to dress,” he drawled, “and that’s saying something.”

The councillor cut them both a dark look, brows dropped low over eyes so blue they were almost violet. Rhys said nothing, but he straightened his cuffs and smoothed a hand over his doublet as he walked away. Like Azriel, Rhys wore black— the colour so deep it was tantamount to his near-inexhaustible wealth. His golden collar of state was draped across his shoulders too, the only thing breaking up the black, and Cassian eyed it as Rhys led the way to the great hall, the gold glinting beneath the candles lighting the way.

He threw a grin to Azriel. “Well, I know who I’m trying to impress,” he said slyly, raking his gaze over Rhys’ immaculate state of dress. “What of you, brother?”

Azriel snorted once more before looking pointedly to Cassian and raising a brow. Mischief glimmered in his hazel eyes as he said, “Lady Nesta’s sister has arrived for the banquet.”

“Oh?”

“Her youngest sister.”

Cassian wanted to throw back his head and laugh. “Has she now?”

The very girl who Rhysand’s father - bastard that he was - had an eye on for his son. Rhys scowled over his shoulder, undeterred by the chuckle Azriel let out under his breath, and pulling away from the elbow Cassian aimed at Rhys’ ribs.

“Are you trying to win an Archeron of your own, brother?”

Rhys blinked flatly, flicking his gaze to the ceiling in sufferance as they walked. “Hardly winning, if it’s arranged.”

Cassian shrugged, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Think of it— we’ll be brothers by marriage.”

Rhys ducked beneath Cassian’s arm and brushed a hand over his shoulder, as if to remove invisible dust.

“Lord forgive me, if she’s anything like her sister,” he muttered, lips twisting into a grimace, “then I’ll be on the next ship to Calais.”

Azriel took a step that brought him into line with his brothers, clapping Rhys firmly on the shoulder. Cassian grinned, and one hand drifted absently to his chest, where the jewel he had bought remained safe beneath his doublet. His fingers felt it beneath the velvet, and his heart seemed to soar. He shot Rhys a wink. 

“Calais wouldn’t have you, you insufferable bastard. Besides, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

Rhys sighed heavily, pinching his brow as though he had suddenly developed a fierce headache. “And what have I done to earn such teasing? I did as you asked, did I not? I distracted the queen at the hunt.”

Cassian sobered a little, a soft smile crossing his face. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you. Both of you.”

Azriel dipped his head in acknowledgement of his gratitude, but Rhys only rolled his eyes.

“I beg you be careful, Cass. Elizabeth doesn’t look kindly on illicit affairs amongst her ladies.”

“Worry not,” Cassian answered breezily, waving a hand as his boots echoed on the flagged stone floor. Ahead, the doors of the great hall loomed, and the sounds of celebration already filtered out and echoed along the hall. Every step brought him closer to Nesta - to his Nesta - and there was no warning in the world Rhys could give that would dampen the joy taking root within his heart. He felt an easy smile spread across his lips as he inclined his head to his brother and said, “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

***

Nesta could have sworn the hall fell silent when he entered.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

Distantly, she knew the musicians kept playing. Knew that a hundred different voices still continued to speak, drifting up towards the rafters. But there had been some kind of pull she didn’t understand when Cassian had entered, and she had simply stopped hearing all the rest. The world had faded, like nothing mattered more than the privateer who strolled towards the queen on her dais, Lords Rhysand and Azriel by his side. 

Suddenly, the simple act of breathing felt like a labour.

“Is that him?” Feyre whispered beside her. “The one you spoke of?”

Nesta did not turn to look at her sister. From her place standing four paces away from the Queen, she kept her attention fixed on the hall ahead, and the three men who had entered as one.

“I don’t remember that I spoke of anybody, sister.”

Feyre rolled her eyes.

Her youngest sister had been waiting when the royal party returned from the hunt, in a chamber with their father. After bowing deeply to the Queen and hearing Lord Archeron beg the queen’s forgiveness for arriving so lately to the pageant, Nesta had departed to her chambers with Feyre in tow, leaving their father to skulk away into the shadows, already seeking, no doubt, a round of lords to share in a game of cards. 

But if Nesta had hoped that she might pass off the hunt as entirely menial, she had been a fool. Her sister never seemed to miss anything, her eye too sharp not to notice the way Nesta seemed… distracted following the day’s sport.

There were whispers, you know, Feyre had said idly, toying with the ends of her loose hair. They reached us even in Kent. I heard that there was a sailor a few months back that caught your eye.

Nesta had looked at her sister without so much as a furrow in her brow. You know how the court gossips. Such rumours all turn out to be baseless in the end, do they not?

And yet you haven’t denied it, Feyre pointed out with a smile curving her lips. Nesta had shook her head, and set to deciding on which dress she would wear for the banquet.

And what of you, little sister? Nesta had asked instead. I thought you would be wed to Tamlin by now. Or did Father find him wanting?

Feyre had snorted, the sound so startlingly unbecoming for a noblewoman that Nesta raised a brow. But then— Feyre had spent her youth in the country, raised so far from London. She had spent so little time at court that Nesta often forgot how different their worlds were, how much more freedom Feyre had been afforded, especially with their mother gone. She had been set to marry an earl from the Devonshire coast, and for a time she had seemed happy, his lands so full of greenery and bucolic beauty that it had seemed a perfect match. Nesta wondered what had changed. 

Both Father and I found him wanting, Feyre shrugged. She settled herself on Nesta’s bed, leaning back against her hands. When Father decided you would best matched with the Duke of Northumberland, he realised that there would be a… space available at Lord Rhysand’s side.

Nesta really did scowl, then. I can imagine nothing worse than having to suffer such a man as my brother-in-law.

Feyre’s head tilted. Is he truly so terrible?

Before Nesta had been able to answer, they had been interrupted by a sharp knock on the door— one that called Nesta to the Queen’s side and reminded her of her duties in readying Elizabeth for the night’s banquet. Nesta had shaken her head and departed, leaving Feyre with the promise to speak to her later, and now her sister stood by her side, watching as Cassian entered the great hall, Azriel and Rhysand with him. 

“Even so,” Feyre whispered. “Is that him?”

“I should think you would keep your attention on the man you may end up marrying,” Nesta hissed. 

Feyre hummed a little, straightening her shoulders. “Yours looks like a rogue.”

“He is not mine,” she retorted, her words slipping through lips pressed tight together to mask the movement. Yet even as she spoke, she recognised the words for what they were. Falsehoods, bald-faced falsehoods uttered with all the skill of a courtier and yet still ringing hollow. 

Feyre remained unconvinced. Nesta felt her sister’s sidelong gaze, and heard the whisper of a chuckle that left her lips. “So it is him.” 

“You and I both know Father has his eye on Northumberland for me.”

“And you and I both know, too, sister, that if you had a mind to reject the match, you could do so far more easily than any other woman I know.” Her eyes darted to Elizabeth. “After all, one word to the Queen and she would close down all discussion of the union.” 

Nesta pursed her lips, but her retort was banished as the trio of men approached the dais at last, all eyes fixed upon the Queen. The whispers ceased, and Nesta pretended not to notice how Cassian’s eyes strayed to her, taking her in from top to bottom, smirking with all the grace of a man who knew intimately the shape and feel of every one of his desires. It made her dress feel tight, and as she dragged her eyes away from the privateer, she pretended, too, not to take obvious note of the way Rhysand’s eyes flicked once to Feyre, widening with something that seemed to be surprise as Feyre met his gaze and stared him right back, studying him the way he studied her. Her sister’s eyes sparked beneath the candlelight, and Nesta felt herself groan inward as she realised that the look on Rhysand’s face had been pleasant surprise. 

Elizabeth clapped her hands, snapping them all back to the present as Rhysand and his companions each sank to one knee, dipping into the lowest of bows. 

“Your Majesty,” Rhysand said smoothly, his voice dancing across the candle-warmed stone. The Queen hummed brightly, and though Nesta tried to focus - honestly tried, futile as it was - she could not now force her eyes away from Cassian, with his head bowed and his hair hanging in loose curls to his shoulders, grazing the edge of his fine doublet. 

At her side, Feyre tried and failed to mask the clearing of her throat. A sidelong glance revealed Feyre standing in her navy gown, five years out of fashion, tracking the path of the golden state collar across Rhysand’s shoulders. It had been a surprise to say the least to hear that their father had abandoned the betrothal to Tamlin and instead had an eye on Rhysand for his youngest daughter, and Nesta wasn’t entirely certain that the match was one she approved of. But the councillor, she noticed, glanced once more at Feyre, in a gesture so subtle she almost missed it. Though he remained steadfast beneath Elizabeth’s attention, those cold eyes that had so often glared at her from across the Queen’s chamber had somehow warmed a fraction in the presence of her sister. 

“Good of you to join us, Rhysand,” Elizabeth drawled. The lord cringed. “The rest of my council arrived almost an hour ago.”

“Apologies, your majesty.” Rhysand cut a glare to his right, to where Cassian remained with his head bent. “I was delayed by my brothers.”

At his left, Azriel cleared his throat in protest.

Nesta fought a smile, and even the Queen seemed somewhat placated, her own lips curving in good humour as she reclined in her seat, arms braced on either side of her. Her diamonds glittered, her eyes sharp and piercing. 

“And tell me,” she asked airily, dropping her eyes to Cassian, still on a knee. Indulgently, she tsked. “How fares my wayward bat? One hopes that it was not a longing for the sea that slowed you this evening.”

The privateer lifted his head at last, golden skin gleaming in the warm light. His eyes danced, as beautiful as a forest lake beneath an autumn sun. “Not at all, your majesty,” he said cheerfully, his voice reverberating, echoing in Nesta’s chest. “Your court has made me a happier man than I have been in a long time. I find I do not miss the seas at all.”

Elizabeth tittered, brushing a hand over her voluminous skirts. The praise had a smile crossing her thin lips. “I am glad to hear it,” she hummed. “Perhaps, then, you will tarry a while before next setting sail. After all, it would not do to rob us of so charming smile again so soon.”

Cassian grinned wider, giving the monarch a small nod. “As the Queen commands,” he said grandly, fisting a hand over his heart.

His eyes flicked to the side, landed on Nesta. He bowed his head once more, leaving her to wonder whether the queen he had spoken of was their blessed and anointed sovereign or… well, her. Indeed, from beneath his eyelashes, he looked up at her and tightened that fist pressed against his chest, as if he were swearing fealty to her from his place on his knees. 

Elizabeth seemed not to notice Cassian’s distraction as he prostrated himself before her, merely clicking her tongue against her teeth in a sound of approval. Lifting her sharp eyes to the hall behind them, she waved a hand in dismissal. Others waited for the Queen’s ear, more courtiers gathering in droves as the hall began to fill. 

“Go, sirs,” Elizabeth said airily, flicking her fingers towards the trestle tables lining the walls. “Enjoy the festivities.”

Nesta watched as her privateer rose smoothly to his feet. She watched as he backed away, watched as he took a seat at one of the long tables, slipping in amongst the nobility gathered beneath the hammer-beam roof. Watched, as he lifted his chin and sought her gaze.

She swore the air between them went taut, like a line stretched between them.

The air smelled like sugar, the sweetness like a fine cloak over the entire hall. The tables were laden with sweet dishes, candied fruit and gingerbread with sweetened cream. Sculptures made of sugar spoke to staggering wealth, and a grand version of Kenilworth itself had been constructed and wrought of sweets. But Nesta did not wish to taste any of it on her tongue— had no interest in the cakes drizzled with honey or the silver platters of fine desserts. The hippocras was sweet on her tongue when she sipped from her cup, but it wasn’t what she wanted to taste tonight. 

She wanted so much more— wanted all the things she knew she could never ask for.

