#mother tree my beloved

[kelp-my-beloved]

They were all gone.

Joel doesn't know how he knows that, but like most things, he decides not to question it. Instead, he focuses on walking the streets of Mezelea, assessing the damage, doing his best to not look up at the sky, or at the sea.

It's easier, he learns, to focus on the pain he can see. The palace, once the point of pride of his empire, is the dying proof of the fact. It's impossible not to see the cracked roofs or the walls collapsing on themselves, no matter where you stayed in the city. And while all the blueprints remained, even though Joel could probably repair it, given enough time, he knows it's something he couldn't make himself do.

To repair the palace would either be healing or forgetting the pain, and the King refuses to let go of it.

It's easier to focus on the sky and the cracked terracotta there, than the sea and it's quietness.

So the palace remains broken, and the Slayer of Horses keeps looking up.

When the oceans stopped their songs, the matral tree filled the silence. There wasn't a melody or an emotion behind it, but rather a soft hum, always a little too quiet for Joel to make out.

It's clearest when he closes his eyes, alone, and let's himself feel. The humming feels that empty place inside his chest that his friends had left, a comfort he will later feel stupid for relishing.

Joel knows what it means, but unlike a lot of things, this time he decides not to ignore it.

The King of Mezelea walks its streets one final time, making sure everything is in order, before going back to where it all started.

The mother tree is there, waiting for him, like she does for all her children. Joel had though he was special, once, after seeing her call back so many others, but never him. Now, he understands.

Silently, he walks down to the small space between her roots and the ground, and lays down.

The first time he had opened his eyes he had seen the bright blue sky between roots and branches. Now, that same sight is interrupted by lights and buildings and the top of a broken palace.

Outside, the sea starts crashing hard against the coast, but the humming is so loud now that Joel can barely register it.

He knows what it means. He has seen first hand what the salty water can do to clay, but he isn't afraid. Instead, he closes his eyes, and curls against the roots.

"You should make the next one taller," he jokes, and falls asleep.

[swordgrace]

𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅𝐒𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃, 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ cregan stark x fem!targtower!reader.

SYNOPSIS: as the youngest daughter of alicent hightower, you are wed to the young wolf, cregan stark. what many believe to be a union of strife, such a notion is proven wrong very quickly.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anon.

{ WORD COUNT: 6.7K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), arranged marriage, reader is a targtower with pale hair & lilac eyes, skin color unspecified, first time sex (for reader), loss of virginity, p in v sex (unprotected), massive breeding kink, all stark men have a breeding gene, oral sex / cunnilingus (fem!rec), face-sitting, biting/marking, making out, lots of touching, missionary position, talk of having a child, soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: There’s been a ton of Cregan requests, so I hope that this satisfies a lot of people until I post another! ❤️ Thank you all so much for the incredible requests and support of my work, it means the world to me and I am extremely grateful for all of it. See you guys soon!

𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧, 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟 — 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐜𝐞.

The North was often regarded as a harsh and unyielding environment, with bitter, stinging winds and snowfalls that could bury men alive beneath their might. Such tales were often told to scare children or dissuade them from leaving the roost.

It was untamed and savage, according to your mother — she who vehemently fought against your betrothal to Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. A marriage steeped in wariness and discord, you had been pleasantly surprised by your husband’s kindness and warm stoicism.

Piety was a rarity in the bleak, bloodsoaked world you lived within — innocence was a quality as uncommon as a diamond in the rough. When Cregan had been offered such a sacred proposal during the last days of King Viserys I, he nearly scoffed at it.

A Targaryen, a Hightower — he almost imagined that the both of you would not do well together, and that it would become a sour union, made only to please families and uphold duty. His advisors, old men with embittered grudges against the South, cautioned him away from it, imploring him to wed a girl from the Vale or the Reach.

When Cregan Stark met you, clad in pale shades of sage and ivory, with lilac hues and a smile that could melt even the toughest of ice, perhaps it would not be a dreadful marriage after all.

Even with a dragon at your heel, there was something positively resplendent about you — Cregan could feel it within his marrow, a feeling seldom felt by any man locked in an arranged betrothal.

It was your innocuous, tenderhearted nature that beguiled him, as if you unconsciously drew him in with your honey. Your very first meeting happened to be to seal the marriage pact itself before you would be shipped away to the North, to be his wife and the new Lady Stark.

Cregan rarely found himself charmed by anyone, yet you possessed an inner beauty that flourished in his presence. You were your own flame, burning through his hardened exterior. He did not mistake your docile nature for weakness — you possessed a dragon, where he did not.

You were rather taken with him, perplexed by his outward ruggedness and gruff accent, the way in which he carried himself, massive physique clad in the thick trappings of a wolf. He was a mountain of a man, yet he handled you as if you were some precious jewel, sacred and worthy of admiration.

Alicent begrudgingly watched as you, her youngest daughter, untainted by her own fractured morality, was sent away to the North in the hands of some brute. For the good of the Realm, Viserys had told her, but it cut deeper knowing that it was you, her beloved flesh and blood.

Yet, as you found yourself beneath the crimson leaves of the Weirwood Tree in the Godswood, hands bound with Cregan’s own, you forgot about your mother’s bitterness entirely — and you were happy.

The first kiss was one that would make a permanent residence within your memory for lifetimes to come. He had cradled your face, towering over you as if he were a solemn statue, but even you could see the softening within his visage.

King’s Landing was suffocating, more often than not. The animosity that festered between your family smothered you, crushing you beneath its sharp heel. You were no longer surrounded by bitterness and resentment, and instead, cloaked by the protection and warmth of your new husband.

The feast held in honor of your blossoming union was one of merriment, the mood lighthearted and blissful. You sat beside your husband, stomach tumbling with a coil of nerves. Everyone seemed foreign to you, unfamiliar faces with their northern attitudes and odd indifference.

You could not fault anyone for having their suspicions, given your heritage. Being a Targaryen, pale-headed and violet-eyed, bringing your dragon from the South — it must’ve been jarring. Growing into your station as the Lady of Winterfell would be a long and arduous process, but you hoped that Cregan would show you the way.

Oblivious to your Lord-Husband’s smoldering stare, you politely consumed bites of the sugar-dusted fruit cobbler, admiring the vibrant aura within the room. Your wedding gowns were as pure as the driven snow, accented with silver embroidery and lined with pale fleece to keep you warm, given the cold gnaw of winter.

If it weren’t for Cregan’s steadfastness in providing you with a new wardrobe fit for winter, the icy chill would’ve consumed your extremities from the inside-out.

Leaning over within his seat, Cregan reached for your hand, stormy-gray hues churning with a kindness reserved for you. “How are you faring, wife?” He inquired, voice a low rumble; a soothing timbre that sent shivers down your spine.

“Very well,” Warmth crawled along your flesh when he referred to you as wife so openly and affectionately. You weren’t accustomed to having someone be so attentive to you, hang upon your every word, treat you with such courteousness. “This is so wonderful. I must thank you and your Keep, for your kindness.”

If you were anyone else, Cregan might’ve treated you with a stalwart cordiality found in most formalities, but you were not anyone else. You were good, sweet, and kindhearted — above all, you were quite innocent. He would’ve been telling himself a bold lie if he hadn’t thought about taking you to bed several times already.

The colors of the North suited you — his home suited you. Not many men of his position were so lucky when it came to betrothals, but he felt as if he was beyond fortunate to have married you. Cregan only hoped to be a good husband to you and to your future children, heirs to Winterfell, with the blood of the dragon and the wolf in their veins.

He had forbidden a bedding ceremony, content to guide you to your chambers once the festivities ceased, instead. Cregan enjoyed observing you and your demure mannerisms, from the way you made small talk with those around you, complimenting the choice of food and drink. It warmed his heart to know that his wife was an amiable soul.

“You needn’t worry, Princess. It is my duty as your husband to show you a bit of Northern hospitality.” Cregan mused, a ghost of a smile tugging at either corner of his mouth. He rarely showed any emotion, let alone treating his subjects with a smile given his hardiness, but he did show a sliver of it for you. He didn’t want to scare you away.

With a delighted smile, your hand shyly curled around his, your skin unblemished and soft. Cregan hadn’t touched a woman as silky as you, and it made his blood run hot — an inopportune time, given that it was in the midst of his wedding feast. “Thank you, my Lord.” You weren’t sure if you were permitted to abandon formalities just yet.

Cregan huffed, gaze twinkling with amusement as he let your smaller hand hold his own, digits tenderly caressing over your knuckles. “I would hope that you only call me ‘my Lord’ if you’re angry with me,” His chest rumbled with an affectionate sound. “You aren’t in King’s Landing anymore.”

Embarrassment rippled through you, but before you could correct yourself out of anxiousness, Cregan gingerly squeezed your hand. Instead, it evoked a smile from you, the very same tender expression you’d given him when you were proclaimed as his wife. “I will call you husband when I am pleased with you.” You mused, bright as could be, and so blissfully naive.

Often regarded as a brooding, serious man with little traces of humor, Cregan found himself letting his guard down just enough with you. Of course, to any observer, he still seemed rather stoic, but the brief, fleeting looks he gave you, the threadbare smiles — it suggested otherwise.

As the excitable buzz of the feast began to simmer, Cregan stood from the table, wood scraping across the stone floors of the Great Hall. He stepped away from you, sparing the servants and guardsmen a word before he returned to your side.

“Is there not to be a bedding ceremony?” You whispered, stomach still tight and festering with nervousness. It was something you feared since you last saw Aegon and Helaena be hauled away for such a thing. The concept of it frightened you, twisted and unusual.

With furrowed brows, Cregan shook his head, offering his thick arm out for you to take. “No,” He grunted, noticing the swell of anxiousness etched into your features. “I would never subject you to such a thing, or myself.” He murmured, feeling you take his arm as he led you from the Great Hall.

Relief flooded through you, and you finally relaxed, seemingly appreciative of Cregan’s thoughtfulness in the matter. “Thank you, husband.” You sighed, gripping onto his arm as he led you into a warm corridor and towards a massive spiral of thick, stone steps.

Though, you still had a duty to perform — consummating the marriage, creating an heir. Part of you feared what it all entailed, given that Helaena never seemed pleased with any of it. Would he hurt you? You were uncertain, but you wanted to believe that your new husband would keep you safe.

Cregan welcomed you into your marital chambers, tidied and polished for your stay. Whatever belongings you brought with you, they were situated near a set of fine, wooden chairs circled around a stone table. Everything seemed warm and comely in his quarters, the direwolf aesthetic heavy-handed, the hearth crackling and bursting with ripples of fire.

“If there is something not to your liking, inform me — I will have it rearranged,” Cregan rumbled, following in your footsteps as you neared the open hearth, warming your hands and basking in its glow. He stood close to you, towering over you with his bulk and might. “How are you?” He asked, ensuring your comfort above all else.

There was little need for the hearth when Cregan was near, radiating a natural heat that drew you in. His countenance seemed softer, not nearly as impassive as he’d been before. “I am more than fine, I promise.” You assured him, hands wringing together. “I thought that I would miss home, but I do not. Isn’t that terrible?”

Perplexed, Cregan seemed inclined to listen to your elaboration, chestnut tresses framing his face. “It isn’t a terrible thing, princess. I would imagine that it must be freeing, to be somewhere else. You’ve never left the capital.” He replied, knowing that you were quite sheltered for most of your life.

A soft sigh escaped you, and you tried not to think about it anymore. You didn’t want to sour the mood with talk of home and the past — this was now. “It is liberating,” You confessed, craning to look at him with a semblance of wonder and affection. “I am happy that I’m here with you.” You spoke with genuineness and finality.

It was pleasing to hear you say such a thing, and even better to know that you truly meant it. One thick, burly arm slowly encircled your hips, bringing you into the warm expanse of his chest. “Good,” He murmured, expression steely. “That pleases me greatly.”

To know that Cregan valued your happiness was a wonderful feeling — you felt cared for and seen, shrouded within his protectiveness. You imagined that it would be a blissful marriage. “Thank you, Cregan.” His name slipped from your perfect tongue, and he thoroughly enjoyed the sound it made.

A low rumble vibrated through Cregan’s chest as he drew you as close as he could, tracing his calloused digits along the soft curve of your jaw. “You are very beautiful,” He murmured, timbre edged with a delicious husk that made your knees buckle. You shivered, something that he took note of. “Are you cold, wife?”

You nodded, sucking in a sharp breath when his lips neared yours. “I am.” A squeak escaped you, followed by a steady exhale. You had been kissed before, but the extent of your experience abruptly stopped there. You imagined that you wouldn’t be cold for much longer.

His lips met yours, the kiss tender yet passionate, deepened by your husband. Cregan found your mouth to be most pleasant, pliant and perfectly soft, yet malleable. You reciprocated his kiss, hands moving to press against his chest.

“Will it be painful?” You whispered, likely in an attempt to soothe your gnawing nervousness. Agony was something that didn’t coexist with pleasure, in your mind. You wanted this moment to be special and sacred, binding yourself to your husband.

Cregan hesitated, gently cupping your face with his rough palm, tenderly stroking along your cheek. “I wouldn’t dare harm you, princess. You have my word.” He assured, and it confirmed his suspicions — you hadn’t been with another before. “It might be painful, but I will be gentle. We don’t have to start tonight.”

Admittedly, it was quite the opposite for you — you wanted to start tonight, but you longed for clarification first, and he gave it to you. You shook your head, hands slipping toward the front of his tunic, as if silently pleading with him to stay. “I want to.” You insisted, looking like the picture of innocence.

As much as he liked you sweet and pious, Cregan had a feeling that it would be somewhat different after this. His gray hues swirled with a heavy desire, dropping towards the delicate curve of your mouth. “May I?” It was all that he needed to ask, and as soon as you nodded, he brought you in for a heated kiss.

Despite his appearance, a stone-faced wall of muscle and Northern strength, he was incredibly gentle with you. He held you against him, never tight enough to cause you discomfort, hands softly kneading into your hips. You kissed him back as best as you could, feverishly hot, butterflies erupting within your stomach.

His beautiful wife — Cregan could not imagine another, now that he had you in his arms. The way you kissed him was innocuous and tender, as if you were also terrified of making a mistake. Your purity, a precious thing indeed, would be tarnished and dissolved after this evening.

The thought of you, round and swollen with his child, was both tantalizing and tempting — well within his grasp. Cregan wondered if they would take after you, pale-headed with lilac hues, or perhaps himself. If the Gods were good, they would be a blend of the both of you, a dragon and a wolf.

You shivered again when your burly husband curled his hand into the back of your wedding gown, fingers slipping between the gaps, feeling inklings of your bare skin beneath. “I’ll keep you warm, wife.” He rumbled, pressing a kiss against your jaw. It wasn’t from the cold, he knew this, but his honeyed words made you flustered.

He dropped his cloak, allowing the thick curtain of fur to land against the floor. He was impossibly broad, as thick as stone, tunic loose yet snug enough to accentuate his brawn. You felt your breath hitch within your throat, swallowing another barrage of nerves.

Cregan’s mouth assailed your neck, hand peeling away the collar of pale fur in order to reach you. Every kiss was passionate, wrought with need, yet maintained that air of gentleness. Roughness was in his nature, but he wouldn’t dare fall into that pit on your wedding night.

You tasted ambrosial, sweet velvet beneath his lips, which peppered themselves wherever they could. He listened to your soft gasps and needy whines, your hands having curled into the coarse material of his tunic. He wanted to show you just how perfect you really were.

Suddenly, your gown felt much too tight and constricting, as if you would drown within it. You alleviated such sensations by loosening the bodice, tugging on the ivory strings. The fur became unraveled as Cregan gently draped the garment over the back of a chair.

Left in the thin, humble trappings of your smallclothes, nothing more than a corset hugging a linen slip, he silently appraised you with the hunger of a wolf. You appeared to be shy, somewhat coy in his presence as he looked you over, large palms settling against the swell of your hips.

“Why do you shy away?” Cregan murmured, chestnut brows furrowing together, tone one of genuine concern. You were the prettiest creature he’d ever seen — most Targaryens were known for their beauty, but you possessed it both ways, inner and outer, and that only made you more incomparable in his eyes.

Swallowing your nerves, you chewed at the inside of your cheek, hands fidgeting together. “I suppose I worry about what you’ll think,” A sore insecurity, to be sure, but something most young maidens possessed. Cregan’s gray hues softened, one hand stroking along the length of your spine. “That I won’t be suitable.”

A huff escaped him, a threadbare chuckle as he shook his head, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “You worry too much, princess.” That deep, thunderous timbre of his, husky with his Northern accent, shook you right to your core. “You are my wife — and you are perfect.” He assured, kissing along your jaw.

You exhaled, hands reaching for his tunic, wanting to see him without his clothing. There was a rush of warmth that crawled across your flesh, surging through your blood as Cregan pressed endless kisses against your skin. He trailed from jaw to collarbone, hands loosening your corset.

With a brusque tug, your gruff husband tore it from you altogether, tossing the bodice aside. “I will show you how perfect you are.” He rumbled, voice a low, heavy caress near the shell of your ear. You shivered, gaze half-lidded as you tugged insistently at his tunic.

The message was unspoken, but conveyed nonetheless as your mountain of a husband let his hands drop from you, only to tug the coarse, dark linen over his head. He was burly, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, wisps of chestnut tresses framing his face.

Amusingly enough, Cregan possessed more of a cherubic, youthful face than you expected, yet his nose was slightly crooked from having it broken, faint scars upon his face. His eyes seemed wisened, old beyond his years. He reached for your slip, gathering the material within his hands as he looked to you for consent.

With your confidence rejuvenated, you nodded, breathless and wanton as you assisted him in maneuvering out of your thin smallclothes. The brief lick of chilled air dragged across your bare flesh, causing your nipples to harden, pebbling with the chill.

Fire danced across your physique, tantalizing and gorgeous, beautiful beyond compare. Even Cregan seemed speechless for a beat, throat reverberating with a low grunt as he motioned toward your shared bed.

You half-expected him to pounce on you, grab your hips and stake his claim, but he simply resorted to watching you slide onto the bed, covered in furs of all varieties. The frame rustled slightly, and you laid down, a picture of true perfection. Your crown of pale tresses seemed to stick out amidst the darker pallor of the furs.

Anticipation churned violently within your gut, arousal slick and mounting between your thighs as Cregan stalked closer, removing clothing in the process. You watched with bated breath as he loosened the ties of his breeches, removing them altogether.

It was to be expected — a man of his indomitable stature likely had the assets to accompany it. You nearly choked at the sight of him, terrified that it really would hurt, even if he was gentle. You sucked in a sharp breath, bewildered when he had reclined beside you instead.

“I won’t bite, my Lady.” Cregan rumbled, soothingly patting his lap as you crawled closer. He effortlessly picked you up, letting you straddle his hips as he admired you from below. “Hm.” With a hum of approval, he caressed along your form, stroking from your thigh to your breasts.

It was agonizingly deliberate, made to explore and study instead of acting upon salacious impulses. Cregan observed you closely, palm gently cupping your breast, thumb swiping over your nipple. You gasped, careening into his sensual embrace.

A flurry of desire bubbled within him when you planted your smaller hand atop his, as if encouraging him to knead and grope at his leisure. He seemed pleased, and so did you, a low hum escaping you as he caressed your silky flesh.

He made sure to show that same amount of attention to your unattended breast, slowly kneading into you. Those tempestuous gray hues never tore themselves away from you, boring into you with a searing intensity.

Warm slick coalesced between your thighs, only mounting and growing when he continued to touch you, hand lifting to cup your chin. You absentmindedly leaned into his touch, eyes becoming half-lidded as you rocked forward within his lap.

The sensations you felt were new and exhilarating, goosebumps dancing across your spine, heat pooling between your legs. “May I touch you?” You asked, tone delicate and sweet, a display of your piety and innocence. He quite enjoyed your desire to explore alongside him, and he gave a nod of his head.

“You don’t need to ask, princess.” He soothed, jaw tensing as your soft palms settled against his chest. Cregan’s stormy eyes didn’t leave you, carefully tracing each plane of your curves, the downy texture of your skin, the lilac glint of your eyes.

Your fingertips dragged across his musculature, committing each scar to memory, features becoming hot beneath his incendiary stare. He was your husband now — you imagined that scenarios like these would become commonplace. “You are so handsome,” You whispered incredulously, lips curling into a gentle smile. “Perfect.”

Cregan appeared perplexed, a soft huff escaping him as he trailed his calloused palm across the small of your back. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had called him perfect and meant it — and he knew that you did. He neglected to act, allowing you to explore as much as you pleased.

Awestruck, he watched with silent hunger as you leaned down, lips pressing against his own. A soft grunt escaped Cregan as he caged you in, mouth passionate as it tangled with yours. He enjoyed the feeling of your body snug atop his, your skin resplendent, like velvet against the grating bite of stone.

Dragging a hand from the swell of your hips to the nape of your neck, he gripped the base of your skull, gingerly kneading into your pale tresses. He kissed you again, oozing with desire as he stole every wisp of air from your lungs.

He pulled one leg up into a v-shape, supporting your back to keep you upright atop his lap. You could feel the thick girth of his cock nudge against your backside, causing you to shiver at the foreign sensation. “Do you trust me?” Cregan murmured, roughened fingertips dragging over the pliant flesh of your thigh.

There was an indiscernible look within his eyes, chestnut brows drawing together slightly. Your breath hitched as you nodded, and Cregan settled against the furs, strewn on his back. Those strong hands of his continued to nudge you forward, bringing you from his warm lap to his chest, and then a touch closer.

“What are you …” Uncertain yet filled with exhilaration, you had no idea what Cregan was planning. Your slick cunt neared his mouth, and your Northern paramour did little to slow the process, bumping you forward until you hovered above him. “C—Cregan, C —” Your voice tapered off into a whine.

His tongue raked hot embers across your cunt, a sensation that immediately made your knees buckle. You used the headboard to brace yourself, mouth tearing open as a strangled gasp escaped you. Part of you feared sitting down entirely, but Cregan coaxed you down, hands digging into your haunches.

Your reaction was beyond worthwhile, body trembling and coiled, hand scrambling to brace yourself as the other fervently dug into his chestnut tresses. You never imagined that such pleasure was even possible, filling you with an excitable ecstasy that sank into your bones.

Splitting past your folds, Cregan tasted every inch of you, tongue seeking your cunt with a fervor. He was vigorous in his ministrations, not shying away from consuming every drop of your arousal. His nose brushed against your mound, hands kneading into your thighs to reassure you, let you know that he had you.

Even when he rested beneath you, he still seemed indomitable, perhaps a touch intimidating. You didn’t look down, body involuntarily trembling and rocking forward, back beginning to arch. “Gods, a—ah!” You stammered, thighs twitching and quivering as his tongue gently flicked over your clit.

Visibly flustered, you felt so strange and smitten, riding your husband’s face as you would your dragon. It filled your belly with a rousing fire, one bright enough to consume the rest of your body, licking along the length of your spine.

A low rumble emerged from Cregan’s chest, a vibration that rattled you to your core. He wanted you to have your fill, take as much as you could and drown within pleasure. Your maidenhead was still intact, a virtue that he did not treat lightly. He didn’t feel the need to breathe, lapping at your cunt with a wolfish gluttony.

You were undeniably soaked, like a fine stout upon his tongue as he devoured you. Cregan was passionate, each stroke of his tongue ensuring that you felt it all, bliss erupting throughout your stomach.

Chasing after what you imagined to be your release, you happened to peer down for a moment, finding the contented face of your husband, whose face was lodged between your legs. His brows were creased in concentration, tongue prodding against your entrance before languidly flicking back to your clit.

It was only when he pursed his lips around that sensitive clutch of nerves, that you nearly collapsed around him. Even your draconic blood could melt, tempered by the hardened ice of your Northern paramour. You gasped, hips stuttering as your thighs squeezed at either side of his head — fortunately, he didn’t seem to care.

The only thing you wanted was this, forever — your husband’s tongue between your legs, a sanctuary in the North with a potential family, a life in which you could finally find your solace. You continued to squirm and writhe, moaning his praises into the warmth of your chambers.

As you approached your peak, you grappled with Cregan’s tresses, tugging at the root as you rocked forward, again and again. “Cregan,” You moaned, countenance contorting into a look of sheer pleasure, bones crawling with an insatiable heat. “Cregan, Cregan, please!” It was a siren’s song of desire.

He did not stop, but he didn’t change course, either. Instead, he simply continued on, suckling at your clit as he intermingled it with timed laps of his tongue. Your release slammed into you, white-hot and blistering, gnawing away at your stomach as that coil of heat effectively snapped.

A whine emerged from you, one that was nearly breathless as you rocked forward again, legs shaking from ecstasy as you rode out your peak. Cregan, ever the dutiful husband, lapped at your nectar, savoring the taste, the scent of a pleasurable aftermath.

“What —” You had to catch your breath again, attempting to recuperate as you sat back on his chest instead, thick, burly muscle plentiful enough to cushion you. “Where did you learn how to do that?” It was an innocuous question, one so sweetly-spoken that it nearly caused Cregan to chuckle.

He did, however, smile — a rare, sentimental gesture reserved only for you. It was threadbare, and if it weren’t for the nature of your relationship, one might’ve thought him to be rugged and indifferent. “You need only ask, princess, and I will oblige.” His voice was a deep rumble that warmed your insides.

You thoroughly enjoyed the nickname of princess — a term of endearment given your status, but you were a princess no longer. “I am a lady of the North now, aren’t I? A princess no longer,” You proclaimed, skin shimmering with perspiration. “What will you call me, now?” You asked.

“Hm,” Cregan contemplated, pressing a kiss against your leg before he sat up enough to have a good look at you, chin still glistening with your slick. The sight was lewd, enough to make you unbelievably flustered as he grew closer, nearly chest-to-chest with you. “Lady Stark would suffice.” He murmured.

Something amorous burned within you, a smolder that soon turned to ignited sparks. “It would please me greatly.” You hummed, running your hands over his biceps before Cregan gently changed places with you, moving you beneath his bulk, comfortable upon your back.

Soft was a mere understatement — he could feel himself melt. It was not your dragon’s blood or heat that made him crumble, but your heart. He could imagine you as the mother of his children, belly round with his heirs, the Lady of Winterfell, a Hightower no longer.

He settled between your legs, and you gasped when his cock gently glided against your slick core. Cregan knew to temper himself, to be as gentle as he could with it being your wedding night, but his resolve was steadily diminished in your presence. He steeled himself, pressing a string of kisses along your body.

Without thinking, you unconsciously goaded Cregan into a point of near-frenzy. Your hands found the taut, trunk-like muscle of his biceps, visage filled with a sense of awe and adoration. “A child would please me greatly.” You confessed, having no clue what it would do to your husband.

Cregan stopped, digits curling into the thick furs on either side of your head. It took every fiber of his being not to fuck you then and there — and he wouldn’t, it wasn’t right for him to take your maidenhead with such roughness. His fantasy became reality, a visceral, beautiful vision that made him grunt, jaw unnaturally tense.

His rough palm soothingly stroked along your thigh, lust swelling within him like a blizzard, a violent storm of need that transcended all bonds of propriety. “Does Lady Stark want me to put a pup in her belly?” Cregan rumbled, tempestuous hues ignited with a fire that demanded to be extinguished, sending shockwaves right to your core.

You swallowed the growing lump within your throat, shuddering at the sound of his voice — an edged husk, like the rumbling of thunder before a deluge or the shaking of a mountain. “Yes,” You exhaled, searching his countenance, only to find desire. “I would.”

The Gods were testing him, aiming to see if he would break beneath the pressure, but he refused. Cregan lowered himself over you, lips molding themselves against yours in a hot kiss. Your hands remained poised atop his biceps, barely able to wrap themselves around the thick, corded muscle.

He wasn’t much of a talker, and it quickly dwindled into deep grunts and heavier sighs as he aligned his cock with your entrance. He made sure to part your legs, keeping them spread as he began to push inside of you. The sudden intrusion made you gasp, startled at the twinge of pain, the discomfort of it all.

Cregan despised the mere thought of causing you harm, and even he was willing to end it all then and there. “We don’t have to continue, beloved.” He rumbled, pressing a soothing string of kisses along your face. The endearing nickname made you preen, nails digging into his arms.

“No, I — I’m well enough,” You breathed, insistent on continuing. Cregan deliberated, but when you let out a low whine, he obeyed your command. “Gods, I need you, Cregan.” Pitched with a wanton resonance, you urged him to keep going.

Your neediness made his blood run hot, and he nodded, sluggishly resuming his pace. He continued to tilt his hips forward, cock feeding into you, inch by agonizing inch. Cregan felt the desperate bite of your nails clutching into muscle, leaving behind angry crescents.

You were never fully warned of the pain, the discomfort that accompanied pleasure. It was always sold as some fantasy, particularly for men — nights of heavenly passion resulting in bliss. For you, it was simply a marital duty to provide your husband with an heir, but this transcended that. Passion and affection sparked between the both of you, and it felt right.

As Cregan finally bottomed out inside of you, he allowed you time to fully adjust, rocking into you at a lackadaisical pace. He continued to shower you in kisses, wherever his lips could reach, giving particular affection to the crook of your neck.

Whatever discontent you felt, you hastily pushed it aside, tossing it into the recesses of your mind. Instead, you focused on him — on how incredible he made you feel, the warmth you experienced in his presence. One of your hands slipped to thread within his chestnut tresses, mouth agape.

You took him so well — better than expected, and it filled him with a sense of pride and ardor. Cregan pressed hungry kisses along your throat, nose buried into the hollow of it, right beneath your jugular. He continued to go slow, afraid of causing you further pain.

Cregan repositioned his hand, leaving one lodged beside your head, the other sinking into your haunch, digits tenderly kneading into your thigh. It was an offer of reassurance, and he watched your countenance shift from discontented to relaxed.

“Move,” The sharpness of your command brought him to heel, and he very nearly smiled — it was there, the ghost of it toying at his lips. Bringing his hips back and then forward, you moaned, knowing that the sting of pain would soon blossom into pleasure. “Please.”

Molten heat swirled within the pit of your stomach, arousal thick between your legs as Cregan began to find his pace, a rhythm that shook you to your core. He was so very gentle, even for a man of his herculean mass and muscle. He took care of you, soothingly caressing your thigh as he thrusted into you.

His cock filled you completely, a stretch that would take you more than just one night to adjust to. Your maidenhead was gone, your cunt tight around his length, pulling him in again and again.

Cregan’s breathing became heavier, somewhat labored as he consummated your union. Each snap of his hips held meaning, beyond the creation of an heir. It was tenuous with feelings, a burning sentiment he felt for you, ardor that had grown into a fire.

Admittedly, his mind was hazy, fueled by desire and the mere thought of you wanting a child — you had asked it of him, demanded, and he was at your mercy. Cregan couldn’t have gotten any luckier with you, the most resplendent woman he’d ever seen.

Imagining you full and round, still as lovely as the day he set his eyes upon you, a mother and a dragon — it was nothing short of true perfection. He chased after it, evident by the growing vigor and passion in each thrust of his hips, cock nearly tearing you into two.

No matter how gentle and careful Cregan was with you, it was to no avail, but you no longer cared. “Cregan,” You moaned, lifting one leg to hitch it around his waist, and that only seemed to further spur him on, allowing him to hit new depths. His throbbing length nearly kissed your womb, filling you to the brim. “Cregan!” You cried.

For a moment, you feared being split in-half by your mountain of a husband, but he slowed enough to let you recuperate, throat reverberating with carnal grunts. The rumbling of his chest, the heat that radiated from him in waves — it was all perfect.

It was driving him mad, the way your cunt constricted around his cock, the way in which your back arched from the furs, chest brushing against his. Cregan grunted, jaw set and brows furrowed in concentration as he kneaded into your thigh, something to alleviate his tension.

His thrusts deepened, became passionate and invigorated with love, and each snap of his hips made your head spin with delirium. You were drunk on desire, clinging to him as if you were a drowning maiden, hand splayed against his shoulder.

Whenever he happened to become a touch too vigorous, he felt your nails dig deep into his flesh, leaving behind the reddened marks of your consummation. Cregan was getting close, chest erupting with labored pants as he pressed his forehead against yours.

You moaned, body bending beneath his passion, malleable within his hands. His cock throbbed within you as he sought to spill his seed, face against yours, lips occasionally connecting in a series of sloppy, warm kisses. Everything felt incredible, in ways that you couldn’t comprehend.

He was so burly, a thick wall of impenetrable muscle that seemed to envelop you entirely, shield you from everything else, from all harm. Strands of chestnut stuck to his temples, flesh glittering with perspiration from the exertion of lovemaking, coupled with the heat in your chambers.

With another brusque thrust of his hips, he settled inside of you, reaching his peak with a subtle groan. His seed filled your cunt in hot ropes, more than enough to take, if the Gods were good. Cregan exhaled, feverishly hot as he began to recuperate, neglecting to remove himself from you for a few moments.

“Are you alright?” Cregan murmured, ensuring your wellbeing first, above all else. A stinging soreness settled into your thighs and your core, but you would survive. He didn’t completely obliterate you, thankfully — you wondered what he would be like, unrestrained.

“Yes,” You smiled, visibly flustered beneath the intensity of his stare. “That was incredible.” Your confession made him huff, likely one of amusement as he pressed a kiss against your forehead. Even you glittered with sweat, but that was to be expected.

You already wanted more — and you nearly asked it of him.

Lascivious fantasies took root within your mind, and the mere idea of him being rough and completely domineering made your cunt throb. You could not do it now, given how exhausted you were, but he had certainly unlocked a new side to you, a side that you were unfamiliar with.

Cregan pulled himself from you, propping your hips up beneath a feathered pillow to ensure that his seed would take. He rested beside you, drawing you into the bulk of his muscled arms, allowing you to rest your head against the expanse of his chest. “You were perfect.” He rumbled, roughened digits stroking along your spine.

It pleased you to know that your husband was satisfied with you, much to your delight. “I am glad,” Relief rippled through you as you inched closer, perfectly slotted against his frame. “So were you.” Your pleasant accolades made him smile, fracturing his stony exterior.

“There will be plenty of time for this, that I can promise you,” Cregan was more concerned with getting to know you, his beautiful lady-wife, Lady Stark. “I would like to start with you.” He murmured, savoring the sensation of your fingers tracing across his abdomen.

You blinked, seemingly surprised by Cregan’s genuine interest in you. It made you happy — perhaps you could have both. Moments of learning and moments like these, where you could indulge in pleasure.

“Would it offend you if I asked you to do both?” You questioned, warmth crawling along your body as Cregan squeezed the swell of your hip, gray hues sparkling with a semblance of mirth.

“It wouldn’t,” Cregan mused, timbre dropping to a lull, a husky octave that seemed to envelop you in its stoicism and warmth. “It pleases me to know that Lady Stark possesses the appetite of a dragon.” His teasing made you squirm, but he simply caressed you and held you closer.

With a coy smile, you lifted your head, pressing your lips against his, asserting your still-lingering desire for your husband. “Not a dragon,” Your tone softened with a sweeter resonance. “A wolf.”

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not steal my work and claim it as your own or translate it onto other platforms.

[venmondiese]

LITTLE BOX FULL OF SURPRISES

masterlist ✧works in procress ✧ AO3

based on this request⭑.ᐟ

-ˋˏsummary: The maimed one-eyed prince marries the most beautiful woman on earth. She is dutiful, beautiful and perfect, but Aemond can't stand when someone, specially his uncle, look with desire at what it is his. ✧Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Tully!Original Female Character ✧word count: 3.1k ✧Warnings: : MDNI 18+, p in v sex, dom/sub undertones, face slapping, spitting on the mouth, degradation kink, possesive Aemond, Aemond is WHIPPED by his wife.

Every time his grandsire and his mother spoke of a Lady of great beauty coming to King’s landing, he rolled his eye. 

Even when they present a small portrait, small to fit his palm, he does not seem impressed. Perhaps it is too small, perhaps it is too pretentious. Either the painter exaggerated your features or he couldn’t properly paint a small portrait. But he was curious, after all. Named the most beautiful woman on earth, blessed by the Gods. 

He doesn’t doubt that Lady Tully was beautiful. Perhaps she was truly a beautiful woman, with her long red hair, ‘like fire’ said the letter. But being called The Maiden on Earth seems exaggerated to him.