She wanted to taste his lips, wanted to feel the heat of his hand in hers. It was a touch that would have her condemned, a thought that would see her dismissed from the Queen’s service and left to bear the scandal, and yet still...

Nesta wanted.

Her teeth sunk into her lower lip, and as their eyes connected across the room, the tightness in her chest grew, constricting until she found it hard to breathe. Edged by candlelight, his skin was golden and his hazel eyes were like embers, dragging heat along her skin as they roamed. She swore her heart lurched, and though she had never been one for sentiment, something in her chest had turned molten, and she allowed herself now - at long last - to admit that, God, she had been wanting him all along.

She dropped her eyes, thinking back to how she had been so incensed when he strolled in that first night of the pageant— how she had been so angry that he had sailed with the tide and left her behind— cast her off and made a fool of her.

She knew better now. 

Lifting her eyes back to his, Nesta watched as Cassian took a drink that Azriel offered. Without even blinking, Cassian looked to her and winked, lifting his goblet in something caught halfway between a toast and a salute.

Beside her, Feyre murmured slyly, “I like him.”

***

The night was dark, and in the heavens above colours burst into life amongst the stars, flaming red and green and white. 

Tudor colours for a Tudor queen; a livery in fireworks.

The cost must have been astronomical, but Nesta rather thought that nobody at all cared much how much the fireworks had cost the Earl of Leicester to import from the far east. All they cared was that the wine was flowing, the musicians continued to play, and as the night turned balmy, sparks ignited in the dark and bloomed against the light of the moon. 

The entire court had been ushered out into the grounds after the banquet, left to gather before Kenilworth’s red-brick walls. Courtiers lounged now on the rolling lawns stretching before the castle walls, or stood by the lakeside, grouped on the banks. The Queen had commanded a spot on the bridge Leicester had constructed over the said lake— a grand thing, six-hundred feet long with carven pillars along the length, and beneath her in the water the fireworks were reflected, seeming to come from the depths themselves, as if Poisedon had commanded them. As above, so below they ignited. 

Elizabeth stood a mere half step from Nesta, her face angled up to the sky. The colours flaring to life against the stars were reflected in the queen’s diamonds, the stones around her neck suddenly aflame with red sparks as they lit up the night above. Nesta was fascinated— entranced. 

Fireworks.

A marvel from so far away, brought to light up the heavens.

Another firework exploded above them, and suddenly Nesta could think only of all the wonders the world might hold, wonders she would never see. Wonders Cassian had seen. The privateer was standing behind her, next to Lord Rhysand, and when she looked briefly over her shoulder, she saw his eyes drop from the skies and fix instead on her, like she was a wonder to him far greater than the artistry of the night sky. 

He winked at her, and Nesta could only hope that the darkness masked her blush as she faced forwards once more.

The very air itself seemed alive with joy— with an excitement that seemed to shiver. She felt the promise of the night in her veins, and wondered where exactly it would take her before the sun rose at its end. 

Her thoughts were broken by the brush of a hand against her wrist, warm and soft and hidden by the dark. Her eyes flicked to the side, even though she knew who she would find filling the space beside her. Cassian had crept upon her silently, finding the gap in the Queen’s ladies and slipping between them. His fingers had glided along the bare skin of her wrist, and Nesta had known his touch as innately as if it were her own.

Silently, she raised a brow.

Cassian inclined his head to the side. As the fireworks continued to bloom above, Elizabeth’s court began slowly to disperse through the grounds, disseminating into the darkness. It was easy to slip away under cover of night, easy to be overlooked when eyes were turned skyward, and as the Queen’s party on the bridge began to thin and musicians struck up from somewhere by the lakeside, Nesta turned her wrist, letting Cassian’s thumb brush against the base of her hand. A soft smile curved her lips as she stepped into him, her back brushing the hard lines of his chest. 

“Walk with me,” he whispered, just like he had a few nights ago after his return.

This time, Nesta did not hesitate before saying yes. 

***

There was something in the air, that night.

Nesta had walked the paths of Kenilworth’s gardens before, but something seemed different, now. Something had shifted, like the earth beneath her feet had righted itself after years of being an inch off-centre, and perhaps it was all in her head— perhaps the only thing that had changed was her, now that the thing she had been running from was no longer buried so deep within her chest. But as the skies were illuminated above, she didn’t think so. The world was more marvellous, more beautiful now, when she saw it with Cassian at her side.

The privateer meandered along the gravel paths with her, hands clasped behind his back, and every line of him was at ease, comfortable and content. When he walked, he was so close that his arm brushed against hers; a whisper of velvet that made her foolish heart skip. 

She wanted more of him— didn’t think she would ever stop wanting more of him.

“Tell me,” she said as she looped her arm through his, drawing closer to his side. Even through the thick velvet of her dress sleeves, she could feel his warmth. “Tell me what it is like at sea.”

She was still thinking of the fireworks; of the wonders the world could boast. 

Cassian threw his head back, inhaling the night air. Nesta watched, entranced, as the moonlight glanced off his jaw and coasted down the column of his throat. The pearl in his ear gleamed a white so bright it seemed to shine, the opalescent sheen seeming to glow against the darkness of his curling hair. He glanced down at her, eyes bright. For a long time he was silent, seemingly content to look at her the way she looked at him— as if he were committing every plane of her face to memory.

“Freedom,” he said at last. 

When their eyes connected this time, Nesta swore there were fireworks of their own in the air between them. She could feel something bursting, sparks in her chest. Her lips parted when he smiled, her breath stolen by the sheer beauty of his grin, the lovely way his eyes lit up.

“It’s freedom.” He pulled her forward, and with one hand pointed at the sky, at the horizon that was too dark to see. “When the sun breaks over the waves, when dawn stains the sky pink and purple…” He breathed again, eyes distant, as though he could see it. He shook his head and turned to face her, dropping the arm that was looped through hers and taking up her hand instead. For a moment he was silent, studying her face. “It’s beautiful.”

One hand held her own, his callouses sliding against her skin. And then slowly, his other hand lifted to brush against her jaw, his fingertips moving to map the curve of her face. 

“But there are other things of beauty in this world,” he murmured, his gaze dipping to her mouth. Nesta canted her head to the side, letting his fingers wander still across her cheek, her jaw, grazing her neck as the tip of his thumb brushed the corner of her lips. Beneath her stays, her heart pounded. 

“It is true that I love the sea,” he continued when Nesta did not speak, rendered silent by the brush of his fingers across her fevered skin. His voice dipped, a quiet purr intended for her ears alone. “But coming home has its pleasures, too.”

“Greater pleasures, I hope?” Nesta dared ask, the movement of her lips almost letting her mouth kiss his fingers.

A smirk pulled at his mouth, his hazel eyes darkening in the moonlight. He lowered his chin, leaned closer. 

“Far greater.”

His hand fell to her neck, his palm splayed across her pulse. The heel of his palm rested on her collarbone, and beneath his touch her blood pulsed and pounded with reckless abandon. If he noted how it fluttered, how her heart raced, he said nothing. Instead his thumb swept across the column of her neck in a broad, languorous stroke. Despite the wine she had taken her fill of, Nesta’s mouth suddenly felt dry. Cassian leaned closer, the press of his hips shifting her skirts, and Nesta felt herself pitching towards him, like she were the ship and he were her anchor, the only solid thing for a thousand miles.

He smelled like leather and sea salt, with just the barest hint of something soft— like lavender. Nesta breathed it in, let it wash over her as she felt one of his hands move to her waist. 

God, he was as intoxicating as the queen’s strongest wine. 

All too soon, laughter echoed from somewhere far away. With a start Nesta jolted back, pulling from his easy grip and setting a distance between them that made something inside her splinter. Her eyes fell to the gravel beneath their feet, silvered by the moon.

“My father still wants me to marry Northumberland,” she said, if only because somebody had to. 

Cassian shrugged, irreverently. “Oh, come now,” he said with a wave of his hand. “You’d hate it so far north.”

Nesta raised an eyebrow. “And yet you are from the north—  your father’s lands are on the Scottish marches, are they not?”

“They are,” he shrugged, not allowing his air of irreverence to falter, even as his eyes hardened a little at the mention of the man who had fathered him. “That’s exactly how I know you’d hate it.”

Nesta shook her head, but found that somehow the space between them had vanished once more, like the both of them had been drawn to the other. He was close enough now that he when he dropped his head, his brow almost brushed hers. Nesta swallowed, daring to reach out and trace the laces of his doublet with the tip of her finger. She could have sworn he shivered.

“Nesta,” he breathed, his voice as rough as the gravel they stood upon. He seemed to steel himself, eyes dropping once more to her lips. Above them, more fireworks bloomed in the sky but this time, Nesta could not drag her eyes away from the man before her. Once again his fingers sought her skin, both palms rising until he held her face cradled in his hands.

“Marry me instead.”

Nesta Archeron blinked.

The emerald-green and ruby-red of the fireworks were reflected in Cassian’s hazel eyes, sparking as she blinked once more, more fervently this time. She pulled her head back an inch, just enough for his hands to drop. Her head began to spin, and Cassian did not retract his touch but left it lingering at her jaw, his fingers curling beneath her chin. Smoothly he urged her face up, brought her eyes to his.

“Have you lost your wits?” she asked, half afraid she wouldn’t hear his answer over the pounding of her own heart. But her voice didn’t come out as sharp as she intended, nor as incredulous. 

Cassian only shrugged. “I have money enough,” he said. “Lots of it.”

Stunned, Nesta searched for something to say and came up empty. Cassian brushed his thumb along her jaw once more, as if to remind himself that he could, that she hadn’t drawn away.

“I’m sure I can get the Queen to give me an earldom, at least.”

At that, Nesta laughed. “No, you really have lost your wits.”

“One of my oldest friends is a member of her privy council,” he countered easily, as if they were discussing the weather. “Another is part of her extensive intelligence network. I rather think they can pull some strings.”

“Then you don’t know our queen at all, if you think the words of some men could sway her,” Nesta scoffed, taking a step back, outside his reach. “Lord Rhysand has been trying to settle a match between her and the Duke of Alençon for months and she isn’t prepared to listen. What makes you so different?”

“Ah,” Cassian grinned, stepping back into her space until the distance between them was nothing once again. “Because if I am the one to marry you, she gets to keep you too.”

Nesta frowned.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it sweetheart?” he said, his voice a fevered whisper accompanied by glinting eyes and a self-assured smirk. “If you marry Eris… well, you’d have to move to Northumberland wouldn’t you, and that’s so frightfully far away. I don’t think our darling queen would be happy at having to lose you.”

She could hardly hear over the pounding of her heart, the way it fluttered in her chest like a sparrow’s wings. 

“My father might have lands in the north,” Cassian continued when Nesta said nothing, too bewildered to speak, “but it isn’t as though I will be the one to inherit them, bastard as I am.” He shrugged, like his illegitimacy was nothing to him anymore. “I have enough set aside to buy a house in London. I hear the queen favours Greenwich— I am certain we can find a nice little manor to make our own near there. You need not leave her service.”

“It’s true enough that she doesn’t take well to losing her ladies when they wed,” Nesta said slowly, a breathless kind of feeling blooming within her, one that felt dizzying in its exuberance. And then, pointedly, she added, “She stabbed one through the hand once, when she married without permission.”

“We wouldn’t do it without permission though, would we?” Cassian took her hand, lifted it to his lips. “Think on it, at least. This whole event is put on in honour of the queen— she’s in a good mood. I think Leicester half hopes she’s going to propose to him by the end.” 

Nesta hardly dared breathe.

It was madness. 

Madness.

Her father would be furious, and every man the length of England would hear of the scandal. But it wasn’t enough to stop her longing to accept, to let Cassian sweep her into his arms and take her to the church right now to make her his. 