His grandsire had told them about the implications of his betrothal, about how important it was to have secured the Riverlands, since Grover Tully was an old lord, and will not understand reason. To have his most beloved granddaughter as a princess, was the only way to win his approval, and support. 

Aemond finally meets her on the little garden near the Weirwood tree. They had been serving little cakes, as some lords and ladies talked nearby, not even half of court was here, and he liked the quietness. That made him less self-conscious.

She was near the table, her hand hovering above all the treats she could get, smiling as she watches them with interest. She is expressive, he realises. He hasn’t seen her face, only her back and the day her hand moves and her head is tilted, curious about the southern gastronomy.

 “My lady” Aemond says softly. 

She turns so gracefully, and she is surprised to see him. Her hand still extended, and she quickly moves it to grab her skirts, and do a courtesy to him. She has a sweet smile, and she speaks. 

 “My prince” she says, a bit surprised. “I… I didn’t expect you.”

“I must admit I came a bit earlier than agreed…” he murmurs, looking behind him and then back to her.

The most beautiful maiden on earth fell short to her. She was… something else, in the best way possible. She had that curiosity, that life in her eyes, as she smiles at him, her lips are perfect, and he could see that her maids probably used those Myrish lip taints, for they were a very natural red colour, almost matching with her hair. Her dress was magnificent, wearing the colour of her house, red and blue decorating everything. Even her eyes, blue like the opaque blue rivers in the Riverlands, and her hair, red like flames, matched with her house colours. She wore fish details, her earrings and in her dress pattern. But she was wearing a collar with a seven pointed star in it, and he sighed at her beauty. She was breathtaking.

“Oh, well, so it seems…” she says as she smiles a bit sheepishly, looking at him. “It’s a fine castle, my prince. It does have its own beauty.” 

Aemond has never thought of the red Keep as something beautiful, at all. He always wanted to live in Dragonstone, but his wish was not granted.  But, if she says so, it must be true, and with good reason.

“You think so?” 

She grabs a lemon cake, and eats it carefully as she nods. “Yes! And you also have a Weirwood tree here. When we made our trip here, we passed through Raventree, and their Weirwood was a bit… depressing…” she says, smiling sweetly. “But here it’s very beautiful. More… alive”

As she talks, he watches her closely. Even when his mother, his sickly father and his siblings arrive, when his mother gives him a scolding look for arriving earlier, he sort of watches you in silence, his chest swelling with an air of mystery. 

“You are not what I expected” he admits, quietly between the two of them as their parents talked about the betrothal.

“No?” She asks smiling, licking her finger from the cream of the lemon cakes. “You’ll see I’m a little box full of surprises” 

That’s the beginning.

A ceremony on the Sept, as she stood next to him, reciting vows and the cloak with dragon sigils is on her shoulders, left behind the fish one. Aemond has never looked so smug and proud. The bedding ceremony was… traditional. Having a crowd was awkward for both, surely, but Aemond made it all more comfortable for her, covering her body with his, and not exposing her, at his own expense.

“Just focus on me” He murmurs closely to her face, as she looks at him with wide eyes. He was between her open legs, and he insisted for her to keep her chemise on, while he had no problem in nudity “Your septa and mother could have told you…”

“Not much” She whispers back.

“Not much” he repeats, moving a strand of hair out other face, tenderly watching her face for discomfort. “But I will be gentle, and… we’ll learn together. Yes?”

“Yes. Thank you…, husband” she says, and he feels a prideful pressure on his chest. He was her husband. The most beautiful woman’s husband. 

And she was always thankful for his patience and gentleness towards her, and she stuck to him to all times, even when she was in court, charming everyone around. Her arm was always interlocked with his, and referred to him as ‘her sweet husband’. 

Love came quieter than expected, as they laughed on their bed at nights, having picnics in the gardens or going to the Riverlands in Vhagar together, swimming on Riverrun’s rivers, and just… enjoying each other. It was more than love when they had their first son, a lovely and happy baby, mismatched eyes, with both purple and a deep blue. Aemond adored his son, his little Daerion, and he adored you more.

“Black looks well on you” Aemond comments. 

Daerion’s blabbing was a way to agree with Aemond’s statement as the maid finished putting on her headband, the same tone of her dress. Her orange hair is in braids, two simple ones with some gold details on them, and some dragon earrings that he gifted her. She was gorgeous, and all his. 

“Your wardrobe hasn’t changed” she states looking at him. “Went from velvet black to dark black” 

Aemond walks over to his wife, watching her being just so beautiful like that, sitting, waiting peacefully like a porcelain doll.

“Mhm... As if changing colours would make everything amicable…” Aemond murmurs, taking Daerion in his arms, and he allows him to play with his hair. “Does father know it’s useless? Rhaenyra wearing green won’t change anything, nor will my mother wearing black. HIs voice comes as a grunt as he bounces their baby. 

“It’s foolish when you put it that way” her voice is tender, sweet, and somewhat like velvet. He is still besotted by her, as maidens do with knights. He watches the shape of her breasts on that dress, how the cleavage is so delightful for his eyes and the roundness of her tits that make the fabric around stretch a bit. As if the tailor always got the measurement of her chest wrong on purpose, which he won’t complain about. 

Her bright red hair contrasts with how the black makes her skin look paler, and her eye colour deeper.

“They shouldn’t call you the Maiden herself anymore” Aemond murmurs softly, walking closer to her, still holding Daerion in his arms. “You are like the mother herself. Like the Goddess Syrax of Old Valyria. Beautiful, strong… so alluring…”

“You never seem to run out of compliments” her hands move to grab her rings, and the one he likes the most is the sapphire one, just to symbolise her marriage to him. 

“Never, more so if a goddess like you is my wife. All mine…”

“My prince, my lady.” It’s a Kings guard who interrupts. “Supper is ready, and Queen Alicent asks for you both to arrive earlier…”

“Hm” Aemond says, leaving Daerion in the wet nurse’s arms.

“Thank you, ser Willis” the knight smiles at his wife before walking to wait outside the door.

He rolls his eye as he leans to kiss his son’s forehead, caressing his chubby cheek and he smiles fondly at his sight. The little freckles he has that he inherited from his mother, something that Aemond loved. Yet remembering how unnecessary kind his wife is… annoys him.

Kindness and sweetness only helped to enhance her beauty and popularity, and he also loved that. She was beautiful, perfect in any way, tied to a One-Eyed maimed monster, like him. All he could offer to you, that it was worthy, was the luxuries of the royalty, all the kids you want and his unconditional love. He was at your mercy.

He has one eye, but he is not blind. Any man here on the keep, would pull their breeches down if his wife asked so. They would even cut their own throats for her mere delight, and Aemond would be one of them. 

“Goodbye, my sweet love” the sweet motherly tone makes little Daerion squeal happily, extending his little arms for his mother. She kisses both his hands, later to wave to him as they leave the room, arms interlocked.

Aemond always bites his tongue when his lady wife is kind to men. He hates it, yet he knows she does it for the kindness of her heart, and not any ulterior motives.

He was smitten for her, moving the chair for her to sit, and helping her, her dress not getting stuck anywhere or her headpiece, and only then, he sat on his own seat at peace.

“I heard they might have some goose” she murmurs to him, as the room fills. Her fingers caress his arm, and he hears her every word. “I’d eat it all if I could, you know” she teases.

“Mhm.” Aemond murmurs. Even if he is besotted, his facade is still the same; stoic, cold, distant. Yet to her, his gaze was always loving.

“I would only share it with you” she states proudly, leaning to give him a peck on the lips, before standing up once the King is brought to the room.

As he stands, he doesn’t miss how his uncle watches her. Aemond might not know the man personally, but he knew the look of desire in a man’s face. Much more when they looked at her 

The supper is mostly… tense, and awkward. But Lady Tully is charming to everyone and even toasts as well for Baela and Rhaena in their betrothal, congratulating them and speaking nothing but wonders about her own married life, making Aemond wear the slightest, yet most smug smirk on his face.

“Amazing” she says, with her mouth full as she eats the goose, and Aemond nods, a hand rubbing her back so she doesn’t choke for eating so quickly. “Here, my love” she says, extending the fork with a bit of the goose that she adores so much. 

Aemond eats shamelessly, enjoying the taste as he nods softly, approving, which makes her smile. His hand resting on the back of her chair, as he drank his wine quietly, watching his sister and nephew go to dance together. He is highly unaware of the prying eyes that watch them both.

Helaena and Jacaerys’ giggles and the movement of her dress is enough for lady Tully to watch curiously. Her husband was not one for dances, as he had not a good perception of objects with one eye. She never pressured him, and accepted the fact. 

She always would say how Daerion once he would be tall enough to walk, she’d dance with her son all the songs and dances, and Aemond approved that idea. 

“Lady Tully” It was Daemon Targaryen’s deep voice, and she looks at him a bit surprised, leaving her fork on the table as she covers her mouth, her hand unconsciously fetching wine, which Aemond hands her his. 

“Prince Daemon” her melodic voice is a bit confused, and more so when the uncle of her husband extends his hand. The green fabrics from his suit are deep, yet he still wore dragon details on it, and he looked smug about it.

She turns to watch Aemond, his jaw tensing as he looks at Daemon. And he has to physically stop himself from cutting his uncle’s throat when his wife walks with him to join Helaena and the bastard. Aegon and he share a look, both upset and annoyed, as their wives are so freely dancing with other men. 

Aemond watches her beautiful face, frowning as Daemon talks about something, whispering it closely so no one else hears it. His grip on the edge of his seat is strong; knuckles’ turning white as his jaw is tense, not looking pleased at all. And then, he hears her warm laugh, giggling at what he said, as her whole face brightened up.

Once they serve the pig in front of him and hear the little bastard giggles, it is enough to send him through a fit of rage. 

He literally drags his wife by the arm after everything went downhill, after saying that stupid toast, after the Velaryon’s boys attempt to defend themselves (very badly) and both her husband and her good brother humiliate them.

“Dancing with him” Aemond murmurs, walking to their shared chambers, not minding seeing the servants stop and look at them both. “Accepting it, and giggling to his jokes as he shamelessly flirts with you” 

“It was politeness...” her voice is weak when protesting.

“Did he mocked me for having only one eye?” He asks roughly. “Did he told you how beautiful your are and how full your breasts are?”

She opens her mouth a bit taken aback by his lewds remarks. “I am dutiful to what it’s expected of me. I wouldn't have allowed him to mock you”

“You should…”

“My family’s words are Family. Duty. Honour. And you know I care for that very deeply.” she says as she tries to keep up with his long steps “And I did just what was asked…”

“You are mine” he states, walking inside his chambers as his grip does nothing but become stronger. “My wife and you are… putting yourself in display for my uncle, laughing at his flirting. I know your family words are important for you, but this is… beyond that”

Perhaps it was her confused eyes or her angelic face, but he loosened up his grip yet he kept talking. 

“He wanted you! To have you below him and fuck you like a… wench or… or some kind of…”

“I know” 

Aemond turns drastically, eye twitching at his wife's words.

“You knew?”

“It was being cordial. It was duty. To amend broken ties…”

“I will break and burn and turn into ashes any ties from you to him” he says exasperated, insane with jealousy. His eye is wide, twitching in rage as he cannot believe this. She was his wife. 

Seeing Daemon’s hand grip on her hip, almost groping her, made him insane. Because he knew that Lady Tully, beautiful as the Maiden, a beloved goddess amongst the poor and rich, could do so much better than him. Yet, she still chooses him.

“Get naked” he says simply.

“What?”

“You heard me just right. Get. Naked.” He says again, not wanting a negative. 

Her whine is endearing, as she starts taking off little by little. Her gown, the diminutive buttons at the back, her collar, and her hellish headpiece.

“Let me” he grumbles as he helps her take off the headpiece, tossing it aside more carefully.

She is possibly the most beautiful when she is naked. Round breasts, even fuller thanks to lactating, and her body was tempting enough to anyone. 

“Undress me” he says instead. He took delight when she was the one serving him, in this way. He loved to see her desperation, her eagerness for him. His jerkin is out in no time, and she kneels to undo his breeches.

Because she had an angelic face, but it was only he who knew how obsessed she was with his cock. She could spend hours lying on the bed, sucking his cock as she rested her head on his abdomen as Aemond read. She wouldn’t even suck him off properly, his wife would only suck the tip, give kitten licks, and lazily press some kisses. During hours and hours. 

“I forbid you to speak to any one of them. Ever again” 

Confused eyes turned up to look at him, as the careful hands undid his breeches, almost a bit eagerly. “Forbid?”

“Hm. It’s what I said, is it not?” He says, narrowing his eye as if asking to be defied. 

“But it’s mad” she protests, frowning. “I promised Jace and Baela a tour in the gardens, and it would be impolite if I didn’t spoke-”

“Too bad” his voice cuts the conversation, and he is not leaving it up for conversation. 

“You are being irrational...”

“And you are being a fucking brat” he spats, grabbing her chin as he bites his lower lip. “I’ll show you how irrational I can get”

Her eyes watched him, almost too innocent for her own good. It made him hard; he could feel his cock stirring on his untied breeches. 

“Fucking slut, giving yourself to other men” his tone is harsh, but by the way her knees move, to accommodate the weight as he grips her chin, he knows that she is aroused. So is he.

Lady Tully was beautiful, and a box of surprises with everything, he realised with time. He had everyone trapped under her charms, and kept her secrets very private. And he loved it.

“Whore.”  His hand leaves her chin, only to move it to slap her across the face. 

She gasps, her face turned. It wasn’t harsh, yet the sting was burning on her skin, as she placed a hand on her cheek. To foreign eyes, he just slapped his wife. But he has done it before, to her request. Aemond knew that if his wife was enraged by that, he would have been beaten over and over, because she was kind, but didn’t stand for people dishonouring her. 

Aemond, more gently places his hand back on her chin, pulling it so she can look at him. “You will learn your place” Aemond says, as she looks up at him, with those meek eyes of hers. He loved her eyes. “Open your mouth”

 He leaned down, his mouth opening over hers, so near that she could feel his hot breath. His hand goes to wrap the bright red hair of hers, and his firm grip got her head secured. 

Perhaps Aemond would kiss those perfect lips, yet he pulled back and released a strand of saliva directly into her waiting mouth. Aemond’s fingers tightened the grip in her hair, as his other hand came up to wipe away the excess of spit. 

“There is my good girl” he murmurs, looking at her. “Mhm. I’m going to teach you a lesson” 

Aemond lifts his wife to her feet as if she weighs nothing, his grip on her hair almost dragging her to the bed, forcefully as he heard her little whines. He had a moment or two to decide which position suited best, for then to grab her hips and guide her to be on her hands and knees. He grabs the long red hair once again, angling her head to the side, because Aemond needed to see her face the same way he needed air.

She was soaking wet, and that is a satisfaction for her husband. Aemond accommodated behind her, watching her body as he positioned his cock at her entrance.

 “Such a sweet little cunt” he growls, his eye flashing with lust and desire as he thrusts into her from behind, in one swift motion. 

Her whimpers and pants are loud, as she grips on the sheets as her back is arched. She was desperate to be filled and fucked, not something unusual. The unusual thing was that… nothing happened.

“Aemond” She whines, moving her head to watch him from above her shoulder. She had that desperate, pitiful appearance that he loved.

“Yes, my love?” He asks almost nonchalantly, watching her ass, and how his cock is fully sank inside her 

She can barely think straight as his dick is deep inside her, throbbing in her walls as she just needs him to start fucking her. “Eh… move?”

“I don’t think so” he murmurs, his hand moving to caress her ass to his liking. “You’ll have to fuck yourself on my cock” His wife opens her mouth, confused as her eyebrows frown in hesitation. “Show me how much you need me” he says simply, he was fucking teasing her. “How much you need my cock”

Feeling the thick length of Aemond’s cock inside her, she accommodates on her hands, slowly moving away just to sink down onto his cock again. Her slick walls gripping him tightly as she impales herself on his thick cock. 

“Aemond… Fu-uck, you feel… oh, yes…” She whimpers, and her voice is filled with pleasure as her pussy starts getting pounded as she liked so much. If Lady Tully liked something in life, was probably getting fucked until her mind is mush.  

Her hips start moving on their own accord, as she grips on the sheets, trying to keep a stable posture to move her hips better, as her moans are obscenely loud, trying to get his cock deeper and deeper. Aemond leaves a groan, watching how she sinks down on his cock, and it is an image that would make any man cum in seconds. He truly was the luckiest man ever. 

He feels the fire in his stomach tighten, as her moans grew more and more delighted to the feeling of his cock pounding into her. At first, she had thought of it as promiscuous, and asked the maiden for forgiveness, but gods damn her if it wasn’t the best thing in life to get a good fuck from the love of her life.

“So responsive when getting a cock in your needy pussy” Aemond mutters, as one of his hands raises to spank her ass, the sharp slap only serves for the sounds coming out of her mouth to increase, and he spanks her again, and again, and again, to his own amusement and delight. 

“Please, Aemond…” 

“You just love misbehaving with me, because you know I will put you in your place” he says, moving forward to her body to grip his hair with his right hand, his left goes right next to her hand gripping the sheets to hold his weight. “Because you are a needy whore” he states, gripping her hair as she nods forcefully. 

“Yes” she says, in that whiny tone of hers. He knows her reactions yet every time they aroused him even more. “Yes, please”

The grip on her hair only serves to help him push her back against his cock, his hips now making the effort to start properly pounding into her cunt as she loved; hard, rough and at a deliciously good pace. Her body is practically numb as he starts to use her body for his own pleasure, just as she loved.

Who would have said that the most beautiful woman on earth loved being used by her husband? Definitely not him. She was the most perfect creature, in any way. Smart, funny, pretty, a good wife and mother. And yet she always craved his cock, like the filthiest whores of Flea Bottom. 

“Let those bastards hear you, hm?” He asks, as he leans to speak lowly near her ear. “How it’s your husband who pleases you. Perhaps my uncle will get the notion that you are mine. Only mine. Fucking mine. That fucking dodderer will die by my hand if he ever dares to lay his eyes on you” 

The mere thought infuriates him, making his hips slam into her harder and more feral. Rutting into her cunt in an animalistic pace as he has to clench his jaw in rage. His hand on her hair and the other on her waist, he groans at the feeling of her soaking cunt. 

The sobs he hears as his cock keeps on pounding into her sweet spot, makes him smug enough, and even more aroused. His sweet lady wife, so prone to cry when she had too much pleasure when she got overwhelmed with lust. 

“Please, please…” the round of pleas comes up with her tears, and Aemond moans, shamelessly, as he was so close. “I can’t t-take i-it… anymo-ore” 

“Oh, you will” he says through gritted teeth as he lets go of her hair, only for his other hand to go to her shoulder to help her get his dick deeper. “I will breed you. Cum so deep that my seed takes root, and everyone will know who you belong to.” 

Her nods between sobs, pleas and trembling legs help him pound in feral thrusts into her, feeling her cunt already milking him, inner walls attempting to squeeze his dick inside and never let it go.

“Cum for me, my love” he murmurs, still fucking her deep and nice how she likes it. “My beautiful wife” he murmurs, besotted by her as she cries, her tears rolling down her rosy cheeks with little freckles that he adored. 

The little spasms of her body, her wails and the way her cunt squeezes him, it’s enough to drive him to the edge, holding her body down into his cock as he moans loudly, rolling his eye back in pleasure as he cums hard. She whimpers, whining a bit as his seed just keeps on filling her, his balls tensing up as his grip will probably leave her delicate skin with red marks.

He is caring afterwards, as he cleans her with a towel, or when he places her in bed and covers her, lying by her side each time as she snuggles to him.

“You have to know–” she says softly, her fingers tracing circles on his chest. “You are hot when jealous”

Aemond huffs, grumbling about it a bit as he seems reluctant. It amuses her.

“You always find me hot, I could be… Killing a chicken and you would be leaking”

“Get on my place for a moment, please, just imagine how your muscles would flex” she says dead serious and he rolls his eye amused, as the corners of his lips gives him away.

The fixation on his hair would be a problem if he didn’t love her so much. Aemond allows his lady Tully to braid it as they talk in bed. 

“I didn’t really mean it” he says softly. 

“Hm?” She asks curious, her fingers working on a single small braid on his hair.

“You can talk to them” he says through gritted teeth. “Just-... not too much”

Her little laugh warms his heart. “Very well” she says amused. “For each sentence I say to them, I will suck you”

“I retract myself, talk to them very much, all you like” he says, and it has her giggling. “You know I love you…” he says; as it comes into his view her concentrated face, her tongue coming out of her pink lips as she was focused. He could see the freckles that he so adored, and her pretty eyes. How he loved her.

“You know I love you more…” she says fixing his braid to stick to his hair. Her mouth forms a pleased smile as she sits, as she inspects her work. “Yes. Seems pretty nice”

He could feel the hair strand tight, and he moved his hand to touch his head. “What in the Seven Hells you did to my hair, woman?” 

She looks very pleased as she giggles, her body accommodating against his chest as she shrugs innocently, as he keeps on playfully trying to decipher what his wife did to his hair. 

[mickandmusings]

sincerity & sonnets

-

pairing: anthony bridgerton x f!reader

word count: 2.1k

summary: anthony bridgerton is blessed with many things-a warm, loving family, a well-funded lifestyle as a viscount, a beautiful wife. more notably, he is cursed with a short fuse and a sharp tongue, which might lead to his demise.

(based off of this request! to the anon who requested, I sort of wrote the argument as more of a sharp remark, but i hope it is still angsty enough for your liking! <3)

warnings: angsty->fluffy, no other warnings

-

As Anthony sat at his desk, scribbling away at his numerous piles of papers stacked in front of him, he noted the unusual quietness that had fallen on his study. He first thought that he had shut the door, but one quick look at the doorway contradicted his beliefs. Anthony's eyebrows furrowed in confusion-his home was never quiet.

Between his own family, and the families of his four sisters and three brothers, his home was full of life: laughter bounding off the walls, his wife and sisters' voices chatting over tea, the stampeding footfalls of his hoard of nieces and nephews assured his ears would never grow accustomed to utter silence. Even in the rare occurrence that the house was empty save for Anthony and his beloved wife, he'd often hear her humming to herself as she attended to her own business in their home, or she would join him in his study, writing her own correspondences at the smaller desk next to his own. Which is why, now, as he sat at his desk this afternoon, the silence stunned him. Anthony frowned, lifting his pocket watch to assure himself he was not entirely losing his mind. As the gold clock stared back at him, the small hand signaled it was midday.

He chuckled to himself, his wife must have chosen to sleep in entirely too long. Y/N was a chronic night owl, often keeping Anthony awake with her bedside chatter and comments on the appearance of the night sky through the window that faced their bed. Anthony would indulge her, but would still wake before the sun. His wife, however, would not budge for several more hours. He grinned and pocketed his watch, pushing himself up from his chair to wake his sleeping beauty of a wife.

Anthony bounded up the stairs two at a time, nodding curtly at any house staff before reaching their shared bedchambers. His dark eyes peer into the empty bedroom-his wife certainly was not here. He noted the dutifully made bed, the open curtains allowing the sunlight in, and, most importantly, his wife's absence. Anthony shook his head briefly before dashing back down the stairs, nearly stumbling into one of his wife's handmaidens.

"Pardon me," he addresses the woman with a sigh, a bit breathless from the unexpected goose chase his wife has taken him on. "Do you know the whereabouts of my wife?"

The younger maid looks at Anthony almost confused, but quickly takes on a professional tone:

"The Viscountess is reading in the garden, she's only just gotten back from tea with the Dowager Viscountess and the Duchess."

Anthony nodded in thanks, hastily departing for their expansive garden, his mind racing. Seeing his wife was an afternoon ritual-she would come bounding into his study after tea with his mother and respective sisters, spouting off all of the new ladies' gossip as he listened intently, all while pretending he was entirely disinterested. He enjoyed seeing her eyes grow wide with the shock of scandal, or her smile at a sweet interaction she witnessed at the park. If you were to ask Anthony Bridgerton, there was no sight more splendid than his wife in all of her extraordinary, everyday beauty. Not that he would admit that aloud, at least not to anyone but her.

Frankly, he was missing her presence today more than he cared to admit. He spotted Y/N almost instantly, her periwinkle gown shining in the sun. She sat in a chair politely under a shady tree, the book on her lap seemingly forgotten. Her expressive eyes locked onto the treeline in the distance, her face solemn. Anthony's heart seemed to fall in his chest, the sinking realization of why his home had been so soundless for the entirety of the day. His chest felt tight as he thought of his actions last night...

-

It had been a very, very long day for Anthony. With Francesca's upcoming debut to society, his mother had been harping on Anthony for nearly a fortnight about every minute detail. His patience for his mother was infinite, but sometimes she did manage to test its limits. Atop this hurdle was the never ending stacks of paperwork littering his desk, waiting to be looked over and signed off by his barely legible scrawl. He had neglected to write Colin back for weeks-his younger brother writing about his travels in Greece. The house staff had been in and out of his study all day, the incessant knocking severing his nerves. The heavy weight of life as a viscount was falling on Anthony, making him irritable and exhausted. His dear wife had settled his discomfort around lunch, bringing his nearly-cold meal into his study to make sure he ate. She had left him with a chaste kiss and a better mood, but Anthony had returned to her worse for wear.

Dinner in their large dining room had felt unnaturally dreary, only the sound of utensils clanking against china plates filling the air, only to be stifled by his wife's chatter. Normally, Anthony would've listened attentively, enjoying hearing about trips to the modiste or how Portia Featherington had driven his wife to near madness. Today, however, her voice had him pressing his nails into his palms to aid his irritation. He sipped his wine and shuffled his food on his plate to avoid making eye contact, he would not want her to see the frustration lingering in his eyes.

"Eloise was completely beside herself, I had never seen her so embarrassed! Madame Delacroix-"

"Must you talk so incessantly?!" Anthony's voice spat out in a low growl, dripping with fierce vexation.

Y/N's eyes grew wide, looking at her husband as if he had sprouted an extra arm and slapped her with it. She said nothing, only cowering in on herself, staring down at her lap as she fidgets with her hands. After several moments of Anthony's intense silence, she lifts a shaky hand and wipes the tears forming in her eyes as she hastily made her way out of the room, attempting to put as much distance between her and Anthony as possible.

Anthony followed suit moments later, feeling angry at himself as he slammed the door of his study shut, falling asleep at his desk hours later. Y/N had slept on her side of a bed far too large for one, her eyes tender and cheeks splotchy, her mind racing. Did she truly talk too much? Had he been annoyed by her daily talks for all these months? Her mind weaved small details into a full blown breakdown, and she quickly settled on being Anthony's perfect, quiet wife as she caved to her drowsiness.

-

The wind blew his wife's curls against her shoulder as Anthony approached her in the backyard, her back still facing him. He wasn't sure she had even heard him approach, her eyes still focused on the landscape sprawled before them. Anthony shuffles nervously, his hands behind him as he stands at her side, only the wind and birds chirping aiding the suffocating silence.

"Splendid weather we're having," Anthony's voice finally spoke, awkward and fumbling into casual conversation as he sank into the chair across from him. Y/N said nothing, only blinking in the same direction she had been staring at the entire time. Anthony nodded, mostly to himself, resigning himself to her silence, it was what he deserved at the moment.

After several moments of dead silence, Y/N turned her attention back to the book perched in her lap, and Anthony sat silently, wanting to spout out his apology in a hurried, bumbling manner, but he knew his wife, she would simply nod and continue reading, allowing herself to stew in prolonged silence.

He rose quietly, leaving with a small kiss landing atop her head-a touch that burned Y/N's skin. She watched Anthony leave out of the corner of her eye, sighing heavily as his presence was back inside their home. She was a myriad of feelings: angry at Anthony for being so blatantly cruel, his words had stung and left her reeling for hours. She was sad, as much as the words had fired her up, they had torn her heart, leaving her chest heavy with dejection. Y/N was nearly bursting at the seams to just apologize-even if it wasn't her who needed to apologize-just so the awkward encounters would come to an end. She wondered if Anthony even felt remorse at all.

In his study, Anthony ran his hands through his hair for the hundredth time, attempting to focus on the business papers in front of him. His efforts were fruitless-all he could think of was the empty look on Y/N's face. He had never seen her this lifeless, like her glow had been snuffed out, and it was entirely his fault. Anthony's mind raced with a million different scenarios of how he would make this up to her, ranging from flowers to begging on hands and knees, but despite his blunders, he knew his lady well. His Viscountess had never been one for showy things or frivolous purchases, she would only want his sincerest apologies. He would do it tonight, over dinner, he decided. He only hoped when the time came, she would at least spare him a glance.

-

Hours later, at the dining room table, Anthony found himself sitting in his chair at the head of the table completely alone. The kitchen staff came and left with plates and glasses, but his wife had yet to make an appearance. Anthony's foot tapped against the floor in anxiety, his eyes shooting up to the closest staff member, nearly shouting:

"Where is the Viscountess taking her dinner?"

The head of the kitchen staff looked at Anthony wide-eyed at his outburst, replying politely:

"Viscountess Bridgerton took her dinner in the library tonight."

Anthony said nothing, rising from his seat and walking down the hallway, coming to the door of the library and knocking lightly.

"Come in."

Anthony nearly burst into a fit of tears, happy to hear her voice.

He pushed the door open, Y/N's eyes meeting his before they dropped back down to the open book in her hands. Anthony felt guilt press heavy on his chest. He settled into the plush chair opposite her, separated only by a small end table. Anthony looked over at her, his brown eyes all but practically begging her to say something to him.

"Y/N..." Anthony's voice is small and timid, trying to coax her into at least hearing him out. Y/N's voice came out a whisper, cutting him off.

"I am sorry."

Anthony furrowed his brow, that was certainly not what he was expecting to hear. He looked over at her, her gaze locked on the moonlight coming through the window, her eyes glassy with tears.

"I am sorry I have become a burden, Anthony. I did not realize I irritated you with my ramblings. I thought you wanted to hear of my daily activities. I know my day as a woman is not nearly as riveting as yours as a Viscount, but-"

"My dear, your apologies are not necessary," Anthony's voice dripped with sincerity, his eyes warm as he looked at her, ready to grovel for forgiveness. He stuck his hand out for her to take, which she did. He pulled her towards him softly, his gentle touches coaxing her into his lap. Y/N's eyes grow soft under his gaze, her limbs melting in his strong hold. "I am the one who has been a fool. I look forward to your ramblings, no matter if they hold what you consider to be valuable or not, they brighten my day. I wait most ardently for news of trips to the modiste, or my mother's ramblings over tea-" He pauses, tucking a stray curl back behind her ear, his thumb wiping away the stray tears on her cheeks.

"I don't want you to be silent. Your voice is more pleasant than any other sound," Anthony cuts himself off, sighing, before starting again. "I should not have spoken to you in such a manner. I should not have raised my voice at you. You have my word that it will never happen again, I cannot go another day surrounded by your silence, it is torture."

Y/N smiles slightly at her husband's words, his transgressions forgiven with his sincere words. His face is close enough to hers to brush her nose against his, their lips close enough to meet.

"Are you certain you were not a poet before we met, Lord Bridgerton?" Y/N's voice is a whisper, the moment feeling far too intimate for anything else.

Anthony chuckles as his hand grasps the side of her face lightly, bringing her closer, speaking before he kisses her deeply:

"Only for you, my beloved...you inspire sonnets."

-

[whore-ibly-hot]

"A Servant and His King."

Yandere!Fae-King x Fae!servant x. Fem! Reader

18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Dub-con, perverted thoughts, obsession, coercion, fae related hijinks, basically monster fucking, oral (fem receiving), loss of virginity, clit play, p-in-v sex, power dynamics.

(A/N): Part two to a non-smutnfic about Puck, based off of puck from 'Midsummer Nights Dream'. Can be read with or standalone.

Part one (not required to understand)

A brief gust of wind and leaves rattles the shutters of your small cottages window, not sounding out of place when mixed with the usual sounds of the forest. However, the gust turns softer as it gently brushes against the shutters, causing them to open slowly with a creak.

A pair of feet land nimbly upon the wooden dresser across the room from your bed, a shadowy figure squatting down with a grin. The figure hops down, making its way to your bed, where you sleeping form lies blissfully unaware of the intruder.

Groaning, you are soon roused from your slumber by a light pressure on your wrist, and your eyes flutter open. You gasp, seeing the being before you and trying to pull away. "

"W-who are you! Stay awa-" a finger is pressed softly to your lips, the figures face coming into view as the lean forward. Forest green eyes and a set of familiar pearly whites greet you.

"Shh! No need to fear, only Puck is here." He coos, kissing your wrist once more, pressing the soft flesh to his lips. "Sorry to frighten you, little mortal. I would never mean to upset you, but I couldn't very waltz in through the entrance to your humble abode, especially given your mother's feelings about my kind." He lays his lithe body across yours, head on your chest as he looks at you with glee.

"Why are you here, Puck? It's late, I must rest." You say, though you don't resist the fae boys touching. "Sleep is important for humans."

He scoffs. "I know, but I have something more important than your human need for sleep. My king, Oberon, leader of the seelie court wishes to meet you." He pulls you up by your shoulders, a hand fixing your nightgown which begins to slip from your shoulder.

"T-the king?" You're just a human woman, a peasant. You've never even met a human noble, much less a faery king. "Why? Puck, I'm not, I can't! Now? I'm not dressed properly, I'm a human, I-"

Once again, a finger is placed against your lips. Invading your space as per usual, Pucks forehead is pressed against your forehead, nose to nose. "Shush, little mortal. Please, the king loves me. I am his jester-servant, his beloved Puck! We've shared many a-" he chuckles. "Amourous night together. He knows if your good enough for me, then your good enough to meet him. Don't discredit yourself, you are so much more than some mortal maid I take in the woods for a night of passion." He makes her sit up, and tries to slip her out of the bed. "He'll love you, my sweet. It's only proper I introduce my new beloved friend to my closest companion, ruler, and my king." You allow him to pull you out of your bed, and into his lanky form.

"Mmph, Puck. I can walk." You groan, trying to wriggle from his grasp. He tsks with his tongue, and shakes his head.

"No, no, no. Don't whine, don't go away. Be good. It's a long stroll all the way to the spring we're going to, just relax." He cackles. "You humans are so indecisive. Just a moment ago you were whining, 'Puck, no. It's too late, I'm a human, I need my sleep.', now you won't let me carry your frail, tired self to see the king. Make up your mind."

You roll your eyes, but suppose he has a point, and allow yourself to melt into his warm embrace, shoulders flush against his pecs.

As he slips back through the window and dances through the glen, weaving through trees and brush like a gust of cool night air, he soon arrives upon a clearing. Smooth rock reflect moonlight, as the water resting atop them comes from the babbling freshwater spring that rests at the edge of the rocks. A figure, imposing and much more muscular than Puck's is sat on one of the rocks, admiring the water.

Puck gently sets you down with nimble hands, kissing your ear lightly. This causes you to squeak and push him off.

"Stop it, Puck! I-im about to meet a king and your acting like we're lovers! Like your an enamored schoolboy!" You exclaim, and his hands only wrap around your waist from behind, playing with the cloth there.

"And here I thought we were lovers..." He feigns a sad face and a pout, before jolting forward and taking you with him by the waist. "My king!" He yells.

The imposing figure looks over, causing you to freeze, mind not really in synch with body as Puck drags you forward. The king is truly a thing of beauty, rugged and piercing as if he were carved, not from stone, but from the wood that made up the forest which he called his domain. He wears a fur pelt around his waist, covering his only upper thigh and not leaving much to the imagination. His is decidedly hairy, and though beautiful is as rugged as a human man of the woods is expected to be. He has dark curls of hair not unsimilar to Puck's, but not as long. His eyes are a deep brown.

"Ah, Puck, my fair servant friend. I was almost afraid you had planned to trick me, having not shown yet." The king muses, legs spread casually and a hand resting against his chin.

Puck gasps, hand to his chest as if hurt. "Never, my liege. Well, at least not to you." Puck coos, sitting on the rock and curling up to the man's calve. The king runs his hands through the curls of the fae man, and you are taken aback by the sensuality of their interaction.

The king looks up. "And you, little mortal, must be my Pucks new favorite thing, hmm?" He asks, head tilted. You nod nervously as the man waves you closer. You bow, and he grins. "Good, good. I assume she knows who I am then? I am King Oberon, of this enchanted woods and over all of the seelie court. Though, my servant here told me you knew little to nothing of our people when asked you about us, so I doubt you'd know what the seelie court is."