Before she could speak, Cassian lifted a hand to his doublet. From inside, he pulled out a small parcel wrapped in black velvet. With the moon high in the sky overhead, and the stars joined by the fireworks bathing Kenilworth in red and green, Cassian held out the parcel with a steady hand. Only when Nesta took it, only when he lifted his fingers to tuck back behind his ear a strand of hair that had escaped his tie, did she think she see him tremble.

Unfolding the velvet revealed a heart of solid gold. It shone burnished even in the low light, and the pendant was heavy in her palm. Inlaid with garnets, there was a flowering rose studded with gems and beneath, carved in an elegant scroll, the inscription read, in French, ‘always yours’.

Nesta swallowed, tracing a thumb over the smooth surface of the shining garnet. “The Queen will have your head,” she whispered.

Cassian scoffed. “You heard her. She likes my smile too much.” When Nesta raised an eyebrow, the privateer’s smile turned lupine. “Oh, she might throw me in the Tower for a month or too, but nothing too serious.”

Nesta shook her head, but as she watched Cassian’s smile turned soft, his eyes growing earnest as he took her hand, closing her fingers over the pendant he’d given her.

“I bought it from a goldsmith as soon as we reached land,” he said, his voice sober. “My French was never as good as Rhys’, but I know enough to translate. I saw that pendant and felt the truth of those words in my bones, because I have been so many things in my life, sweetheart - bastard, nobleman, pirate, privateer - but above all else I have been yours from the moment I met you. I signed my heart over to you that very first day, and I don’t want it back.”

His fingers squeezed hers, tight around the golden heart. 

“Marry me,” he said again, his tone carrying a shade of desperation. “Marry me, because I have and always will be entirely yours. There shall never be another for me, sweetheart. It has always been you, and you alone.”

Somehow Nesta found the strength to glance up, into the face that was lined with honesty. His eyes bored into hers, his lips parted with his confession. God, she couldn’t say no to him. Didn’t want to say no to him.

“The Queen…” she began again, but her protest was weak now, and Cassian waved it away with a hand.

“She likes me much more than she likes Eris,” he said. “And I’m sure that if I get down on my knees and beg her to see how desperately I love you, she’ll understand.”

Nesta’s hand fluttered to her chest, where she could feel her heart beating. She knew her limits as well as any woman, and already felt her knees beginning to tremble. She was seconds from falling into his arms, mere moments from demanding that he tell her again exactly how much he loved her. 

But she didn’t get chance. Before she could open her mouth, Cassian extended his arm and pushed back the sleeve of his doublet. There, tied against his skin, was her ribbon. The one she had given Eris at the joust. With deft fingers Cassian untied it, holding it between his thumb and forefinger and lifting it between them until it was level with Nesta’s eyes.

“I want to be the one wearing your favour for the rest of my life,” he said, in a voice that was solid and steady. “Every joust, every tourney, every dance.”

“I still can’t believe you found it,” she muttered.

Cassian raised a brow as he tucked the ribbon inside his doublet. “Well, I wasn’t going to let Eris leave something so precious lying on the tiltyard floor now, was I?”

“Precious?” Nesta asked flatly. “It’s a ribbon.”

“Your ribbon,” he countered. “Precious.”

“To who, exactly?”

“To me,” he answered simply. 

More fireworks burst into beautiful colour above, but for once Nesta did not turn her face to the sky. She felt the ghost of Cassian’s touch lingering on her skin, and as his hands drifted to her hips, his face was brought so close to hers that it would take only the barest movements for their lips to touch. And oh, Nesta wanted their lips to touch. She had never craved a kiss as much as this, had never wanted to feel the warmth and heat of another as much as she did now. Cassian dipped his head, his nose grazing her cheek.

“Nesta,” he whispered, like her name was a prayer to him. 

Her hands travelled along his doublet, smoothing over the hard muscle of his chest. She curled her fingers over his shoulders, rising to her tiptoes to bring them closer. He groaned against her, his hands falling to her waist. It burned— his touch burned.

“If I said yes,” she murmured, her eyes falling to his lips, “would you kiss me, sir?”

“If you said yes,” he answered, a hitch in his voice, “I would kiss you until the stars dropped to the earth.”

His hands tightened on her waist, his grip one that Nesta didn’t ever wish to be free of. 

“And then?”

Cassian let out a rough laugh, even as his head fell to hers, his lips grazing the corner of her mouth when he spoke.

“Then I would go to the Queen this very night, fall to my knees and beg her to let me have you. I would move Heaven and Earth and not rest until she gave her assent.” 

Nesta fought a smile, winding her arms around his neck. Against her cheek, his own lips curved into a smile that he didn’t fight at all.

“And then I would kiss you again— and again, and again, until there is no breath left in me.”

Heat bloomed deep inside her, the blush on her cheeks flaming. 

“What a pretty picture it is that you paint,” she breathed.

“A pretty reality, sweetheart.” Cassian straightened, looking down into her eyes with an intensity that almost made Nesta weak. “Say yes to me, and I will lay the entire world at your feet.”

“And if I don’t want the world?”

“Then what else would you have of me?”

Nesta shrugged. “I would have you— just you.”

His smile was wolfish, hungry. Suddenly his arms were around her fully, sweeping her to his chest. He lowered his face to hers once more, his lips hovering maddeningly above her own. So close— so close. When he spoke, his breath drifted across her lips.

“I already told you, love,” he murmured. “You have me. Wholeheartedly, you have me.”

Gently, Nesta lifted a hand and pressed it against his cheek. The privateer closed his eyes, like her touch was the only thing that could undo him. Her heart swelled, and on her tongue she felt the words begging to be spoken— and one word that mattered more than all the rest.

“Then how could my answer be anything but yes?”

He stilled. “Truly?”

Silent, she nodded. 

And before she could blink, his lips were on hers. Slowly at first, gentle and explorative, like he wished to trace every inch of her and familiarise himself with it. And then it turned fevered, his hands grasping at her waist as her fingers curled against his neck. With a palm flat against her spine Cassian drew her closer.

Nesta knew, distantly, that if they were discovered everything she had would be ruined. If she were caught kissing a privateer in the gardens, whatever reputation she had would be so utterly destroyed there would be no coming back. And yet as Cassian’s lips danced with hers, she no longer cared.

Let them find her.

Let them see.

Let them know that the only man she wanted to meet at the altar was this one, the only ring she wanted to bear on her finger his.

Her lips parted, a gasp leaving her as his hands travelled south. Her skirts felt heavy, the fabric between them too much, and she was cognisant of nothing but his lips as he backed her against a nearby tree, bracing his hands on the bark as one leg slipped between hers. Nesta felt herself unravel. Her bodice felt too tight, the air too thin. Her hands travelled across the broad stretch of Cassian’s shoulders, clinging to him as the skies above them continued to burst with colour. 

“How shall you have me, wife?” Cassian asked, nipping at her lips as Nesta shivered in his arms. “On my knees?”

Her heart stuttered.

Wife.

Still, she forced herself to arch a brow, even as his hand moved to her thigh, palming the fabric of her dress. 

“Is there any other place a husband should desire to be, when before his wife?”

Cassian grinned at her. He leaned close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as his hips pressed against hers. “No,” he breathed, grazing his teeth along her jaw. “No, there isn’t.”

She tipped her head back, watching the fireworks illuminate the sky. Cassian’s hands travelled along her thigh, above the fabric of her dress. He had called her wife, and she had called him husband, and even though there had been no vows exchanged or no priest to bless the union, she knew that the match was all but sealed. If he went any further, if his hands strayed beneath her dress…

Shaking her head, Nesta placed a hand on top of Cassian’s own, stopping his touch from roaming any further.

“Perhaps some things should be saved for our wedding night,” she whispered.

He blinked, squeezing her thigh once. Desire clouded his eyes, hunger written all over his face. As Nesta watched, he reined it in. With effort, he took back his hand, pressing a single chaste kiss to her cheek before drawing back.

“Then let me away to the Queen immediately,” he said, his voice glimmering with laughter. “I’ll beg her to let me marry you tomorrow.”

She batted at his shoulder. “Rogue.”

He grinned, catching her fingers and bringing them to his lips. “A rogue you have agreed to bind yourself to forever, sweetheart.”

He pulled away, but extended a hand to bring her with him. Nesta took it, feeling her fingers slip between his as the warmth in her chest settled. The heat did not vanish, but rather turned into something else, something far more tender, that warmed her bones. Cassian led her back through the gardens, towards the celebrations.

“Come,” he said, bringing her to his side and winding his arm through hers. “I must tell the Queen how you stole my heart like an expert thief.”

“If anyone is the thief, sir, I rather think it would be you,” Nesta countered tartly.

He laughed, and the sound had her already anticipating the moment he slipped a ring on her finger. He paused, turning and pulling her to his chest, his head dipping for one more kiss.

“Then deem me guilty,” he murmured, smiling as he lowered his mouth. “And condemn me to a life at your side, for you will find no happier convict.”

Nesta hummed and did not answer, winding her arms around his neck.

And as the fireworks overhead continued to set fire to the night, Cassian kissed her again, tender and soft and filled with a lifetime of promise. The privateer murmured her name against her lips, whispered his love against her as he held her to his chest, and Nesta felt herself secure in his arms, more cherished than she had ever been before. 

“You’re certain?” he whispered, dragging his lips to her cheek. 

Nesta smiled softly, delving her fingers into his hair. His hands held her steady, fingers splayed at the small of her back, and as she looked into his eyes she knew with unfailing certainty that there would never have been another for her— no man to compare to this one, with all his rakish charm and rugged beauty.

“I’m certain,” she whispered. “Marry me, sir.”

Cassian grinned, his eyes sparking as he lowered his lips to her jaw. His voice was a rasp against her skin when he spoke, a heated whisper. His hands fisted the fabric of her dress as he kissed his way to the corner of her mouth, still smiling against her as he said, with no hint of irony or care for consequence…

“As my queen commands.”

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[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Fifty-One

Time passed incredibly slowly whilst Maera waited in Aemond’s chambers. Anxiety gnawed at, fearing the possibility of a public bedding ceremony could bring such a wonderful day to a tragic end. Maera's worry heightened with every echoing footstep outside the door, each sound sending a shiver through her. Fearful that a group of Lords and Ladies might arrive to bear witness to the intimate moments of her wedding night with her husband. Facing Aemond again was also concerning her, and she hoped that the minor disagreement on the balcony wouldn’t cast a shadow over the beginning of their marriage.

Thanks to Thena’s visit, Maera had now shed the weight of her elaborate wedding gown. The loyal maid had also unpinned Maera's hair, allowing the dark curls, interwoven with the single streak of silver, to cascade freely down her shoulders. Before leaving, Thena dressed her mistress in a silk off-shoulder nightgown, which clung gracefully to Maera’s form. It left little to the imagination, a testament to the intimacy of the occasion. The maid then smiled, wishing Maera luck before departing from the chambers with a respectful curtsy.

In an attempt to distract herself, she decided to explore the dimly lit chambers, the flickering candlelight slightly illuminating the room where her husband spent most of his time. Everything had its place, a testament to Aemond's meticulous nature. The air held the scent of aged parchment and the faint aroma of dragon smoke. Her gaze swept across the shelves lined with books, their spines telling tales of history, strategy, and philosophy. The glow of the hearth danced upon the leather-bound tomes, creating a warm ambiance that contrasted with the dark, imposing aura of the room.

Maera actually found solace in the quietude of the chambers and the familiarity of Aemond’s belongings, temporarily escaping the anxious thoughts of the impending night that lingered in the air. That was, until, she set her eyes on his bed, draped in regal black fabric. She traced her fingers along the intricate carvings of the bedpost, knowing that was where she would lose her virtue to her husband.