You shake your head. "No, sir. All I know-" you glance at Puck, who is practically purring at his kings touch. "All I know is what Puck has told me. That you are powerful, and to be respected."

Oberon grins at this. "That is all you need know. Come here, allow a king to gaze upon you." His hands begin to wander, cupping your face. His large fingers prod your plump lips, your cheeks, and tilts your chin downwards to look at him from where he is sat. Then, the hand is on your shoulder, playing with the straps of your upper garment, then at your chest. This sudden touch in such an intimate place causes you to jolt back. Oberon raises a brow.

"I'm sorry, sir. That is, that is just a very intimate place for humans. It's for sensual matters, when between two adults." You try to explain. Puck sighs, leaning his head on Oberons knee while the king chuckles.

"I am aware. It is intimate and sensual for fae too. That is why you were being touched there." He says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Now, you are only more confused.

"Well, intimacy of those matters between humans happens between a-a married couple, and even then, it should not be openly discussed. A woman like myself couldn't, shouldn't ever bee with a stranger like that, not even a suitor before marriage!"

"I have heard humans are... less indulgent in the passions of life than fae. All those awful, boring rules. And yet you kill your leaders and revolt because your miserable? Perhaps. Eing unable to express those urges is why." He laughs, and Puck joins in. He sense your confusion and continues. "Fae do not believing in brief enjoyment and indulgence. We live life to the fullest. Our liquor is stronger yet we drink more, our food is richer, yet we all eat like kings. And most of all, we indulge in the passions of the flesh with each other more than your little mind could take. I think if you had the opportunity, you'd see it was the best way to live." He muses.

To your suprise, he suddenly moves Puck up from his calve to his lap, holding the thin man by the waist as Puck grins wickedly. "You see, me and my servant here are close, emotionally and physically. We have enjoyed many a night of passion, without the watchful eye of my queen, of course." There is some bitterness in Oberon's tone at the mention of his queen.

"You... you indulge in passion with those, of the same gender as you, o-often?" You ask. It is not wrong, you are just so suprised and curious. You are not even supposed to think about a man pleasing a woman, let alone a man and another man. It is such a foreign idea.

"Mhmm. Being a king is hard for his majesty, and Puck... I, am happy to help him with his desires. My king cares for me, and I care for him." Puck says, before gasping and cutting off. You blush, seeing Oberons hand has slipped below Pucks leafy loincloth, hand stroking Puck manhood. He focuses only on the tip for now.

"I am suprised seeing as you are so shocked by how touchy and sensual fae are, seeing as you bedded my dear servant." Oberon says, and you immediately shake your head.

"No! I've never, me and Puck did nothing together. We drank a little, but he took me home." You exclaim, and look st Ouck for answers. He's too busy letting out soft whimpers and moans as Oberon moves his hand the full length of Pucks cock, paying attention to his bulbous tip.

"Is this true, Puck? I find it hard to believe, my servant can't keep his hands to himself. I suppose this makes you seem even more special to me, that my Puck would wish to see you again so desperately, and rave about you to me even if he had not bedded you yet. That begs the question though..." He leans in to Puck's ear. "Why did you lie to your king?"

Puck groans, brows furrowing. "M' sorry, your majesty! I knew you were so busy, and if I told you I had found a mortal capable of giving such incredible pleasure, you'd be more likely to come and see what a treasure I had found." He stammers. The king shakes his head, slowing his movements on Puck's cock.

"You know better than to lie to a king with a temper, Puck."

Puck cries out, bucking his hips and trying to chase that friction against his kings rough hands. "N-no sir! Trust me, I know if she'd just indulge, the mortal would be wonderful! She... she could be our mortal, not just mine! Please sir, I'll be good, she'll be good, don't stop." He begs.

Oberon sighs, still frowning in Pucks direction but intrigued nonetheless. "Alright, mortal girl. I yell you, if you would only let go, indulge just a bit in the pleasures of the fae, you would live a better life overall. And, should you please a king of the woods, perhaps your... what is it your mother does? Herbs? Perhaps they would see a better yield. An enchantment perhaps?" He offers.

You gulp, body hot with both arousal at the sight before you and anxiety. "I couldn't. What would the people in town think, I-I would be outcast!"

"Who would know? Even if someone were to find out, no one would believe a quiet gardeners daughter slept with a wicked spirit." The king teases, tongue poking out from between his lips slightly. He pulls you to him, and you offer no resistance. "For an untouched maiden, I assure you there is no one better to introduce you to a world of pleasure than the king, and his most loyal servant."

As he says this, the moaning Puck latches his lips onto your neck, continuing to moan as he sucks the soft flesh. You gasp.

"Oh, oh, gods." You squeak, the sensitive skin of your nape never having been touched, much less kissed in such a way.

"No gods, here, mortal. No angels or demons, only fae. Only the spirits of nature." He leans into your ear, kissing the shell. "Only your king."

Soon, a rough hand gets your skirt pooled around your knees, kneading the fat of your thigh and preparing to spread your legs and allow the fae king and his srmervant a view of the untouched treasure that lies there. You shiver as the cold air brushes across your stomach, you've never felt so exposed.

"See, highness? I told you, she's the perfect, pretty little mortal. Tease her, please? For me? I want to see her face as she experiences pleasure for the first time." Puck begs.

Oberon raises a brow and the request. "Such demands from a liar who has already been granted mercy, and is still being pleasure bu the hands of a king." He pulls his hand from Ouck's cock, causing tears to well in the edged faes eyes, having been denied his release.

"Majesty-"

"Enough. I will allow you to tease and prep the maiden, so she may except you king. Before you say anything, be grateful I don't only allow you to watch, or send you home." Puck whines, but grins a little inside. He knows the king enjoys his presence to much to remove him from this sensual scene.

Oberons large hands keep your shoulders flat against the warm stones of the spring, while Puck, still hard beneath his tented loincloth, crawls unceremoniously up between your thighs.

"What are you doing, Puck?" You whisper out softly, looking into his dazzling green eyes. He smiles warmly, pressing his cheek to one of your thighs.

"I assure you, maiden, my wicked tongue is not only good for japes and jabs." He coos. You are still confused at what he could mean, until the two thin fingers parting your folds are replaced with a hot, wet muscle. Puck licks a stripe teasingly up your center, savoring the flavour but eyes never leaving your face.

Oberon smiles down as he watches your face contort and wrinkle at the new sensation.

"Puck, y-your majesty, what is- oh, what is he doing?" You ask, trying to form a coherent sentence at the odd feeling of pressure and friction against both your clit and your entrance as Puck explores your folds.

"It's called cunnilingus, maiden. Fae have many ways to pleasure each other, but many enjoys the feel of one's mouth on their most intimate areas." He chuckles as he watches Puck tasting you curiously. "Sometimes, I find filling his mouth is the only way to quiet him." Puck giggles, and the vibrations make your legs quake.

Soon, the muscle invades your entrance, as Puck is now groaning almost as much as you. It's a gentle stretch, but both Ouck and Oberon know it will be necessary for what the king is to do later. Your aroused and needy clit is not forgotten by the fae pleasuring you, as a free hand comes to tweak it gently. The feeling is overwhelming, and soon, that knot inside you snaps, and you feel a high you've never known. It feels as though currents, waves run through your body as your maidenhood spasms around Pucks tongue.

He removes it, but continues to lap at your spent clit, tasting the juices of your climax. Oberon smiles.

"Was he good, maiden? Did you first touch by a man satisfy?" He asks. You can only weakly nod. "Ah, answer, maiden. Your being addressed by a royal."

"It was... it was very good, m-majesty." You gasp out. You look away at the sheer lewdness of the sight and Oberon crashes his lips to Pucks so that he may taste you on his servants lips.

"She was a divine nectar, my liege." Puck groans, pulling away from the kiss and now trading spots with his king. Now Puck lays by your shoulders, playing with your locks and kissing your neck and jawline while Oberon moves into place.

His chisled body places itself atop you, his sheer size dwarfing you and removing the moonlight from your body, casting a large shadow. You gulp.

"I... I've never done-" he chuckles, cutting you off.

"I'm aware, mortal. All that talk of purity led me to that conclusion. But, you won't be that innocent for long. I will be gentle, but it will hurt at first when you accept me into your sweet cunt. It's all part of the process."

You tense a little at the feeling of something hard, much more rigid than Pucks limp tongue, prodding at your entrance and folds.

"M' scared." You admit. This seems to soften the sensual yet cold king, and he sighs. Even Puck gives him a sad, wide eyes look. He leans down.

"Don't worry, mortal. I will be as gentle as any man has been with a woman. My Puck was never one to be nervous, but I have had lovers in the past who were. I will take care of you." He says.

Puck holds your hand and nuzzles his cheek to yours to provide a semblance of comfort. "It's true. The king is a fair and gentle lover when he wants to be. Don't worry, my friend." He assures.

Oberon strokes your thighs to relax soon, and soon the tip enters your weeping slit. You whine, the intrusion burns a little, especially as he adds a few inches every so often. But, he is slow, and talks you through it.

"Shh, it's alright. Your taking me so well, especially since I am endowed with more than some. Such a good mortal girl, it will feel good once you've stretched to accommodate a fae's cock." He coos.

As he begins to gently thrust, the slightly pain gives way to a burning pleasure. You whimper, his thrusts rocking your ads back against the stone of the spring. His large, curved tip is hitting the right spots, cervix getting pounded by the large man of the forest.

"O-oh, shit! Oberon, please- please, m-more! I need all, all of you in me!" You cry, and he chuckles.

"That's your womb speaking. This is your first time, you couldn't possibly accommodate all of me. But I will give you what I think, ugh, what I think you can take." He thursts become rhythmic, rolling in and out of your stretched tunnel, as Puck holds you steady and plays gently with your chest.

Oberon humps against you a few more times, moaning at Pucks encouragement. "She is so close, sire. I can tell, she's all tense and red, come on! Give it to her, let her take you. Please." It's clear Puck is still needy from not having gotten his release earlier. Still, he seems satisfied watching the king fuck his newest treasure.

"Mortal, mortal. You squeeze like a vice, such a warm, needy cunt. You needed this, to feel such pleasure, didn't you? Needed a cock to fill this cunt?" He moans. "It was fate, wasn't it, Puck? Finding this maiden, all alone. It was fate for you to be brought to us." Puck nods as his master continues.

"Your majesty, I'm gonna- its happening again." You cry, and his pace doesn't slow.

"I know, I know. I'm, fuck-" one last thrust sends the king over the edge. He groans, feeling your tunnel convulse around him as his thick white cum fills you. Puck plants quick, overwhelming kisses across your face as you climax, secretly wondering what you would look like if you bore the king's child.

Soon, Oberon pulls out, and you lay there, trembling and on the verge of sleep. Puck leans down and plants a final kiss upon your lips. He smiles.

"Sleep, little mortal. It's okay, you are safe with me and my king. I'll return you to your bed, pretty one." He strokes your hair softly, until your tired eyes close and stay closes. He sighs, and looks at the king. It's clear he could go for a fee more rounds.

"Majesty, our poor mortal needed this so badly, her body was on fire for it. We can't... we can't well let her go back to her little cottage, all alone in the dangerous wood with no one to please her. She's trusting, and she broke all the rules of interacting with fae so quickly, what if a worse one came along and-"

"Puck!" Oberon exclaims, making the imp jolt and go silent. Oberon sighs. "I am not a fool. I know how much this unique mortal has captivated the two of us. You need not convince me to take her back to my palace. As fair as Titania will be concerned, she is a plaything for you, correct? I will not have her cursing this treasure." Oberons muscular arms cradle your slumbering form.

"Majesty, I know of your endurance. Perhaps when we get back to the palace, while our maiden rests, I may please you." Puck asks, eyes wide and innocent.

Oberon scoffs. "All this acting because I didn't allow you to finish, Puck?" Oberon says, seeing through Pucks facade of goodwill and selflessness. Puck pouts.

"Isn't it tempting, though?"

"Perhaps."

[driaswrld]

🪷 — A ROYAL AFFAIR . . . THE SCANDAL OF THE CHILDHOOD CONSORT

LADY DRIA WRITES . . . ˚ ༘ *

🪷 dearest gentle reader, what is a princess to do when she's caught between two dashing princes, both of which are her childhood friends? — one her betrothed and the other her past love... 4.7k words.

🪷 prince gojo x reader x prince geto jjk regency/royal au, use of regency era terminology, longing and more longing.

🪷 taglist : (lmk if you want to be added or removed!) @angelshimaa @yunymphs @todorokies @satocidal @maeby-cursed @rinniessance @cinnabooonn @shegetsburned @starry-grace2 @selfishdoll @shuuennovirche @wishmemel @riaki @yazzzmints @aphroditisxc @gojorbit @izakyun @satoruoo @irisxyphium @zwtari @/lollipop974 @r0ckst4rjk @softgirlgonehaywire @lilvampirina @brianmaysclog

CHAPTER ONE. . . ˚ ༘ *

L'INCOMPARABLE.

Talks of betrothal began in the last Spring of your youth.

Under the cherry blossom trees, you sit in silence, fuchsia petals decorating the length of your hair in messy scatters.

Satoru Gojo, crowned prince and heir to the Gojo throne, picks the fallen remnants of flowers from your hair one by one as the nobles watch on.

Whispers of ‘they would make such a beautiful match’ and ‘look how the Prince dotes on her’ echo in the brush of the gardens, women whispering among themselves and the men chortling between swings of their mallets — in a near deathly game of pall mall.

“Don’t hide from me,” Satoru dips his head, breath fanning the shell of your ear. If possible, the whispers intensify, cutting past your ears and you bite back a giggle, stifling down the thought that crosses your mind, attention whore.

“I’m not hiding, your highness.” You counter, shifting to the side, your smile hidden behind a porcelain teacup, swift sips of ginger warming your cheeks.

“It’s improper, you know.” The words linger in the air between soft wisps of wind, flurries of foreign fabrics and bright layers of skirts pass your vision — and yet, all is drowned out by him.

Your anointed Prince, the attention whore.

“Improper to gaze upon my companion?” Satoru scoffs, grinning wide, toothy, dimples.

Childhood found you both tethered like bee and nectar, always close, always coming back.

At first, it was through duty, sharp tongued ten year old Satoru Gojo, a prince born with a halo and the title of the realm’s strongest to his name, meeting you, the humble princess of the Western kingdom, born in valor and sprouted in pride, a warrior’s code.

It was a disastrous first few encounters—

(—but then he was your bestfriend, and you his. )

His dear mother, bless her soul, had taken the time out to host this marvelous garden party to welcome the newest maidens into their debuts – moreso, to marry Satoru off quicker than he could leave for another battle, chasing another war – and yet, he cared not to meet with any of the women or entertain them beyond an inch of his being.

Not around you, at least.

“You shouldn’t jest about these things—!” A snort leaves your mouth, and whereas the ever uppity ladies of the palace court gawk at you in utter disbelief and mild disgust, Satoru finds himself bellowing a boyish laugh.

That was the last time he’d laugh like that with you, before a warm spring of youth turned to a burning summer, hot with passion, scorched with lust.

THE SCANDAL OF THE CHILDHOOD CONSORT.

Dearest gentle reader,

As all royal scandals do,

It started with an invitation.

We cordially invite you to the Gojo palace grounds to celebrate the betrothal of our crowned prince Satoru Gojo and his bride to be [name] [name].

This author finds herself compelled and rather . . . intrigued.

What a match made in heaven! Our beloved Prince Satoru and his most dearest childhood friend!

Your fingers tremble at your sides, the aura that is the strongest permeates your very being. The soft hum of piano keys coupled with string and bow becomes near inaudible – the power Satoru Gojo has on you is like a moth to a flame, lamb to slaughter.

But I assure you,

When it comes to matters of the heart —

Carefully, your feet carry you across the crowded ballroom, mass of bodies parting the instant they catch a glimpse of your eyes – that desperation is familiar in young women like you – and they pity you.

You, who should be above them, who should be the next Queen, the current Princess consort to be.

And yet.

“I’ve told you endlessly, I will take no wife!” Satoru’s voice is a staccato, bouncing off the walls of the vacant corridor adjacent to the ballroom, echoing past your ears.

Dare I say, our beloved crowned Prince

Is not the strongest.

“Some nerve you have, boy.”

Satoru’s father, the King, is a stoic man.

You’ve come to know this well in your youth. He rules firm and his word remains law. By no means is he the strongest or possesses any more battle capacity than that of any other noble, but he remains a political stronghold.

And his grip over his family — his subjects, remains unwavering.

“I don’t care for your affairs or your crown,” Satoru’s gaze remains hard, even as he meets his father’s ire in tow, and in such a barely secluded place too. “Let one of your bastards have it, my place is on the battlefield doing what you are too cowardly to.”

Your mind runs rampant, palms pressed against the cold wall concealing your presence.

You wonder what Satoru might be thinking — if he’d be so foolish as to forsake his lineage and do away with his duty, if he’d give up simply because his fate was not his choice — he wouldn’t.

No, Satoru is good and kind, and he would see this kingdom to a new realm of peace just with his bare hands alone.

“And that is all? You wish to do away with it simply because it does not suit your childish desires? I have given you everything! And the one thing I ask of you—”

You still yourself at the near animalistic growl that leaves Satoru’s lips.

“She will never be Queen.”

It cuts through you like blades of grass, familiar, scratching at your skin softly, pinpricks of green drawing blood from your calves.

It reminds you of when you were younger, more naive and susceptible to the follies of men and matters of the heart.

“Who’ll marry you if you spend your days swinging a sword and broadening your shoulders?”

“Aren’t there girls your age you can follow around? I don’t care if you’re a princess, we’re not friends.”

“I don’t know why you’d believe he’d ever want to court you.”

Three months, thirteen days.

Your betrothal has long exceeded and broken the record of engagement wait time.

Most women would be married within the same month of betrothal, the longest and most respectable wait time being a month and a half, only due to cases of overdue dowry payments.

Three million dollars was your reverse dowry.

Paid directly from the royal treasury to your father, and four million dollars paid in return. That was how much yours and Satoru’s hands were worth to your families, a testament to the weight you’d both bear by wearing a crown.

Except, you hadn’t been crowned yet. Or married for that matter.

“—summer solstice hunt!” It’s Yuji who exclaims, voice filled with childlike wonder. Recently knighted by Satoru himself and a renowned protege of the Kingsguard, the boy is eager to please. “Who will you cast your bets on, your grace?”

The confines of Satoru’s private study function as a meeting room for idle chatting — he leaves the letters to his advisors when they are of little importance.

Or discards them entirely when he has company, like now.

You sink deeper into the cushioned seat, Satoru’s arm draped over the back of your chair. A tuft of snowy hair falls over his forehead and he breathes a chuckle, your weight curling in on itself with every rise and fall of his chest.

why don’t you want me why don’t you want me why don’t you want me why don't you want me

“It’s out of question to bet on one’s self, no?” Satoru chuckles and it earns a cackle from Yuji, who, despite himself, has already casted his own bet on his annointed Prince. “I wouldn’t want to make anyone’s head bigger than it ought to be.”

The summer and winter solstice brings with it two separate ceremonial festivals — the hunt being the most anticipated due to its cutthroat competition among nobles and peasants alike.

That, and the prize.

The winner of the hunt, the man or woman to capture the famed primordial stag — which is really a regular stag trained and bred to elude even the most skilled knights — would be rewarded a grand jewel from the Queen’s vault.

Gentle reader,

The famed jewel for the taking

This summer, is none other than—

“I’ve placed my bet on you,” you comment plainly with a shrug and Yuji beams.

It isn’t unlike you to root for one of Satoru’s proteges, the ones fairly skilled and new to knighthood – you’ve always found yourself cheering for the peonies in a garden full of roses — the underdogs full of potential . . .

Satoru glances over to you, and for a second you miss how his gaze lingers.

“You’re too kind, Princess…” Yuji sighs, near dreamily. “I will no doubt do well now that I have your favor on my side.”

( losing dogs, satoru wants to say. all you ever do is bet on losing dogs. )

“You have her bet, not her favor.” Satoru scoffs dramatically before you can even think to lend Yuji your well wishes. “It isn’t something given, it’s something won. And from a maiden, not a Princess consort.”

She’s spoken for, is all you hear though.

There’s an air of uncertainty that passes between you and Satoru that only thickens with your closeness.

A pale palm curls around the cross rail of the back of your chair and you lean into his touch subconsciously – it’s warm, secure – he’s saying, I have your favor, don’t I? Tell me I do.

—The champion’s jewel,

A wraith necklace fit for a Queen.

The L’Incomparable.

“Nevertheless, you have my good faith.” You interject, followed by a sharp inhale, and you stand abruptly from your seat. Satoru’s hand falls to his side. He knows what you're thinking.

Three months, thirteen days.

You’ve sat by and watched Satoru deny you marriage – his excuse, that he’s waiting for his coronation first – you’ve watched him continue to entertain the women around him like he’s done since he was merely a squire, plastering a smile on his face from this glass castle he calls home.

He’s close, but never too close. Stringing you on then letting you loose— it’s routine.

It’s eerily similar to your childhood.

“Yuji,” Satoru speaks, soft yet firm. The young boy is on his feet immediately and offers a swift bow to his majesty, handing his service in tow to the call. “Leave us.” Satoru commands, and just as swiftly as he came, Yuji is bowing to you and exiting through the study doors.

L’Incomparable.

The largest internally flawless diamond in the kingdom and the most expensive chain sitting in the Queen’s vault currently, worth eight billion dollars alone.

Allegedly, it was handcrafted as a gift from an ancient Gojo king to his mistress — whom he had knighted and sent off to fight in the war at her wishes once their affair had been brought to light and scrutinized.

A gift he only got to place on her corpse.

Even in death, he loved her. More than he loved his own wife and Queen.

And though many attempts had been made to destroy the necklace, it remains near indestructible.

“Something troubles you.” Satoru murmurs the moment the door clicks shut. His gaze remains strained forward on your form, from where you fiddle with the frayed hem of your gown, back turned to him.

“I simply think of the prospects of the hunt,” you retort. “There are many promising young competitors traveling to partake— I fear my Prince would simply be. . . thwarted, is all.”

L’Incomparable is not a jewel of love.

It's a sickening story of a woman who loved a man who could not love her back in the way she deserved.

A woman who took what she was given, secret meetings, hushed whispers and fleeting gazes.

And when he did, finally love her back wholly and ardently, unable to bury it behind a locked door in the dungeon he called a heart — she was already gone.

“You doubt me?” Satoru’s voice is closer now, and you wonder when he even stood up – if he'd been taking small steps toward you the entire time.

“No.” It leaves your mouth like a prayer, an oath, worship. Every ounce of confidence you have is in him. He has protected you, kept you, safeguarded your sanity and treated you with grace— “Never that.”

( —he is your friend. nothing more than that. )

He exhales, and you hear the faint sound of a swallow, the click of his tongue. Your ear feels hot with the proximity, yet, he inches closer still.

“Will you give this to me, then?” He whispers, faint, uncertain — almost desperate.

And you turn, faces inches apart, breath mingling. “What is it you wish of me, my Prince?” Your pupils dilate.

“Your Prince,” Satoru repeats, like it knocked the wind out of him. It's a common way to address the monarch, you’ve said it before as have others. “. . . asks for your favor in the upcoming hunt.”

He keeps his hands folded behind him, curled into fists and trembling. Your Prince. Yours. Yours.

He’s a gentleman. He was raised right.

This urge—

( you’re his friend. his advisor. his confidant. this is not what he wants. )

The urge to strip you down to nothing but your chemise, lay you on his desk and hike your legs over his hips, show you things you’ve only seen in dreams or read in books — like he’s done to so many women before — he promises himself he’s not a rake, he’s just a man, but when you look at him like that and say his title so softly—

( it will pass. )

“Then,” your breath slows as he steps forward, so easily leaving you pressed back against the hardwood desk, caged by him. “I will grant my Prince my favor.”

Satoru watches in earnest, places his hands on either side of you on the desk as you remove one of your gloves.

Pure white, pearl decor, lace trim.

He would've laughed if he wasn't so enthralled by such a simple thing. Satoru wants to pull the other glove off with his teeth.

“I’ll return it to you,” he says, a promise. He takes the glove as you hand it to him, leaning forward and chasing the remnants of your fingertips against his once you pull away. “When I win.”

( and maybe then, you’ll understand i am devoted to you, wholly and utterly, if only in these moments and never again. )

There's a knock at the door, brief and soft. A maid, come to drop off another stack of letters.

And just as quickly as Satoru had found himself against you, he’s across the room, opening the door.

As if you had never been there.

The only evidence that he had even touched you is the lace cupped in his palm, middle and index tracing over a minute pearl.

L’Incomparable is a jewel of longing.

Morrow brings with it the beginning of joyous festivities.

You woke to another trousseau. This time, from a distant cousin in the Easternmost kingdom.

Attached was a letter of the newest development in her love life – said development being a defected knight nonetheless.

It made you giggle.

The palace corridors are bustling with life.

Servants and attendants eager to welcome early visitors who have come for the summer solstice, robust back and forth on decorations and food and gossip and many a’ things outside the realm of possibility to be discussed in one sitting.

Your lady in waiting, Areta, whom you’ve known since your youth, creeps into your room with a grin as wide as a war banner – you immediately assume the worst, mischief is your pastime but you fear the poor girl takes ‘eavesdropping on court gossip’ to another level.

“My lady, you would not believe—” Areta huffs, journeying to sit with you on the balcony, wiping an imaginary bead of sweat from her brow. “The things I’ve heard today!”

“You hear things everyday, I fear.” You indulge her, as always. And she begins to talk your ear off, all in good faith of course.

Down below in the courtyard, is the sound of smacking wood and the occasional chorus of baritone conversation.

Satoru, who should be attending treaty meetings with his father, bides his time sparring on the cobblestone with the other men of the Kingsguard – the noise wakes you most mornings.

“—talking to Julietta, you know? The girl who attends to the countess? And she said—”

You hum along to Areta’s words, eyes peering over the edge of the balcony, gaze fixed on the crown Prince.

His snowy hair is damp with sweat, Victorian style dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, every swing of his wooden sword causes a commotion — muscles in his back flexing under the sunlight, so easily seen beneath the thin white fabric.

“—that her lady told her that she heard from a cousin-in-law who works at the docks that—”

You wonder what expression Satoru has as he pummels through his underlings playfully, hardly sparring but more play fighting. You imagine he’s grinning wide, crystalline blue eyes shimmering with glee—

“—that Prince Geto is coming for the hunt!”

You choke. Audibly.

Areta is quick to shut her mouth and lend you a concerned gaze. “Princess, are you—”

“I’m alright.” You wave a hand, catching your breath. Prince Geto. If you think about it too hard, you fear your chest might burst open and spill out your insides.

Oh, fair reader, it seems

Our dear protagonist has come upon

A treasure trove of memories.

“You were, ehem, saying?” You twirl your index finger in the air as if to prompt a rewind. “About. . .”

Areta raises an eyebrow, but nods slowly. “About Julietta’s lady’s cousin-in-law?” The girl questions, dim.

“No!” You interject immediately, twirling your finger in the other direction. Fast forward. “The other thing— the thing you heard!”

“Oh, about Prince Geto!”

Dearest reader,

Suguru Geto enters.

A man of great mystique,

the northern Prince.

And striking opposite of

our beloved crowned Prince Satoru.

“Yes! About him—”

Suguru Geto.

In many ways you could say he was Satoru’s best friend, his greatest rival and worst enemy all at the same time.

Through solstice events, formal gatherings and other royal duties, the same way you met Satoru, you met Suguru through him.

“Well, Julietta’s lady’s cousin-in-law works at the docks,” Areta begins again, regrettably. “You know? The private harbor where all the spirit and wheat shipments come in, but that's besides the point—”

( suguru was your bestfriend too. in every way it counted. )

“Areta.” You coo, coaxing her to get back to the main point. Why was Suguru coming for the summer solstice hunt? After being away in the North for so long, why now?

The only correspondence you’d had with him was a few letters years ago. And then he stopped writing.

“So, Julietta’s lady’s cousin-in-law saw the Geto family's ship dock in the private harbor!” The girl exclaims hushedly and you hum to yourself, curious.

Rightfully, you’d hold a grudge about never hearing from Suguru.

But in this moment, you feel no resentment or hurt. Instead, excitement that you might see your old friend once more.

And maybe, you, Suguru and Satoru could spend the summer solstice together— just like old times.

( and that’d be enough to get rid of the heat in your chest when satoru gets too close to you. )

Faithful reader,

she could not have been

more wrong.

Four days remain until the summer solstice hunt.

Satoru is scarce around the palace in preparation for his coronation coming soon and treaty arrangements.

You, on the other hand, have exhausted all your hobbies, biding your idle time helping the other ladies at court pick their gowns for tomorrow's feast — the first of seven nightly ones during the solstice.

Another trousseau is delivered to your chambers when you wake.

This time, you’re taken aback.

Instead of an elaborate stack of gifts, a box of jewelry or even a scandalous collection of seductive corsets and nightgowns to remind you of your predicament—

There's a long wooden box, coupled with a sealed parcel.

Inside the box is a beautiful gown, deep burgundy and shapely. Fitted with a low bust cut and short sleeves. It's a mouth watering dress, one you would've bought yourself if you even knew it existed.

But you've never seen a dress designed like this before, down to the intricate details of the underskirts and the hemming.

It's almost intimate.

When you finally open the parcel, you expect a note, but there's none. Instead, inside is a pair of black silk gloves, so smooth it melts in your palms – your mind immediately goes to Satoru and the glove he still holds hostage for you.

You don't think twice before telling Areta that this is what you’ll be wearing to tomorrow’s feast.

( you ought to thank satoru for this gift by wearing it, no? )

˚ ༘ *

The lights in the dining hall are dimmed perfectly to match the moonlight.

When you slip in from the adjacent corridor, greeting visiting nobles and residents of the palace court alike, a sense of nausea floods the pit of your stomach – what will Satoru say when he sees you? Will he like how the dress looks – or rather how you look in it?

Wait, why do you even care?

You’ve never really cared for these things— it must be the tea you had earlier. You nearly feel faint.

Darling reader,

it was in fact,

not the tea.

Your thoughts don't get the chance to linger very long, as the soft hum of music slows to a halt, and everyone begins journeying to their assigned seats.

Naturally, you fiddle with your gloves, not wanting to sit down at the second table yet.

One, it would be very impudent of a lady of your caliber to be seated without a proper escort by a gentleman.

And two, even though you did decline the few men who asked to escort you, you can't help the anxiety that floods your veins when you begin to realize that so many people are sitting already and you're not!

Sure, you're a Princess, but can't a girl be a little shy?

( not that you were waiting for satoru or anything of course. )

Devoted reader,

our protagonist

is in denial.

“It pains me to see such a beautiful lady left unaccompanied.” A voice flits past your ears, so close you can taste it on your tongue — incense, sandalwood.

( oh god, no. )

Your body turns in an instant, almost too quick, and your underskirts almost trip you as the weight sends you wobbling forward.

“Easy—” Suguru Geto’s arm darts out to curl around your waist, steadying you.

���You're here—” “You’re still clumsy—”

The both of you lock eyes at your shared unison of speech, then chuckle to yourselves.

You let your eyes wander over his features, how much he's grown over these past years.

He’s still as ethereal as the royal painters would describe. Prince Geto, the joy to paint, once in an era type beauty, born to be depicted in art, they’d say.

You don't doubt that.

“You look well,” you say. Suguru glances down at you and shakes his head, as if that is too much of a compliment for him to take. “No, honestly— I don't tease, you look very. . . stately.”

“Are you trying to call me old in a polite way, my lady?” He feigns offense, tilting his head to the side a little. You cover your mouth to laugh.

You don't miss the way his eyes linger on your gloves.

( oh, the gloves ! )

“Your highness,” leaves your mouth in a whisper, half teasing, half regal, and you give a brief curtsy, which he counters with a swift bow. “Would you do me the pleasure?” You grin, extending your hand to him.

Suguru — never Prince Geto, not to you at least — had been your solace, your comfort and your refuge.

The greatest friend you could have asked for in your youth.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Suguru whispers, taking your hand in earnest, escorting you over to the table and pulling your chair out for you — settling himself in the seat across from you, on the other side of the table.

( what a coincidence. )

˚ ༘ *

Time passes in waves.

People are whispering, no doubt. As they always do about you. No matter how hushed, you always hear them.

‘Look at the poor Princess consort, sitting beside an empty chair.’

‘You’d think she’d refer to herself as Lady now instead of Consort—’

‘To think even a Princess is not immune from such things. . .’

‘These things happen when you're sold off to a future King.’

“Bitter.”

Your head snaps up at the sound, dessert fork halting mid stab into your slice of cake.

Suguru’s eyes meet yours, as if he’d been looking at you the entire time, like he reads your thoughts as his own.

The people sitting at the table alongside you both fix their attention on him, the whispers halting.

“The cake,” he leans back in his chair, shrugging strands of his hair out of his face, looking down the length of the table at the spectators, nonchalant. “It's terribly bitter.”

You think you’d open your mouth to scold him a little, to not joke about what people say, royals should never engage in such petty gossip – but instead, you smile in gratitude.

( bitter. everybody's so bitter in this place. )

“That's quite unfortunate.” A familiar voice rings out, your fork sliding out of your hand to rest on the edge of your plate. “I hoped it would be rather sweet tonight.”

When you look over your shoulder, Satoru is already at your side, bending a knee and outstretching an open palm to you. “My Princess.”

He looks. . . disheveled.

Not completely out of order, it's something so small — so minute that only those who know him well would be able to point it out. From the crease of his vest to the shaky rasp in his voice—

And the woman in your peripheral stumbling back into the dining hall from the garden entrance on shaky legs. . .

( so that's what he was doing. )

“Your grace,” leaves your lips in a whisper and he kisses the back of your palm before sinking into his seat.

The way he presses his middle finger against his bottom lip like he’d been burned by the silk makes you raise an eyebrow. Does he not even have the common courtesy of pretending to like the gloves he gifted?

“I’m pleased you took time out of your busy schedule for us regular people.” Suguru chuckles, and Satoru’s mother, sitting near you all at the head table seems far from pleased.

“Well, a small act of kindness goes a long way.” Satoru parries and you force a smile, stabbing your dessert once more. “Especially for someone as regular as you, Prince Suguru.”

If you had initially thought this would be a quaint rekindling of an old childhood friendship, you never felt more wrong than in this moment — the air settles thick between you three.

“Isn't the future King Gojo just so kind?” Suguru addresses you, and you swallow, stifling your laugh.

“I pray for your marriage. . .” One of the Dukes seated at the table jests, to which you fiddle with the hem of your dress, the burgundy falling over your palms as a chorus of laughter ensues.

Marriage.

Suguru notices your gaze on him – or rather far away – and he smiles to snap you out of it. “Lady name?”

Just then Satoru’s hand reaches for yours under the table, halting your fiddling with the fabric, his grip steady and soft.

“Princess Consort.” Satoru interjects with a flat lipped smile, which could be perceived as kind, but to Suguru. . . “She changed titles.”

When was the last time someone called you by your name and not Princess consort? Always that. Not even Princess name.

“Pardon me,” you mumble beneath your breath, your grip on your dress going slack. You shrug your hand free from Satoru’s grip, abandoning your seat in an instant.

Satoru rises from his chair only four seconds afterward.

“Name—” he calls to you, following you out of the dining hall and down a vacant corridor.

Your footsteps evade him as he chases after you wide steps.

But he stops dead in his tracks when he hears you slam the door to an empty side room shut.

My dearest reader,

brace yourself for the

next publication.

Your kind author

bids you farewell.

[stormbornwitch]

When I was a child, I was often left in the care of my Nanna. It is from her that I learnt many of the pieces of what she would call "little magic".

At her side, I learned how to sew and make little finger puppets and 'dollies'. We walked through the park, and she pointed out the plants and trees and their properties. With her, I made my first lavender filled bag to help me sleep. She would spoil me with peanut butter and butter sandwiches (which my mother was staunchly against), and then showed me how to feed the house spirit (a bowl filled with crusts of bread and milk poured over the top with a bit of honey drizzled over it).

She also told me stories - so many fairytales and folktales that would horrify parents if told to their children nowadays. But it was only when I was older and in school that I realised the stories she told me were different from the ones my friends had been told... mine were darker and full of old truths and lessons I still remember to this day.

-

One of my favourite tales was of a little girl with honey blond hair and blue eyes whose name started with a V (I can't for the life of me remember her name). Her father was a merchant, and her mother was kind. Their little family of three were quite happy until the little girl's mother got sick. The merchant hired healers and priests to help his wife, but all failed to help the little girl's mother, her sickness worsening with each passing day. Soon, it was clear that her mother was dying, and the little girl's father refused to leave his wife's bedside, leaving the little girl to fetch water from the well, light the fires, cook meals for her family and care for the home.

One day, her mother called the little girl to her bedside and asked her husband to step outside of the room for a moment. The little girl approached her mother's bedside with trepedation. Reaching under the bed, the mother pulled out a strange little cloth doll with no face. The doll was made from a scrap of her mother's favourite dress, with her mother's hair ribbons binding it into the shape of a doll.

"Here, my child. She will protect you when I am gone. All you must do is feed the doll a drop of your blood and tell it your problem, and it will be fixed."

The little girl did not understand but took the doll from her mother. "But how will I feed her a drop of my blood if she has no mouth?"

The little girl's mother smiled, and for a moment, she didn't look sick anymore.

"Promise me, my beautiful daughter, that you will keep her with you, for she will act in my stead once I am gone."

The little girl did not understand her mother's words but promised again to keep the doll with her at all times.

The mother suddenly surged forward and tightly clasped her daughter’s hands in her own. "No one can know you have her, not even your father. Let no one see her. Keep her hidden on your person at all times unless you have need of her."

The little girl, now afraid at her mother's vehement pleas, nodded frantically to show she acquiesced and would do as she was bid.

Her mother, seeing the little girl's compliance, collapsed back into her bed and dismissed the little girl, bidding she tell her father he could return.

Her mother died that night; her father distraught at the loss of his beloved wife.

Though it was not long after the little girl's mother was buried, that her father remarried once more.

The little girl's new mother was a widow with no children of her own, and the little girl's father told her "She will make a good mother for you, my child" But she was not a good mother.

For you see, any time the little girl's father was home, the woman would treat the little girl kindly, but as soon as her father was gone, her stepmother would turn cruel and demand the little girl do all of the housework and chores. If little girl refused, her stepmother threatened to beat her, and told the little girl she would go to bed without supper if the work was not done. Since her father was away, and there was nothing the little girl could do, she did as she was bid; completing the work until her hands were cracked and bleeding with sores. However, despite the little girl's efforts, her stepmother was still unsatisfied with the little girl's work, locking her outside the house overnight.

Cold and exhausted, the little girl crept into the storeroom and laid down on the floor.

It was then that the little girl remembered her promise and the little doll she had kept secret in a pocket inside her dress. Carefully, pulling out the strange little doll, the little girl remembered her mother's words.

"Though you have no face, I will feed you a drop of my blood." And so the little girl dabbed one of her bleeding fingers against where the dolls mouth would be if it had one. "Please help me, little doll, for my stepmother is a cruel woman, and I can not possibly do all that she has bid of me."

It was then the little girl heard a voice inside her head, "Sleep, my child, and I will complete all that has been asked of you."

With a small smile of relief, the little girl went to sleep, and when she awoke, it was to find all of the chores her stepmother had requested, completed.

Surely, with all of the work done, her stepmother would let the little girl inside. So she tucked the doll back into the inner pocket of her dress and left the storeroom. But upon seeing the jobs miraculously done overnight, the stepmother's face turned ugly.

"I suppose since you've done all that was asked, you can come inside to break your fast."

The little girl meekly entered the home and ate the cold porridge she was given without comment. But as soon as she was done eating, her stepmother gave her another list of jobs to do, even more than the day before.

And so the little girl worked all day until her feet were sore and her hands were cracked and bleeding. But her stepmother remained unsatisfied, as all of the chores were not completed. Resigned, the little girl crept back into the storeroom for the night.

With bloodied hands, the little girl pulled out the doll from her hiding place and dabbed a drop of her blood where the doll's mouth would be.

"Please, little doll, I need your help once more. I can not do all that is asked of me, and my hands are blistered and sore."

Again, the little girl heard the doll's voice inside her head, "Sleep little one and all will be well, I will show you where the healing herbs dwell."

With a smile, the little girl went to sleep on the storeroom floor, and when she awoke, she found that once again, all of the jobs her stepmother had told her to complete were done.

Again, when the little girl went up to the house and knocked on the door, her stepmother seemed furious the jobs were done. With gritted teeth, she bid, "I suppose since you've done all that was asked, you can come inside to break your fast."

And so the little girl ate the cold porridge placed afore her as her stepmother once more listed more outlandish jobs for the young girl to complete.

And so the years went by, the little girl growing into a beautiful and capable young woman. Her hands and body were strong from all of the work she would complete each day, and thanks to her mother's blessing, she knew and harvested all manner of healing herbs and edible plants from the nearby forest.

But every time her father was home from his business trips, he would always comment "You are becoming so beautiful my darling daughter, just like your mother" These comments would make her stepmother scowl and her face turn ugly with rage. So, as each year passed, V became more beautiful, and her stepmother became more hideous in her hatred.

In her hatred, V's stepmother began sending her into the forest for ridiculous errands. V knew that her stepmother probably intended for her to get eaten by wolves, or worse, by the witch that supposedly lived in the wood. But thanks to her mother's blessing and a sharp thorn kept in the pocket of her dress, V was always able to fetch whatever her stepmother requested from the wood and return home safely.

One night, V's stepmother came to the storeroom door where V was sleeping on the floor. "Get up at once. Your lazyness has allowed the hearth to go out, and not even coals remain to light a fire. You must go to the witch of the wood and ask her for a coal"

"But stepmother," V cried out in vain. "The witch if the wood eats people! Surely she will not give me a coal!"

V's stepmother sneared down her long nose at her. "Go afore it is too dark to see the way."

And so V set off into the forest until not even the light of the moon could guide her steps. It was then that the quiet whispers of her mother's doll began to give directions through the dark wood.

Soon, V emerged into a strange clearing. In its centre, a wooden hut sat on top of tall wooden posts that looked almost like chickens feet. At the base of the hut was a small garden with all manner of plants growing. And surrounding the garden was a fence that seemed to be made of bones. Thankfully, as V approached the hut, she could see a warm light coming from within. This must be the home of the witch of the wood.

Following the fence of bone, V reached the garden gate. On either side of the gate were skulls set atop large bones. Small candles inside the skulls seemed to light as if by magic as soon as V touched the gate.

"Why are you here, child?" A voice called out from the hut. There in the doorway stood an old woman, her back bent from many years of hard work and her long grey hair gleaming in the moonlight.

V plucked up her courage and called out, "My stepmother sent me to find the witch of the wood to ask for a coal."

At her response, the old woman barked out a laugh that sounded more like the cawing of a crow than a human laugh. "And what will I get in return? I will not give you a coal for free."

Again, V plucked up her courage and responded, "I will work for it. I promise I'm a hard worker, you can see from my hands." At this V raised her hands for the old woman to inspect.

Seeing the calloses from many years of hard work, the old woman nodded. "Very well, you will work for me for a day and a night, and you will receive a coal from my hearth that will never go out."

With that, the old woman turned around and began to walk up to the hut. As she walked, she began to list the chores she wanted V to perform. "You will clean the house and yard, wash the laundry, and cook us two meals; breakfast and supper. You will go into the storeroom and separate rotten grains from sound grains and gather and store seeds from the garden."

After years of dealing with her stepmother's ever expanding list of demands, this old woman's jobs seemed almost easy by comparison.

"First, let's see your skills as a cook. Go to the garden and fetch us something for supper"

And so into the witch's garden, V went, gathering edible and medicinal plants until she had enough to make a hearty soup, which would helpfully ease some of the old woman's pain.

The old woman nodded at V's selection and led her up the ladder into the hut. On one side of the hut was a large stone hearth, and at its heart, five large coals gleamed as they cradled the base of a large iron pot.

"Take the pot to the stream and fill it halfway with water. Then return to make your soup." The old woman bid.

It took all of V's strength to lift the large iron pot from the hearth and carry it carefully down the ladder so as not to scorch the wood. Down the garden path, V carried the pot past the bone gate and back into the forest. Thankfully, her mother's blessing whispered directions, and V was able to quickly locate the nearby stream and fill the pot halfway.

Returning to the hut, V began chopping herbs and vegetables and throwing them in the pot. Soon the hearty supper was bubbling away in the pot and ready to be served.

The old woman passed V two wooden bowls and a large wooden ladle.

"You want two bowls of soup?" V asked the old woman.

"No, the other is for you, child." The old woman barked before hitting V with the large spoon. Doing quickly as she was bid, V ladled out two portions of the soup; one for her and one for the old witch.

With the soup placed in front of her, the old woman quickly ate her supper seemingly ravenous. V ate her portion much slower, not used to having supper anymore, though she was happy to refill the old woman's bowl with more soup when she was bid to.

With supper eaten, V gathered their bowls, spoons, and knife into the now empty iron pot and carried it down the ladder, through the garden gate and down to the stream to wash.

Upon her return, she found a pallet bed had been made up.

"That is for you," the old woman muttered as she walked over to her own bed tucked into the wall of the hut.

"But how will I get all of the jobs done if I sleep here?" V asked.

The old woman turned back to her with a strange smile on her face. "I'm sure a hard-working young woman such as yourself can find a way."

With that, the old woman climbed into bed, leaving V to climb into the pallet bed. When she heard the snores of the old woman, V pulled out her mother's doll from the secret pocket of her dress. "Please, little doll, I need your help once more. I can not do all that is asked of me, and my hands are blistered and sore."

Again, the little girl heard the doll's voice inside her head, "Sleep little one, the jobs will be done upon the rising of the sun."

With a smile on her face, V fell asleep, assured that her mother's blessing would help her once more.

When she awoke, V saw that the old woman was already awake and was staring into the hearth as she sipped on a strong smelling tea. "I see you were quite busy while you slept." The old woman said with a crooked smile and a gesture to the iron pot full of hot porrige.

"Are there other jobs you need me to complete?"

"You will eat this porridge and carry one of these coals to your stepmother's house. Then you will return here."

Once more, V did as she was bid.

Upon finishing her porridge, the old woman gave V a fox skull. Using large iron tongs, the old woman reached into the hearth and removed one of the hold glowing coals and placed it in the jaws of the fox.

"Take this to your stepmother's house to light her hearth and then return here."

And so V carried the skull, down the ladder, through the garden, out the gate and through the forest until she reached the edge where her father's house stood.

V knocked on the door, and her stepmother quickly opened the door, a look of shock and horror gracing her features.

No sooner had her stepmother opened the door, and then the coal had begun to glow brighter and brighter. Within moments, her stepmother's dress and the doorframe of the house began to smoke, and soon, both were burning merrily until naught but ashes remained.

Once more, V did as she was bid.

She returned to the witch in the wood and learned all that she could.

-

As a kid, I loved this version of the Baba Yaga tale, and now as an adult I love how these stories were the avenues for or my Nanna to pass on examples of small magic and witchcraft.

This is also probably why I've never had an issue with blood based magic when so many other witches do have an issue with it.

[nariism]

wherever you are, wherever you may be — i. rin

soulmates (name au) + "i'm done waiting."

synopsis. itoshi rin meets you under a sky full of fireworks. he spends the next 6 years of his life trying to convince himself that he doesn't love you. you spend the next 6 years giving him every reason why he should.

wc. 12.4k (i need to close my eyes and sleep for a while)

notes. huge thank you to ellie (@hyomagiri) and mari (@saetoshi) for helping me with this 🥹 this fic actually put me through it and i'm so grateful to both of them for their support 💗

— for my beloved @ode2rin 💐 | event masterlist ✉️

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2024

Every year on the seventh day of the seventh month, Itoshi Rin finds himself standing at the daunting entrance to his local shrine.

The tradition is completely beneath him—something childish that he grumbles about under his breath despite letting you drag him all the way out here with soft eyes watching your smile.

Tanabata is the festival of stars. Of love.

It is a story his mother used to whisper to him as they watched the night sky in awe, pretending that the galaxy was collapsing in on itself to allow for a romantic midnight rendezvous between two lovers.

It’s something far too sappy for his liking.

But the food is okay, he supposes, and it’s a good opportunity to get out of the house and spend time with you which he seldom has time to do now that he’s back in his training season.

There were too many things about it that he loathed: the screaming children that would bump into his legs; the way his ears would stay ringing for days after the festival ended; how you could always convince him to come as if you were some sort of hypnotic devil in disguise, and how thoroughly wounded his pride would be at that fact.

However, his least favourite part of the festival by far is writing down his wish for the year on a scrap piece of paper and hanging it around a bamboo tree. One, because he can never for the life of him think of anything meaningful to wish for. And two, because he isn’t sure he even believes in that sort of thing.

Rin is struggling again this year, pencil lightly scratching his temple as he thinks.

He’s painfully aware that he’s never put so much thought into this before, but you seemed so excited to come all the way here before heading to the festivities that he couldn’t possibly let you down.

His wish dawns on him then, something he wants to do before the next time he makes the climb all the way back up here 365 days from now.

“Hey,” your voice calls out quietly. “What did you wish for?”

“What did you wish for?” Rin quickly refutes.

You cast your narrowed eyes from the side, tilting your little slip of yellow paper away from him.

“Only if I get to see yours first.”

Normally, he would give in to you right away. His resolve when it comes to you is embarrassingly weak. But there’s no way for him to explain himself. No way he could show you the words he’s written lest he hurt his ego.

He stubbornly folds up the piece of paper and shoves your face away. All you do is laugh and he feels terribly warm.

“No peeking,” he tells you when you kiss across his fingertips.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2018

A name appeared for Itoshi Rin when he turned thirteen years old.

He remembers the day well—it was hard to forget, anyway. As much as he wanted to focus on the burning of the name etching its way down his skin, he couldn’t. Not when he was blinking snow out of his lashes and watching his brother’s retreating back.

Rin likes to think that the universe fucks with him in any way that it can.

Maybe he had done something terrible in his past life and this was its karmic retribution, or maybe he was just unlucky.

What he does know is this: the name on his pinky only reminds him of all the things he ever lost.

Every syllable struck needles into his heart—a painful memory of crawling after the tracks of the wheels Sae left behind with his luggage until gravel and ice were stuck under his nails. Or worse, the clawing of his throat as they sat across from each other at dinner—the way he didn't even smile when Rin announced to his parents that his soulmate mark had appeared while his mother cried out in joy.

In fact, Sae didn’t talk to him for the rest of his visit. He remembers that hurt the most.

The name had haunted him for all the remaining years of his life—a forced memory that he wished he could forget. There came with it a feeling of loneliness that crushed him despite the proof on his pinky that there was another soul wandering the earth that would fix him.

He refused to believe it.

Only revenge would fix him. Only proving himself better would heal the cracks in his heart. Only beating Sae. Sae, Sae, Sae. His brother’s name had been repeated so many times that it was easy to ignore the other burning his skin.

In all those years he found it easy to cast aside his soulmate. To ignore it even if it hurt.

So he wonders why it’s so bad tonight.

He’s done everything he could think of: slathering cooling ointment down his finger to stop the searing, wrapping it in a cast to prevent himself from admiring it for too long, even tying a wish to a piece of bamboo hoping it would disappear.

A finger snaps in front of his face, drawing his attention to his teammates in front of him. Both look equally amused.

“You’re dreaming,” Isagi muses. “You’ve been spacing out all night. Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Rin mutters, swatting his teammate’s hand away from him. He had been staring again, longingly eyeing the way the letters danced down his skin. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“None of your business.”

“Yeesh, it’s not good to keep things bottled up, you know?”

“You’re annoying,” Rin glowers before it melts back into indifference. “I’m fine,” he reiterates.

Isagi seems unconvinced, as he usually is when Rin is being mysteriously vague about what’s on his mind. He and Bachira share a tentative glance before sighing and shaking their heads.

“Well… okay,” he finally yields. “We’re going to get some snacks before the fireworks start. If you’re going to sulk then at least stay put and do it here so we can find you again.”

“Yeah,” Rin grumbles, already making an escape plan. “Whatever. Will do.”

As soon as the boys are out of sight, he turns heel and hurries away. The crowd is driving him crazy and he needs somewhere quiet so he can stare at his hands until his eyes are dry.

He comes to a pond situated just outside of the festival grounds, deep water glimmering under the moon and the passing lanterns.

Plopping down on the bench, he hunches over onto his knees with his elbows and takes a deep breath. It instead comes shallow, as if someone has just punched him in the gut. 

It’s then that he realizes he’s not alone.

Your yukata is muddy, fabric soaked and dripping at the sleeves though you don’t seem to care or even notice. You look frustrated for some reason, lip curled into a concentrated frown while you plunge your hands into the mud around the edge of the water.

Away from the crowds of people, he can hear the summer song of cicadas chirping all around. Your hands dip in and out of the water, quiet splashes filling the rest of the silence on top of the distant buzz of children laughing.

It’s just you and him. Something primal inside of him rages, pounding against his chest until it feels like he’s suffocating.

Run. Run. Run.

His legs jerk, urging him to stand up and leave, but he feels glued down to the bench—tethered where he sits and forced to watch you repeatedly sink your hands into the muddy waters.

No more than five minutes must pass as you both ignore each other, yet it feels like an eternity stretches by. 

Finally, you pipe up.

“You’re scaring them,” you tell him plainly.

His head whips in your direction at your voice, soft and careful. His teal eyes narrow at you. “Huh?”

Your frown deepens, turning to look at him with your hands still submerged. “The frogs.”

“Come again?”

“Your vibes. It’s scaring the frogs away.”

His eye twitches.

“Ever consider that you’re just dogshit at catching them?”

“Excuse me?”

“And look at you, making a total mess of yourself. Don’t you care that you have to go home looking like that?” He presses, leering at you like an insect he’s about to crush under his heel. You simply stare at him, expression blank.

Huffing, you tear away from him and sink your hands beneath the mud. “No. I don’t.”

He watches in silence as you sift around for a moment before pulling your hands up, a smile slowly morphing into your face.

“I got one…” You breathe, looking more elated than he thinks you should. “I really caught one.”

“First time?” He quips sarcastically. A part of him wonders why he hasn’t gotten up and left you altogether yet.

“Cut me some slack,” you complain, eyeing him from the side again. You gently run a finger along the back of the frog, trying not to scare it away. “I haven’t done this in forever.”

“Clearly.”

You snort. “Yeah. Clearly.”

Rin looks at you quizzically, puzzled at your sudden change in demeanor. You seem… softer. Less agitated, at the very least. You’re gazing at the frog adoringly, as if it had somehow solved all of your problems and was dragging you into another world.

Any retort he had ready to shoot at you dies in his mouth. The anger rising in his chest extinguishes in the blink of an eye, and a deep hush settles over you as he watches in curiosity.

For a moment, the universe goes quiet. He’s gotten so used to having everything on his mind all at once that the silence is almost unnerving.

He once believed that his world would end with an injury that never healed quite right, or when he was too old for any team to want him.

He once believed that his world would end when he could no longer imagine the feel of a ball between his palms.

He once believed that his world would end the day he couldn’t play football anymore—that the only thing that would ever kill him was if the chance of standing alongside his brother died with him.

But he was wrong.

Itoshi Rin’s world ends with the bellow of a firework.

In a few years, he would think of this stretch of a few seconds fondly. He would squeeze you a little tighter with his chin resting on your shoulder, staring up at a colourful sky. He would think it was poetic, in a way, that you were the one who painted his world in the same hues of shimmering gold.

Rin remembers, though, that only one thought had crossed his mind.

I’m so screwed.

He can see every fine detail of your face, illuminated in all the colours of the rainbow. And he can’t help but think you are the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. He can trace each intricate curve of your nose to your chin to the surprised parting of your lips; the way your lashes flutter as you blink rapidly, tensed from the sudden explosion.

The light fades faster than it appeared, yet it feels like a millennium has passed. The reverbing echo of the firework crackles across the sky, thundering in his ears so loud that he can feel it pounding in his chest.

(Or is that his heart? He can’t tell. He feels dizzy.)

Darkness envelops your bodies again, save for the dim glow of distant lanterns. Every part of you is seared into his memory, a floating image when he blinks.

The frog leaps from your hands back into the water, leaving nothing but ripples behind.

You stay there with your hands outstretched, looking lonely under the dark sky. Another one goes off above your heads, signalling the start of the display.

“There you are, Rin!” Bachira and Isagi come rushing over from the path, excited smiles and mirth bubbling in their laughs as they approach. “We thought you went home without us already!”

Rin slowly blinks out of his reverie. For a second, he glances in your direction again just to catch your eyes. 

“I almost did,” he grumbles, forcing himself not to stare.

“Fireworks are starting!” Isagi yanks Rin to his feet and begins dragging him away before he can even protest.

Without turning around, he can feel the weight of your eyes in the back of his head. There’s an unfamiliar ache in his chest, and the name etched down his pinky burns infinitely hot.

Later at home, he stares at the spot where Sae used to sit back when he still came to Japan for anything other than to take a new passport photo.

“My soulmate’s name showed up,” he had mumbled that night to break the tense silence. It was strange that he still felt like he owed his brother that much—to make his visit as normal as possible despite having his heart carved open.

Sae only looked at him blankly, spoon halting just above his bowl. He was eerily still, quietly deciding how to react. Then,

“Good for you,” he said. And nothing more.

Rin squeezes his eyes shut and he feels warmth rolling down his cheeks. He quickly wipes the tears away, pretending as if they never existed.

He spends the rest of the night trying to forget your face.

(And the next year trying to recreate it in his dreams.)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2019

Rin makes it another 275 days before he finally remembers every piece of the puzzle that is your existence.

He saw you in his sleep. The back of your head, anyway.

You were sitting in his favourite café, at the table he claimed for himself right by the window. You ordered a coffee but let it sit for so long that the ice melted. Then, you wiped up the condensation rolling down the frosty glass with your finger.

Rin watched you from afar, observing you the way he wished he did last summer.

Maybe then he could have dived deep into the recesses of his brain to remember why exactly you struck him so. But there he was, stuck watching the back of your head as you gazed out the window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your fingers drummed mindlessly against the wooden table, reciting a rhythm just slightly louder than the pounding of his own heart. 

“Can you leave me alone?” He finally called out, hoping it would stop your incessant beating.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“You’re annoying me,” he hissed. Annoying for disturbing his peace and quiet. Annoying for plaguing his dreams even after all these days.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Seriously,” he grunted, standing up from his seat so fast that the chair scraped horribly against the wooden floor. Still, you didn’t pay him any mind, instead more interested in the faceless people walking by. “Knock it off!”

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

He bit the inside of his cheek in hesitation, the itch in the back of his mind ever present. “What’s your name?”

Silence.

You finally turned his way. Slowly. Agonizingly slow.  And Rin was right—you were still so beautiful, 275 days later.

Grinning at him big and bright, you almost seemed to collapse in on yourself with joy. Like a star about to implode, or maybe more akin to a firework.

Either way, his breath was stolen from him.

You silently mouthed your name, making sure he saw every vowel and accentuated syllable. Warmth flooded him in every way—probably brought on by the racing of his heart.

It was impossible that his soulmate was someone like this. Someone whose smile looked like it could heal even the deepest wounds.

You grabbed his attention again with a big wave of the arms, and he watched in anticipation.

“You’re—”

Rin followed your mouth as you sounded out the words without a voice.

“—smiling!”

He reached up to run his fingers along his bottom lip. And you were right, he realized, as he traced it midway up his cheek.

(When did he start smiling?)

(Why?)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Rin thinks about you just as much in the waking world as he does in his dreams.

It’s spring, though snow is still settled over the eaves of homes that he passes on the way to the grocery store. Apparently the winter cold is supposed to be especially long and bitter this year, permeating until mid-May.

He stares at his feet as they mark the virgin snow, decorating his sneakers white and making his feet cold.

Did you walk through the same snow this morning?

Then, when he’s going through the motion of smelling the bottom of pineapples at the store:

Do you like pineapple? What if you’re allergic?

(He shakes his head and puts them away. He suddenly isn’t craving it.)

His obsession with you has only intensified as the year has gone on. If you ever peered into his mind, he would receive a well-deserved slap across the face.

The soulmate mark engraved down his pinky has never bothered him so badly.

It’s like you’re constantly with him—a ghost haunting him, or perhaps more like a curse. Thinking about you takes up unnecessary space in his head. Space that should be dedicated to football, and football only.

He's about to go home so he can make a list outlining the ways he can forget about you.

(Ironic, he knows, but in all honesty he already exhausted all of his options from his first list.)

But then he comes to a stop outside of his favourite café. It looks the same, even has the same advertisements plastered in the window as the last time he was here.

He hesitates at the door, but when he walks in it smells the same. It's decorated the same. Not a single table is out of place.

He walks up to his regular spot, runs his fingers along the wood where he remembers you tapping in his dream.

There's no sign of your existence here.

Rin shakes his head in annoyance, cursing himself out in his head because he was stupid enough to think he would run into you here.

Then disappointment floods his body, like a dam had been released in his chest and it's flowing unstoppably to every piece of him.

(Wait, why is he disappointed? He really needs to take a nap.)

He runs his hand through his hair as a nervous reflex, simultaneously relieved and irritated that you're nowhere to be seen.

It takes him a minute to recollect himself, to realize that he probably looks like a crazy person just standing beside an empty table like a lost child who doesn't know where to go, and decides to just go home.

He pulls into the line to get a drink for his walk home when—

"Thanks!"

His heart drops.

You waltz out of the back, tying your apron around your waist as you exchange spots in the break room with one of your coworkers.

Rin is about to die, seriously. You must be new here, since he's been to this café more times than he can count and he's never seen you before. Or was it that he was specifically looking out for you this time?

Whatever the reason, he's dumbfounded.

“Hey,” your acknowledgment makes him freeze in his spot. “Frog guy?”

He looks at you stupidly, rubbing his eyes like a cartoon character as if he’s imagining you standing right in front of him.

His gaze drifts down to your name tag, fresh and newly printed with white marker. Signed at the end is a little flower, petals swirled into tiny hearts.

Your existence before him is undeniable.

"Um. Yeah," he sputters in disbelief.

"I..." You clear your throat, looking as bewildered as he feels. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

'You're my soulmate. Of course we'd run into each other,' he thinks to himself. Out loud, though:

"Yeah. Me neither."

The person behind him in line coughs quietly, impatiently tapping their foot. Rin takes the hint and quietly tells you what he wants. You lean in across the counter to hear him better, and his face grows warm.

Once you fill in the boxes on the cup, you place it down and move it to the side for someone to fill. It catches his eye immediately.

Itoshi Rin is scribbled neatly down the side of his cup.

“How did you...?”

You awkwardly shift in your spot, evidently embarrassed as you fiddle with the strings of your apron. Then, with your own hands.

“W-Well…”

His eyes dare to drop down to where your thumb is nervously slathering up and down the name on your pinky.

“Oh.”

"Sorry, I just figured—"

"It's fine," he interrupts. Your mouth snaps shut.

Tense silence stretches thin in the air, ready to shatter at any moment. But for some reason, he feels as though he's choking on nothing.

You fumble over the emptiness, quickly snatching up the cup to make his drink yourself after deciding it's too awkward to just stand there.

He watches you in a daze, half shaken and half in awe. Never in a million years would he have thought a dream would lead him back to you.

When you turn back around with a full cup, you look equally stunned. 

“Itoshi—”

“Rin. It’s just Rin.”

You look at him in surprise, lashes fluttering rapidly as you let it sink in.

It's not your fault. You don't know that it's a sore spot that he just so happens to share the same last name with the person he despises most in the world.

It's not your fault that he has a quick temper and his voice raises slightly, enough to make you flinch back just a tiny bit.

And it's definitely not your fault that it stings so much—that he had expected you to speak to him as if you'd already known him for a lifetime and not as if you were just two strangers looking at each other from across a bar counter.

“O-Okay," you take a deep breath, cheeks puffed out and expression unreadable.

You slide the cup across the counter and he catches it in his hand.

He debates whether or not he should say more, like apologize for snapping at you. But then someone calls you by your name, and the way it rolls so beautifully off their tongue catches him off guard.

"Sorry. See you, Rin," you smile sweetly. Maybe a little awkwardly, a small step toward the one he dreamed about. And his heart is set in motion.

Rin decides that today won't be the day.

Another day, he'll be brave enough to crack a joke so dry that you try and scrub his name off your skin. And another day, he will ask for your number because, yeah, you might be the most alluring person he's ever met.

As he turns to take his leave after just staring at the spot you were standing in for a solid few seconds, he can hear some of the other baristas clamouring for you.

He doesn't want to look. Really, honestly, he doesn't. 

But he does anyway.

It's just a quick glance over his shoulder—nothing more than a fleeting moment as he takes the chance to look at you one more time.

Those two seconds is all it takes for him to realize just how much trouble he's in.

You're laughing big and toothy, waving your hand in front of your face dismissively as your coworkers poke fun at how flustered you are. Then your hands are clasped over your stomach and you've doubled down a little in your awkward fit.

His heart has never beat so loud in his own ears.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Itoshi Rin used to smile just for the sake of smiling, once upon a time.

He had aunties who would pinch him by the cheek and fawn over him, cooing about how he looked just like his mother. How his face would cherub and the apples of his cheeks were bright red. Even when he grew out of his baby face, people would tell him how wonderful his smile was.

Sae rarely ever smiled, so it was something exclusive. He never felt like he was standing in his shadow. It was special—the kind of praise only one Itoshi would know.

Rin has forgotten how to smile like that.

He smiles to be polite to his family, if ever. Even then, it's not like he owes them that much. At some point, it became too much effort. And he had no reason to do it.

It was always a tiny thought bothering him in the back of his mind:

I'll never meet my soulmate if I'm always scowling like this.

He thought that was what he wanted, anyway. He wouldn't need to worry about running into his soulmate if no one ever looked his way. If everyone feared him enough not to spare him a second glance.

He doubts everything he ever thought as he sits on the edge of his bed staring at his desk.

It's lit up by a single lamp, shining down on his empty coffee cup like a spotlight opened up by the heavens themselves.

Your phone number is written just below his name.

Rin had almost tossed it into the trash without a second thought earlier in the day. He would have, if it weren't for the loose dog that blitzed by him and made him drop it.

Fate just loves to mess with him.

He picked it up and his thumb had stopped over the number. It was written so small, as if you had wanted him to miss it. Or perhaps you wanted to test destiny yourself—to see if the planets would align and he would discover your seven digits there for him to find.

And now he's home. He's been home, just looking. Contemplating. Stressing.

He migrates from the edge of the bed and settles into his desk chair. Then he gets up, moves back to the bed, and flops down. An endless cycle, back and forth, pushing and pulling.

Rin plops down onto his desk seat and sighs in frustration, ruffling his hair around before his forehead slams into the table.

Every part of his mind screams at him to stop. To toss the cup away and forget today ever happened. His head raises from his arms and he stares at the set of numbers illuminated on the paper, taunting him. 

Finally, he exhales through his nose, sitting up straight and reaching for the cup to toss. His fingers delicately brush along your phone number.

“So dumb…” He huffs, eventually finding his phone instead and opening his contacts.

It’s nearly midnight. He tries to imagine your face as you wait by your phone for a message from him, that stupidly hopeful glimmer in your eyes, and he feels sick to his stomach as he sends it.

Rin: hey. it’s rin.

He throws his phone down on the desk again, screen down so he can’t cringe at himself. A few minutes pass in complete silence as he sulks.

He considers that you may have gone to bed already, or you were offended by the fact that he ignored your offer to connect all day and instantly blocked him. Maybe you thought he never saw your number at all.

Then his phone buzzes. His body moves on autopilot, snatching it up faster than he can realize what he’s doing. He’s halfway through the embarrassing thought that he just immediately read your message after you sent it as your text sinks in.

Unknown: hi! it’s great to hear from you ヾ(〃^∇^)ﾉ

Unknown: i was starting to think you were never gonna text lol

Rin: i wasn’t

He chews his lip for a moment before quickly following up:

Rin: but i changed my mind. just cause.

Unknown: hahaha got it got it. ‘just cause’ (˘◡˘)

Unknown: rin

Unknown: wait nvm

Unknown: whatever

Unknown: rin

Rin: what

Unknown: let’s get coffee ^ ^

He stares at the screen in disbelief, watching the typing bubble pop up and disappear again and again. He can imagine again what kind of smile you must have on your face right now, or maybe you look flustered, or maybe this all means nothing to you at all and this is your way of being polite.

Regardless of the reason, he eventually types out his response.

Rin: ok

Christ, he’s so tepid.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2020

He comes to memorize every part of you, like how the sun kisses the horizon and the moon knows the tides.

Intimately, almost—if he didn’t overthink the way your touch lingered on him he could easily ignore the way it made his heart pound in his ears.

Rin learns the feeling of your fingers against his skin as you compress an ice pack to his knee. He knows your laugh—can pick apart sarcasm from genuine cheer unlike most other people he encounters. He’s never been good at reading people yet for some reason you’ve become an open book for him. 

It’s not fair that you’ve ensnared him this way, that he can’t seem to run from you (because his favourite coffee is from your café and he can’t be bothered to find a new place). That he finds himself instinctively reaching over to his phone when he can’t sleep (he has to make sure his alarms are on, might as well text you goodnight while he’s at it). And you’ve become annoyingly comfortable (he doesn’t have an excuse for this one—your lap is just conveniently a very nice place to rest his head).

He must be an open book, too.

At some point he probably stopped trying to hide his growing feelings for you, though you either didn’t notice his sudden shift or you didn’t care.

Vulnerability has never been a part of Rin, even before Itoshi Sae ruined his life.

He despises how you so easily pry him apart, skinning him alive with your hand lathering down his chest as you laugh. 

Still, he’s grown accustomed to your fingers stringing through his hair, to the way your head tilts when he explains football plays to you, to the obvious way you fluster when he attempts (poorly) at flirting with you.

He’s gotten especially fond of the way you meet him at the end of his practices with such sweet, wandering hands—pushing the hair stuck to his forehead from sweat away from his eyes; using a towel to wipe up his neck; the squeeze you give his palms as you examine them to see if there are any new cuts and bruises.

Usually, he’s the epitome of confidence in his plays. Today, however, his cheeks burn as you approach him with the same honeyed smile.

“My shots were shoddy,” he admits before you can even get a word out. You only raise a brow, hands faltering in front of you. “That was lame.”

“I think you’re good.”

“Good,” he frowns. “But not great?”

“The greatest,” you quickly correct yourself, smiling at his cravings for praise. You’re armed with a fresh towel like you always are, reaching up to clean his face as if it’s the only thing you were born to do.

He relishes in your gentle touch, peering at you through his lashes while you prattle on about how amazing he was even though he missed half of his shots.

You were so blindly supportive, it sickens him. 

Not because he felt you were being disingenuous, but because he’s not deserving of your praise. 

For the first time in a long time, it feels as though his soul is disconnected from his body. He used to walk the earth this way—uninterested in his surroundings and obsessed with only one thing.

Itoshi Sae. Itoshi Sae. Itoshi Sae.

Suddenly, he’s thirteen again and gasping for air; screaming into his pillow and trashing their shared awards until his mother comes rushing in to stop him. He’s alone in a field, abandoned and crushed.

It’s not like he’d never lost before, even in front of you. Loss was just a part of football as much as he hated it.

But your praise only makes his stomach turn, because he knows you mean it.

You truly do believe he’s the best, when really he’s been futile in his attempts to catch up with the big brother he admired so much as a kid.

“Stop,” he gently interrupts.

Rin tries to use his hair to hide the wetness of his eyes, with little success. You can see right through him, unfortunately. It’s a talent he wishes you didn’t have.

“Rin?” You say softly, reaching up to brush the hair out of the way. He doesn’t try and back up or swat your hand away, instead letting you see his miserable expression. You sigh quietly, looking more exasperated than surprised.

“Sorry,” he mutters halfheartedly.

You shake your head. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Shame boils in his stomach at your reassurance. There is something to apologize for. Here you are, supporting him with all your heart, and all he can think about is his stupid brother. How he’ll never catch up. How he’ll never be good enough.

Doesn’t your kindness warrant his attention at the very least?

“Come on,” you tug at his hand. “Let’s get you a pick-me-up.”

Rin abides silently, body following yours off the field and onto the streets though his mind has floated off elsewhere.