She shook her head and, with a clenched jaw, made her way back to the hearth, where the previous serving girl had set a golden jug of wine from The Reach on a nearby table. Pouring its contents into a goblet, she took a measured sip to steady her nerves. The rich warmth of the liquid provided a fleeting comfort, prompting her to indulge in another, then another, until the once-full jug was noticeably depleted.

Seated by the fire, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the walls, Maera felt the effects of the wine taking hold. A flush coated her cheeks, the tipsiness evident in the unsteady but determined gaze she cast toward the door. The room, once a sanctuary from apprehension, now pulsed with a mix of anticipation and the dulled edge of inebriation.

The echoes of approaching footsteps sent Maera's heart into a rapid cadence, each beat resonating with the anticipation of an impending intrusion. As the creak of the door handle reached her ears, she sighed, resigning herself to the possibility of witnesses be present to the intimacy she had hoped to keep private.

With a sense of reluctant acceptance, Maera moved away from the comforting warmth of the hearth and positioned herself in the middle of the room. Her hands clasped together, the curls of brown and silver flowing loosely around her, she waited, a portrait of vulnerability and apprehension.As the door swung open, she braced herself, emitting a sharp gasp and briefly squeezing her eyes shut. The sound of the door closing brought a momentary relief, and when she dared to open her eyes, there stood Aemond. Alone.

The Prince paused across the room, his figure still clad in smooth black satin adorned with intricate golden dragon embroidery. His long silver hair, still meticulously straight, held the subtle braid on the top of his head. His single wide violet eye, a striking feature, observed Maera with a depth that mirrored the complexities of their shared history, as well as their shared future

Maera's eyes in turn lingered on her husband, a mix of emotions flickering across her face. Worries stemming from their earlier quarrel lingered, casting a shadow over the moment, but relief washed over her as she beheld him standing alone. The weight of the unspoken tension seemed to hang in the air, yet the sight of Aemond in his wedding attire, gaze fixed upon her, held a promise of shared understanding and perhaps the opportunity for reconciliation.

Instead of making his way straight to her, Aemond’s strides took him to the fireplace, reaching for the jug of wine on the table, his fingers brushing against its polished surface. With a wry smile, he remarked, “It seems you have already helped yourself to most of it.”

Maera did not appreciate his mocking tone, annoyed by the apparent lack of understanding. Maera retorted vehemently as she made slow steps towards him, her emotions coursing through her like a torrent. "I was not certain if there would be an audience," she declared sharply, her voice cutting through the air with a blend of defiance and frustration. "I thought it best to prepare myself."

The one-eyed Prince picked up his goblet before settling himself in one the chairs facing the hearth, gaze fixed on the dancing flames, the warmth offering a stark contrast to the cold reply Maera had just given him. He scoffed, a cynical twist forming on his lips. "Yes, the King and the other Lords were rather… insistent," he remarked, his expression revealing a mixture of annoyance and resignation. Maera's gut churned at the mere thought of the unwelcome tradition.

As Maera's eyes traced the contours of Aemond's figure near the fire, she noticed the tight grip of his right hand on the chair's arms. A subtle stain of red marked his knuckles, still wet and fresh. Compelled by concern, Maera inquired with furrowed brow, "Why is there blood on your hand?" Her words hung in the air, a delicate thread unraveling the mystery of Aemond's concealed turmoil.

Aemond arched his eyebrows in response, his movements deliberate as he brought his hand to his eye, inspecting it with a measured gaze. He hummed with a casual disdain before delivering his explanation. "One lord, Lefford I believe, got too over familiar, showing excessive enthusiasm for seeing my bride on our wedding night,”Aemond then turned to her, smirking. “He had to be put in his place. The other attendants did not press the issue further.” Maera, caught between relief and amusement, breathed a soft laugh into the air.

Her green eyes then swept the room, her attention landing on a small silver dish containing water and a cloth on the bedside table. In a quiet display of care, she retrieved the items and settled on the chair beside her husband. With a tenderness that belied the recent tension, she dipped the cloth into the water and began to clean his hand, her actions speaking of both understanding and a desire to erase the visible traces of conflict.

The flickering firelight cast shadows on their faces, framing a moment of shared vulnerability and unspoken support. Aemond's gaze lingered on his bridge, a mix of gratitude and admiration reflected in his eye as he observed Maera's care. As she diligently worked, Maera cleared her throat, breaking the silence. "I am glad you stopped it," she confessed, her words carrying the weight of the night's uncertainty.

Aemond, his expression calm yet assertive, hummed in response. "You underestimate me," he pointed out, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. Frustration etched across Maera's features as she finished cleaning his hand, her actions punctuated by a sharp movement of tossing the cloth and silver bowl onto a nearby table, not in the mood to entertain any jokes.

Rising from her chair, Maera stood defiantly, her silk off-shoulder nightgown clinging to her curvaceous form, her loose curls framing her face with a touch of defiance. Her green eyes, a reflection of both passion and determination, met Aemond's gaze.

“And you underestimate me,” Maera sneered, her words cutting through the air. This prompted Aemond to turn and look at her, his expression unreadable, as if caught between understanding the weight of his words and the storm of emotions brewing within Maera.

Perhaps it was the wine, the brush with a humiliating ceremony or all the emotions of the day bubbling over, but she wanted and needed to be heard. She stated, “Princess or not, to the Realm, I am just your wife. Your property. My body, my soul, my choices, now belongs to you.”

Aemond met her gaze, his expression a stoic mask as she continued to voice her plea. “I just wanted to have a say in what will happen in the future. Yes, I should have discussed it with you prior to meeting with the Tarth’s. But the conversation was turning sour. I had to do something.” She tore her gaze away from him in attempt to steady herself, eyes fixating on the fire crackling in the hearth, mirroring the tumultuous emotions swirling within her.

“We need Tarth, Aemond. To back the Green’s cause. To keep us safe. To keep our future children safe. And the best way to do that is through marriage.” Maera then clenched her silk nightgown in her fists. “An early betrothal will give our child a chance to find contentment with their intended. You cannot loathe me for that.”

Aemond rose from his seat, a deliberate motion as he took measured steps toward her. His voice softened, carrying a complexity of emotions. "As if I could," he murmured, acknowledging the fierce spirit that defined Maera, and the delicate dance between their desires and the realities of their union.

Maera watched as Aemond approached, his figure standing tall in front of her, mere inches away. She studied the contours of his face, his slightly parted lips, which spoke volumes of the unspoken connection between them. In that charged moment, the room seemed to shrink, leaving only the two of them in a world suspended by shared anticipation.

“Gods, look at you,” he breathed, his voice so close to her face, forcing her to look up and meet the intensity in his eye. “Today you looked exquisite, like the Maiden herself. But to have you here, looking like this…”

He trailed off, finishing the sentence with a satisfied low hum, a noise that caused Maera’s heart to skip a beat. Aemond then began to to circle her slowly, a predator admiring his prey, his fingers tracing the contours of her back and shoulders beneath her curls. The air seemed to thicken with anticipation as he moved, each deliberate step intensifying the intimate dance between them. With a voice laden with desire, Aemond proposed a question to his bride whilst stood directly behind her. “That day in the Sept, a few moons ago, when you saw me praying to the Warrior…do you know why I was praying to him?”

Maera felt that familiar sensation in her core as Aemond remained behind her, a subtle blush tinging her cheeks. To feel so vulnerable, so helpless like is around him, was an oddly welcomed feeling. She shook her head before whispering her reply, “No, my Prince.”

Aemond seemed pleased by her response, emitted another low hum at the back of this throat, which caused another jolt of excitement to shoot through Maera. She then felt him closing in, reached out to gently move her hair, whispering into her ear.

“I was praying for strength. Not in battle for the upcoming war. But to be around you, without going absolutely. Fucking. Insane. All sense of honour and duty I had hung by a thread every time I looked at you.” He then began to drag his lips down her neck with a feather light touch, the sensation sending a shiver down her spine as she gasped involuntarily.

“Aemond,” she pleaded his name, begging for the torture to stop. Maera could feel the very obvious slick forming between her legs, but the friction caused by rubbing them together wasn’t doing a damn thing.

In response to her begging, Aemond, gripped her by the shoulders with a commanding intensity. He spun her around to face him, their eyes locking in a shared moment of desire. His gaze, laden with lust, met hers in a fiery exchange, a dance of longing and connection that transcended the words left unspoken.

"Tell me you want this," he whispered, his fingers delicately tracing her collarbone. The sensation left her momentarily stunned, the touch akin to a searing flame. Growing impatient, Aemond's hand then found its way around her throat, a gesture that ignited a thrilling excitement within Maera. A trail of goosebumps prickled on her skin, and no matter how badly she tried to hide her excitement, she could not stop her body from reacting to him.

"Princesses use their words," he mocked, tugging her closer until their lips almost touched, his breath a tantalizing caress on her skin. The roughness of his touch, a whispered promise of what was to come, ignited a fiery anticipation within her. Maera, caught in the dance of desire, surrendered to the sensations that pulsed through her veins. She admitted defeat, but felt no shame in it.

"I want this," she affirmed, a declaration that brought a smug smirk to the Prince's face. The tension in the room climaxed as their lips crashed together with a rough urgency, a collision of desire that spoke of years of history and a newfound intimacy. The pair of them deepened the kiss immediately, the taste of anticipation lingering as tongues danced together, each movement a fervent declaration of the intensity between them.

Aemond removed his hand from Maera’s throat as the kiss became more heated, his teeth catching her bottom lip between them and nibbling until it stung, which she did not seem to mind. Maera was about to protest not having the Prince’s hands on her, until she heard the rustle of him removing his regal robes, her heart beginning to pound at the realisation and excitement that tonight they would lie together.

She then hastily began to take off her own clothing, pulling on one of the sleeves of her silk nightgown until it tumbled from her shoulders and pooled at her feet. Her eager fingers can began to explore the contours of his clothed lower stomach, tugging urgently at the undershirt until Aemond broke the kiss, pulling it over his head and discarding it across the room.

The contact between them was not broken long as Aemond captured his bride in another burning kiss, this time accompanied by his large, warm hands beginning to roam her body. One settled on her waist, the other made it’s way south before cupping one of her ass cheeks, roughly kneading it. Maera wanted to be as close to him as possible, the nipples on her large supple breasts hardening as her desires completely possessed her. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, pushing her bare chest against his, causing her to gasp.

Before she knew it, the Prince was backing her up to his bed, the back of her legs hitting the mattress, causing her to sit down. She looked up at him, the intensity of the lust in his violet eye look mirrored the passion that had been building between them for so long. Maera’s eyes hungrily roamed his torso, toned and lean, littered with a few faint scars, before landing on his trousers. His cock was hard and she so badly wanted to free it from its confines. She eagerly began fumbling with his belt, unclasping it before starting to make work of the laces holding the fabric together.

With the final lace undone, Maera went to free his cock from his trousers, only to be roughly shoved back onto the mattress, her dark and silver locks now a halo around her head. He crawled on top her so now their faces were level, entangled his fingers in her hair and pulling so he had her attention.

“You have tortured me enough,” he growled. “Allow me to return the favour.” Before she could reply, Aemond pulled her hair so her head tilted to the side, and began to plant wet open-mouthed kisses to her neck, licking and sucking and biting with desperation, causing a little moan to escape Maera’s lips involuntarily.

He then began his descent, kissing between the valley of her breasts, before reaching for one with his hand, and taking the other in his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the pert nub, Maera feeling him smirk against her as the sensation caused her back to arch, pushing the breast further into his mouth. Aemond did not stay this way for long, continuing down, kissing her stomach and hips roughly, before placing himself between her legs, hands splayed across her hips to keep her in place.