He tries to count how many steps you take in between the field and the destination, but loses count somewhere around three hundred. Then he moves on to counting the hairs on the back of your head. He loses count at one hundred. Eventually, he gives up and opts for staring at your conjoined hands while he lags behind.

When you come to a halt, he nearly bumps into your back.

The ringing in his ears stops as he blinks at his surroundings. Waves crash against the shore of the sandbank, singing the song of the ocean. It had been so long since Rin walked down this stretch of the shore, he almost forgot what the sea looked like.

“Wait here,” you urge as you hold him by the shoulders then disappear around the corner.

He collapses at the wall separating land from sea, swinging his legs under the railings to sit comfortably as he remembers doing when he was a kid. His gym bag is abandoned behind him, cleats and all.

When you return, you shove a popsicle into his hand.

He’s confused at first, just looking absently at the packaging. It must be for a concerning amount of time, because you eventually pipe up.

“Do you need me to open it for you?”

Rin glares at you and your teasing smile. Carefully, he unpackages the treat and pops it in his mouth.

Sweetness melts over his tongue and he exhales sharply through his nose. You watch him in amusement with your own treat stuck in your mouth.

Silence engulfs you, eating Rin from the inside out until he feels ill. He holds his half-eaten popsicle in front of him, watching it melt down his hand.

You stare at him for a second before nudging him lightly with your elbow.

“I was being serious. You were really good. I can’t even imagine playing like you do.”

Rin’s stomach turns. The last thing he wants is your pity.

“You don’t have to be so nice,” he mumbles, resting his chin on the railing. “42 percent.”

“42 percent?” You echo, peering over the railing to get a better look at his face.

“The percent of shots I made today.”

“Come on,” you urge gently. “Aren’t you being too hard on yourself?”

“If I’m not hard on myself, I’ll never—” he stops, choking lightly on his spit. When you don’t interrupt, he shoves the popsicle back in his mouth. “Whatever. You wouldn't get it.”

It’s quiet again, save for the crashing of waves upon rock. Rin thinks for a moment that maybe he had gone too far, or that his little meltdown had freaked you out.

But when he finally dares to look at you again, you’re smiling.

“Maybe not,” you admit with a whisper. “But I do know this…” You reach over and cup his cheek with your free hand, thumb sweeping the expanse of his cheek soothingly. “There is no one—and I mean no one—who works harder than you do.”

He swallows thickly, subconsciously nudging his face a little further into your palm.

“You deserve to be a little kinder to yourself.”

The way his heart catches in his throat is strange. He can’t describe it. The warmth in his belly is foreign, but it’s pleasant.

For the first time in the year he’s gotten to know you, the thought crosses his mind:

I think I’m in love with you.

Rin’s mouth opens with the idea, but he forces it shut just as fast.

Fear grips his lungs and squeezes, stealing his air and forcing him to pull away from your touch.

“Okay,” he breathes in resignation.

You seem stunned by his sudden retreat, smile faltering ever so slightly. But you recover quickly, hugging yourself as you slouch over the railing.

Conversation moves on just like that. He appreciated that about you, too. He never had to dwell.

It feels nice, everything about this; to have his legs dangling over the edge of the cement, feet barely ghosting over the surface of the water; to have a popsicle melting between his teeth while he listens to you talk.

For some reason, it feels as though he’s reclaiming lost time, reliving a moment he thought he would never have again.

When he checks his popsicle stick, it tells him he’s a winner for the first time since he was thirteen.

(He finally allows himself to believe it when your knee gently knocks into his.)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2021

“Frog cotton candy?”

“Frog shaped cotton candy,” Rin corrects, peering around the giant fluff of candy to look at you quizzically.

“Yeah,” you giggle. “But why?”

He grumbles quietly, cheeks a soft shade of pink as he shoves the treat into your hands.

“I thought you’d like it. Nevermind,” he deadpans, turning around to toss it into the garbage.

Your laugh crescendos and he feels his heart squeeze with affection. When your hand stops him by the forearm, he thinks he might explode.

“It’s cute.”

You pick apart the floss ruthlessly with your fingers, and he watches almost in a trance—hypnotized by just your existence.

(When you finally pop the sugar into your mouth, he imagines it melting on his own tongue. The thought makes him unbearably warm and he forces it away.)

His fascination with you doesn't end there.

There's a certain charm to you that he can't understand—something that draws him in, tantalizing but terrifying at the same time.

He can't help the way he watches in a daze, the way you've ensnared all his attention and taken up the space in his mind. 

Rin has never been good at being kind, but here he is.

Here he is, bringing you cotton candy because he thought it was stupid but cute.

Here he is, rolling up the sleeves of your yukata with a gentle scolding when you rush over to catch goldfish.

And here he is, letting you cling to his arm as if he's the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

He really, really hates it—how mushy you make his brain feel.

He's halfway through re-rolling your sleeves with a half-hearted scowl on his face when you stop him, hand pressed to his forearm.

“Listen, Rin.”

“Hm?” He leans down so that he can peer at your face hidden behind your almost nonexistent candy floss.

“I have to show you something.”

Rin stops dead in his tracks, raising a brow as he fully turns toward you. “What is it?”

“Can you close your eyes for me?”

His heart does a somersault in his chest. “You’re not doing anything weird, are you?”

“Who do you think I am?” You sputter.

He lets out a long sigh before complying, squeezing his eyes shut. After a long silence, he considers peeking a little bit.

That is, until he feels your breath gently fanning over his parted lips.

Nearly leaping back, he wills himself to stay grounded and slowly slides his hands up your arms until he gets to your shoulders. As he imagined, your body is impossibly close to his.

It takes every bit of concentration he has not to waver. If he really tries, he can focus on how your breath smells sweet of candy. How your hair blows softly with the summer breeze, tickling his cheeks. How you smell. How you breathe.

(Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His heart is about to beat out of his chest. Is that okay?)

You tense up in his hold and suddenly you’re retreating from him, swiftly pulling out of his arms. Just as he’s about to ask you what happened, there’s a piece of candy shoved into his mouth.

“You wanted to try it, didn’t you?” You ask rather breathlessly. He opens his eyes, looking at you curiously.

Rin has never seen this expression on you before, lips pulled tight in embarrassment and pupils blown. You look more like a wild animal caught in a cage than someone who just made a move on him.

He gingerly takes the empty paper cone from your hands and folds it up, no longer able to meet your gaze lest he explode on the spot.

“Yeah,” he says softly, shuffling over to dump it into a bin. “Thanks.”

When he turns around to look at you again, his breath gets caught in his throat.

Why are you laughing?

You giggle into your palm, hiding your gleeful smile from him as you double over slightly.

“Your face is all red!” You holler.

He grunts in embarrassment, using the back of his hand to hide his own face. “Shut the hell up,” he spits.

“It’s almost like you wanted me to kiss you!”

“Oh my god, please drop it.”

“No way! I’ve never seen you look like that before!”

(‘Speak for yourself,’ he thinks.)

“So what if I did?”

Your laughter halts as if it was swallowed into the pits of your stomach. Slowly unraveling to stand up straight, he sees another expression he’s never been able to imagine on you, but he can’t quite place it.

“Did what?” You murmur.

“Want you to kiss me.”

Your face is warm under the glow of lanterns, eyes shimmering with the overhead lights. Rin watches your mouth open and close repeatedly as you try and formulate some sort of response.

A firework explodes atop of you, and he wonders if it just saved you.

You seem jarred for only a moment more until you jolt, grabbing him roughly by the arm and giving him a pull.

“I just remembered,” you gasp. “I actually did have something to show you!”

Rin doesn’t get a word in before you’re dragging him along by the arm. With each boom of an explosion, your footsteps pick up, building into a full blown sprint out of the festival grounds and through the thicket.

You tug him along, guiding him by the hand through the winding path of trees and logs. His stamina is better than yours but you’re pushing up the hill despite your huffing and puffing—it makes him laugh with you.

When you break free of the forest, Rin’s eyes focus on a field of plush grass and buttercups.

You let go of his hand, flinging yourself forward and spinning on your heel to exaggerate how wide the opening is with your arms.

“Isn’t it great?” You shout over the fireworks. “Away from the crowd!”

He rushes up to you so that you can stop yelling, invading your personal space until you can hear him just at his normal volume.

“It’s perfect,” he tells you earnestly.

You grin up at him widely before pulling him along to the edge of the clearing. You plop down together, eyes glued to the sky as the fireworks rage on.

Rin only lasts a few seconds before his eyes drift to the side, trying to drink in your expression. It’s become a habit of his to try and imprint your very existence into his brain.

Against his better judgment, his hand creeps toward yours until your fingers are overlapped.

Thankfully, you don’t use the opportunity to tease him about it, instead shifting a little closer until you’re practically burrowed into his side. If it were anyone else, he would have shoved them away.

(When did he stop trying to push you away?)

When your pinkies slowly close together, he feels as if he can’t breathe properly.

Mark-to-mark, it’s as though he is full of all the love he’s ever felt for you from every life—past or future. Like there’s a love that exists within him that transcends lifetimes, if it were even possible.

If he were to peer into another dimension, would you still be together like this? Would you be plucking buttercups and mindlessly twirling them between your fingers? Would he be itching to envelop you in his arms just to devour you?

His thoughts cease when you take a deep breath.

“I used to come here alone,” you admit.

“No one took you?” He asks. Your gaze is piercing the night sky, never leaving the show. He can see the bloom of colours in them.

“Not since I was little, but I always loved it here.”

The question burns hot in Rin’s mind: even if it was a little lonely sometimes?

He remembers back to the night that he first saw you, with your hands dipping into the murky waters of a frog pond and an air of desolation surrounding you. Then he remembers how he couldn’t sleep that night. Not with the image of you crouching there alone burned into his memory.

“Did you know this festival is a celebration of love?” He suddenly asks.

Oh what the fuck? Oh, god. Why did he say that?

That was so lukewarm of him. So stupid. So pointless and lame.

He just wanted something to say to you, something that would make him stop thinking about how you might have been alone for all that time before you knew him.

The silence burns between you, tense and awkward until he starts stuttering out something else to fill the void. But then you look at him, slow and intrigued and so damn amused that he can feel heat rising to the tips of his ears.

“I had no idea.”

There’s a longing in your expression that tells a different story. A twitch of your pinky against his that gives away your blatant lie.

And, damnit. Here he is again, four years later under the same stars. Under the same fireworks. Only this time, he’s able to see your face even closer as it lights up a million different colours—teal like his eyes; rose like his cheeks; golden like the heart he’s tried so hard to protect.

Four years later and he still thinks you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen: pinkies interlocked, sheepish smile on your face, an undeniable shake in your voice that means you have more that you’re too nervous to say.

For a moment he considers finally letting go of all the things keeping him bolted and chained where he stands, swallowing the key to the cage surrounding his fragile, thumping heart. And for that fleeting second, he feels as though he’s the bravest man alive—that nothing could stop him even if you were to turn away and snub him out with the heel of your foot.

But how could he open his mouth and tell you anything when all he feels is the sick twisting of his stomach, the daunting glare of the older brother he adored so much, and the coldness of snow soaking his clothes as he sits in a field and cries?

There’s a burning, raging fire within him. Something primal and afraid and unchanging despite how much he wants to fall into your arms the way your shared etchings say he should.

It screams at him: run away. Run. Run. Run. This will only end in hurt.

He’s too fucked up. Too messed in the head and too quick to anger because he’s actually soft at heart, easy to betray—

“Rin.”

Your hand swiftly captures his face and he’s dragged unceremoniously out of his reverie.

Of course you would be able to pick out his turmoil by expression alone. By the droop of his lips into a frown—not the annoyed one he would flash his teammates, or the grimace he would scare children away with. The kind that’s sad and slow and timid, like an animal caught in a net.

“I’m really happy that we’re friends.”

“Friends?” He breathes, half confused and half incredulous.

Deep down he knows that it’s an attempt to comfort him without being too sappy. Maybe you can sense it somewhere in your soul that he would probably break down and sob if you were to make him feel any more vulnerable than he already is with you. It’s an effort to take away whatever guilt he feels and give him a chance to relax.

However, he can see a different tale in your eyes.

Loneliness as empty as the sky on a cloudy night. A yearning for more, for someone, for him, to fill the gap. I’m tired of waiting. That’s all he can read beneath the sea of colour exploding in your irises.

It only makes him feel worse, but he allows himself to be lied to anyway if only to feel the warmth of your skin against his just a bit longer.

“Yeah.”

Your pinky twitches again. He can feel the brush of your name against his, the grate of your matching soul marks. Your eyes tear away from his and are glued to the infinite sky above once more. To the stars you know are there but are covered by smoke and fire.

Rin only stares at you. He can’t focus on the explosions of fireworks anymore, not when you’re right in front of him looking so perfect. His summer treasure.

“Yeah?”

He knows he sounds dumb, repeating everything like an oaf who can’t fathom what’s being said. You giggle and it floors him.

“Just being able to stand here with you—” you glance at him again, only for a second. He can see the exhaustion in that moment, but he’s too selfish to pry. “—I think I’m the luckiest person alive.”

“Even if…” He swallows harshly. It feels like shrapnel cutting down his throat. “Even if I can’t be more?”

“Even so.”

There’s a pause and you open your mouth to say more, maybe to give him an ultimatum or to elaborate on your feelings, but then you’re interrupted by the end of the display.

Counteless fireworks explode above you in the finale. Rin can hear the awestruck gasps of families down the hill, the distant cries of children and the faint shutter of cameras filling the air.

He realizes then: he’s been smiling. His cheeks hurt from how big it’s gotten. And you’re smiling at him, too.

(The fireworks rage on, but in the end, all he can look at is you.)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2022

Falling in love with Itoshi Rin was one of the most foolish, most wonderful things that could have happened to you.

He was an enigma in and of itself, a mystery of a soulmate who was able to love you wholeheartedly and push you away at the same time.

There were nights where you would stay up wondering why he was your soulmate when it seemed like all he wanted to be was alone. Other times, you fell asleep smiling to yourself knowing that somewhere deep down you both belonged to each other. 

The universe chose you. The universe chose him. It was indisputable, yet you still had doubts.

Tonight is one of those “foolish” nights. It seems as though you have been stood up.

For three hours you’ve waited in the same spot at the gates of the festival, watching families and couples pass by but never the one person you’d wait until the end of the world for. The sun has long since gone to sleep over the horizon and the streets are fully lit up with lanterns for the festivities.

6 pm. That was the time Rin promised he would meet you. In the past, he was always late but at least had the decency to tell you beforehand that you could go ahead without him. Only when you arrived and sat down to wait for him had he finally messaged you.

Rin: gonna be late. see you at 7.

7 pm. That was the rescheduled time. It was when you expected to see him walking up to you in his yukata that you begged him to wear this year, matching adoringly with yours. And at 7 pm you would tell him. You would tell him everything.

For months prior you had practiced almost pathetically so, recited and perfected your speech while staring at your reflection in a mirror. You’d written him a letter, too.

7 pm. You were finally going to thank Rin for everything. For accompanying you to such a silly festival even though you know he loathes it. For meeting you under the stars and the moon and the fireworks time and time again. For bringing life back into a childhood memory that you had long since hated.

7 pm. You were going to tell him thank you. You were going to tell him you loved him, just as it had been written in the stars many years before you were born.

It’s 9 pm, nearing 10 and the start of the fireworks show. He missed the entire night without explanation.

At 9:58 pm, just as you’re about to give up all hope, you finally come face to face with teal eyes and a stupidly handsome face sheen with sweat. It shouldn’t hurt so much, the way he looks at you so dismissively as if he hadn’t blown you off all night. 

“Sorry,” he mutters disingenuously, attempting to brush past you without a second thought. “Let’s go, I’m thirsty.”

He has his gym bag slung over his shoulder and a windbreaker over his uniform. No sign of the yukata you had picked out for him to wear.

You don’t follow him, staring at his back in disbelief. When he realizes you aren’t trailing behind, he turns on his heel and raises a brow in question. “Are you coming?”

“I was waiting for you all night,” you tell him coldly. I was waiting for you all this time and you never showed up. 

He swallows thickly, suddenly overcome by guilt because of your downcast expression. “I know. I lost track of time.”

“Lost track of time?” You scoff incredulously. Your mouth opens as if you have more to say, but you’re interrupted by a bang.

Rin’s eyes flutter closed. He can’t listen to this. He can’t watch.

He knows this all too well. He knew it all along.

The universe was wrong. Itoshi Rin was never cut out to be someone’s soulmate.

“We’re missing it…”

Your back is turned to him but all he can imagine is the terrible expression you must be making right now, twisted in sadness and anger. The worse image is a completely blank face—unfeeling and cold. He doesn’t even want to think about it.

Booms echo in the distance yet all he can focus on is the faint hum in his ears, the horrible churning in his stomach and the fog of guilt clouding his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says so quietly that he’s sure you can’t even hear him under the deep, bellowing explosions over the horizon.

He doesn’t remember the last time he apologized for anything like this. Being cold and aloof was just in his nature. Never before had he felt like it was necessary to be remorseful for the way he is—for how he was made to be.

The slight tremble of your shoulders and the way you use the back of your sleeves to wipe tears from your eyes force the words out of him before he can stop it. He tells you again,

“I’m sorry.”

He weakly attempts to grab you by the arms, holding you from behind so he can make you look at him. You jerk away fast as lightning, knocking him away as you swivel around to glare.

“Why didn’t you come?” You demand. There’s anger shaking in your voice. Rin doesn’t know how to respond to it, not when you’ve always been so understanding and kind. Perhaps he was too cruel for you if he was going to break you this way.

“I got caught up with—”

“With football, right?” You laugh bitterly, taking a generous step back. Hurt pours from every inch of your expression and all it does is make his heart ache.

“Stop,” he suddenly snaps. You flinch at his tone and shrink back, only adding to his guilt. He always had the worst temper. “Don’t be like this. You know it was important,” he explains, gentler this time. Softer, trying to coax you back over.

There’s a beat of complete silence, save for the hollowed explosions in the distance. Rin blinks at you a couple times before his frayed nerves finally calm again. And then he realizes something terrible.

The look in your eyes, the deflation of your shoulders—this is what utter defeat looks like. For a moment deja vu rushes through his blood, bringing him back to a time when he too felt as miserable as you. 

Every year he’s had the opportunity to read your expression: I’m tired of waiting. But he always foolishly assumed you would still wait around for him forever. That your patience would be as infinite as the stars in the sky. That just because he had the privilege of having his name scrawled down your pinky, he would be guaranteed to have you.

It was disgustingly selfish.

Just as he opens his mouth to apologize again, you storm up to him and shove the piece of paper roughly into his chest. With the closed gap, he can clearly see the tears streaming down your face illuminated by warm lanterns.

“Just forget it.”

“Wait—” He catches your wrist as you push past him, stopping you in your tracks again despite your struggle to get away. “Come on, I said I’m sorry!”

“Rin,” you sniffle, voice breaking with just the syllable of his name. It makes him falter. “I’m tired.”

“But—”

“You can’t even spare me one night? Just this one night in the entire year?” You breathe, no longer trying to dance around the subject. “What is it with you? What are you so afraid of?”

Being put in the spotlight never bothered Rin before. It was easy enough to ignore when all his life he was watched carefully. But it’s different with you; you’re the only one looking at him in this moment yet it feels like the weight of a million pairs of eyes at once.

An answer comes quickly to his mind, almost natural. He knows exactly what’s wrong with him.

He’s afraid of being left behind again. Of being hurt. Rin is terrified of love and being loved because he’s too pathetically fragile.

The pieces of his heart are clumsily glued together and he’s scared that even the smallest turbulence would send it shattering into a billion shards again. He doesn’t know how to put himself back together properly anymore. 

Itoshi Sae permanently fucked him up.

Though they were on slightly better terms now, the scars would always haunt him. The simple solution is to shut everyone else out, to protect the weak heart he harbours.

If he told you that, would you understand? Or would you try and claw his name off your skin?

You take his silence as an answer and pry away from him again, holding yourself protectively—guarding yourself from the catastrophe that follows Rin wherever he goes.

“Goodbye, Rin.”

He doesn’t watch you go. 

The nearest bench becomes his temporary home. He could do hundreds of plays in a football game and never tire, but for some reason your disdain has sucked every ounce of energy from his body.

It doesn’t register that he’s still holding the paper you forced into his hands until it crinkles in his hold. He slowly unfolds it revealing ink sloppily smeared across the page.

And then he reads it. Again. And again. And again, until it’s shaking in his hold. Until the dull ache in his heart feels like the pierce of a knife. 

Rin doesn’t know what to do anymore. He’s always had one clear goal for his entire life, but now everything is all muddled. Messy, like everything else he touches.

He turns everything into a disaster.

Does he chase after you and risk having his fragile heart broken all over again? Does he risk being left behind or does he close off the gate for that option entirely? He could sit in his cowardice and never change, preserving his heart forever in this moment of time; a polaroid in the slideshow of his mortality.

There’s a familiarity to this all. Perhaps he had lived through this decision a million lives before this. Maybe he would live through it again an infinite amount of times, so long as it was your name etched into his skin.

Was he as messed up in this life as he was in every other?

If he had ruined everything in this life, if he made the wrong choice and drove you away in hatred until you drew your last breath, then maybe he could make it all up to you in the next one.

Or, if that were the case, maybe he was born into this world only to love you—to make up for the millenia where he ran away.

Rin’s legs have never moved so fast. Not in football. Not even from his brother. If you were the light at the end of the tunnel then he would keep chasing you forever, he thinks. Until his wounded heart gave out.

Of all the stupid decisions he’s made in his life, have any of them amounted to anything? He’s going to give it one last try. One more chance to prove to himself that not everything he touches burns to ashes.

“Wait!”

You visibly startle, eyes wide as you turn to see Rin dashing toward you. He doesn’t give you even a moment to ask questions, to wonder why he’s coming back to break your heart again. 

You’re engulfed in a hug faster than you can blink, stumbling back from the force of his body colliding with yours until your sandals get kicked off your feet.

“Rin?” You murmur his name in disbelief, breathless even though you weren’t the one sprinting down the road.

“Just give me one more chance,” he stammers out. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of his shoulders as he holds you and fights for air simultaneously. Your hands twitch at your sides but you remain lifeless in his arms.

He tries again: “Let me prove it to you. Let me prove that it wasn’t some freak accident that led me to you. That my name on your skin is meant to be there.”

“Don’t do this,” you tell him quietly, lips brushing against his ear as you speak. “I don’t want to be loved and feared at the same time.”

“But…” Rin squeezes your body against his, almost desperately. Clinging to what he has ruined. “For once in my life, I want something more.”

I don’t want to be alone anymore.

You hesitantly shift, hands slowly trailing up his back until your body is curling against his. He can trace the outline of your body against his, like a puzzle piece that he was missing slotted perfectly in his grasp.

“I thought my soulmate would only slow me down and break me. I was wrong. I know that now.”

He slowly rocks your bodies back and forth. You pull away until your eyes meet his, red with tears. It’s the messiest he has ever seen you, but his heart refuses to be still. It aches.

Beautiful. It’s the only word he can describe you with. It didn’t matter if you were lit up under the wondrous sky, or handing him coffee in a crowded café, or sobbing in his arms. 

You would only ever be his infinitely beautiful soulmate.

It’s the only constant he would have in this life and every other, even if you were to break his heart. It would be the single greatest achievement in his time, above football, above any of his petty competitions—that your name is etched down his pinky.

It scares him. It thrills him.

With the distant roar of fireworks, he kisses you. And you allow him, hiccuping against his lips as you cry.

You stay like that for a long time, listening to the hollow shockwaves of fireworks exploding miles away. He’s the first to draw back, raking in shallow breaths. You chase him, finding solace against his lips once more but not fully indulging him with another kiss.

“Do you fear me?” You whisper into his mouth.

“More than anything,” he tells you.

“Do you love me?”

After a moment of contemplation, he answers,

“More than anything.”

You nod slowly, awkwardly pulling away from him and taking a step back. It’s your first kiss and you don’t know where you’re supposed to look anymore. Rin stops your nervous shifting with his hand swooping under your chin.

“One year. I promise.” You look at him in confusion, so he continues. “Next year, when the season and my contract are over, I’ll meet you there. At the pond.”

You seem skeptical still, with your brows knitted together and a lost haze in your eyes. He raises his pinky, the one with your name forever grafted into the skin, and offers it to you.

“I pinky promise.”

It’s so ridiculous, wearing his heart on his sleeve with something he learned about on playgrounds when he was a child. A pinky promise shouldn’t mean any more than the words he has already spoken. But for some reason, your eyes light up.

He feels nothing but relief when your pinkies lock together.

“Okay,” you breathe.

“You’ll wait for me?”

“Rin.” His name leaves you in a breathless laugh that makes his world spin. It sounds so tired yet so sweet. “I’ve been waiting all my life.”

“I’m sorry,” he says once more for good measure. You nod. A wordless acceptance.

Itoshi Rin is your soulmate. It’s not like that fact will ever change no matter the time, no matter the distance.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2023

Fate is a funny thing. Soulmates are a funny thing.

The universe threw Rin curveball after curveball, beating him down until he was nothing but a husk heavenly built for one purpose only: beat Sae. Beat Itoshi Sae.

There were times when he would lay awake at night wondering why he was given this life, why he was thrust into hardship and hurt and betrayal. How could something so perfect, something so all-knowing, be so cruel?

For as long as the name had been grafted into his skin, he resented the idea of a soulmate.

He hated the idea that only one person in the world would be his eternal weakness. That one day, one person would hold every piece of his soul in their hands. Even then, his soulmate was the other half of him—his salvation. His downfall.

They would know every inch of his skin. Every bleeding wound of his heart. Every bruise and scar along his legs from cleats and nails and gravel. Having a soulmate meant having every part of him exposed, to be judged and worshiped at the same time.

At your hands, though, he’s certain this is what he was born for—to spend the rest of his days by your side even if you were doing something as mundane as catching frogs together.

“You’re scaring them,” you hiss quietly.

Your fingers sink into the pond and Rin watches your reflections ripple as water fills your palms. Your faces contort and meld into one being. In some ways, it’s a familiar feeling—to have been intertwined with you since his very conception.

“You’re terrible at this.”

“It’s your fault!”

“Right,” he deadpans. “You haven’t caught a single one all night.”

“You were late,” you remind him with a huff, cheeks inflated. “Before you got here I was catching frogs all night. Coincidence?”

Rin makes another noise, something akin to a snort. But he doesn’t acknowledge your statement, instead reaching over to gingerly roll the sleeves of your yukata up to your elbows.

“Are you always so sloppy? Your sleeves are getting all wet.”

You glare at him from the side, delivering a deadly warning. “Are you always such a pain in the ass?”

“I get it, I get it. I said I was sorry for being late. Nii-chan really wanted to try that new ice cream place downtown.”

Your gaze drifts to him in the shimmering reflection, watching his smile soften at the mention of his big brother. It was wonderful that they were trying to patch things up.

Sae had decided to come home after all, promising Rin that they would play together again once they both took a well deserved break.

You could tell that Rin was trying his best not to make a big deal out of it, but the way he cried into your shoulder later that night said it all.

“I feel bad having you come all the way out here just to see me. Your brother is back in Japan isn’t he?”

“Yeah. And he wants to meet you.”

You nearly fall over. “What?”

“Please don’t look so starstruck about that. I feel sick.”

Laughing, you recentre yourself, sitting back on your heels with your hands on your knees. “Sorry, sorry! It’s not that…”

Rin raises a brow. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“It’s just—” you fumble, cheeks burning hot at the idea of being introduced to Rin’s family after all these years. Formally, as his partner. His soulmate. The name they had all known since he was thirteen. “What would I even say to him?”

He looks at you in bewilderment. Then, he snickers, only laughing harder when you smack his arm.

“Don’t worry about that,” he assures, reaching out to pat the top of your head. “Just be yourself. My family will love you.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, studying your reflections in the water with a soft smile. You’re staring right back at yourself, but Rin is only looking at you.

“I haven’t done anything special.”

“You lit up my world,” you laugh, turning back up to look at him properly. You make a mini explosion with your hands. “Boom! Like that. A firework.”

“You’re too corny,” he murmurs in embarrassment, turning his head away to hide his flushed face. “Can’t you explain it like a normal person?”

“No can do,” you tell him, voice gentler this time. After a pause, you shuffle your sandals around in the mud and take a deep breath. “If you want me to be totally serious…”

You lunge over and tackle him into your arms. He nearly loses his balance holding the both of you upright, stumbling back on his heels before he catches your waist. You don’t seem to share the sentiment of staying pristine, knees digging into the dirt as you squeeze him tighter.

Rin feels his heart catch in his throat the same way you’ve made it for the last six years.

“Thank you. For letting me love you. For being my soulmate.”

His hand is automatically in your hair, scratching your scalp as he smiles into your shoulder.

“I’m sure I gave you nothing but a hard time,” he grumbles.

“But I still love you.”

“Even though you had to wait?”

“Even so.”

“And that I’m a pain in the ass?”

“Even then, I do.”

Rin burrows himself into your neck, hiding his face again. It does a poor job at masking the kind of expression he’s making, though, considering how warm his skin is.

“What if I’m not good enough?”

He feels terrible—guilty that he needs to keep having this conversation with you. But you always comfort him the same way. He hopes you always will.

Drawing his head up with your muddy hands, you dirty his cheeks just to get a glimpse of him. You murmur a half-hearted sorry for making a mess.

Then you’re kissing him.

“I’ll be here to remind you how much I cherish you.”

You nip his bottom lip and he opens wider. You whisper into his mouth,

“And how happy I am that Itoshi Rin was born into this world.”

Itoshi Rin, broken. He who thought that he could never be put back together.

Itoshi Rin, vengeful. He who believed the only happiness that existed for him in this world was to surpass his brother.

Itoshi Rin, who did not believe in his soulmate while staring right at them. And Itoshi Rin, who finally allowed himself to love you wholly, completely, as it was written in the stars.

“I love you,” he says, as if just those three words could encapsulate everything he feels for you.

“Always?” You giggle. He rolls his eyes. 

“Wherever you are, and wherever you may be, I will.”

You kiss him one more time for good measure.

“That was corny.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2024

“No peeking.”

Rin folds up his piece of paper and hangs it from the bamboo tree. You’re tugging him along before he can even properly check to see if it’s been secured.

“Come on, I don’t want to miss the fireworks!”

He wouldn’t miss them for the world. You’ve always looked the most beautiful under the brightened summer sky.

The wish he scribbled down blows softly in the breeze as both of you rush by, back to the festival where it all began.

7 July 2024. I wish I had the words to tell you how much I love you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

extra notes. hi! if you made it this far, i'd like to give you the warmest most grateful thank you ever ( ´ ω `)

so, here it is. i've been working on this since last september-ish... for some people that amount of time is not much, but genuinely, i've never devoted so much attention and time to one single fic and i hope i did this one justice. rin has always been a guilty pleasure of mine to write for. i hope this man stays far far away from me until i can stomach even looking at his name again LOL ‾́ ◡ ‾́

also i finally admitted defeat and took out all my pictures and dividers because tumblr was fighting my posts that had any. so... sorry the formatting looks like this

additional tags: @jenoutof10 @hanrinz @itoshiexx lol hi guys it made it out of the drafts i hope you like it

[internalmyth]

If I had a nickel for every character I have that relies heavily on trees to exist, I would have two nickels. That's not many, but it's weird that it's happened twice.

[daydreaming-nerd]

I’ll Crawl Home To Her (Azriel x Reader) 

AN: This was supposed to be based off But Daddy I Love Him but it morphed into something else but I'm kinda happy about it.

Summary: The story of how the princess of Velaris and the shadowsinger came to be.

Warnings: blood, injury, dickhead dads, bit of smut but it's not too descriptive (It's for the plot), angst, fluffy ending.

Word count: 8053

As a princess I was told that “hate” is a very strong word. Consequently, there weren’t a lot of things that I hated. For example, I greatly disliked when my tea came with too much milk, and I absolutely despised corsets. But if there was one thing I hated, and I mean truly hated, it was my father. 

If it wasn’t for the way he treated my mother and older brother then it would be the way he treated me. How he kept me from my beloved, my brother's best friend, the shadowsinger, my Azriel.  

Azriel had been mine long before my father ever knew about it. When I grew to be 207 my mother finally convinced my father to let me go to Windhaven with her to visit Rhys. I hadn’t seen my brother in years, as he had begun training with the Illyrians. 

He wrote me letters of course, detailing friends and enemies he made along the way. Two of which stood out to me, Cassian and Azriel. However these letters never made up for him in the flesh, which is why during my first trip to Windhaven I had never been so excited. To this day I still remember it…

The winter wind stung my cheeks as snow clung to the furs of my cloak. It was as if no matter how many layers I wore the wind found its way to barrel through and nip at my skin. 

I found myself walking along the edge of the camp, where the light of the fires couldn't reach me and only the moon gave me the ability to see. When my mother and I arrived at the little cabin Rhys was not there, after speaking to Devlon we found he was on assignment and would be home soon. 

After a few hours in the cabin I began to feel claustrophobic, so I took a walk around the heavily wooded area. There was something magic about the first snow of the season. The way the snow covered the ground and crunched under my boots. White capped trees that looked like they were frosted by the gods, and the still silence that came from the insulation the blanket of white provided.  

“It’s a little cold out don’t you-” a voice crooned behind me and stopped abruptly as I turned to face him. 

Standing frozen just a few feet from me was an Illyrian male with his mouth agape at the sight of me. He was large, his wings the biggest I had ever seen. Inky black hair framed his carved face as his hazel eyes frozen in shock as if he had just seen a ghost. 

“Forgive me,” he said, shaking his head a bit, as if to clear the fog from his mind. “It’s just that I don’t see many beautiful things up here, you startled me.” 

My cheeks flush and I pray he thinks it's from the cold and not the butterflies in my stomach. 

“I find that hard to believe when this is your view,” I smile, gesturing to the snow valley below us. “There’s nothing more beautiful than the first snowfall of the year.”

Footsteps crunch behind me as he comes up on my right, “Perhaps, but it pales in comparison to you,” he smirks and this time I know he can tell he’s the reason my cheeks are pink. “Might I have the honor of knowing your name?” 

I turn to meet his gaze once more but before I can answer back I hear a shout coming from far away. 

“Y/N!” my brother shouts charging towards me. 

“Rhys!” I call back running into his embrace. 

He lets out a groan as I leap into his arms, a pile of furs and wool as I pull him into me. The scent of sea salt and citrus filling my nose, the warmth of him seeping through my clothes. 

“Ahh little sister I’ve missed you,” Rhys says, setting me down to get a good look at me. 

“Little sister?” called the male behind me, his snow crunching footsteps coming towards Rhysand and I’s side. 

“It seems you’ve already met her, this is my little sister,  y/n.”Rhys beams, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Y/n this is my very good friend, Azriel.” 

“Azriel,” I blink, holding out my hand for the shadowsinger to shake. How had I not realized? Rhysand’s letters spoke of his shadowsinger friend, now that I looked at him, and I mean really looked at him, I could see the dark matter swirling around him. 

“Princess,” he says, bowing his head and pressing a kiss to my hand. “It is an honor to meet you. You’ll have to forgive my previous informality, I didn’t know who you were.” 

Rhysand let out a hearty laugh behind me, “Azriel my friend there is no need for such formalities, in fact my sister detests them.” he smiles. 

“It’s true, you can just call me y/n, I’m sure that we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other in the years to come.” I smile hoping I was speaking the truth into existence. 

“Come, mother has made dinner for all of us and you have yet to meet Cassian,” Rhys said enthusiastically, throwing an arm over my shoulder. 

From that day forward I found myself spending more and more time at Windhaven, in hopes of seeing Azriel. Sometimes I would see him for only a minute or so, other times he would be able to stay and have dinner with my mother, myself and of course Rhys and Cass. 

Those were always my favorite nights when he and I would share stolen glances across the table. Sometimes we might brush hands reaching for the carafe of wine, other times I would feel his boot brush my ankle under the table. Both of us danced around the other like flickering flames. 

It wasn’t until a few years later when all three of them conquered the blood rite that Azriel and I were finally able to admit our feelings for one another…

We stood behind one of the many rows of cabins, the sound of laughing warriors celebrating their victories or mourning their losses ran through the camp. Before he even spoke I knew why he asked me to meet him back here, I could feel the tension between us both. 

“I’m tired of acting like I don’t care about you. I’m tired of saying “nothing” whenever Rhys and Cassian ask me what’s on my mind. I’m tired of trying to hide that everytime I come back to camp that I’m looking for you and hoping I can see you for just one second. I’m tired of pretending I don’t love you,” Azriel confesses, caging me against the back wall of a cabin. 

“Azriel I-” I begin but he cuts me off.

“When we were on the mountain, there was a moment where there was a dagger to my throat and I thought I was going to die. I thought I would leave this world without telling you how much I loved you. If it wasn’t for Cassian that would’ve been the case. I won’t make the same mistakes twice,” he finished. 

“Azriel, I love you too,” I shuddered a sigh, aware of how close he was to me. 

The second the words left my mouth he was on me, large hands encircling my waist as I felt every inch of his body pressed against mine. His breath was hot on my face, contrasting the bitter cold of the night air.  

“Can I kiss you?” he breathed,  lips mere inches from mine. 

“Please,” I begged, but once again the word hung in the air for mere seconds before his mouth was on mine. 

Every part of it felt so right. His hands on my waist, my fingers in his hair, his lips on mine claiming me in a way that made my head spin. My arms pulled him as close as possible, needing to feel him, smell that scent of rain, leather and whatever intoxicating cologne he was wearing.  I was so drunk on him that I was shaken when I heard a hearty laugh ring out through the camp. 

I pulled back immediately realizing what was happening, “Oh my gods, we can’t do this here, my brother he-” 

“Shhh, shhh,” he cooed, brushing a stray hair behind my ear. “I talked to Rhys about it, I have his blessing to court you. He took it rather well, he actually seemed excited.” Azriel laughed, pressing a kiss to my forehead as he held me closer, his body blocking the wind from seeping into my clothes. 

“Oh Azriel,” I smile, kissing him hard as I feel him lifting me into the air, my head spinning just as fast as he spun me. 

We spent the rest of that night lying on a blanket in a field away from the world. The sound of distant celebrations making us laugh every now and then. At some point I could’ve sworn I heard Cassian singing a tale of an old drunk warrior.

I had tried to tell Azriel that he should join his brothers in their celebration but he insisted that he would much rather spend his few moments of peace with me. It was one of the best nights of my life. 

Our relationship was kept secret from everyone but Rhys and Cassian. Even my mother, who always accompanied me to Windhaven, was kept in the dark. No one with close ties to my father could know. That being said, it was hard for Azriel and I to find quiet moments together. 

Most of the time we met in the woods behind camp. Azriel would go away and bring me little trinkets, pretty rocks and feathers he found while in the mountains. In the spring he always came with a freshly picked bouquet of wildflowers. We always ended up making out and getting carried away, on more than one occasion I tried to take things further but he never let me. 

“I won’t have the first time I bed you in the woods. You’re a princess, you deserve a soft bed to be worshiped on.” 

Was what he always said to me. While I appreciated the sentiment, I couldn’t help but wish for more. 

It wasn’t until a few months later that I finally saw an opening. Father and mother were going to be at a meeting in the Winter Court, leaving Velaris in the care of Rhys. More importantly the cabin at Windhaven would be empty. That night was truly the best night of my life.

My back hits the warm sheets below me as Azriel looks at my bare body with hungry eyes. I had never been with a male before, my father and mother dead set on having me intact for whatever husband they shackled me to. But Azriel would be my husband, even if he wasn’t noble or the son of a High Lord he was mine, and I was his. I didn’t care how many rules I had to break to have him. 

“My beautiful, beautiful princess,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to my neck. 

His hands wander the expanse of my bare skin, both warming and leaving goosebumps wherever they trail. I arch my back into him, needing more, needing the very essence of him branded into me. 

“Azriel I need more,” I breathe tugging on the ends of his hair. 

He had already stripped me bare and kissed every square inch of me before falling to his knees and feasting on me like I was his last meal. I had read about such sinful touches before, dreamt about experiencing those sensations with him at night. None of it compared to the real thing. 

“Are you sure about this?” He asks me once more, brushing the hair from my face. 

“I’m sure, I want it to be you,” I nod running my hands through his hair again. 

The wild twinkle in his eyes was enough to make my toes curl as he smiled at me, “I promise to be gentle, to make you feel good,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to my lips. 

“I trust you Az,” I nod and his lips kick up again at his nickname. 

I feel him nudge and my entrance and my breath hitches as he inches himself inside. The stretch was painful, but the sting faded as he peppered kisses all over my face, whispering sweet nothings to me.

“Shh you’re doing so well princess…”

“You’re so beautiful…” 

“Can you feel me? Can you feel us?” 

“I love you…” 

I must’ve seen stars a million times that night. His gentle nature only made me fall deeper in love with him. It wasn’t the brutal fucking I had heard about in taverns and from drunk men at balls. He had taken his time, and been even more gentle than he had promised me. 

We made love a dozen times that night. Kissed and touched and worshiped until I fell asleep, bathed and warm in his arms.

The next morning was hard to face. Knowing we had to leave the cabin and act as if we didn’t spend the entire night exchanging souls, and tangled in eachothers arms. 

Az especially was on edge, so much so that when a younger male offered to tie my boot for me Azriel marched over and pushed him into the mud before pulling my foot onto his bent knee and tying it himself. 

Of course I yelled at him for being an Illyrian baby while Rhys and Cassian laughed and poked fun at their friend. Azriel just huffed and shot a warning glance at the poor male who had tried to tie my boot. 

From there on out we spent every possible moment together. I would tell my father that I was visiting friends in other courts just so I could see Azriel, which wasn’t often. As the war between humans and fae grew more iminanent I saw less and less of the shadowsinger. Our meetings became more fervent, and well…passionate. We became careless and it’s what ended up tearing him away from me for good.  

My back was pressed against the cabin wall, my hands pinned by my head as Azriel’s lips consumed mine. We had no longer than an hour together before he would be set back to scout for Hybern’s troops, but we intended to make the most of it. 

“I missed you,” he breathed into my neck. 

“I missed you too, two weeks is too long,” I murmured, breathing in his scent. He always left me one of his many shirts to sleep in but it never did compare to the real thing. 

“I don’t have much time, they’re sending me to the border to scout for Hybern’s troops,” he says in between kisses. 

Scarred hands drift over my waist and graze my bum as I feel him collecting fist fulls of my skirt. Before my dress can be pushed up much further than my knees the door to the cabin barges open, startling both of us. Azriel  placed his hand on one of the daggers strapped to his side, but not even he could defend me from who stepped through the threshold. 

“What the hells is going on here?” My father’s voice boomed from the doorway, the cold air from outside seeping into the place that was once our own. 

I peek out from behind Azriel’s shoulder to find not only my father but Lord Devlon standing before us. My fathers eyes locked on mine, and white hot fear seared my nerves. 

“What are you doing with my daughter?!” My father roared, his power slamming Azriel aside. 

“Father no!” I scream, clinging to his arm to interrupt his antics. 

Devlon screamed for backup to come as Azriel’s feet hit the floor again. The commotion outside beginning to stir. 

“My lord, I-” Azriel starts to explain but my father cuts him off. 

“You will not speak unless spoken to, you bastard born brute!” my father screams as Devlon’s men come to detain the Shadowsinger. 

“Father stop it! He didn’t take advantage of me, we’ve been seeing each other.” I plead with my father as tears start to well up in my eyes. 

“What?!” he scoffed, looking at me like I was a common whore. “You are promised to one of the sons of Spring and yet you soil yourself with filth of his kind?” 

“He’s not filth. He’s Rhys’ friend, and he’s good, brave and kind.” I beseech him as I hear Azriel struggle against the men who have him bound.

My father takes a deep breath and turns his gaze from me. The sound of his boots crossing the wooden floors to stand before Azriel are the loudest most impending sound I had ever heard. He stands before my shadowsinger before raising his hand and letting his fist collide with that beautiful face I had spent so long kissing. 

My gasp reverberates through the room but Azriel doesn’t make a sound, as if he’s challenging my father, or proving his worth. 

“What should we do with him?” my father asks, not taking his eyes off Az. 

“The boy has completed the rite, we can send him to one of the battalions on the border. Perhaps the trash will take itself out,” Devlon laughs. I had known that the Lord had a chip on his shoulder for my brother and his friends. But sending him to the slaughter? 

“Father please I love him!” I cry falling to my knees before my father, grasping his hand. I would never beg my father for anything, never fall to my knees for anyone. But for this I would… for Azriel, I would die on my knees. 

Despite my pleading my fathers gaze never falters from where it is fixed on Azriel. As if he’s trying to decide if he should slit his throat now or let him die on a battlefield. Azriel’s face remains steadfast and strong, showing no signs of weakness, like he will accept whatever punishment befalls him with the grace of a warrior.

“Send him,” he says resolutely before turning away. 

“NO PLEASE!” I beseech as my father hauls me to my feets again, but my knees are giving out under me. 

“It is done,” his gruff voice says in my ear as I watch them haul Azriel to his feet. “One day you’ll thank me.” 

I watch as they pull Azriel toward the door. Dragging him unnecessarily letting his wings drape across the ground. It was all happening so fast and could be the last time I ever saw his face.

“Let me say goodbye! Please let me say goodbye!” I shouted thrashing in my fathers grasp. Needing to touch Az one last time, needing one more moment with him. 

Azriel’s eyes were frantic as he heard my screams, as he watched my father use his strength to detain me.  

“Listen! Listen!” he called trying to get me to stop my frantic blubbering, the guards pulling him out the door. “You have to be strong princess. I love you , and I will find you again, if not in this life than in the next!” he shouts as he is hauled past the threshold of the cabin. 

“Azriel!” I scream, my voice cracking under the weight of my tears. 

“I love you!” he shouts again from the outside of the cabin. 

“I love you!” I call back to him, not knowing if I’ll ever get another chance to say it. 

That was six months ago...

Since then the war had gotten more and more bloody, and unavoidable. As far as I knew Azriel was still alive. I hadn’t seen him since the night he was ripped from my arms, a night I often had nightmares about. I sent him letters whenever possible and every so often I would get one back. 

I could tell he had tried to send more, as every date on the ones that did make it through were skewed. The most recent one, dated two months ago, burned a hole in the pocket of my dress. The folds were so worn from reading  that I feared they may fall apart the next time I opened it. 

My love, 

I am alive and well, though my battalion has suffered great losses. More and more Illyrians are sent to the frontlines every day to take the place of the dead. There are times I wonder if a wide eyed recruit will ever take my place…

At night I lie in bed and dream of you lying next to me, your warmth. Or the way your hair looks sprawled in swirling over the green grass when you’re under me. The sound of your voice calling my attention. The softness of your hands. The night you came undone for me in the cabin.

 My only consolation is that when I look up at the night sky. I know you are looking at those same stars. And if what I’m doing is keeping you safe. Keeping you fed and swathed in those blue silks that drive me crazy. Then I will sleep in this tent and fight alongside my peers happily. My love is safe and warm because of me. 

I love you, and I will return to you. 

Yours eternally, 

Azriel

I fold the tattered parchment with gloved hands and tuck it securely into the pocket of my dress. The shouts of men and the clash of swords outside my tent drown out the peace I had struggled to preserve. 

Hybern’s army had marched on Velaris and while the border hadn’t been breached, my father decided it was unsafe to leave my mother and I there. My mother was sent to a camp with my father where he would watch over her, I was sent to Rhys’ camp.

 The flap of the tent is thrown open, my brother charges in wearing his leathers, his hair disheveled and a letter in hand. 

“What is it?” I stand upon seeing the worry gracing his face.    

Armies had been marching upon another camp a few miles away. If they had breached the encampment that would mean they were coming for us next. We would have just minutes to evacuate and find a safe place. 

“The men were able to hold the front lines,” he says, setting down his swords with a sigh that told me that there was still news to be revealed. 

“Then what is it?” I asked quietly, unsure of whether or not I wanted to know the truth he had to say. 

Violet eyes met my own, in them, a sorrow and worry I had not yet seen from my brother, “It’s Azriel.” he said. 

My heart stopped and my world quieted as I perched myself on a nearby chair, not trusting my legs to keep me upright. Not when my heart lay in the balance, the very reason I was alive.

“He was injured, severely. He may be dying y/n.” he said sadly, coming to stand before me. 

May be dying. Which meant he was alive, which meant there was still a chance. 

My head snaps up to him, a new fire in my gaze that no one had seen in six months. 

“Take me to him,” I ordered my brother as I stood to collect my cloak. 

“You’re asking me to take you, my sister, to the front lines. I won’t do it.” Rhys shakes his head. 

“I am going with or without you Rhys,” I say firmly, wrapping my cloak around my shoulders. 

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair before picking his swords up again and strapping them to his sides. With my hood over my head and my brother's hand at my back we made our way out into the night. Once we reached the wards at the edge of the camp we winnowed to the encampment near the frontlines.  

Immediately as we walked through the rows of tents and campfires I could tell that these males had seen hell. All of them looked significantly worse than the males at the camp we had just come from. Most of them were caked in mud and blood, some were drunk on whatever filled their cups. All of them were loud and rowdy and most likely celebrating their last nights in this life.  

Rhys led me through the camp, until we arrived at a lonely tent in the center. It was large and from the outside I could practically smell Azriel. I bolted for the entrance and threw open the flaps, my heart racing, unsure if I would find him alive or dead. 

But there he was, breathing. Leaning against the back of his bed with a large bandage over his left thigh. He was awake and refreshingly himself, as if nothing was truly wrong and most importantly he was alive. 

I run to him throwing my arms around his neck, “Oh Azriel,” I coo breathing him in. 

“Y/n?” he says, his mind clearly still foggy. 

I pull back to cup his face, whoever had healed him has cleaned him up, the small cut above his eyebrow already starting to heal, “Az,” I breathe. 

His hand comes to cup my face, “How are you here? This can’t be real,” his eyes search my face as if to try and wake up from a dream. 

I place a kiss on his lips, “I’m real, I’m here,” I assure him as tears spill from my eyes. “They told me you were dying.” 

“I am well, it was a deep cut but the healers say I’ll be okay,” he assures me as his eyes continue to take me in. 

I let my eyes do the same, taking in every cut and bruise on him, even the patched holes in his wings no doubt from arrows piercing the beautiful, leathery flesh. 

“Faebane?” Rhys’ voice croons from the entrance of the tent as he watches us, it seemed that his nerves were also settled upon seeing Azriel well. 

“Yep,” Azriel said nonchalantly, but his eyes told the truth of how happy he was to see my brother, or maybe how relieved. 

“Hurts like a bitch doesn’t it?” Rhys chuckles stepping into the tent and closing the flap. 

My eyes widened at his causal tone, “How can you both be so docile about this? He could’ve died.” I exclaim, looking Azriel over once more in case I missed any lingering wounds. 

Azriel's chest rumbles with a chuckle, “Shhh my love. Everything will be alright.” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “But what are you doing here? It isn’t safe.”

“The border of Velaris is almost breached,” Rhys started from behind me. “We couldn’t leave her and my mother there, it wasn’t safe.” 

“Mother is with father and I’m with Rhys. We found out you were injured and just a camp away and I asked him to take me to you.” I continue Rhys’ explanation. 

Azriel cuts Rhys a somewhat harsh look as if to say ‘why the hell would you take her somewhere so dangerous?’

“You needed to see each other,” Rhys explains further. “If anything were to happen to you and I didn’t let you two say goodbye, I would never forgive myself.”

Azriel’s shoulders softened in understanding before turning to me once more, “You have to go princess,” he said, eyes full of sorrow.

My breath hitches as I stumble back a little from where I sit next to him, “What? No, I won’t leave you,” I say resolutely.

He cups the side of my face, “Please it’s not safe here,” he eyes pleading as his voice falters. 

I go to argue but Rhys speaks up behind me, “He’s right y/n, It’s the most vulnerable camp we have.” my brother says, his words solemn. 

“I don’t care!” I exclaim turning back to brush Azriel’s hair from his face. “I’m not leaving him Rhys, we will be okay.”

Azriel’s eyes flare, “Look at me!” he shouts gesturing to his leg. “I can’t protect you here,” his voice is laced with frustration, not at my unwillingness to leave, but his inability to do the one thing he swore to always do, protect me. 

“Then I’ll die here with you!” I proclaim, fiercely. “If you cannot protect me, then you cannot protect yourself. Please Azriel, please don’t make me leave.” I cry lying down on his chest, gripping the leathers there, as if it might keep my brother from ripping me away.

“I can’t,” I sob as my words get caught in my throat. “I can’t lose you again I-” 

“Shhh,” Azriel coos, his hand stroking my hair as he pulls me into his chest. “You’ll stay here in my arms.” he assures me and I’m finally able to relax into his touch.  

“Y/n, I can’t stay here. I need to go back to my own troops and prepare them for tomorrow,” my brother said softly, not trying to persuade me to return, but to inform me of the increasing danger.

“I understand,” I say standing to say goodbye.

“I’ll come back for you tomorrow morning, before the troops march,” he said, his words tinged with sorrow. 

I take in the sight of my brother looking defeated, a look I so rarely saw on him. It broke me to realize I might never see him after this. If the enemy marched on this camp there would be no one to keep Azriel and I from the slaughter given his injury. 

“Okay,” I whispered, my voice cracking as I threw myself onto my beloved brother. 

Rhys said his goodbyes to Azriel, both of them not wanting to get too deep, say too much, for fear of manifesting defeat on both sides. When my brother exited the tent I took my spot next to Azriel on his large cot and waited for either death or the sunrise.  

Later in the night, the raucous from outside got louder and louder disturbing my sleep. When I raised my head from Azriel’s chest I found that his eyes remained open and fixed on the tent entrance, like he was ready to challenge anyone who dared to walk through despite his inability to walk. 

“Hey,” I smiled weakly, my voice shaky from sleep. 

“Hey,” he smiled back, pushing a hair from my face. 

I moved back the blanket to check the gash in his thigh. Lifting the white bandage, I could see that it was almost completely soaked through, if I left it that way he would never get better.

I throw my legs over the edge of the cot and search for my discarded cloak, “You need fresh bandages or you’ll get an infection. I’m going to go get you some.” 

“Y/n  don’t you dare leave this tent. There are war bound men out there looking for one last lay before they leave this world,” he pleads, reaching for my hand that’s just out of reach. 

“I’ll only be a moment Az,” I assure him before raising my hood and slipping out of the tent. 

I can hear him shouting my name as I exit, but his protests are quickly drowned out by the sound of drunken men. Azriel was right, these men were drunk and not in their right mind. But if that wound got infected and he died I would never forgive myself. So I kept my head down walking towards the medic tent I passed on my way in, ignoring rambunctious cheers and stumbling men. 

The light of the medic tent comes into view and relief washes over me swiftly before the rug is pulled out from under me and I run smack into a broad chest.

“Well what do we have here?” laughs a drunken male. I can smell the sweat and alcohol on him. 

“Looks like we have a little birdy who lost her way,” laughs a male from my right.

My feet take two steps back before bumping into another mountain of a male. His hand comes up to rip the hood off my head, if all three of them recognized me as their princess they didn’t show it. My pulse began to race as I frantically looked for a way out of this hell. 

“What’s a beauty like you doing out here?” crooned the male behind me.

I put on a stoic face, “I’m leaving if you’ll excuse me,” I state, but before I can even take my first step I feel large hands grasping my shoulders holding me in place.

“Whoever bought you for the night must’ve paid a pretty penny,” jested the man to my right. 

“What do ya say darlin? Are you gonna give these brave men a proper send off?” the man behind me says low into my ear as he grabs me around the middle, plucking me off the ground.

I start kicking trying to break free, my screamed muffled by his hand over my mouth. All the trashing in the world wasn’t enough to break their hold as the other two males descended upon me, as if they were willing to take me right there in the middle of camp. 

“I’ll thank you to take your hands off my princess,” drawled a voice from behind me. 

The eyes of the three men surrounding me went wide at whatever figure stood behind us, all three of them scurrying off to gods knew where. I turn slowly to face whoever my rescuer was, and I’m met with a mountain of sheer muscle and bright red siphons. 

“Cassian!” I cried running to throw my arms around the burly warrior, I hadn’t seen him in over a year. 

He hugs me tighter, the kind of bear hug only he could provide. It was clear to me that he missed me just as much as I had missed him. When he releases me he bends down to cup my face, and wipe away the tears I didn’t know had fallen. 

“Princess, what are you doing here? Where is your brother?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“Rhys brought me here but he’s gone now, he’s gone back to his own camp but he’ll be back tomorrow,” I say as Cassian continues to wipe away the fresh tears, this time tears of happiness and not fear.

Cassain stands up as if to assess for danger before tossing an arm around me, “Stay with me, I’ll keep you safe. Where is Azriel? I was told he was injured,” he asks, remaining vigilant.  

“He’s okay, I was just getting him fresh bandages,” I report, pointing Cassian towards the medic tent. 

“He let you leave his tent?!” he balks corralling me inside the tent. 

“Uh, no. Not really,” I laugh nervously. 

He rolls his eyes and grabs a few armfuls of bandages before shoving them into my arms. We weave through drunken men who do a good job of staying at least three feet away from me, no doubt seeing The Lord of Bloodshed trailing me. 

I throw open the flap of Azriel’s tent, running to his side at once. 

“Oh thank the mother,” he sighs in relief upon seeing me. 

I laugh at his fussing and begin dressing his wound, “Look who I found,” I say nodding my head to where Cassian stands behind me.

“I believe I found you,” Cassian corrects me, sheer amusement in his voice. 

“Cass!” Azriel beams as his brother gives him an affectionate smack on the shoulder. 

“Brother you look a little worse for wear,” Cassian chuckles looking at the wound I was currently cleaning.

“I’ve been better,” Azriel winces as I wrap the wound in a clean bandage.

“I heard what happened and came as soon as I could. Ran right into your princess here, causing trouble as usual,” the warrior chortles beside me making me roll my eyes. 

“What?” Azriel asked, more alert than he previously was. 

“You were right, the men out there are assholes,” I scoff, tying off the fresh bandage. 

“Did they touch you?” he inquired, his eyes ablaze. 

“Az it’s fine Cass was there,” I assure him placing a hand on his shoulder feeling the palpable tension there, like he was ready to pounce.

“Y/n did they put their hands on you?” he asks again, this time more unyielding than before. 

“Yes but look at me, I'm fine!” I say with an exasperated sigh. 

Azriel’s eyes flit to Cassian as he extends his hand to his brother, like he needs support. 

“Cassian help me up,” he orders, already scooting to the edge of the cot.

“Azriel don’t you dare!” I shout smacking his chest. “Enough with the territorial, Illyrian nonsense! You’re injured, you’re going to get yourself killed!” 

The shadowsingers body slumps back into bed in defeat with a huff, clearly upset he couldn’t pummel the shit out of a couple of lowly males who weren’t worth it in the first place. 

Cassian’s chuckle reverberated through the tent, “Good to see you two picking up right where you left off,” he joked, remembering all the times we had similar quarrels. 

It was the early hours of morning, and while the sun was still hiding behind the mountains, it would be rearing its ugly head soon enough. The partying and cheering from outside the tent had died down. Men either passing out drunk or choosing sleep over thoughts of what might happen tomorrow.

Cassian snored softly in the corner of the tent in the chair he took up. He had elected to stay behind and watch over us at Azriel’s request and I was smart enough to not argue with two Illyrians. 

I layed on Azriel’s chest, waiting for sleep to claim me but it never came. Sleep didn’t find Azriel as well, his hand twirling through the strands of my unbound hair as we sat in silence. 

“You know what kept me alive out there on that battlefield after I was injured?” Azriel whispered into the night. 

“A healer that I’ll be paying a very handsome bonus to?” I laugh squeezing my arms around him a bit.

“No, you” he said seriously rubbing my shoulder 

“Me?” I gawk, sitting up so I could look him in the eye. 

“Yes, you,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to my forehead.  “When I was downed they thought I was dead. Horses and men clamored over me. It was all so loud, such a blur but then I closed my eyes and there you were.” he said looking at the canopy of the tent, as if remembering the event.

“It was a memory from the first time I saw you, before I even knew who you were. You were standing in the snow waiting for Rhys and your mother and there was snow all over your hair. It was the first snow of the year and you were entranced just like you always are.” He chuckles, pulling me closer. “But I knew then and there that I had to open my eyes. Had to get up. Even if it was just to see your face one more time, kiss your lips, tell you I love you. I woke up in this tent reeling from it. I could’ve sworn you were here, in the vision I felt your touch. And then hours later you storm in here with your fussing and worrying.” he says. 

I feel a tear roll down my face as I cup his face, pulling his gaze from the canopy to me. I pulled his letter out of my dress pocket, the paper flopping about from how many times it had been folded and unfolded. 

“I kept this letter with me every single day. I must’ve read it a hundred times, hells I might even have it memorized.” I laugh, shaking the paper in my hands. “I never once gave up hope that I would see you again. No matter what happens after tonight I still won’t give up hope. I know I’ll find you again.”

Azriel chuckles, pressing his forehead to mine, “I’d crawl home to you if I had to princess,” he says resolutely. 

I wake the next morning to the sound of men moving about outside the tent and an empty cot. The covers before me are still disheveled from where Azriel slipped out from under me. I threw the blankets off the bed and pulled my cloak from where I set it last night, fastening it to my shoulders. 

When I toss open the flaps of the tent I’m momentarily blinded by the bright sun before the sight of men collecting their weapons and armor come into focus. My eyes darted frantically for a trace of Azriel, surely he couldn’t have gone far, surely he wasn’t going to fight today. 

“Azriel!” I call out roaming around looking for a flash of a blue siphon. 

Heavy footsteps come up behind me grabbing my arm and I turn around to be met with Cassian. I looked back to the tent and realized he had been keeping watch outside. 

“Cass, where is he?” I ask him, but all I’m met with is a heavy gaze from Cassian. 

“Y/n?” calls a voice from behind me and I turn to see my father, mother and brother walking towards us.  

My mother runs over to me taking me into her arms and holding me close. It was clear to me that they had found Rhys and instantly questioned why I wasn’t under his care. 

“Thank the gods,” my mother breathed taking in my unharmed appearance. 

“You smell like that Illyrian brute,” my father sneered and I knew right away he ment Azriel. 

“He could have been dying,” I reply with equal venom, my gaze narrowing at the man who went through such great lengths to keep us apart. 

“Of course, why do you think I sent him to the frontlines again today?” he scoffed, already turning his attention to the hordes of men preparing for battle. 

My blood turned to ice in my veins and my heart plummeted. 

“What?” I cried looking at Rhys who wore a solemn look on his face. “Rhys, you knew?” 

My brother lets out a shaky breath, “I knew before we even arrived last night. When he tried to get you to leave I used daemati to tell him he was being sent to the front lines. He knew it would be the last time he ever saw you.” he confessed.

He knew. 

Haste clouds my mind and I turn to run in the same direction with the rest of the men, my father and brother joining their ranks without another word. My mother catches me around the shoulders and pulls me into her embrace as my knees hit the muddy ground beneath us. 

“No, no, no, no no!” I scream trying to run to the front, as if I could keep Azriel from death myself. 

“The battle is not yet over sweetheart, he may still live,” My mother coos stroking my hair. 

“He was injured mother,” my words come out as sobs as I cling to her cloak. 

“Have faith,” she pleads, kneeling on the ground with me, trying to calm me as best she can. 

“Azriel,” I cry. “My Azriel.” 

I give into my mothers embrace and after a while she ushers me toward a tent. She wipes my face with a cool towel trying to calm my swollen eyes, but it’s no use. Every war cry, and ear rupturing blast feels like the one that takes Azriel’s life. Each one sends me back into a mess of shallow breaths and tears. 

Only when the battle cries fade, and the blasts of siphons and raw power cease do my tears stop. Soldiers and Illyrains come filtering back to the camp, some whole, some being carried by their peers. My brother and Cassain are the first to find us. Rhys was unharmed, but Cassian was wheeled to a healer immediately. Thankfully, she claimed he would be alright.

I took to the masses, weaving through men making their way back occasionally running into some as my eyes were focused on the skies. Searching amongst the hordes of Illyrians flying in. If Azriel was anywhere it would be there. 

“Azriel!” I shouted, my voice going hoarse from the screaming I had been doing. 

More and more Illyrians fly overhead, not one of them resembling my Azriel. If he was amongst them he would see me standing out like a sore thumb amongst the rabble, going against the grain of everyone before me.   

“AZRIEL!” I call out even louder, cupping my hands around my mouth as if it will help. 

“Y/N!” 

I hear my voice being called, not from the skies, but from the ground. My eyes snap to the crowds before me before I see a pair of wings over the top of a million heads. 

“AZRIEL?!” I call out moving in the direction of the voice that called to me. 

Then I see him, my Azriel. The wound on his leg is split open and his wings are pierced with a dozen arrows which explains his inability to fly. But he’s there, and he’s whole, and alive.

“Y/n!” he calls out to me again. 

I pick up the skirts of my dress running to him, my shoulders bumping into all the men I weave around. I jump into his arms feeling him pick me up, pulling me impossibly close. 

“Oh Az,” I breathe running a hand through his hair as my feet hit the ground again, his eyes assessing me for any injury. “My love, I thought I would never see you again,” I cried. 

His thumbs wipe away my tears as he cups my face, “Death, nor a thousand evil men could keep me from you,” he smiled before pulling me into his chest. 

As we hold each other, the chaos around us fades into the background. For a moment, time stands still, and all that matters is that we are together. He was here, in my arms and he was alive. Both of us were, and there were many more years ahead of us. Many, many more years. 

Epilogue: third person pov

Rhysand and Feyre stood in the living room of the townhouse. The world outside was near silent as Velaris slept, having spent the day celebrating solstice. Even the faelights in the home seemed to have dimmed. Members of the Inner Circle worked to clean the dessert plates off the table where they had their magnificent feast.

“And that’s their story,” Rhys finished saying to his mate, rubbing her shoulder as they continued to admire the scene before them.

On the large couch before them y/n was asleep on top of an even sleepier Azriel, his arms, legs and wings all but draping off the edges just to keep her comfortable. 

When Feyre stumbled into the adorable scene it had occurred to her that she had never heard the story of how the two came to be. Rhysand was more than happy to tell her the tale of forbidden love and near death experiences. 

“They’ve been through so much,” Feyre said, leaning into Rhysand’s touch. 

“They truly have,” Rhys nods, pressing a kiss to his mate's temple. “But now they get to eat too much turkey every solstice and skip out on dish duty so I think it worked out okay.” he chuckles. 

Feyre slaps him on the chest playfully but laughs right along with them watching as the pair lounges on the couch, mouths open and completely and utterly relaxed. The High Lord and Lady turn from the living room to rejoin the rest of their family in the kitchen. There would be time to make fun of the princess and the shadowsinger tomorrow. 

They had all the time in the world.

my masterlist

Permanent Taglist: @fides25, @dissociated-always @crystalferret202 , @kennedy-brooke , @sunshineangel-reads , @lilah-asteria , @evergreenlark , @cheneyq

Taglist: @andreperez11

[drenched-in-sunlight]

I didn’t want to write this out this early because I’m sure there are even more to discover, but people are already reblogging my previous art of Marika and Messmer & saying Marika doesn’t love him, so I write this out as a guideline that all my art is drawn with this theory in mind.

(While the DLC has changed the way I feel about certain events and characters, my view on Messmer and Marika remain unchanged. In fact, I think Marika skyrockets into my most fav in the game now. lol.)

* Beware of endgame spoiler under the cut

Please note that I wrote this without providing the item descriptions I use to develop this theory, because I want to make a proper post later with all evidence after I’ve played through all of the DLC. But those items exist and could be found in game.

Here is how I view Messmer and Marika’s relationship (he is her most beloved child):

For starter:

*the winged serpent - Messmer’s symbol, is considered a wise creature and is his friend. It is NOT the snakes that are viewed as traitors to the Erdtree, since the Serpent Crest shield was even made to commemorate his crusade. It’s also DIFFERENT from the evil snake he was born with.

*this is not to defend their actions, they are still horrible people, but I want to show that they have depths and are well-written characters with stories and emotions. My unhinged mother and son duo 😔✊

—-

I like the poetry in Marika starting the war against the Fire Giants in part as revenge for Messmer (it’s implied the Fell God is the Outer God that cursed him / it’s outright stated that he hated his fire), & now Messmer leading the purge against the Hornsent as revenge for Marika and her people (it’s implied the disappearance of her village has sth to do with the spirit calling rite the people at the Tower were doing).

I actually think Marika raised Messmer in her home village for a while too. She didn’t throw him to LoS alone, she was raising him in secret in her home, fearing people will judge him for carrying a malevolent snake. The two Tree Sentinels before the village dropped Marika’s Blessing. Yes. the Blessing she made specifically for him.

When you zoom in the Marika statue in his boss room, she was smiling when hugging him. I think ppl tend to forget that Marika, like Malenia and Miquella, carries tree/ foliage motif. RADAGON IS WEAK TO FIRE. If Messmer was cursed with fire and it started to manifest around him … of course she couldn’t embrace him anymore. It was physically hurting her, and Messmer wouldn’t have wanted to cause her pain as well. The soldier ghost at Ensis castle was begging Marika to embrace her child again, implying it’s sth that he yearns for. But couldn’t have now. Because of his damned curse.

If you look at the story that way, Messmer’s death dialogue makes perfect sense. It’s his lament that he’s gone from Marika’s precious (presumably firstborn) child, a source of her happiness, to a curse against her (*point to Radagon’s hair as another connection to Fire Giants and their curse). Robbing her (and himself) of the close bond they used to share.

It’s why Messmer alone has more blessings *directly* from Marika than any other Demigods. His army also receives more blessings than any other faction on the Lands Between, and they all refer to Marika as dearest Mother and Fair Mother.

Hell, after Messmer, Marika couldn’t connect to any of her other children again. This is like the ultimate doomed mother and son. Whatever I expected from them from the beginning, Fromsoft cranked it to eleven. Jfc.

[littlexdeaths]

pushing up daisies - e.m.

kas eddie munson x fem reader

treat me bad like i’m no one's daughter,

body bag, baby, i’m a goner…

18+ ONLY MDNI

warnings: ANGSTTTTT, mentions of eddie’s death and the upside down, canon divergent (reader is chosen as vecna’s last victim instead of max), established relationship, soft!dom eddie, biting/blood drinking, lil bit of jealous eddie, public sex, unprotected piv sex, cream pie

based on love is a… by pvris

word count: 2.9k

a/n: this is honestly something i am so incredibly proud of, so i hope you all enjoy it. a big thank you to my babes @undead-supernova @strangerstilinski and @lokis-army-77 for helping me with parts of this fic, i love you all so much 💕

The sky was dark, storm clouds rolling in as you trudged through the rusted gates of Hawkin’s memorial cemetery.

Only the booming sounds of thunder and your labored breathing filled the morning air. Rain droplets poured steadily onto your head, dripping down the collar of your rain jacket. The clothing seemingly useless as the heavy rain soaked you to the bone.

The wild daisies clutched in your fist were beginning to wilt as your eyes scanned over the sea of headstones. Your throat tightens once you find his, now wishing that Dustin had been lying to you.

The words BURN IN HELL FREAK were still visible, despite the male’s best effort to clean them off the previous day. It had been less than a week since the funeral, but that was plenty of time for someone to vandalize his headstone. You hated this town.

Reaching the now desecrated grave you sigh, gently running your fingers along the top of the headstone. The rough edges scraped against your fingertips as you knelt down in front of it. Letting your hand fall into your lap, glancing down at the sad excuse of a bouquet in the other.

He deserved more than this… he deserved more than anything this shitty town had to offer.

“Hey Eds,” you whisper, despite the desolation surrounding you.

You carefully set the daisies onto the ground, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill past your waterline. The white of the flowers contrasted sharply against the dirt, which was quickly turning to mud beneath your knees. But you didn’t mind.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to the funeral,” guilt laces your shaky voice as you tug your lower lip between your teeth. “I just… I couldn’t see you like that.”

Despite the feeble attempts that Dustin and Robin made to coax you out of bed that day, nothing was going to change your mind. You didn’t want to remember him that way, as you were already grappling with the image of him dying in Dustin’s arms.

A memory that haunts your dreams every night.

“I hope you can forgive me,” you mumble, reaching into your pocket to pull out his lucky set of dice. A sad smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you begin to place them along his headstone, “I brought a peace offering.”