She did not have time to react before she felt him lick a slow stripe from her cunt to her pearl, making her to throw her head back against the pillow and gasp at the new feeling. This spurred the Prince on as he buried his tongue deep inside of her, rubbing his nose against her clit in the process, causing Maera to squirm. Her thighs attempted to press together but Aemond gripped them roughly, prying them open with his large calloused hands so he could continue lapping at her.

He then paused and Maera looked down at him, seeing his pupil blown with lust and his lips coated in her arousal, a blush tinting her cheeks at the mesmerising sight.

“Mmm, tastes so good, issa dāria,” my Queen, he groaned against her cunt, the vibrations of his words sending a jolt through her body. He then changed tactic, starting to mouth at her pearl with a flattened tongue, the pleasurable feeling to much for her to bare. She didn’t have to prepare herself for the sudden intrusion of his finger that entered her, gasping and looking down at where he remained between her legs, beginning to pump in and out of her. Maera had tried this on herself before, but it did not bring her much pleasure.

However Aemond’s long and skilled fingers could reach places she could not, a cry leaving her lips as he brushed against a spongey spot deep within her. Aemond inserted another finger, the stretch causing a slight burn, but as he continued hitting that spot within her, whilst mouthing at her sensitive nub, the discomfort soon started to feel good. The combined sensations built and built, and she felt that familiar knot forming in her stomach.

“Gods, Aemond,” she called out, begging for the torture to be over, but at the same time, never wanting it to stop. He growled against her, continuing his movements. Maera entangled her hand in his silver locks, hips bucking into his face to chase her her high.

All at once, the coil within snapped, causing a sob to leave Maera’s mouth as Aemond continued his ministrations, holding her firmly in place by her hips using his free hand so she could fully ride out her orgasm. As she came down from her high, attempting to steady her quick breathing, her head resting on the pillow, she heard Aemond unbuckling his boots and discarding his trousers.

He climbed back on top her, his bare and muscular body covering her completely, their chests heaving as they each breathed deeply. Maera studied Aemond’s face, his eye lidded, mouth agape as he looked downwards, holding his large cock as he lined it up with her entrance. And yet in that moment, Maera could not help but become fixated on his eyepatch that hid him from her.

“Stop,” she said softly, causing the Prince’s gaze to flicker up to her face, a look of concern across it, causing Maera smile to herself. She tucked a strand of silver hair behind his ear before continuing, “You have seen me. Now I wish to see you, all of you,” her fingers dancing over the leather eyepatch.

A moment of uncertainty flashed across his features. “It is…unsightly,” he admitted, his voice carrying a vulnerability that echoed his reluctance.

With a tender gaze, Maera reached out cupped his scarred cheek, reassuring him, "Nyke jaelagon ao hae ao issi, nektogon se ry. Ivestragī issa ūndegon ao, issa dārys." I want you as you are, scars and all. Let me see you, My King

Encouraged by her high Valyrian, Aemond slowly removed his eyepatch, revealing not an empty socket but a mesmerizing sapphire in place of an eye. The depth and brilliance of the vivid blue gem gleamed in the flickering light, a unique and unexpected beauty in the place of perceived imperfection. As Maera's eyes met the radiant sapphire, she became entranced by its beauty. In a hushed whisper, she complimented him, "You have the look of a Valyrian God."

Caught in the magnetic pull of the moment, Maera leaned in, capturing Aemond in a passionate kiss that spoke of acceptance, desire, and the uncharted territory of a love that transcended physical imperfections. As he deepened the kiss, Maera wrapped her arms around his shoulders, feeling his cock pressing against her inner thigh. Their tongues danced together as Aemond pushed the tip of his cock in her cunt, the stretch causing Maera to dig her nails into him, leaving crescent-shaped indents behind on the bare skin of his back. It was not as horrendous as others had described, but thanks to Aemond being so well endowed, it took some getting used to.

The Prince pushed himself to the hilt immediately, as close as he could be to her, causing Maera to gasp into his mouth. His hands roughly captured her hips, tilting them upwards so when he grinded against her, his pelvis rubbed against her clit, a desperate whine to leaving her lips at the friction. He chuckled at the sight her, his rotating movement of his pelvis morphing into thrusts, setting an erratic pace, spurred on by Maera squeezing her eyes shut in pleasure and biting her lip to prevent her from screaming.

“Consider this as a repayment,” the Prince grunted, a smirk plastered on his face as he rutted against her, “for torturously wrapping that pretty mouth around my cock. Fuck, you were made for me, weren’t you? I knew you were, I have always known.”

Maera could not reply to his words, holding onto his shoulders for dear life, thighs pressed against is hips, welcoming him into her with each thrust. She was sure her lip would bleed with how harshly she had it between her teeth, but was quickly snapped out of it when Aemond’s hand snagged her jaw, forcing her to look at his face.

“Do not deny me, Maera,” he hissed with warning, slamming his hips into her even harder than before. “I have been more than patient. Let me hear you. Let everyone in this fucking castle hear you.”

Aemond then placed his hands on the backs of her thighs, pushing them back against her chest and setting an erratic pace. The wet sound of their bodies colliding filled the spacious room, combined with the devilish smirk on his face, meant Maera was hanging onto whatever control she had left by a thread. She let out a shaky exhale, unaware that she was even holding her breath. But now her lungs were empty, her body gave her no choice but to let out whimpers and gasps.

This seemingly wasn’t enough for her husband, who fixed his gaze on his cock slamming in and out of her, before reaching down and beginning to circle her clit with his thumb. This made her finally fully surrender to him, all attempts at appearing untameable, were no match for the euphoric feeling she now felt beginning to form in her low abdomen once again.

“Oh, Fuck!” She screamed out, jaw going slack and eyes rolling into the back of her head as she approached her second peak. Having him above her, taking her in such a rough and possessive manner, coupled with his small grunts and groans now filling the air, was too much for her to bare.

Maera’s legs began to shake as she teetered on the edge of her orgasm, crying out for mercy from her husband, something he had previously promised he would not grant her. And he was right. There was no mercy in this. But she loved it.

He seemed to enjoy it was well, although not as vocal, she could tell by the way he had clenched his jaw and the few veins bulging out of his neck, that he had been as desperate for this as she had. As his thrusts became more intense, Aemond’s one eye looked at her beneath him, focussing on her open mouth, her half lidded eyes and the rosiness of her cheeks. Finally, feeling her cunt start to clench tightly around his cock, he snarled at her, “Yes that’s it, come for me, ābrazȳrys.”

Hearing the word for ‘wife’ finally sent her crashing over the edge. She choked out a sob, a blinding hot sensation of pleasure ripping through her as she came all over Aemond’s cock, wave after wave of euphoric bliss hitting her as the Prince continued thrust into her, the pace fast and deep. She heard a guttural, primal groan leave his throat as he too reached his peak, feeling every pulsation of his cock, which coated the inside of her walls with his hot, sticky seed.

Aemond pressed his forehead to Maera’s, which she too needed to steady herself after such an event. Sweat coated each of their bodies, their heavy breaths mingled together as they both came down from their highs, Aemond’s cock still twitching within her, filling her to the brim. Eventually, he withdrew from her, the loss of feeling causing Maera to hiss, their combined essences hitting the sheet below. She looked down to see crimson and white had stained the bottom sheet, all that was left of her Maidenhead now surrendered to the one-eyed Prince.

All too soon, Aemond, his actions purposeful, promptly rose from the bed. Grasping Maera's arm, he pulled her up alongside him, her legs still trembling and muscles aching from the intimate encounter. Noticing Maera's vulnerability, Aemond grabbed a black sheet from the floor, wrapping it around her to conceal her body. Drawing her against his chest, she could feel the reverberations of his pounding heart, the intimate moment shared in the aftermath of their union.

Aemond rang a bell, and the same young maid from before promptly appeared. He handed her the stained bottom sheet, instructing her with a firm tone, "Give the evidence to the King, the Queen mother, or whoever in the Seven Hells wishes to see it." The maid nodded, curtsied, and swiftly changed the bottom sheet before leaving the room, the old stained sheet in hand.

The Prince then reclined on the bed, and Maera, wearied but content, crawled beside him. They laid bare under the sheets, their bodies pressed close, the smell of sex still very much heavy in the air. Maera, feeling the weight of exhaustion after their union, nestled her head on Aemond's broad chest.

Underneath the warm cocoon of the sheets, Aemond tenderly laced his fingers into Maera's curls, a gesture that conveyed both intimacy and a sense of comfort. As the afterglow of their union enveloped them, Maera's green eyes, heavy with fatigue, began to close. The rhythmic rise and fall of Aemond's chest became a lullaby, gently ushering them into the embrace of sleep.

Notes: We got there. Over 50 chapters and they finally fucked. You did it! Or perhaps this is the first chapter you’ve seen, either way holy fuck. I’ll be honest it took me so long to upload because I did multiple edits. I was definitely overthinking it because I wanted it to be perfect. ADHD, right? 🤣 anyway, this is the first time writing smut so do let me know what you think. Thank you for being patient and I hope you enjoyed it!

Tags: @blue-serendipity @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @manipulatixe @shesjustanothergeek

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[novaursa]

Ok I have a thought and everything turn around this song

https://open.spotify.com/track/3gS0VrWH2NyPGXYiFmcagd?si=GyNvN-TlRdK8WaKeFUi8zw

Fem! Reader is supposed to be the daughter of Leanor but she had the strong’s look. She never had a doubt about who her real father is, she always loved Harwin cause he was very closed to her behind closed door obviously.

Growing up she ask her mother to come back to King’s Landing, she might be engaged to Aemond. But everything she had in mind is to kill Larys Strong, the anger she had is that strong that she might even died or get captured but when it’s happens her dragon goes back to harenhal and Daemon and the Strong’s family understand what happened

Blood For Blood

Requests are closed!

- Summary: Sheepstealer lands upon Harrenhal, alone.

- Paring: None, can be assumed to be a daughter!reader/(father) Harwin Strong (platonic), as reader attempts to avenge her father.

- Note: The reader is bonded with Sheepstealer. I hope this is what you had in mind. Some information had to be left out, so the plot can come together in this short story.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (just to be safe)

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

Smoke rises above the blackened stones of Harrenhal as the air thrums with the sound of wings. A massive shadow crosses over the crumbled towers and battlements, casting a darkness so deep it feels like the sun has vanished from the world. The creature circling the castle is unmistakable. Sheepstealer.

Daemon Targaryen, atop Caraxes, looks up from his perch on the scorched ramparts, brow furrowed. His silver hair shimmers in the dim light, an almost ethereal contrast to the beast circling above. Beside him, Simon Strong, one of the last of his bloodline, tightens his grip on the pommel of his sword. The weight of realization settles between them, heavy and oppressive.

“She’s not with him,” Daemon murmurs, his voice low but tinged with that ever-present edge of amusement that he never fully abandons, even in the face of tragedy. His eyes remain fixed on the dragon, the massive beast known for its temperament, who now glides through the sky riderless.

Simon glances at Daemon, lips pressed into a thin line. "It is as we feared, then." His voice is rough, aged and worn from years of bitter experience. His face, weathered by both time and the weight of his family’s cursed legacy, holds no surprise, only resignation.

“She went after him,” Daemon says with a certainty that causes Simon’s breath to hitch for a moment. He doesn't look at Simon, his gaze still held by the dragon. "After Larys."

There’s a stillness between the two men, a tension in the silence, as Sheepstealer lets out a deep, rumbling growl. The sound reverberates through the courtyard below, shaking the very earth. The dragon lowers itself to the ground with a grace that defies its monstrous size, its claws digging into the charred earth as it lets out a shuddering snort.