A loud crack has your eyes flicking up, body jolting in surprise as a bolt of lightning strikes a tree in the distance. The impact splits the trunk down the middle, the wind picking up speed and taking your flowers with it.

The torn petals spread across the unkempt ground, the gesture now ruined. Just like everything else you touched.

You blame yourself for his death, knowing he would still be here if Vecna hadn't chosen you. You would live through a thousand years in a prison of your own mind, let that monster drain you of your entire existence— if it meant Eddie would have lived.

“It’s all my fault,” you don’t stop the tears from flowing down your cheeks, staring intently at the stone in front of you.

Edward Lee Munson, now at peace.

Those bold words stare back at you, mirroring the stone that sat just a few feet besides his. One you had become very familiar with over the years.

Elizabeth Ann Munson.

Beloved wife and mother, may she rest in peace.

While hers were more faded, they still brought you a small sense of comfort. Knowing that Eddie was with her now, he was safe. But that comfort wouldn’t heal the hole that had been punched through your chest.

“I miss you,” you hiccup, your tears steadily flowing now, the moisture beginning to blur your vision. “It w-wasn’t supposed to b-be you.”

Your soft cries soon morphed into pained sobbing, your shoulders hunched over as you dug your fists into the earth. You were grateful that Steve had let you come alone, not wanting anyone to see you like this.

In the short time that Eddie had been gone, you felt suffocated. With Vecna still alive and plotting, you were constantly being watched. Your friends not knowing if the demon, creature, whatever he was— would come back to claim you for good.

Part of you hoped for it, mentally pleaded to be taken away too. Because a life without Eddie, wasn’t a life you wanted to live.

A loud scream pierces the air, and it takes you a moment to realize the sound has come from you. Your chest heaves from the force of it, allowing your head to tilt back as your eyes slip shut. Enjoying how the rain soaks into your pores, washing away any trace of your tears.

You sit like that for a while, as the storm continues to wage on around you. Silently wishing that the rain would wash you away too. Dirt is caked under your fingernails, mud coated your shins and the hem of your skirt. You knew you couldn’t sit out here much longer, as your teeth started to chatter from the cold.

Your head falls forward, allowing yourself one last look at his headstone. The red paint has stained it horribly, tainting the last thing he had left in this world.

“I’ll come back tomorrow and clean this shit up, I promise.” You say, lifting up your pinky towards the block of stone. You hold it there for a moment before your hand falls back to your side.

“I love you, Eddie,” you sniffle, wiping your nose on your sleeve as you start to stand. Turning around as you begin to wipe the dirt from your knees.

As you take a step forward your shoe begins to sink into the wet soil, almost swallowing your foot whole. An annoyed huff leaves your lips as you try to pull it back out. But any attempt is stopped short as a cold hand wraps around your other ankle. A deep groan echoes in your ears as your eyes widen in fear.

This was it… Vecna’s come back for you.

While everything inside you begs you to run, your body remains frozen. Hyperventilating as the ground beneath you begins to shift, your feet sinking in deeper as another body fights its way out from the earth. A strained grunt of your name snaps you out of your petrified state, recognizing the voice immediately.

This was a cruel joke, knowing he was taking on Eddie’s form just to hurt you more. So you decided you wouldn’t stick around to witness it.

If you were going to die, it would be by his own hands.

“No!” You shout, yanking your ankle out of that icy grip as you make a break for it.

You don’t make it very far though, only reaching the edge of his grave before you lose your footing. The tip of your shoe catches on a tree root, sending your body tumbling forward onto the wet ground. The impact knocks the wind out of you as you struggle to take a breath in. Your nails dig into the grass for purchase as you try to crawl away.

The feeling of two hands wrapping around each ankle has you screaming, thrashing about as you're dragged back towards the grave. The male flips you around, unable to hear his broken pleas over the sound of your own shrieks. You keep your eyes focused on the storm clouds above your heads, desperate for some kind of distraction. You wouldn’t look at him, you couldn’t.

This wasn’t your Eddie.

A dirty hand grips onto your chin, tilting your head down as he wedges his body between your thighs. Forcing you to face him, his dark eyes ablaze with fury— a sharp contrast to the way he gently cradles your jaw.

“I’m not in the mood for games… just get on with it,” you snap, letting your eyes slip shut as you wait for that familiar pain to shoot up your spine and through your skull.

But nothing happens.

You crack an eye open only to find the brunette staring back down at you, confusion coating his features.

“… get on with what, sweetheart?” His voice cracks, the look on his face mirroring his tone.

“Killing me,” you state, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

There’s a moment of silence between you before he starts laughing, the booming sound instantly melts your insides. It was something you thought you would never hear again.

“I guess my entrance was very Night of the Living Dead, huh?” He teases with a wide grin as his head dips lower— his drenched curls sticking to your cheek.

When you feel Eddie’s lips connect with the base of your throat, your breath hitches. Heat pools in your middle as he inhales, groaning deeply. The sound vibrates against your skin, sending shockwaves through your system.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he hums, his hands running down the length of your sides. The male grips onto the soaked fabric of your dress, slowly inching it up until his palms are splayed across the tops of your thighs.

“You’re so warm,” he continues, his nose grazing along your collarbone as you grip onto the shoulders of his oversized suit jacket.

“H-How are you here?” You question with a small whine as he lightly nips at your throat, chuckling deeply.

“You brought me here, sweetheart.” His words are spoken reassuringly, but they don’t offer you any comfort.

“So, this is a dream,” there’s no question in your voice, only a trace of melancholy.

But Eddie notices it immediately, his head lifting from the crook of your neck. His dark eyes met yours for a moment, a look of determination flashing through his irises.

“Does this feel like a dream to you, baby?”

Before you can reply, his lips brush against yours. Any worries that this wasn’t real melt away with each press of his mouth on yours. Silencing the fear that this will all disappear the moment you pull apart. The storm rages on as he kisses you with an electricity that rivals the lightning above you.

“Definitely not a dream,” you mumble, earning a soft chuckle from him.

You swallow the sound as you kiss him deeper, his ringed fingers gliding further up your thighs and under your dress. Your own slip underneath the collar of his jacket, sliding it off of his shoulders. Letting the rain soak into his white dress shirt, the fabric clinging to the muscles in his back.

Your hands quickly rake through his hair, tugging on the drenched curls as his mouth trails along your jaw. Continuing lower as he sucks harshly on your skin, enjoying the way your body responds to each press of his lips. A breathy whine spills past your own as his fingers reach the elastic band of your panties.

The tension between you continues to mount as you eagerly drag his mouth back to yours. Eddie’s fingers curl under the waistband, snapping the lace against your skin. You barely register the tearing of that same fabric, too preoccupied with his lips on yours. The clinking of his belt soon follows, aiding him in pushing his slacks down his thighs.

“Please,” you plead, lifting your hips against his. Not wanting to waste another second to have him buried inside you.

The brunette gently shushes you, pulling back for a moment as he rubs the tip of cock through your drenched folds. His pupils dilate as he takes in the way your lips part under his thumb. A shaky breath escapes them as he lines himself up with your entrance.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he coos, caressing your cheek as he guides his hips forward. Slowly slipping into your awaiting heat with a strangled groan, “I’ll take care of you.”

His actions are gentle, as your bodies become reacquainted with each other. Eddie guides your hands above your head, fingers lacing together in the dirt. Your thighs are snug around his hips, desperate to keep him as close as humanly possible.

He rocks his hips into yours at a deep but leisurely pace, letting him savor every moment he spends inside you. As neither of you know what will happen after this is all over, it’s not something you want to think about.

Being here, in this moment, with him is the only thing that mattered to you.

The ferocity of the storm drowns out the cries that leave your lips, much different from the agonized ones you had let out earlier. Everything feels heightened, pleasure coursing through your veins with each stroke of his cock.

There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor as his eyes glaze over with an almost dangerous glint. Similar to that of a predator who had locked eyes on his prey. Your heart rate increases as a deep growl permeates the air. His fingers slip out of yours, instead digging into the soil beside you as his body goes rigid.

The brown of his irises disappear from view as he squeezes them shut, worry beginning to fill your chest. Your hands reach up to cradle his face, feeling how tightly his jaw was clenched underneath your fingertips.

“Eds,” you call softly, but the male remains frozen above you— a statue of Adonis.

He was losing control, ready to slip through your fingers. But you had already lost him once, and you weren't about to let it happen again.

“Stay with me,” you implore, softly pressing your lips against the furrow between his eyes. Brushing the dirt from his cheeks as you continue to trail tender kisses across his face.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he finally speaks as your lips hover over his, your breath mingling together.

“You won’t,” you promise as your nose nudges against his.

Eddie seems reluctant as he opens his eyes, crimson beginning to bleed into his irises. “But there’s something different…” he trails off, searching for any trace of fear reflecting in your eyes. “I’m different.”

“I don’t care,” you don’t miss a beat, capturing his lips with yours once more.

He moans into your mouth, hands encircling your waist as you lift your hips, encouraging him to thrust deeper inside you. Your tongue slips past his lips, gliding along his front teeth. Coming to a sudden realization as you feel the pointed edge of his canines.

Logically you should feel frightened, but it seems to have the opposite effect on you. Your kisses become frantic as your walls flutter around his shaft, the sensation causing him to moan out your name. The pace of his hips quickens as your nails dig into the drenched dress shirt covering his back.

Your lips separate as you gasp, his cock hitting that spot that has you seeing stars. The both of you falling closer to that precipice with each thrust of his hips. But it’s not quite enough, needing to connect with him on a new level.

Eddie peers down at you in awe as your head falls back, baring your throat to him. “Do it,” you insist, guiding his mouth towards your neck.

You can sense his hesitation, his lips ghosting over your skin instead.

“Please, Eddie,” you beg, his groan vibrating against your throat. “I want you to.”

The sincerity in your tone squashes any doubts still lingering in his head. Allowing his teeth to graze against your tender flesh, testing his resolve.

“I trust you,” is what he needs to hear before he sinks his teeth into your neck.

Your body arches into his chest, trembling as that familiar wave of euphoria crashes over you— pulling you under completely. Eddie drinks from you greedily, continuing to work you through your high as his own steadily approaches.

“Taste so fucking good, sweetheart,” he moans as his teeth detach themselves from your throat.

His tongue darts out, lapping up the blood that begins to trickle down the curve of your neck. The sight of his mark on you is almost enough to send him over the edge. But your pretty whines are the final nail in his coffin, hips stuttering as he fills you with his warmth.

“I love you.”

Those three little words are whispered against your collarbone as the male collapses onto you. A content smile spreads across your face as your fingers card themselves through his curls. The both of you soaking up this moment of bliss for as long as you can.

The rain above your heads has finally slowed to a drizzle, the pitter patter of the droplets matching your heartbeat. You don’t know how long you laid there like this, bodies intertwined on his grave.

But it didn’t matter, as long as it was him you were entangled with.

“I love you too,” you reply a while later, the male humming as he lifts his face from the crook of your neck, crimson smeared across his lips.

A fond look falls over his features as he leans down to kiss you again, the metallic taste of you lingering on his mouth. A thought suddenly occurs to you, causing you to giggle against his lips.

“What’s so funny, sweetness?” He muses, pulling away from you with a raised brow. You tuck a loose curl behind his ear, a teasing smile playing on your lips.

“Just trying to think of how to explain this to Steve.” You watch in amusement as a scowl appears on his face.

“Poor thing is gonna think I was mauled by a wild animal,” you tease, gesturing to the bite mark on your neck.

You see a flash of jealousy in his eyes, a low growl rumbles through his chest as his lips reattach themselves to your throat— causing you to squeal.

“Harrington’s just gonna have to deal with it,” he answered smugly, hugging your body closer to his.

The both of you completely unaware of the looming figure watching you from the tree line.

tagging some lovelies: @xxbimbobunnyxx @munsonhoneybaby @rowanswriting @voyeurmunson @nailbatanddungeon @vecslut @likedovesinthewnd @lofaewrites

[swordgrace]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ cregan stark x fem!targtower!reader.

SYNOPSIS: a blissful marriage to an honorable man — it is more than you could’ve asked for. with the heir on the way, you make a request of your husband.

anonymous request. unofficial sequel to wolfsblood, dragonsblood.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anonymous.

{ WORD COUNT: 6.1K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), overprotective cregan, reader is pretty horny for cregan (valid), pregnancy, reader is pregnant, sexual activities while pregnant, cregan is a father in his mind, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, cregan loves munching, vaginal fingering, teasing, biting, hair-pulling kink, obvious size difference + size kink, slight face-riding, lots of cregan admiring in this one-shot, very soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: I love writing for Cregan so much, y’all don’t understand the depths of my adoration for him. I churned this out pretty quickly, but I loved writing it, Father Cregan is the best! I hope that you all enjoy, & thank you for your support! ❤️

𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐩, 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐜𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬.

It was easier to breathe, you’d realized — King’s Landing had always been so stifling and pungent, the population too thick, the air acrid. Here, in the North, it was sprawling with open spaces, regions of untouched forest and unsettled countryside.

The bite of the harsh, Northern chill was not an easy adjustment to make after a lengthy life spent in Southern regions — the gnawing wind often seared your extremities, and it was not any easier on Silverwing. Fire ran through your veins, tempered by your tender heart and kindly disposition.

Your beloved husband would not have it any other way.

What had started as an unsteady, tumultuous betrothal marked by obvious bitterness from your family and wariness from his own House, had blossomed into a fruitful union. You couldn’t have asked for a better partner, and it made you realize how fortunate you were.

Snow was uncommon in most of the South, yet it remained constant in the North, mountains blanketed in endless horizons of white. It was a particularly icy day, winter winds stinging your cheeks, prickling your flesh with its pinpricks.

Mounds of pale, grayish fur swaddled your form, lined in the finest fleece, downy and plush against your skin. The trodden path to the Godswood was marked by frozen dirt, dusted over with a fresh layer of snowfall. Sprinkles of crystalline drops fell from the cloudy skies, and your breath emerged in hot wisps of air.

Lilac hues drifted toward the mountainous form of your husband, whose back was turned to you, swathed in the dappled pelt of a direwolf. Ice hung from his shoulder, a massive longsword of Valyrian Steel, an heirloom passed down through generations of House Stark.

Someday soon, it will pass to your firstborn son.

You recalled the night that you were wed, beneath the crimson leaves of the Weirwood Tree. It was serene, a moonlit dusk that struck the snow with an ethereal glow, your hands bound as you recanted your vows. It had been some moons now since that day, and you had only felt joy since then.

Cregan listened to the light crunch of snow beneath your footfalls as they reverberated throughout the Godswood, the pond frozen-over with a layer of ice. Pale bark marked with a foreign face peered back at him — this was a place that he and Rickon visited many times.

Before his little brother had passed, they pretended to fight wars here, forge their weapons, sticks found from the forest floor, and envision themselves as Knights. He could still feel his brother sometimes, his presence a whisper in the blood-red leaves, somewhere within the forest’s song.

Religion was a complicated thing for you. Your mother wielded the Faith of the Seven like a crudely-worn shortsword, letting it strike to her advantage even when it was rusty, at best. You had little interest in it, and Cregan seemed to respect your growing distance from your old roots. The Old Gods were his — you had nothing.

Inklings of snow drifted from the pale skies, growing darker as evening approached. The North became unyieldingly harsh after the sun began to wane, the sting of biting wind swirling around you, seeping into your bones. You were rather cold, but persisted for Cregan.

“Ser Rodrick said that I might find you here,” Silence dissipated, filled with the sound of your voice, as soft as feathers, a soothing balm. You stepped closer, beneath the boughs of the great tree, the canopy thick with vermillion leaves. “How are you faring?”

With Winter approaching, spreading its cold, brittle tendrils across the North, Cregan’s duties had increased tenfold. Preparing his people for winter, ensuring that food was plentiful, that they were safe — it was the burden of leadership, but there was no one better suited for it in your eyes.

“Well enough,” Cregan murmured, storm-colored hues drifting over the Weirwood tree before they turned to you, completely and utterly transfixed. You stole every wisp of air from his lungs with your beauty, clad in the trappings of his people. “I apologize for running off.”

An amiable smile crossed your features as you reached for your husband, slipping a gloved palm against the crook of his arm. “You needn’t apologize, husband. You are owed your solitude, and I wouldn’t dare tell you otherwise.” You have his bicep a gentle squeeze.

Cregan’s gaze softened, sparkling with a warmth reserved only for you, his beloved. Your presence always seemed to melt away his hardened exterior, but he much preferred it that way. He stepped closer, towering above you in all of his indomitable glory, craning down to press a kiss against your brow.

The gloved leather of his hand moved to cup your abdomen, and the growing life within. The joyous news of your pregnancy had been the talk of the North, the new Lady Stark, preparing to birth an heir of Winterfell. Those thick furs you wore obscured your belly quite well.

“I should be asking you how you fare, carrying our child,” Cregan insisted, gingerly caressing around your stomach with the pride of a doting husband. “Here you are, walking all this way to the Godswood, when it is I who should be by your side.” If there was one word to describe Cregan, it was overprotective.

Gods, he was attentive — if he did leave your side, he ensured that you were well looked-after, under the watchful protection of his guardsmen. You couldn’t fault your husband for his safeguarding nature, given that it was to be your firstborn.

Sometimes he forgot that you were a dragon-rider.

“Being beneath the open sky has done me a world of good, husband,” You mused, canting your head to one side. You were not completely round and waddling just yet — halfway through, as the Maester stated. “I cannot stand to look at that dreadful cobblestone for days on-end.”

Cregan did not protest, nor invalidate your claims. He was not the one carrying a child — he did not have a right to speak on behalf of you. A shiver rolled down your spine, due to the bitter chill of the wind, coupled with the encroaching snowfall.

Instead, he reached for your jaw, cupping your face within the roughened texture of his leather-clad palm, presenting you with a kiss. It was kept brief, yet the ardor lingered, as strong as a burning flame. “You are shivering, beloved. Let us return to the Keep.” He rumbled, shielding you beneath his cloak.

A respite from the cold would be welcome. Even if you possessed the blood of the Dragon, you did not fare well in such blisteringly glacial conditions. The thick cover of your husband’s cloak brought a sense of comfort, coupled with the natural heat that radiated from him.

Snow crunched beneath his heavy footfalls, your own masked by his boots. Cregan made sure to guide you every step of the way, hovering with his impressive shadow. “I have been contemplating a name for our child.” You spoke softly, a smile toying upon your lips.

“Have you?” Cregan appeared appeased, a stoic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t know if we are to have a son or a daughter.” He remarked, letting your hand wrap around the bulk of his forearm, guiding you through the Godswood.

“Perhaps not, but I wanted you to hear,” Such ideas had been stirring around within your mind for weeks, and with Cregan so preoccupied, you hadn’t broached the topic of conversation. “Gilliane, after your mother, should we have a daughter, and … Rickon.” You hesitated. “Should we have a son.”

Cregan’s steps began to slow, and he looked upon you with such love and devotion that it was nearly overwhelming. He couldn’t have loved you anymore if he tried — and he had tried. Towering over you, he pressed a kiss against the top of your head, one that blossomed with fondness.

You gave him the greatest honor of all — that of fatherhood, and now, you had bestowed upon him sentimental names, those of his family. Love flourished within his storm-colored hues, and he seemed to soften at your words. “You would honor me beyond words, wife. Do you not wish to pay tribute to your own family?”

Placing a hand over the growing swell of your stomach, you seemed somewhat indifferent to talk of your family. Helaena and Daeron were the exceptions in this, but it did not pain you any less. “I pay tribute by carrying our child,” You replied, your smile threadbare. “That is enough.”

Solemn, Cregan simply nodded, understanding your strained relationship with the family you had left behind in King’s Landing. From what you told him and from what he discerned, you seemed much happier here, liberated and free of such poisonous clutches. “Of course.” A soft rumble reverberated throughout his chest.

Winterfell’s snow-laden gates were now within reach, as guards in Stark tabards harkened the return of its Lord and Lady. He thoroughly enjoyed watching you interact with the denizens underneath his protection — you often greeted them with smiles and laughter.

He watched you grow into your station as Lady Stark, a growth that showed such promise. You had been shy around Northerners at first, but you now walked as if you had been in Winterfell your whole life. Cregan kept you close, his stance that of a protective husband, hovering above you with his hulking stature.

The Keep was close, and you could feel the crackling warmth of the hearth lick across your skin in the forefront of your mind. Cregan was characteristically stalwart, keeping you wedged against his side, swaddled in the thick furs of the direwolf.

Once inside, you welcomed the gust of warmer air. The Keep burned many fires and braziers when winter became sharp and bitter, your cheeks stinging from the cold. “Shall we retire this evening, or are you lacking in nourishment?” Cregan inquired, knowing that your penchant for foodstuffs had increased while pregnant.

“Could something be brought to our chambers? Perhaps a stew or a broth, that sounds rather warming.” As if on-queue, your stomach lurched with inklings of famish, as if your child also demanded something to eat.

“It will be done,” With his stoic assurance, your husband bent down to press a kiss against your temple, smoothing a palm across your back. “I will join you shortly, wife.” Cregan had a tendency to walk the Keep before retiring — spare a word to the guards, those in the kitchens, and anyone underneath his care.

“Do not keep me waiting for too long.” You mused, lips curving into a warm smile that could melt even the hardiest of ice — including that of your husband. The vulnerability that seemed to come to him in your presence was a comforting thing.

With a soft huff, Cregan cupped your chin, looking upon you with tempestuous hues, as gray as a winter’s storm. “I wouldn’t dare.” He assured, presenting you with a tender kiss. Gods, you had sorely missed his mouth in many ways, and you were swift to reciprocate.

After you had become with-child, fuller and round with the heir to Winterfell, you had not engaged Cregan as much in terms of intimacy. He wanted you to relax, to not have to lift a finger. You missed your husband in more ways than one, giving way to your own basic desires and carnal instincts.

The kiss possessed a charged edge, tension looming above, the fringes of it seeping into your lips. You held onto his forearm, an audible sigh slipping past your mouth when Cregan withdrew. He could detect your yearning — the sentiment was a mutual one, but he feared hurting you, as any man would.

With a gentle hum, you allowed your husband to leave you, watching as his impressive form encapsulated all space within the corridor he walked in. You let him tend to his duties, and you made for the spiraling stairwell, making your way to your chambers without a hitch.

Thick, wooden doors gave way to the sanctuary within, the hearth being stoked and tended-to by one of the servants. “I thought you might want it warm, m’lady.” She mused, having laid out a series of new wardrobes for you across the foot of your bed.

“Thank you, Tanea.” The new gowns and dresses seemed to be made with your new specifications in-mind, accommodating for your growing belly. Part of you felt self-conscious when it came to your pregnancy — you no longer seemed to fit into your own skin.

“You must be excited, with the babe on the way,” Tanea was easy to speak with, an exuberant young woman with cherubic features. “Your Lord-Husband certainly is.” She chimed, finishing with the hearth as she moved about.

“Is he?” Cregan was sometimes difficult to read, countenance permanently etched with that stoic Northern scowl of his, but you knew how happy he was. Knowing that your servants could see it filled you with delight. “I may need your assistance, Tanea.”

“Very much so, m’lady. He speaks as if he is a father already,” She fluttered to your side, assisting you in relinquishing the weight of your fur cloak and overcoat you wore. Tanea arranged the garments back into the large, wooden wardrobe. “Do you need anything else?”

“I do not,” You smiled, moving to sit atop the fur-laden footlocker at the end of your shared bed. “You have my gratitude, Tanea.” The girl curtsied, a proper gesture, before making her way from your chambers.

Intrigued, you happened to admire the new gowns strewn across your bed, many of them styled in the Northern way of dress, save for your evening shifts. One in particular caught your eye, made of sage-hued silk, translucent and frilly, the sleeves billowing.

Pinching the fabric between your fingers, you decided on wearing it to bed, pushing yourself up right as you organized the rest elsewhere, into the space of your wardrobe. Heavy footfalls resonated outside of your door, with it creaking open to give way to Cregan.

Your mountain of a husband carried two bowls of steaming stew, placing them down along the small, rounded table. The intricate carving of a wolf rested along the table’s edge, made of wood from the Wolfswood. “Are you tired?” He inquired, removing Ice from his shoulders, scabbard and all, placing it near his bedside.

After you had become with-child, he kept it close, in case of any unsightly, dire circumstances. He would not ever allow himself to be defenseless in your presence. You had thought it to be somewhat overly cautious, but you did not dissuade him otherwise.

“Not really,” You hummed, reaching for the many pins keeping your braids in-place. You removed them one by one, placing the ruby-studded needles upon your vanity. It felt better to let your hair down, pale tresses cascading across your shoulders in soft waves. “I am perfectly awake.”

Cregan’s visage was one of clear appreciation and adoration as he stepped closer, admiring the way you looked. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” He insisted, hands moving to assist you in unlacing your dress. This was a common practice with each passing night — you enjoyed it.

Warmth crept along your features as you stood still, allowing him to untie your bodice with his calloused fingers, until the garment loosened. “You are much too kind, husband.” Stepping from your gown, you were left in a white slip, one that had grown somewhat uncomfortable with its tightness.

“It is not a kindness, but the plain truth.” Cregan replied, pressing a kiss against the pale crown of your head, inhaling a gust of your saccharine scent. “You are my beautiful wife.” He affirmed with a grunt, and moved away to change into his own smallclothes. Abandoning his leather and armor always felt unusual for him.

There was no debating your husband, whose stubbornness was sometimes renowned. Instead, you smiled, abandoning the snug, ivory fabric for your field of sage, hastily pulling it on over the swell of your stomach.

It gave you ample time to observe Cregan, whose musculature ensnared you time and time again. He was impressively thick, broad-shouldered and built like the Wall itself. Seeing him standing there in just his trousers made something hot stir between your legs.

You crept forward, shamelessly wrapping your arms around him from behind, and you could feel a tremor throughout his body when he huffed. “I have a handsome husband, a perfect husband — and that is the plain truth.” You hummed, cold cheek burying itself against the warmth of his skin.

Wordlessly, you peppered soft kisses against his spine, and to any scars and bruises that you could see. You listened to the sharp exhale from your husband, who did not protest your actions. Your lips felt like the kiss of snow, still cold from the chilly outdoors.

Cregan let you stay that way, and in-truth, he enjoyed it thoroughly. Those large, calloused hands placed themselves atop yours, lifting both to his lips as he kissed your knuckles. He let them drop, and you caressed him wherever you could. The gesture was soft, but he couldn’t deny the growing sensuality present between you both.

“For the blood of the dragon, your hands run cold, wife.” Cregan rumbled, soothingly tracing his fingers across your wrist, feeling your physique against his back, including the swell of your belly. You pressed your palms against his abdomen, able to feel the taut, subtle muscle there.

“It is a good thing that I have you to warm them,” The silky, soft resonance of your voice brought him comfort. You sounded so relaxed and blissful, feeling him sluggishly turn around within your hold. Cregan cupped your cheek, rough pad of his thumb tracing across your lips. You kissed his thumb. “Kiss me.”

Cregan’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, and he instead gestured to the meal he’d brought with him. “Once you eat and have proper sustenance, I might indulge you then, beloved.” He mused, noticing the twinge of disappointment on your face.

“Might?” There was an upward inflection within your tone, as if the mere suggestion of might had offended you to some degree. Your burly husband then caged you within his embrace, palms soothingly caressing along your hips. “Must you insist on tormenting me?” You teased.

With a low grunt, Cregan reached for his tunic, eyes twinkling with mirth. “For now.” Tugging on the dark blue linen of his nightshirt, he gestured for you to eat, sitting beside you at the table. His own chair groaned in protest, and before he knew it, you were devouring your stew.

A mouthful of warm, seasoned broth filled your maw, accompanied with hearty chunks of venison and stewed vegetables. The cuisine in the North differed greatly from the South, not that you minded. You often felt more fulfilled after meals than you used to.

“Gods, that was wonderful,” You groaned, the stew satisfying your cravings. It warmed you to the bone, causing a shudder to roll down your spine as you finished, nudging the bowl aside. “I could eat several servings of that.” Your confession prompted Cregan to smirk.

“Famished, were you?” Cregan mused, watching as you moved out of your chair, cradling your stomach with one hand. He very nearly rushed to assist you, but he knew you would’ve swatted him aside.

“Quite, but I am eating for two. Your child needs it as much as I do,” You remarked, wandering toward the hearth as you extended one palm toward the fire. The comforting heat licked across your flesh, the orange light dancing over your features. “Much better.”

Cregan joined you not long after, guiding you to sit atop the large footlocker at the end of your marital bed, closest to the open flames. His rough fingertips glided over the plane of sage-hued silks, as he admired your womanly form through the fabric. “This suits you.” He rumbled, gently tugging on the silk to accentuate his point.

“Tanea had the seamstress craft me new clothing, given that I’ve grown quite a bit,” Admittedly, you felt some insecurity in your current state, afraid that your husband may not enjoy you as he once had. “I am glad that you like it, husband. I was worried that you wouldn’t.”

Perplexed, chestnut brows furrowed together, his countenance one of clear concern. Slipping an arm behind you, he calmly stroked your side, silently beseeching you to tell him of your worries. He knew what it pertained to, even if it was left unspoken. “Your worries are misplaced. I love you.” He assured.

“It isn’t just that, I — I suppose I feared that you wouldn’t still enjoy me this way. Most husbands in the capital seemed so disinterested when their wives began to show.” This wasn’t the South, and Cregan was as far from a disinterested husband as one could get. He kissed your jaw, letting you rest against him.

“You are carrying our child, the heir to Winterfell — I would continue to love you regardless of what your body might look like. Damn the Southerners,” Cregan murmured, planting a hand atop your belly. “I look at you and I see my wife — I see perfection. My heart calls your name.” For a man so rugged and rough, his words made your blood surge with exhilaration.

Joining his hand, you placed your palm atop his, the one firmly perched against your belly. If Cregan were being truthful with himself, he found you to be painfully beautiful like this, swollen with his child, knowing that he put a pup in you. Those lascivious fantasies had now become reality.

“Ñuha dōna zokla,” My sweet wolf — your High Valyrian often brought him to heel, bringing out the siren’s lull within your voice. Cregan had made a valiant effort to learn some of the language for you, but it never sounded as pleasant on his Northern tongue. “I am yours.” You beamed, lilac hues glistening with ardor.

Bringing a calloused palm to your face, he traced the fine plane of your cheekbone, reveling in the velveteen texture of your flesh. A wolf, brought to heel at his dragon’s side. Cregan studied your Valyrian features, basking in your beauty, coaxing you in for a kiss.

Your mouth was disarmingly soft, catching him off-guard, stealing away all of his coherency. He felt you turn inward, palm planting itself against the thick, corded muscle of his thigh, gripping him tightly as he deepened your kiss.

Something warm stirred within him, a longing to feel your body against his, able to detect the hitch within your breath as he drew you closer. Your wanton need radiated from you in thick, permeating waves, enough to bring him into the intricate web of your desire.

“Easy, wife.” Cregan rumbled, wanting to temper your carnality before it raged into that of a dragon’s flame. Your pleading gaze suggested otherwise, prompting him to caress along the length of your spine. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

A begrudging sigh escaped your lips as you incessantly tugged at his tunic, staring at your husband with furrowed brows. “You wouldn’t,” You uttered, tracing your fingers over his heart. “We do not have to commit the entire act. I simply want to enjoy you in other ways — I miss it.”

Subtlety wasn’t your strongest suit, and Cregan knew this. Arousal stirred within him, cock twitching at your lascivious insinuations. “Hm,” A soft growl left him, one that seemed to share your sentiments. “Is that what my lady commands of me?” He murmured, holding you close.

“She does,” You hummed, treating him to a playful smile as you reached for his chestnut tresses. One of your hands slithered beneath his tunic, feeling along the solid, thick muscle of his abdomen. He stroked at your belly, a stern hum reverberating within his throat. “Gods, I need you.” You exhaled.

With your need laid bare, Cregan heeded you with a fire swirling within his gut. His hand dipped down to the apex of your thighs, pushing beneath your silken shift until he found your cunt. Gods, you were wet already, a tantalizing thing, one that he found delight in.

“You are warm already, beloved.” Cregan’s thunderous timbre raked down your spine, effortlessly gaining your subservience with ease. You shivered, feeling his thick fingers deftly caress across your slit, teasing and toying with you, gathering your slick.

Feather-light touches would have to suffice as Cregan lazily pressed one digit against your clit. His mouth found the slender expanse of your neck, delivering hot, passionate kisses against your throat.

A simpering whine tore past your parted lips, one filled with such urgency as you shifted closer, writhing against the sensation of his hand. Any lick of friction would do, consuming your body with its amatory heat. He grunted into the hollow of your throat, kissing you wherever you could.

Your own mouth found the impressive bulk of his shoulder, seeking to bring your teeth into his flesh. A sonorous, rumbling grunt left your husband when you bit him, leaving behind the crescent marks of your teeth. If it weren’t for your pregnancy, he would’ve marked you in this way, too.

Seeking the softness of your mouth, Cregan’s mouth twitched into a threadbare smirk as he kissed you hard, letting it linger as his hand withdrew from your skirts. A groan of disappointment left you, but he intended on making up for it fully.

He moved off of the footlocker, planting a lasting kiss against your brow. Towering over you, Cregan’s shadow eclipsed most flickers of firelight, gray hues swirling with warmth as he bent the knee to you, his beloved. It was a mesmerizing sight, one that you reveled in.

His massive musculature bullied its way between your thighs, warm palms shifting to caress along your legs, from ankle to calf. He had never seen someone as resplendent as you, breathtakingly beautiful, the blood of the dragon, his wife.

Gathering your skirts within your hands, you fisted the silks, dragging them up until they pooled around your hips. Warm lips embraced the crook of your knee, peppering kisses across your leg, until he reached the velvet flesh of your inner thighs.

Your hips began to tilt forward, seeking the pleasant heat of his mouth, a heat that he gladly granted you time and time again. Cregan kissed his way to the slick warmth between your legs, a thunderous exhale escaping him, chest vibrating with a grunt.

Cregan gingerly adjusted your position, letting your legs rest against his broad shoulders, your back sloped against the furs and footboard of your bed. He pressed a kiss against your mound, nose buried near your pelvis before he made his descent.

A warm lap of his tongue dragged itself over your core, like hot embers raking across your cunt. You sighed, blissfully succumbing to wanton desire, reaching for his crown of chestnut tresses, gripping at the back of his skull. “Cregan.” You whined, head rolling forward just a bit.

Pale waves framed your face, countenance contorted into an expression of sheer and utter bliss, brows furrowing together. Your husband happily found his solace between your legs, mouth pressing hot kisses across your cunt. His hand gripped at your haunch, the other trailing against your leg.

It was ambrosial, your taste; a finest stout, sweetest of nectars that stained his lips with your perfection. Cregan lapped at your cunt, dutiful and attentive, ensuring to find every spot that made you gasp for air.

Nimble digits fisted into the furs at your side, mouth agape as a myriad of throaty moans escaped you. Your hand roamed through his tresses, tugging and pulling whenever his tongue graced the pearl of your cunt.

Splitting past your folds, Cregan tasted every inch of you, tongue seeking your cunt with a fervor. He was vigorous in his ministrations, not shying away from consuming every drop of your arousal. His nose brushed against your mound, hands kneading into your thighs to reassure you, let you know that he had you.

Any inkling of roughness had dissipated from him in the wake of your pregnancy, replaced with a passionate devotion, a rapture reserved only for you. His strong hands held you close, caressing you wherever he could.

You tasted sweet upon his tongue, honey-thick and a feast to sate his appetite. If he would choose his fate, it would be in between your legs, listening to the myriad of moans and throaty whimpers leave you. It was satisfying to know how much you enjoyed this; derived pleasure from it.

A tremor gripped your legs, little spasms of delight making their way throughout your body. Cregan’s mouth forged a blazing path from the hood of your cunt to your entrance, tongue greedy and hot, before he went back up again, seeking your sensitive pearl.

“Cregan!” Gods, he brought you such pleasure, a pleasure that seemed to seep into your very bones, sate your endless yearning, for now. Your legs curled inward, tight atop his shoulders as you rocked yourself into his mouth, doing little to suppress the volume of your moans.

He pressed closer with a wolf’s appetite, throat burning with carnal hunger as he continued to lap at your slick cunt. Your arousal felt honey-thick upon his tongue, something reserved only for him, chin glistening with your nectar. Your legs squeezed at his head, and he knew that he pleasured you well.