Daemon watches closely as the dragon’s head swivels, searching, waiting. There is no rider upon his back. No proud figure, no fierce expression to match the storm of fury that had been brewing ever since you left King’s Landing. And in that absence, Daemon knows. They both know.

“She’s dead.”

Simon speaks the words that hang between them, his voice barely more than a whisper. Daemon doesn't reply immediately. He doesn’t need to. They can both see it—the truth laid bare in the arrival of the beast without its mistress. You are gone, as surely as your father before you, lost in the flames of vengeance that have consumed your bloodline.

"Y/N..." Daemon finally speaks your name, voice barely louder than a breath, almost reverent. He had never truly known you, not as he had known your mother, Rhaenyra, or even your father, Harwin, but there was always a bond, an understanding. You were fire, like all Targaryens, but a different kind—quieter, colder. Until the day Harwin Strong died.

Since that day, your flame had burned hotter, more dangerously, and everyone knew where it would lead. Even your dragon, fierce and independent as he was, had bent to your will. You wanted vengeance for the father taken from you in the blackened ruins of Harrenhal. You had sworn to see Larys Strong dead for the part he had played in your family’s destruction.

Daemon steps forward, descending from the ramparts toward the courtyard where Sheepstealer waits. The dragon's great amber eyes follow him, unblinking. There's an intelligence there, a knowing that cuts through the air like a dagger.

"She fought bravely," Simon says, though his tone is hollow, lacking any conviction.

Daemon scoffs, the sound bitter. "Bravery? It was madness. The girl was bound to die the moment she swore that oath."

"You are one to speak of madness, prince." Simon’s voice hardens, a rare defiance in it, but Daemon only grins, a twisted, humorless smile.

"And yet, I still stand."

The words hang in the air between them, as heavy as the clouds of smoke rising from Harrenhal’s ruins. Daemon stops just short of Sheepstealer, his eyes locking with the dragon’s once more. He can feel the raw power of the creature, the pain that mirrors his own. Sheepstealer had been with you through it all—the fierce bond you shared had been envied, even among your own kin. And now, with your death, the dragon stands alone.

"She died trying to kill him, didn’t she?" Simon asks, though he already knows the answer.

Daemon gives a curt nod. "Larys Strong will not be easy to find now. He’s as slippery as a shadow in the night."

"That worm," Simon growls. His hand tightens once more on the pommel of his sword, though it’s more out of frustration than any desire for action. There’s nothing to be done now. It’s over. "She would have made a fine queen... had things been different."

Daemon’s eyes flicker with something dark and unreadable. "She was never meant for a crown. Too much of her father in her."

Silence falls again, the weight of the castle pressing down upon them both. Sheepstealer growls low, sensing the tension in the air, the grief that lingers in the stone itself. The dragon looks toward the entrance of the keep, as if expecting someone to walk out and take command, but no one comes.

"Will you tell him?" Simon asks quietly.

Daemon’s smile fades completely, and for a moment, he looks weary—older, burdened by the countless losses that have marked his long life. "No. Let the dragon keep his illusions for a little longer. He’ll find out soon enough."

With that, Daemon turns his back on the dragon, the courtyard, and the weight of yet another death added to the blood-soaked history of his family. Simon watches him go, feeling the same heavy resignation settle in his bones.

Sheepstealer lets out one last mournful cry, the sound echoing through the empty halls of Harrenhal. The dragon knows too now. You are gone, taken by fire, just as your father before you. The Strong bloodline is broken, and vengeance has consumed yet another soul.

[ainyan]

Kal'istae Miurani - Stats and Facts

B A S I C S

Name: Kal’istae Miurani

Nicknames: Kali

Age: 34 as of the beginning of Dawntrail

Nameday: 18th day of the 3rd Astral Moon

Race: Xaela Au Ra

Gender: Female

Orientation: Pansexual/Demi-Romantic

Relationship(s): Thancred Waters - Lover/Husband

Profession: Warrior of Light

P H Y S I C A L   A S P E C T S

Hair: Midnight blue with silver streaks. She keeps it long - hip length or longer, and bound in a braid that falls down along her spine.

Eyes: Indigo with glowing lavender limbal rings

Skin: Indigo with silver freckles and sapphire/indigo scales

Tattoos/scars: One tattoo: A meteor brand between her shoulder blades. She still hopes for the brand of an Archon someday. A number of small scars are scattered across her back, ribs, stomach, legs, and arms, evidence of her very active and combat-filled lifestyle.

F A M I L Y

Parents: Unnamed Dotharl Xaela

Siblings: No known blood siblings. Two adopted siblings in Sharlayan - Cailette and Alistair Miurani. Two foster siblings in Ishgard - Artoirel and Emmanellain de Fortemps. A brother-in-law, Fourchenault Leveilleur, and a sister-in-law, Ameliance Leveilleur

Children: Minyda Waters (daughter), Xarise Waters (daughter)

In-laws and Other: Ryne Waters (Stepdaughter), Alisaie and Alphinaud Leveilleur (niece and nephew), Sadu Dotharl (cousin), Kabniel Shinespark (cousin/niece-in-law), Soleil Leveilleur (nephew), Tseren Shinespark (niece)

Pets: Numerous various animals and mammets

S K I L L S

Abilities: Skilled in magic, gathering, crafting, fighting. Particularly skilled in alchemy, cooking, sewing, and jewelry making. Adept Summoner with access to all known Egis.

Hobbies: Making plushes, particularly of animals she’s encountered or people she knows. She keeps most of them for herself, but will gift them to her special people or occasionally barter them for goods she needs.

T R A I T S

Most Positive Trait: Patience. Kal’istae has infinite patience when dealing with almost anything, whether it’s waiting for news, helping those in need, teaching her goldsmithing students, or awaiting Thancred’s return from wherever he’s run off to.

Most Negative Trait: Low self-esteem. Despite her notoriety and fame, Kal’istae does not look at herself the same way everyone else does. She does not see the miracles she has wrought or the good deeds she has done, only the mistakes she has made and the cost in lives lost to her inability to solve every problem.

L I K E S

Colors: Purple, blue, teal, lavender, silver, gold

Smells: Warm leather, gunpowder, gun oil, lavender, sage, wild roses, starflowers, fresh churned earth.

Textures: Silk, smooth wood, smooth stone, velvet, soft petals, cold water

Drinks: Hot tea, water, sweet red wine, hot chocolate

O T H E R    D E T A I L S

Smokes: Never

Drinks: Occasionally, but only when around others and when there is someone else abstaining

Drugs: Never

Mount Issuance: Kal’istae was claimed early by a rental chocobo from Mimigun in Ul’dah, and when she was given her issuance from the Flames, she immediately chose her friend and named him Zhikanikoth, or Zeek for short. It was many years later that the memory of her first chocobo companion, also named Zhikankioth, returned to her and she realized that her first companion was none other than her current companion, waiting those five long years for his mistress to return. She also has a very large number of mounts she has gathered over the years, but none so beloved as her Zeek.

Been Arrested: What?? No! (Being arrested for a false accusation of regicide doesn’t count!)

Tagged by: @paintedscales

Tagging: No one in particular, but if no one else has tagged you and you would like to do this, consider yourself tagged by me!

[fairysluna]

His Highness Prince Aegon II Targaryen was finally able to escape from his native home. He ran away many times, but he was constantly caught. But this time, he succeeded. He is standing on the threshold of some small estate, as it seems to him. His hands are icy, he is frozen to the bone, he does not feel his own body, but desperately knocks on closed, dark doors. He doesn't know where he is, he just knows, that somewhere far to the North. Far further away, than he could ever have imagined. And that's good. The further away from home, the better. The only thing, that deeply hurts the Prince, other than the icy wind, is that his winged treasure is far away from him. Sunfyre stayed at home. The Prince shouts, but does not hear his own voice. He's banging on the door. He was tired and cold. The last thing, he sees before collapsing backwards, is an increasing crack of light.

When a strange man with silver hair appeared on the threshold of your house in the deep, cold night, you, the mistress of this house, the last member of your last name, did not expect much from him. Even though you live on the edge of the universe, there is no escape from rumors.

Everything about this place was strange to the Prince. The young woman is in charge here. There are very few servants, and they all called you by name, although with deep respect in their voice. And you didn't call them "servants", you said: "my help". When you greeted him by his full name, the Prince prepared to run again, but you only asked him to be calm and respectful. Now, he is very far from home, the King's fist almost does not reach these lands, you have your own rules and customs here. And if the Prince wants to stay, he must comply with them. This world is different, from where he came from. And Aegon agreed. He promised to behave himself, and you promised not to extradite him. And it was easy. Few people get to your tiny piece of land. In fact, it's surprising, how he crawled up here at all.

But that was a long time ago.

Now, Aegon has increased not only in the waist, but in the shoulders. And, it seems, he became half a head taller, but that's not for sure. He began to smile more, and an unquenchable flame burns in his eyes. And his habits have also changed. The current Aegon and Aegon, that escaped from King's Landing, are two different Aegons.

Where else would you see Prince Aegon, playing snowballs with little children, to whom, he has nothing to do? And he let these children beat him. Where else would you see Prince Aegon, who portrays a defeated dragon? Where else would you see Prince Aegon, sitting relaxed on an icy lake and fishing for fun? Of course, he brings the most beautiful catches home, to his real home, but mostly, he finds fishing calming. He even asked a local blacksmith to make him a "safe fishing hook".

You've lived on this icy lake all your life, and fishing has never given in to you. Your best catch, is someone's ring. And this stranger just picked up a fishing rod, and immediately caught a good fish! It's just not fair! This bastard has talent! Of course, you told him, that you'd kick him out of the house for it, but you both just laughed about it. You praised his talent.

Aegon noticed, that you often praised him in general. Also, he found out, that you are not much different from him in age, but, almost from childhood, a huge burden of responsibility hangs on you. You are the eldest daughter in the family, you are the first heiress to this small town. You are literally the last person in this family.

You have a bad pedigree. Almost all the sisters ran away, some to freedom, some to lovers, the father was mired in his thirst for money and power, and the mother despaired of finding happiness in this house. There was no one left. You're alone. But Aegon doesn't need power. Aegon has escaped from power. But he offered you to become, a kind of, well, your consort. You tell him, he'll do it. Now you're not alone. Now Aegon is here. And when you get married, he will be happy to be called by your last name. Aegon was run away from responsibility, he didn't want that responsibility. But for this responsibility, he is ready for anything. And he will not break this promise.

Aegon himself did not think, that he would love this place so much. He is much deeper in the North, than any "Dog" could tell him. If the whole world were a plate, he would be on the very edge of that plate. Aegon loved this quiet, affectionate estate with all his heart, these kind and loyal assistants, who call him: "Aegon" or "my boy". He fell in love with these icy forests and waters. And this small town, with its strange inhabitants, for whom he has already become their own. And this warm berry pie, for which he ready sell his soul, which is cooked by a maid of a very respectable age, who, by the way, calls him affectionately: "my boy".

Where else could you see Prince Aegon, who yesterday danced with his Lady by the fireplace some kind of incoherent, fervent dance, and today - he hugs her closely to him, gently swaying by the same fireplace. Sometimes, in the morning, Aegon is afraid to open his eyes. If this is all a dream, then let this dream not end. But Aegon feels the familiar heavy and warm blanket again. So, everything is fine. One day, you told him, that you were a little sad, that all your sisters had scattered, that you would like to show him off in front of them. You've always been not the most attractive sister, a hopeless bride. And here's how it all turned out. Aegon thought the same thing. It would be so nice, to show off such a new life in front of his family. But, on the other hand, Aegon will do everything, to protect this new life. He has changed, but some of the old traits of his being remain.

Aegon is a dragon, and you are a whale. And you would never have thought, that a dragon would so desperately want to turn into a whale. You are his beautiful flower, carved out of thick, centuries-old ice. But when Aegon hears your bones crunch again and again, when he sees the old scars on your skin, how your hands are shaking again, the deep dark color under your eyes, that will never leave you. When he looks into your eyes again, in which your whole life is visible, Aegon understands again, that you are still a flower, that needs to be cared for. And he'd be damned, if he'd let that flower wither. You've had a heavy burden on you for a lot of years. But now, you have someone to share it with.

Aegon tells you his fiery fairy tales, and you tell him your fairy tales, woven from icy water. In this cold fairy tale, he will never be found.

One day, when you were cuddling by the fireplace, you told him, that you would love to meet Sunfyre. You even came up with an approximate place, where he could be placed. You ask Aegon, if the dragon would freeze here? After all, even through all this time, Aegon is still freezing here. Well, you were born in cold water, and Aegon in fire, of course he is cold here!

When you both approved the construction of the "home for Dragon", Aegon gathered in the capital, to take what rightfully belongs to him. In fact, even in such an unpleasant business, as a temporary return to his native lands, there are a couple of pleasant moments. Firstly, Sunfyre will be with him again. Gods, how he misses Sunfyre. Secondly, you're excited about meeting Sunfyre, in the best possible way. Aegon is more than sure, that his winged treasure will like you as well. And thirdly, several local men offered to help him. They offered to go with him, just in case. After all, no one here wants their Lady's future husband to get hurt or worse. Besides, this very future husband, well, is not a very bad guy.

Oh, Aegon's poor heart, it's about to burst... He would give his life for this little piece of land.

Oh my god- this is so perfect... thank you for sharing this with me and my followers, i feel HONORED. Firstly, the story is amazing, the fluff? soft aegon? yes, please. Secondly, your writing is INCREDIBLE, and I would LOVE to hear more about this story pretty pleaseeee (if you have a name for it let me know to put it in the tags)

Please everyone NEED to read this, i loved it so much.

sorry for not being able to add the 'read more'

[nekohime19]

Hear behind the lie # 63 : Lady Wan

It's time to finally meet another one of the four celestial monkey! Lady Wan!

Wukong secured Sock over his shoulder, making sure she was comfortably settled, before hopping after the servant's retreating shadow. He landed in a narrow passage enveloped in darkness. The only source of light was the servant’s oil lamp, the flame was barely able to illuminate their surroundings. Not that Wukong needed light, his eyes were sharp enough to cut through the shadows. The rest of the team hopped after him. Once they were all inside the secret passage, the servant closed off the hole. 

“So any reasons Lady Wan suddenly wants to see us?” Asked the great sage. He wasn't against the Jeweler seeking them, it spared them a lot of time, but it was still a very sudden invitation. Wukong sensed they were being pulled in a greater scheme.

“Lady Wan will explain everything once you see her.” Replied the servant, face devoid of any betraying feelings. Wukong let the subject go. Evidently he wouldn't be able to discover anything from such a tight lipped mouth. 

The servant guided them in the narrow passage. The walls were old, dug in the earth itself, it was a crude work. Clearly the ones who dug didn't worry about aesthetics. Wukong wondered if the Sunfires were even aware of the underground maze dug beneath their beloved manor. Probably not if Lady Wan’s servant was able to use them so freely. It wasn't that surprising… Hidden passages such as these were jealousy guarded secrets, passed along from parents to children, it only took one negligent generation not mentioning it for it to be forgotten. The servant stopped and opened another hole, light poured in the passage. They were ushered out of the passage by the servant, pushed in a dim-lighted study. 

The study was large. It was devoid of any lavishness, in fact it was quite austere, all furniture were sharp and somber, exuding a sense of danger. Scrolls were sprawled all over the place, each filled with intricate texts difficult to decipher. There were no windows. The study was illuminated by various lamps hung all around the place. 

“I see they accepted my invitation.” The one who spoke was sitting behind a large mahogany desk, a grey-furred monkey dressed in white. Wukong assumed that must be Lady Wan. Her voice was soft, yet it held an inexplicable sharpness, like a dagger hidden in cotton. Wukong met a lot of monkeys in his life, but he never saw one as sharp as her. Frankly speaking, she looked like a blade. Her chin was pointed and her face's lines cut steep. Her eyes were as clear as ice, beautiful yet cold. Her mane was pulled in a tight half-up bun, held together by a silver pin. The lower half of her mane cascaded on her shoulders like rivers of snow. She had no jewelery expect for the pin, a pity for someone called the Jeweler. 

A man was at her side. He stood behind her seat with his hands clasped in his back. If Lady Wan was like the first snow of winter, this man looked like the first sprouts of spring. He was small and plump, dressed in light green robes. He was wearing a weasle mask, again, the people of this city either hid themselves in their veils or behind their masks. 

Lady Wan gestured to the seats before her desk, the team tentatively settled there. At least, contrary to the Sunfires leaders, this time they had enough seats for everyone. Wukong put Sock on his lap and scratched behind her ears, the lil lady pawed at his thighs in happiness. Lady Wan’s servant bowed to her mistress before settling further back in the study, laying in the shadows. 

“I heard you were looking for me.” Hummed the grey-furred monkey, she waved her snow-white fan around, hiding her mouth behind the frosty paper. Her eyes were curved, not unlike those of a cat playing with its prey. 

“We are looking for the Jeweler.” Blurted out Tang, Wukong commanded him for his bravery, it wasn't easy to speak before a women as intimidating as their host, if she could be called that. 

“And that would be me.” Chuckled Lady Wan, her joyful attitude didn't reassure Wukong, not one bit. 

“One of our friend needs healing.” Chimed MK, eyes burning with hope. Lady Wan hummed, unsurprised. 

“What kind of healing?”

“Necromancy.” Clarified Wukong, he wasn't willing to reveal further, but seeing the glint passing in their host's eyes, he didn't need to. Lady Wan put one finger over her chin, pensive. 

“That is indeed very serious and difficult to cure but not impossible. I can look into your friend's state.” The whole team breathed a sigh of relief, as if a great burden was taken off their shoulders. 

“At what cost?” Asked the great sage, he wasn't naive enough to believe she was willing to help without any benefits. Lady Wan smiled at his question, something predatory. She snapped her fan shut and put it down. 

“I am sure you're already aware, but in two days I am to be wedded to Jaw-long, the son of the current sole leader of the Sunfires.” The man standing behind her shifted uncomfortably at the words “sole leader”, as if it bothered him to even think about it. Lady Wan didn’t pay him any attention and resumed : “It'll be a grand event, with food and wine flowing in abundance. All of the clan's important figureheads will be there. And they'll be distracted. I need your strength to help me stage a coup that day.” Her words froze them all momentarily. She revealed this as if it was as mundane as taking a stroll outside. Wukong didn’t expect to be pulled into politics when he first came here, even less staging a rebellion in the midst of a wedding. He needed clarification before accepting to partake in this sort of scheme. 

Lady Wan reclined on her chair as if what she proposed wasn't that shocking, she opened her fan and waved it lightly, clearly she didn't intend to speak more than this. The man behind her cleared his throat and tentatively explained the situation :

“You see, the Sunfires were originally two different clans : the Blooms and the Goldhands. They joined hands to face the puppeteers and since then had been united under one banner. Since its founding, there have always been two leaders ruling the Sunfires. One coming from the Blooms the other coming from the Goldhands. But recently, Fang, the Goldhands descendant, killed her co-leader… She disguised it as an accident, saying a fire broke out and none made it… I wouldn't have made it without Lady Wan…”

“I used the underground maze to save him. I was too late to save the Blooms leader, but I could save his general.” Hummed Lady Wan, Wukong was quite surprised to learn this plump guy was a general… but well people always said to not make judgments based on appearances. 

Wukong remained silent, truthfully he wouldn't mind helping them in their makeshift rebellion if it meant giving Macaque a chance to heal. But this was no light decision. They needed to talk about it seriously. 

“Can we take time to think of this?” Asked the great sage. Lady Wan squinted at him, as if examining him. 

“I will give you the night. My servant will seek you again by morning, I expect an answer then.” Proposed the gray-furred monkey, the team nodded. They were guided out of the study by the servant, regaining their room via the hidden passage. 

Wukong scratched under Sock's chin, this was going to be a long night. 

***

Lady Wan watched them go with piercing eyes, her smile dropped out of her face the moment they were gone. She knew that even with the Blooms support, it would be difficult to defeat the Goldhands, having the Great sage equal to Heaven in their ranks would assure their victory. Perhaps it was fate that led them to her door. She wasn't one to let this chance slip by her. 

“Do you think they'll agree?” Asked General Fei, he readjusted his weasel mask, not wanting to let one inch of his skin be seen. Lady Wan pitied him, him and all those subjected to the Burned-Skin Disease. It wasn't easy to live with it. To see your body charred for life. Even the most meager ray of light caused them pain. But as much as she pitied them, she couldn't heal them. 

This kind of magical corruption wasn't her domain of expertise. She could soothe their pain, but not root out their sickness. Until now, she managed to fool them with niceties and temporary solutions, but she knew it wouldn't last. It would be easier if she could just slip away and run far from this mess. But her nibling was out there. And she knew that if she escaped, the Sunfires would hunt Xiaobo down. 

And besides, she had her own thirst for vengeance. No matter how nice she was. No matter if she wasn't one for swords and blood. No matter if she prefered crafts and scrolls. There were things even she couldn't forgive. 

“A living-dead isn't easy to heal.” Hummed Lady Wan. “They're in a time race, I don't think they have any other choice.”

General Fei didn't seem reassured. He sighed and messed with his sleeves. “I hope you're right.”

“I'm always right.” Snorted Lady Wan. She fanned herself, hoping to discard the pungent smell of ash. She hated it. “You remember our deal, General?”

“I won't touch the kid, I promise.” Sighed General Fei. Lady Wan hummed. She hoped he was honest. It was all she could do to assure her nibling safety. She helped them stage the coup and in turn they would let her go, and never touch a single fluff of Xiaobo's head. A fair bargain. 

Lady Wan nodded, satisfied. She sent the General away with a flick of the wrist. This was her chambers after all, it wouldn't do them any good if the Blooms General was discovered before the coup. General Fei bowed to her and left via the passage. Now alone, Lady Wan sighed and rubbed her forehead. All this scheming tired her. All these people tired her. She wasn't one to interact this much with the outside world to begin with. She didn't like people. In fact, only a select few held her affection.

Someone knocked on her door. Lady Wan sighed, she knew who it was, the guy always came at the same hour. She regained her poise and washed away her tiredness. Slowly, she opened the door. She was greeted by a familiar fox mask. Jaw-long waved at her, he barged in her chamber without any qualm and collapsed on her sofa. Lady Wan hid her disgust behind her fan. 

“Ah, like always, you're beautiful.” Hummed Jaw-long. 

“And you're disgraceful.” Curtly replied Lady Wan. Her tongue wasn't as colorful as her nibling’s but it was definitely as sharp. She wasn't the type to hide her distaste of someone. Jaw-long chuckled and brushed her insult away. He was used to it. 

“Can you believe we're going to be married in only two days? ” Chuckled the fox, he rose from the sofa and approached her, he tried to take one piece of her fur in his fingers but she slapped his hand away with her fan. 

“Keep your filthy hands away from me.”

“Fierce as always.” Hummed Jaw-long as he rubbed his fingers. “No matter, you'll be mine soon enough.” He left her with those words. He couldn't stay long outside of his mother's view. 

Lady Wan huffed. It was unbefitting of her to even be engaged to someone like him. He was an arrogant brat who believed he had the world in his palms. In truth, he wasn't even the one in power, his mother was. Thinking of them was enough to fill her with rage…and guilt. 

She knew that what happened to Xiaobo's mother wasn't entirely her fault but still she couldn't help but feel responsible. She shouldn't have left her… She shouldn't have argued with her. It was painful. She could have done better. She could have been better…But now Xiaomei was gone. Her child was but a little lamb wandering in the desert and she was stuck here. Forced to talk with the one who killed her sworn sister. 

Lady Wan took a deep breath. She couldn't let herself be swallowed by her own emotions. Vengeance demanded precision. It demanded a heart of steel. She wasn't there to protect Xiaomei, but she would be damned if anything happened to her sister's child. She would make them pay and assure her nibling safety at the same time. She didn't have any knowledge on war. She wasn't a fighter. But she knew enough of human nature to plot ahead. 

Jaw-long once told her what he liked about her was her beauty… Well Lady Wan believed she would be the prettiest when she'll pierce his chest with a dagger. 

Dawn came soon enough, and with it her servant brought back the Monkie kids answer, as they called themselves. They agreed to her proposition. Lady Wan smiled and breathed out a sigh of relief.

"This is going to be a fine wedding." She hummed happily.

Ch1 / Previous / Next

[letsdeerintheheadlightsuniverse]

>>Next Chapter>>

Masterlist

Pairing: Izzy Hands x gn!reader

Synopsis: Upon saving your life, Izzy Hands also unknowingly stole your heart. Will you ever be brave enough to admit your feelings or will the spark that burns between you eventually fizzle out, if not stoked into flames of passion?

A/N: Welcome to the first of what I hope will be a multi-chaptered fanfiction. It's my first time properly writing on here, so go easy on me! I'm still trying to find my footing with formatting and the like. I will update the Masterlist as I go along! I'm not totally sure how to make one, but I've made it this far, so hopefully, it works!

Content Warning: Canonical violence, gore, and discussions surrounding the reader's difficult past. This series will be 18+, so minors dni. Go away (politely).

DISCLAIMER: PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, REPUBLISH  OR TRANSLATE MY WORK ANYWHERE WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT PERMISSION.

==================================

The sea was a cruel mistress. Beautiful in all her oceanic glory but as quick changing in temperament as the weather. From clear blue skies to perilous storms- there was no deciphering her moods, only surviving her continuous whims. But blessed had she been to you.

Perhaps she had conspired with the fates, whispered in their ear and asked them to favour you, as you travelled the seven seas with your found family. For life prior to your time on board the Revenge had been a different kind of survival. Just one, big never-ending fight, for food and shelter, that left you mentally- and more frequently than you cared to recollect- physcially battered and bruised. Though you were made of sterner stuff, even the most adept pirate had their limits.

And the day you had reached your own, good fortune had smiled upon you, as you were introduced to one, Israel Hands. Well, introduced might have been too polite a word. It's connotation suggests that you both met under usual circumstances and exchanged pleasantries, when the reality of the situation had been anything but pleasant.

Another day of surviving for your life had taken on a new meaning that dreadful Tuesday. You were doing more than just fighting for scraps and offcuts, you were struggling to keep your own entrails contained within your own abdomen. Rivers of red bled out from your failing form, as others equally destitute, viewed your fading self as one less hungry mouth to compete against. One less person taking up residence in a barn or abandoned shack. You thought your life over in that moment, as you felt your consciousness wash in and out like the waves that lapped at the nearby port.

You never really had the confidence to ask Izzy what it was exactly that moved him so much to take pity upon you but something in that dank alleyway had stirred within the silver-haired pirate's chest, as he had caught sight of your bloodied disposition.

Your remembrance of being brought back upon the deck of the Revenge was hazy at best but then, severe blood loss and copious amounts of rum for the pain would cause amnesia in the most sound of mind. The only snippets of memory that you still possessed, all involved the First Mate. The vague feeling of leather brushing against your cheek, as he carried you towards the port. The sensation of a hand in yours, as the cook-slash-medic crudely stitched you back together again. That was all you still retained from that horrific time. Still, you treasured the memories, keeping them close in your heart.

No, you would not ask the pirate to recount the full tale of what had occurred the day you were found. That was all in the past now. A distant speck on the horizon of your life's story. You had moved onto better things and your prospects were much brighter now.

Life on the Revenge was by no means easy but having a wonderful crew and somewhat sane co-captains was a farcry from where you had been only six months prior. You now had people you could call friends. Hell, you considered them to be family and they, you. You were loved and also loved in return. For the first time in your tragic history of existence, you had found a home in the group of misfits. A strong sense of belonging. You were safe. Well, as safe as one could be as a pirate.

Not that you ever worried too much when on raids. If your past was anything to go by, you could look adter yourself well enough in the midst of a fight. Though you lacked skill, you were ruthless in your attacks. However, as per the co-captain's orders, you were generally buddied up with someone more skilled than yourself. More often than not, such a responsibility fell upon the shoulders of the Revenge's beloved First Mate. Not that you were complaining. No, seriously, not even a peep!

Unfortunately for you, it had not escaped the attention of your closest friends, Lucius and Oluwande that, you never complained, in fact, about being paired up with the- quite frankly- cantankerous arsehole. It was almost if you, they dare thought, enjoyed his company. The absolute horror! Despite their teasing at your expense, most of the crew. Nay! All of the crew, were rooting for you both.

It was just a waiting game now of when you and Izzy would recognise your feelings for one another. Wee John had money on it being within the next month. Whereas Archie guessed it would be at least another six months but who was to say? Only time would tell.

If the way you were staring forlornly at the First Mate, when you were supposed to be helping Jim scrub the deck, was any indication then maybe Wee John was not totally off the mark with his prediction. You could not help yourself. The opalescent sky, brought to life by the dying rays of the close to evening sun, was a beautiful contrast compared to the stark black silhouette of the silver-haired pirate, who was currently berating a very disgruntled looking Buttons.

However, our distracted state did not last long. You were brought forth from your reverie with a very unceremonious wet cloth to the face. The sounds that emanated from your persons could only be described as a shrill shriek of horror.

"Ew, Jim!" you screeched, ripping the damp fabric from your skin and immediately pelting it back at them with aggravated gusto. "What the hell!"

Easily battling off your counter attack, the pirate chortle with unrestrained glee at your panic and disgust. You were so, so easy to catch unawares, it was impossible to not take advantage. "Ah, come on now, mi amor (my love). Lighten up a little! You're becoming as grumpy as Dizzy Izzy."

At the mention of his name, you found yourself blushing deeply. Oh no, where your feelings for the First Mate were concerned you were in too deep and your friends made sure to remind you every second of your waking hours. Not that you could really complain. How many times had you lovingly mocked Pete for his infatuation with Lucius or  Jim when they doted on their partners?

"Bet you like that about him though." they smirked, as they resumed scrubbing at the deck.

You grumbled a murmured, "shut up" but Jim was right. You did like his stoicism. There was something reassuring about Izzy's stubbornness and fortitude. It was like he was a lighthouse in the tumultuous ocean that was life. Standing strong against the waves that would drown anyone else. A guide to the well-meaning but ill-equipt eclectic crew. Had he not delivered you from a path of darkness?

While lost in our own thoughts, little did you know that your cry of horror had caught the attention of the man that occupied your mind during all waking and sleeping hours.

From his vantage point, Izzy watched the crew of Revenge toil away at the daily tasks, surprisingly with minimal complaints or antics. It appeared that they were on their best behaviour that day. Much to the First Mate's chagrin. Of all the days his racing mind needed a distraction, that damn crew decided to actually put some fucking effort into their work.

But there you were, he thought, fighting to keep the soft smile that threatened to melt his icy demeanour. Working hard as always alongside your friend, Jim. You were laughing at something they had said, as you wiped the sweat from your brow. The wind against the rustling sails blocked out the sound of your laughter but thankfully, he had heard it enough time to commit the sound to memory.

"Staring at (y/n) again?" the unwelcome voice of one Edward Fucking Teach suddenly interrupted Izzy's otherwise pleasant train of thought.

"Oh, fuck off, Edward." despite his annoyance, the irritated pirate's tone did not covey itself as malicious, just frustrated, which all but confirmed Ed's suspicions.

Unlike some of the other crew members, the co-captain was well accustomed to Izzy's volatile personality by now. No matter how many foul words, curses or threats the other man verbally hurled at Ed, he would simply brush each attack off with a smile- or even more infuriatingly- a laugh accompanied with a shoulder pat. Izzy loathed those shoulder pats sometimes. Unfortunately for him but more fortunately for Ed, it was frowned upon to cut off your Captain's hand.

And as if on cue, there it was, that familiar smile. That bright as the fucking sun on a clear summer's day smile. No wonder Stede Bonnet was besotted with the bastard. Who could possibly resist the friendly warmth of that mischievous grin? It was disarmingly charming enough to even placate a cold-hearted man, such as Izzy Hands. Who could already feel his resolve crumbling.

While it would have been foolish to assume that Izzy's bark was worse than his bite- goodness, his bite could erradicate an entire crew with a moments hesitation- overall, the man was pretty harmless. Especially when it came to talking about you.

And Ed was well aware of his friend's newfound fondness. "Ah, come on, Iz." he chuckled, leaning against the nearby railing with complete ease, while Izzy felt like his stomach being tied up in knots. It took everything within his power to stop his hands from shaking. He quickly grabbed onto the same railing and hoped he mirrored Ed's unperturbed manner. Damn, he was so embarrassed with himself. How did anyone manage to function properly when being in love made you feel so jittery all the time? "You're allowed to look at 'em, you know? Nothing wrong with appreciating the view." the Captain's own gaze roamed across the deck, when he too, spotted you. His smile grew even wider.

There was no doubt that Ed liked you a lot. You were a competent pirate and a loyal friend to those aboard the ship but more importantly, you were a good influence on the First Hand. The gradual closeness that had bloomed between you and the silver-haired pirate, had been a heartwarming sight to witness from a far. In fact, it was often the subject of the late night conversations shared between Ed and Stede, as they got ready for bed every night.

However, they were not the only ones invested in the hopefully-so-to-occur-coupling of you and Izzy. The rest of the Revenge's crew had also placed many bets, all of which ran simultaneously. From first dates to first kisses- there was money riding on every single one of your shared interactions. You both just did not know it yet (and hopefully never at all). If Izzy were to discover just how invested everyone was in your inevitable relationship, heads would roll. Or more precisely, Ed's would roll.

Izzy could barely stop himself from scoffing at Ed's words. Actually, he did scoff. Loudly, too. But even with his sound of dismay, the pirate could not help but steal a guilty glance in your direction but only for a moment. "Don't talk daft." he grumbled when you eventually disappeared below deck, having been called away by Roach to help in the kitchen. "I was just keeping an eye on the crew. Fucking useless, the lot of 'em."

"Even (y/n)?"

With a huff, Izzy had finally had enough of this particular line of enquiry. "Did you need something, Edward?"

"No, just came up here to annoy you."

Of course he had. Of course he fucking had! What else would a co-captain do, other than annoy his Right Hand Man? Nothing so useless as, oh Izzy could hardly think of something worth while, like...chartering the next part if the ships journey?! "Well, in that case, can you kindly fuck off then? Haven't you got to go and make your boyfriend blush or something?"

Despite his hearty laugh, Ed still had one last parting shot for the silver-haired pirate. Leaning in close, he whispered, "You know, instead of focusing on my relationship, you could be making y/n blush right now."

Before Izzy could even stammer an apoplectic response of faux outrage- how many times had he actually fantasies about being the cause of the rosy dusting upon your cheeks?- Ed had already pushed himself off of the railing and made his way down onto the main deck. "Twat." Izzy huffed, knowing deep down. Like, deep, deep, deeeeeep down, Ed was right. He had been, as the captain had so succinctly put it, been "appreciating the view".