Molten heat churned within the pit of your stomach, a sensation that you had been longing to feel again. Cregan did not relent, yet he happened to slow just enough to savor you, dragging his tongue toward that clutch of nerves at the hood of your cunt.

As soon as he pursed his lips around your clit, you nearly forgot your own name, thoughts completely derailed, scattered into a blissful abyss. Your body reacted with shivers and tremors, hand gripping at the nape of his neck with a reckless abandon.

Your back arched slightly, collarbone glittering with perspiration through the thick, warm haze of your chambers. The hearth had brought about a feverish heat, coupled with the throes of your intimate entanglement. Cregan derived satisfaction from your pleasure, delighted to please his wife.

Pliant flesh filled his palm as he cupped your derrière, bringing you closer, letting you grind yourself against his mouth, use him and take whatever you needed. A grunt stirred within his chest, reverberating within his throat as he went about seeking your clit, suckling on the pearl of your cunt.

“Oh Gods,” You moaned, nearly clasping a hand over your mouth to hide the salaciousness of your voice. Surely, the servants had heard you by now — you would be fortunate if all of Winterfell didn’t hear you. “I — I’m close!” Rocking forward again, you let out a whimper.

With a strangled whine, you desperately chased after your release, one that you had sorely needed. Cregan’s cock twitched at the sound of your delicious moans, a shudder rolling down his spine whenever you whimpered his name. “That’s it,” He rumbled, hot breath fanning over your core. “Go on.” His encouragement was softly spoken through his Northern timbre.

He wanted to stay there, rooted between your legs, mouth consuming your cunt as if it were his last meal; a man wrought with starvation.

Cregan favored it, thoroughly reveling in the way your body reacted to him, visceral and ecstatic. He gingerly suckled on your clit, feeling your fingers tighten within his chestnut locks, gripping him tight. He wanted you to have your release, built upon this pent-up feeling.

He could feel your encroaching release, feel the tension in your grasp, the way you let your hips continue to lurch forward. Without relenting, Cregan continued to suck at your clit, letting it intermingle with hot laps of his tongue, dutiful and fervent between your legs.

A comfortable silence filled the gap between you, intermingled with the sounds of your pleasured cries and Cregan’s sonorous grunts. That heated coil within your stomach began to unfurl, bringing an onslaught of arousal with it as you bucked into his mouth.

At last, your peak consumed you in a white-hot oblivion, and you very nearly saw the stars themselves. With a strangled gasp, your legs tightened on either side of his head, followed by a blissful rush of liquid heat. Your grip began to slack upon his tresses, chest heaving from exertion.

Cregan lingered there for a few moments more, tongue caressing your cunt, cleaning up any last drop of your nectar. His mouth glistened with it when he did inevitably withdraw, lashing across his lips before he kissed your thighs, showering you in affection.

“Do you feel better?” He mused, kissing the crook of your knee before standing to his feet. You were positively hot, feeling a feverish warmth crawl across your skin, thighs shaking in the aftermath. You hastily adjusted your slip, regarding him with a gracious expression.

“Very much,” Your confession made him smirk as he helped you into bed, abandoning his tunic at the iron-wrought foot. As he settled down, you joined him, curled within the space at his side. “Would you like me to return the favor?”

Cregan never expected you to do anything that you didn’t want to — never feel obligated, either. He would survive without a night of release. “Tomorrow, perhaps.” He murmured, moving to rest a hand against the swell of your stomach, caressing your growing bump.

“Thank you, husband — for everything.” A gentle hum left you as you placed your hand over his, allowing him to protectively cradle your stomach. You let your head rest against his shoulder, his arm holding you at his side.

A bemused huff escaped him as he peered at you with mirthful hues, gray eyes that resembled a thunderstorm. “You needn’t thank me,” He assured, briefly pressing a kiss to your temple. “You needn’t ask for it, either.” Cregan enjoyed the taste of your cunt more than anything else.

You couldn’t help but smile, sheepishly moving to press a kiss against his jaw. “I love you,” You sighed, letting your ardor for him be known as you felt your eyes grow heavy. “Tomorrow, I would like for us to see Silverwing. She grows lonely in my absence.”

Cregan knew how much the creature meant to you. He had met Silverwing before, but he dared not climb upon her back — you’d asked it of him several times before. “Of course, beloved.” He murmured, basking in the heat of the firelight.

A sharp, fluttering sensation blossomed throughout your abdomen, prompting you to gasp. It was sudden and unexpected, but not painful. It was foreign, and had been happening on rare occasions.

“What is it?” Cregan questioned, visibly concerned before you dismissed it with a bright, delighted smile. You gently guided his hand elsewhere atop your stomach, pale brows furrowing together as you searched for the source.

“There,” You mused, joyous laughter escaping you as another kick fluttered against your joined hands. “Do you feel it?” It was heartwarming to watch the happiness glisten within his eyes, the way in which he adjusted his position to truly feel. Cregan’s true smiles were a rarity, and you saw it now.

The blood of the wolf and the dragon stirred within, prompting you to smile appreciatively at your husband. This was something the both of you had made with your love, the heir to Winterfell. “They seem strong,” Cregan remarked, leaning over to plant a kiss against your brow. “Perfect, just like their mother.”

His hand never left your belly, even as he maneuvered the furs over the both of you, letting you move to lay against the warm expanse of his chest. Cregan exhaled, staring into the dying embers of the heart, tracing his digits along the swell of your stomach.

“Strong, just like their father.” You whispered, pressing a kiss against his jaw before you settled down for slumber, shielded by the protective grasp of your Lord-husband.

[plutolovesyou]

Where the Mulberry Tree Stands

before you read ▪︎ my masterlist

☆: my rewrite of the myth of pyramus and thisbe. ♡ but with ellie as pyramus, & reader as thisbe. i realize this is very niche, but i wanted to try something new! absolutely adore mythology of all kinds, so basically wrote this for myself. if you do read, hope you enjoy! well, as much as you're able to...photomode creds—astralnymphh on pinterest.

◇: reader discretion is advised!! please do not read if sensitive to heavy angst with a tragic end, descriptions of suicide & brief mentions of parental abuse. also contains flowery writing and references to figures/things in ancient greece (which i pray are accurate...) ++ 4k wc

“The gods envy us. They envy us because we're mortal, because any moment may be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed.” — Homer, The Iliad.

Tap tap tap, three raps on the plaster wall in double time signaled to her on the other side that your meeting time had arrived. Tap tap tap, and she returned it with a flourish at the end, a new arrangement every day, so you knew to escape into the night.

Ellie—who was named after and nothing short of the embodiment of light itself—your lover, your soulmate, your other half lived just there. But generations upon generations of family tension forbade you two from living your dreams. Decades of battles for who had better quality fruit, sweeter honey, more drachmae, which family was favored by the citizens in the area—it all felt trivial, and frankly silly, when you thought about how much she meant to you in comparison to all that.

You had memories of early childhood, kneeling on the scratchy straw of the floor, while your mother berated you for spending time with the girl. “What were you thinking? I will not have my child associating with dishonorable likes such as them, you have disappointed me greatly. If I catch you over there one more time, by gods I will feed you to the wolves with my own two hands. Try it, one more time and you'll see what will fall upon you.” The way her voice shook with emotion was harrowing, you've never seen your mother in such a rageful, infuriated state, you could have sworn she was emulating the anger of a gorgon, and you remember the slap across your face that quickly followed her outburst, how it burned.

Yet through all the lectures and beatings, you never understood where she was coming from. Shouldn't bonds—strong and robust as if they were forged on Hephaestus’ anvil—come above all material things? You thought so at least. And she agreed. When you matured, you pitied your family for missing out on such experiences. “They will never know how lucky we are.” You would whisper in your lover's ear, whenever she fell asleep on you during your beloved nightly outings.

Every time you laid eyes on her, it was like you fell in love all over again. Her olive eyes shining, grin lighting up her entire face, husky giggles filling the air as she bolted to tackle you in a tight embrace. You two spun in each other's arms, nearly tripping over the low wooden fence marking your shared property. It only earned a laugh—when you were with her, any negativity was completely erased, as if it never existed in the first place. All stresses, worries, cares in the world simply vaporized into the air, and the only emotion you knew was adoration.

You two skipped hand-in-hand to your favorite spot by the river, where the air cooled and the grass was dotted with baby blue flowers. You toppled over, falling to a heap on the ground. Moist smacks of her lips all over your face while she cradled your jaw tenderly, every reunion with her felt like it was multiple lifetimes apart. Your breathing synced as you sat together in silence, enjoying each other's company.

Soon after you sat down though, unexpectedly, Ellie began with a wobbly voice, tears welling up in her eyes, “I love you so much, can't stand to be apart from you. This is torture, sometimes I can’t bear to wait for the sun to set, I need to rip it out of the sky myself. What did we even do to deserve this?” You pulled her in and cuddled her close to your chest, letting her listen to the rhythm of your heart and wrap her arms around you to rub your back. You felt the way her hands trembled, you couldn't remember the last time you saw the tough Ellie break down like this, it was tearing you apart.

Kissing the top of her head, you interjected, “But observe it positively, at least we are able to see each other at all, and we live so close, only separated by one thin wall.” Her shoulders began to shake, sticky tears quickly soaking through the linens you were wearing. Feeling your own heart shatter into countless pieces, you just stroked her hair and let her cry as much as she needed.

She clutched you tighter and wailed, “I just wish to spend every hour by your side, every hour awake and every hour asleep, without any separation. I wish I could cook for you in our house, with vegetables grown from our soil, bring you flowers from our garden, and tend to the animals you and I named, instead of waiting until sunset after a day of listening to my father talk badly of you. When I hear him spout all that nonsense, it hurts me so deeply, because all he's saying are lies…this is so unfair.”

You tried your best to console her, “Shh, my love, don't cry. That is the most beautiful dream and I wish it all the same, but don't despair.” You moved her face so she looked up at you, sparkly tears streaming down her sun-kissed cheeks, her beauty was blinding—even when she was sad. “Don't lament, for I am right here, look!” You tried to cheer her up, “I'm holding you now while we rest, while we breathe in the crisp air and feel the soft blades of grass beneath us, all will be well. Don't dwell on those thoughts, let them go.”

Swaying gently from side to side and humming a calming melody, you succeeded in soothing her, feeling her relax in your arms and her shudders slow to a stop. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. You continued the sweet reassurances, kissing away her tears. “One day, whether it be soon, or when we're old and fragile, struggling to stand or wipe our own asses,” you pause to share a chuckle with her, “We won't have to meet like this. Just trust, there is a plan for us in the stars, trust in our gods.”

She nodded, turning to gaze off in the distance, and watch a white crane drink from the water. She snapped to look at you with surprise blazing in her eyes, more round than your mother's prized ceramic dishes. “I have a thought, what if we wed? In secret, with our families never knowing a thing. Or even better we go to the spot over there,” she stopped to point across the river, at the large mulberry tree standing tall in the middle of a yellow-green field. She continues, “And we run away together. We could hitch a ride on a ship and sail over to Lesbos, perhaps we can meet Sappho herself! I've always wanted to. But first we must profess our love for each other, properly, tomorrow night's time, under the tree, to ensure we're blessed. What do you think?”

She was holding your hands gingerly, ghosting the pads of her fingers over your knuckles. For the first time in so many years, you felt a strange warmth brew in your chest, what was it, you had forgotten. Could it be hope? You felt your mouth stretch into a smile so wide it ached, and you burst forward to throw your arms around her neck again, mumbling into the side of her neck, “Yes, yes, Ellie, a thousand times, yes. Oh, I can't wait, I will swipe one of my mother’s silk veils, cook us a celebratory meal, it will be so wonderful.”

Mellow belly laughs, delightful as those spilling from a leader being crowned, tore themselves from her chapped lips, and she squeezed you so tight against her, like she was never planning to let go. “And I will bring my spear, gifted by my grandfather, so I have it to protect my wife from anything that dares harm her.” Hearing her refer to you as her wife, it was a feeling like none other. The butterflies in your stomach swarmed like they became a flock of swallows, their excited tittering heard all the way across the ocean.

You squealed, “Ah I love you, I love you, I love you, my dearest, we will have such a wondrous life together.”

“Yes, that we will, but let's rest until then, I look forward to it. I will write a song just for you as well, bring my lyre and sing to you so we dance from evening until dawn arrives. As soon as night falls, I will be by the spot waiting, that is a promise. Now rest, we have big plans ahead of us, have the sweetest dreams, love.”

The next day spent waiting was as torturous as Ellie describes, only worse. Because all you could think about was her. Running away with her, never looking back at your old lives, getting joyously joined in matrimony—albeit informally—your mind was plagued. After your mother left for her daily errands in the town, you dug through her things, practically overturned her whole space to find the veil. You put it on, feeling so exquisite. It appeared as if it was weaved on an angel's loom, the fibers soft and vibrant.

When all that was over, you resorted solely to watching the sun move in the sky. You were feeling impatient and antsy, and briskly grew tired of waiting so you decided to get started on the trek. You have not been over to that spot in some time, but were interested to see how the tree had grown, and if it had reared fruit. You observed the clouds and the sky during your stroll—the sun had not set fully, the sky still as orange as freshly pressed juice.

Luckily the river was shallow, so you just hiked up your clothes to your waist and crossed without a hitch. You scurried through the tall grass and made it to the tree, sitting down underneath it. You took a deep breath in, smelling the clean air and observing the lively nature around you, still bored but glad to be away from your house—nothing good ever occurred there.

Looking up, you're pleasantly shocked to see the tree is full of fruits, clusters of pale baubles brightly contrasting the green leaves. You reached up and took one from the stem, biting into it, but you recoiled at the taste—tart and bitter, it was horrendous. Like you were eating something utterly inedible. You threw it on the ground, grinding it to a pulp with the bottom of your sandal, that's how offended you were at the assault it performed in your mouth. “Ugh, gross, these are meant to be ripe…do we really eat them like this? What a waste of a fruit.” You muttered to yourself, resuming a cross-legged sitting position by the tree's roots.

After some more time of uneventful waiting, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, at attention, primal alarm bells going off inside you—something wasn't right.

You scan your surroundings with haste, noticing movement in the tall grass in front of you, you're transfixed and stay staring at it, ripping a branch off of the tree to use as a weapon, because your warrior wasn't here yet to protect you from harm.

You heard her before you saw her, a low guttural rumbling rang through the air that could only belong to one thing. Out of the grass emerged a golden lioness, slinking towards you with hushed aggression, her teeth bared and dripping with the remains of a kill.

Your instincts to run away kicked in with full force, and you screamed out for help, running as fast as your legs would carry you. Unfortunately, the speed at which you sat up caused the veil to fall from your head and to the ground—but you didn't care, you didn't think it was possible for your mother to hate you more than she already does. You ran as far as you could, briefly glancing behind you to see what the situation was, what the lioness was doing.

You were able to make out her tearing the fabric apart so voraciously, bloodstained jaws ripping it into shreds, bits of dyed fabric flying to all sides. You still ran as far away as you could, you did not want to be the next victim of those canines, that would be anything but pleasant.

Once the adrenaline wore off you collapsed, panting heavily, trying to catch your breath with difficulty. The tall plants hid you well from any threats, so you laid down, and closed your eyes to recuperate before it was time to meet with Ellie.

When night fell, Ellie made her way to the spot, spear and lyre in hand. She was so excited, and had spent the whole day practicing her act happily, making sure every note she played was perfect. She wanted to make this the best one-woman show you've ever seen.

She couldn't contain her glee, and resorted to sprinting to the designated meeting place, calling out to you, her voice light as a birdsong, “Lovely! I've arrived!” But she stopped short in her tracks when she didn't see you jogging over to greet her with a hug, or really anywhere at all.

“Where could you be?” She asked the world in bewilderment, casting glances all around her to see if you were playing a trick on her. She didn't think you were, but didn't wish to jump to worst case scenarios right away.

Her heartbeat sped up slightly, suffocating fear bubbling up in her throat at your absence. Scampering closer to where she thought you were going to be, she still saw you were nowhere to be found. That is, until something colorful caught her eye.

Hanging from a branch, a piece of torn fabric, stained with dark, still-wet blood. Her line of sight dropped, and she saw more pieces strewn across the dirt, next to glaring claw marks in the soil, and decorating the tree's bark.

She suddenly felt winded, as if somebody had thrown her from a height and she landed flat on her back, full panic setting in. “Oh gods, oh no, what-” She gasped, teetering backwards, overwhelmed by the realization that had taken hold of her. “No, no, no, no, she's right over there. This is from before…” she muttered under her breath, her inhales labored, head pounding as if she was struck by a hammer, and hands shaking so intensely the pieces of fabric she was still holding slipped from her fingers.

“Love! Come out!” She yelled again, her voice cracking, her vision tunneling and chest seizing—this couldn't be happening.

The blood roared in her ears, tears pouring out of her eyes while she pawed at her hair and fell to her knees, hyperventilating. Her spear and lyre clattered noisily as they fell, lyre shattering to bits. She yanked on her locks, unable to believe what was happening to her—where was her love?

She picked up the pieces of the veil, frantically trying to rejoin them, the blood coating her uncontrolled fingers and staining her skin, the hideous color making her stomach turn.

Then the sobs came, she had never cried harder in her life, her whole body heaving with each quake, the pain in her soul worsening as seconds flew by. She kneeled before the tree, pleading to the sky, “Someone…anyone…please. I need her with me.” She felt light-headed, consumed by otherworldly anguish as if it was bestowed by Hades’ hand. It began to morph into numb hopelessness the longer she stayed there, praying, weeping into the ground.

She had to do something, escape from her body, thoughts were swarming her mind, the idea that you were dead ridding her of balance, taking everything from her.

She pleaded until her throat hurt, until crows had perched at the top of the tree to watch her exhibition. They cawed mockery at her, as if they were saying, measly human!

She howled, “What is this life, just give her back to me! Give me back my love, give her back to me, I can't be without her. I can't, no I couldn't. It's too—no—uh. Gods, anyone? Why, why, why?”

Cacophonous, animalistic, cries fell from her lips until she couldn't produce a croak—voice dry and hoarse, waves of grief clawing their way out of her, eating her from the inside out. Her tone barely above a whisper, she was still mumbling, “Give her back, give her back to me. I haven't done any wrong in my life, we can't help where we come from! Just give her back.” In the furthest recesses of her mind there remained a glimpse of hope that she could bring you back, if she willed it hard enough.

She was flooded with memories, memories of your scent, your warmth in her arms, your sing-song voice and the love-filled looks and caresses she was so blessed to be the recipient of. All of that, was she never to experience it again?

She attempted to stand up, but her legs could not hold her, she fell on the hard ground with a grunt, even having cried out all her tears. Every passing moment made it more difficult to breathe, made her chest hurt worse—she needed to do something to ease it.

Her spear. The glint of the metal alloy caught her eye from where it was, any sense of judgment she had before was gone, replaced by pure darkness, the wish to leave the world.

She picked it up, and almost couldn't hold it, the handle feeling twenty times heavier than usual, the blade shaking in her unsteady hands. Was she doing this? She had to, there was nothing else left for her, she thought.

She found her voice, slowly angling the glimmering edge of the blade towards her heart, and said a word. “My love, we'll meet again. We'll meet in the flowering fields of Elysium, where I will get to hold your hand once more, and we'll have our own house, attached to a garden full of vegetables to cook delicious meals with. We'll play with the animals we named, and spend every hour together—awake and asleep. I must do this, for life isn't possible without you.”

She took a deep breath and stabilized her hands, bringing the spear tip to touch her sternum. Her voice steadying, she said three words for the very last time, “I love you.” Before plunging the blade in her heart with all the strength she had left.

The pain was indescribable, so painful she couldn't even scream, but it was thankfully short-lived—she lost consciousness almost immediately after coughing up some blood. It splattered all over the mulberry tree, dyeing the previously white fruits to a shade mimicking that of wine. What followed was never ending blackness, but finally peace, and she left the world with a smile on her face, her last thought was that of you.

Over in the grass, the breeze flying through the tall stalks lulled you to a sleep, and you awoke with a start, confused as to what had happened and where you were.

You blinked the bleariness away and sat up, remembering the lioness that tried to attack you. What a story you had to tell Ellie. She wouldn't believe you, in your mind's eye you could see the way she'd nod, the teasing tone to her voice, “Yes, that happened. No, no, of course I believe you, when have I not?”

At the thought of her, you remembered why you were out here in the first place—to meet with your future wife and profess your love, then run away to live the life you dreamed of. Oh how you couldn't wait.

You jumped up and dusted yourself off, then ran to the tree, eager to tell Ellie about the encounter you had.

But the sight that befell you was the worst thing you could've ever imagined to see. Something only written in the most famous tragedies, something no one ever wished on another person, even their worst enemies.

Ellie, your love, laying on the ground in a pool of maroon blood, with no color in her features, and her spear sticking out of her chest.

You gasped in horror and rushed to her side, madly shaking her body, patting her cheeks, pressing on her arms—but alas, she was completely limp.

“Ellie! No! Wake up!” Thunderous shrieks, begs and pleads for her to wake up shook the Earth, you stroked her face, the ugly feel of her cold skin only adding to the devastation.

When she wasn't moving, you held her body protectively, didn't ever wish to let go, tried to find any signs of life, tears of mourning streaming down your face in bucketfuls.

You stayed there by her as long as you could, silently praying to whatever was out there for her to move a muscle, to open her eyes and assure you everything was alright—she was just joking around, the blood was juice she nabbed, thickened with starch she got from the kitchen, the spear tip was broken and actually just resting against her skin, held in place by a base she crafted and secured under her robe, her lifeless complexion produced by powder—likely flour—to give the chalky effect.

But no, this was reality. Your love had left you. She left you the worst way, by taking her life herself. But why? After all you had planned together?

Thinking like that pained you, the wretched feeling of grief spreading throughout your whole being, thinking of anything at all felt impossible. Did she do it because of you? That thought sent a wave of nausea through you, there was no way that was true.

There was only one thing left to do, you thought. You made up your mind, pulled the spear from her chest, wincing at the sight of her wound, and held it in your hand. You leaned forward and pressed one more kiss to the middle of her forehead, forced a smile against her, and whispered, “It's okay, I'll be with you soon, my love. We'll meet again.”

You took a few breaths in and out, braced yourself for the piercing pain, lined up the sharp tip with your own heart, and thrust with all your might.

Sweet mulberries, succulent and luscious—ended up ripening to a deep mauve hue, similar to that of blood and wine, and became the most adored fruit of them all. A plentiful treat for the masses, deemed compensation for the sacrifice of two love-sick mortals. It was the least the gods could do after all they witnessed before them today. As they watched the spectacle, their understanding of the human species only increased in wonder, in curiosity about their motivations. “That was so strange, they did not know the other was alright—merely jumping to conclusions. Fascinating. Humans are so emotional, where's the rationale?” They debated amongst themselves until the sun rose once more, the only agreement they came to was increased sympathy for humanity, even going as far as to pity.

“Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight. For the greatest tragedy of them all is never to feel the burning light.” — Oscar Wilde.

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[munsonsmixtapes]

Paint Me

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!inexperienced!American!reader

summary: An unfortunate funeral causes you and Benedict come face to face and he is your surprising shoulder to lean on. And after a secret moment in the garden, you become closer than ever before.

word count: 4k

taglist: @syraxnyra @turtle-cant-communicate @sublimepenguinpeach-blog @intothesoul

part one part two part four part five part six part seven

February 13, 1817

There was a knock on your door after you had gotten home from the gallery. You had embarrassed yourself enough when you had insulted Benedict's painting and weren't in the mood to speak to anyone, especially not who you knew was on the other side of the door.

You had already felt like a disappointment to your father and you didn't need to hear him tell you as such. But he entered the room anyway and sat on the edge of your bed next to you. He went to wrap his arm around you, but you pulled away, moving closer to the other side.

"I am afraid that I have not been there for you when you needed me most," he went to reach for your hand, but you pulled it away, fully turning your back to him.

"I am afraid that is true and I do not wish to speak to you at this moment."

"Bunny," he went to use his beloved nickname for you which caused you to stand from the bed, turning to face with a kind of anger you didn't even know was possible.

"You do not deserve to call me that. I understand that you are my father, but you were also my best friend. So where have you been?" You asked, your voice getting louder. "Where have you been when your wife, my mother betrayed me? If you love me as much as you claim to, then why have you never defended me when you saw the two of them treating me so horribly? I know why. It is because you are nothing but a coward and I do not wish to speak to you any longer."

With that, your father left the room, leaving you alone again. All of your anger was getting the best of you, everything that had happened throughout your whole life, weighing on you. You went under your bed where you hid away your art supplies and began to sketch, the pressure of your hand pressing the charcoal to the page, causing it to break, both it and the tears that were falling from your eyes, ruining the picture completely.

It seemed that not even your form of therapy was working. The one thing that made you feel better in fact did not. As your anger reached its peak, you threw everything across the room in a loud clatter and changed into your nightgown, getting into your bed, pulling the covers over you and crying until sleep claimed you.

But your sleep did not bring you any rest whatsoever, the only thing happening behind your eyes was your father. You saw his carriage crashing into a tree, the ship he was on going down, him falling off his horse, all leading to his demise.

The guilt was eating at you for the way you spoke to him. Even though everyone was asleep, you couldn’t sleep any longer without apologize for the way you spoke to your father. Whether he accepted it or not didn’t matter. You just needed him to know that you didn’t mean a single word.

You snuck out of your room with every intention of heading to your parents’ room at the end of the hall only to your mother sobbing in the foyer. She was on her hands and knees while Lilith held onto her, rubbing her back while he cried tears of her own.

You approached them, looking around for your father only to not see him, and you expected the worst. It seemed that all of your nightmares were in fact not that, but premonitions.

You felt lightheaded, your vision going hazy as your sister told you what had happened. Augustus had gone for a late night horse ride and had experienced a heart attack, causing him to fall off and pass away right there because there had been no one had been around to give him the proper care nor get him to a hospital.

It was all your fault. Or at least, that was what you were telling yourself. He did, however, die in one of the ways you had dreamed about, so you supposed that you had spoken it into existence.

The next few days, the house was quiet, neither you nor your mother or sister uttering a single word, nothing feeling quite right to say as far as the loss was concerned. The funeral was the next week and the three of you stood together, weeping over your father’s grave.

You were approached by Kate and Anthony who pulled you into a group hug as your cried into their shoulders and they held you for as long as you liked. When you pulled away, you saw Benedict standing behind them, his eyes already on you. For once, the flirty look in his eyes was replaced with a look of sorrow. 

For a second, all of your dislike for him dissipated as he pulled you into his arms, his hands rubbing up and down your back as he whispered nothing but nice things into your ear as you cried into his shoulder. 

Kate and Anthony turned away to give you a private moment and whispered to each other about what was possibly going on between the two of you. Kate thought it was sweet, but Anthony was ready to nip it right in the bud. There was no way that he was letting his brother anywhere near you, not even in a friendly way as  Benedict was unable to be friends with women. He only bedded them and there was absolutely no way that could happen. 

You pulled away from Benedict and he was quick to wipe your tears. You hadn’t seen him that soft and gentle since you had moved back to England and you were happy to have your old Benedict back, even if it was just for a moment. 

Benedict didn’t know what had come over him. He wasn’t sure why, but seeing you so heartbroken broke his own heart. When he saw you sobbing when he got to the graveyard, he swore that he could actually hear his heart crack. Usually, he would only comfort a woman going through a loss for the sole reason of getting her into bed, but this time, that wasn’t even a thought. He just wanted to make sure that you were okay. 

He didn’t leave your side the entire day as everyone followed your family to your house to enjoy a meal together in your father’s honor. He kept his distance out of respect, but he wanted nothing more than to wrap you up in his arms and let you stay there as long as you wanted. He knew how close you were to your father and just how much it had crushed you to lose him. 

As day turned to night, you could feel your cold shoulder towards Benedict start to thaw. You were beginning to think that maybe you were being too hard on him when he had genuinely been trying to right his wrongs with what he had done to you almost a decade ago. You didn’t think that you should have let it hurt you for so long and that the grudge you were holding against him was really only hurting you in the end.

February 20, 1817

As a way to see your artwork, Lady Danbury had one of her friends host another gallery. You had told her that it wasn’t at all necessary, but of course, she didn’t listen to you. She assured you that everyone would love whatever you decided to submit and that they would all be lining up to purchase commissions from you.

You, however, thought it was a bold claim. Sure, you wanted people to see your work, but now you were nervous that none of them were going to appreciate it the way that you did. It was all very personal and you weren't sure that you wanted it hung for everyone to see.

Despite that, you still submitted your most personal piece. A painting of your father that was your own way of honoring him. A way to forgive him for all he had done to you and to let go of all of the guilt you felt for what had happened to him. It was the best form of therapy you could have ever asked for and easily your best work to date.

Benedict's piece had been coming along great as well. For once, he wasn't thinking about every single brush stroke and just went along with it, letting the brush guide him. He was going off of memory since he didn't have a proper photo of his subject, but he thought it was turning out rather well considering.

Instead of going to the studio, he decided to work in the garden, the sunlight being the best thing to point out all his imperfections if there were any. He was not going to have a repeat of what had happened last time. It was far too embarrassing.

"Ah, there you are, brother," Eloise spoke as she approached him.

"Here I am," he replied and was quick to stand in front of the painting so she couldn't see it, but it was too late. She had already seen it. She pushed him out of the way and let out a gasp as the painting before her.

"It that-"

"No," Benedict cut her off, trying to block her view of it again, a shade of pink apparent on his cheeks. Eloise just laughed and pushed him out of the way again, careful not to knock over the easel.

"It is!" She gasped. "It's the l/n girl that Kate and Anthony have befriended!"

"It is not." He didn't know why he was denying it. All the proof was right there.

"You cannot deny it. It seems that you have befriended her as well." Eloise could see the way that her brother looked at you and it seemed like he was attracted to you. She hadn't had many interactions with you, but according to Kate, you seemed like someone who keep Benedict humble and ground him.

"She doesn't like me, Eloise," he shook his head as dipped his brush into a shade that was the color of your skin tone and did some shading where he thought it would look nice.

"Why not? Did you hurt her, because Anthony will certainly-" Oh, Benedict knew exactly what Anthony would do.

"I did," Benedict nodded. "Eight years ago. When her family lived down the road, we painted a lot together in the study while Francesca played the piano, but one night-"

"What did you do, Benedict?" Eloise wasn't sure he wasn't going to say, but what she did know was that she wasn't going to like it.

"She told me-she told me that she loved." Her eyes widened at that and she wasn't surprised that she didn't know that fact because you would have been too scared to admit it to anyone and Benedict just felt horrible about the whole thing and didn't want to revisit it.

"And what did you say?" Considering the fact that you were ten and Benedict was twenty-one at the time, she could assume what had happened.

"The only thing I could. She was a child and I was certainly not interested in her and so I told her as much. Maybe a little too harshly and she ran."

"Benedict," Eloise gasped. So that was why you always paid almost attention to him. All of the dots were finally connecting. Now she was thinking that she liked you even more. That you were the first woman to not fall for her brother’s charms even though you were the exact one who should have. He definitely had a type.

"I know, and now she's here and beautiful and I'm afraid I've fucked it all up." Eloise was wondering what had gotten into him that he had such a defeatist attitude. He was never that way towards the women he was interested in even if they weren’t interested. In fact, that usually only motivated him even more.

"Maybe this might seem like a foreign concept to you, brother, but have you ever thought about apologizing like a normal person?" Benedict actually had thought about that, but he didn't think that was good enough, so that was why he had done the painting of you. He hoped that would help you see just how much he cared for you.

"I think it might be too late for that." He decided that his work was done and started to clean his brushes.

"It's never too late for an apology," she rested a hand on his shoulder and gave is a squeeze, leaving Benedict with much to think about.

February 21, 1817

You sat in the study with one of your books in your hand, but you couldn't focus on it. Your letter letting you know whether or not your artwork was accepted into the gallery was going to be there any second and you were terrified. There was a lot of riding on it and you were very afraid that they hadn't accepted it.

Kate and Anthony had insisted on being there when you got the good new and Kate clutched your hand as a servant entered the room with the envelopes on a silver platter and you reached for yours, feeling like time had stopped as you ripped into the envelope.

You read the first few words of the letter and let it drop to the floor, feeling your body go cold, collapsing into one of the chairs as you accepted defeat. They didn't want your piece. You should have known since they wouldn't have since you were a woman. They hadn't said as much, but you were able to read the lines.

Despite your sadness, you told the couple that you would join them at the gallery and felt horrible that Lady Danbury went through all that trouble for nothing. You didn't want to have to look her in the eyes, but the only worse thing was not going an accepting defeat. You were going to show everyone just how strong you were.

February 25, 1817

Practically everyone was already at the gallery when you had arrived and you felt dread come over you as you accepted that you were going to have no part in it. You had been rejected from many things like that before, so you weren't sure why it hurt so much.

Lady Danbury had approached immediately when you arrived and you really didn't feel like speaking with her but you plastered on your brightest smile, faking like you had interest in the conversation even though you would have much rather been in the study with your paints.

"Ah, there's the artist," she greeted. "You left last time before we were able to talk about your critique of the Bridgerton boy." Normally you would have felt guilty for something, but this time you couldn't have cared less. Benedict Bridgerton could have stood to be knocked down a few pegs and you were really enjoying being the one to do it.

"And I apologize for that. I was just letting my own issues take over." You were only apologizing because you felt like it, not because you meant it.

"No apologies necessary, dear. I loved it. I wish you would speak your mind more often. More people could benefit from hearing your thoughts. Especially ones like Mr. Bridgerton." Lady Danbury didn't mind Benedict, but often times she felt he had a big head and let his ego get in the way.

"I appreciate that, but unfortunately, I don't think that I'm up for it tonight."

"But what am I to think about the artwork without a lovely artist to give her opinions?" There was something odd about the interaction and you couldn't figure out what.

"You do flatter me, Lady Danbury. I suppose I wouldn't mind joining you."

So, you led her around the gallery and told her what you thought about the pieces, promising her to not hold back this time, suddenly not afraid to speak your mind. And Lady Danbury was loving every second of it, very entertained by the shy wallflower coming out of her shell.

She quite liked your company, amused by your little quips that you had come with on the spot. And she appreciated how you felt like you were able to be your true self around her, not the shy person she had met a few weeks ago. You were growing on her and easily becomg one of her favorite debutants of the season.

"Lady Danbury, who do you think your favorite artist is?" You asked as she got to the second to last piece. All this time you had been talking about the pieces in front of you, but you were curious as to what kind of art she liked since you thought a person's favorite artist said a lot about them.

"You." You were surprised to hear her say that considering that she hadn't even seen any of your work.

"Oh, that's very nice, but-"

"No, dear, it's you!" She cut you off and forced you to turn to the piece on the wall. You let out a gasp as your face stared back at you, feeling something very strange coming over you.

You stepped closer to the painting and turned this way and that, convinced that you were looking into a mirror, but you weren't. You could very clearly see the paint strokes when you got close enough. Who the artist was was a mystery. You had absolutely no idea who could have done it and wanted to know their identity and why you had been their subject.

You couldn't stop staring, wanting to reach out to touch it, but you knew you weren't allowed, even if it was your face on the canvas. It was amazing how well they were able to paint your features and you wondered what they had used for reference.

"I hope this isn't too amateur for you," a voice whispered in your ear and you felt a chill go down your spin as their hot breath hit the back of your neck.

You turned around only to be face to face with the seconds eldest Bridgerton brother. You eyed him, wondering why he would have done something like that and what he would have gotten out of it. That had to be the reason why he would have done it...right?

So many questions were swirling around your mind, your main one being how he was able to make the painting so accurate that it felt like you were looking into a mirror without having you sit for it.

"What is this, Benedict?" You pointed to the painting and he just chuckled. You didn't like how much you enjoyed making hearing the sound and wondering how you would have been able to hear it.

"It's you." He was smiling brightly and you wished he had done it more often. The look was just too pretty on him to hide away all the time. You wondered why he always seemed to always look so serious. In the many times you had seen him, he had only smiled when he was with Eloise.

"I'm aware of that...but why?"

"I think the better question is why not."

"How were you able to do it without me sitting for you to paint me?"

"I will answer all of your questions, but right now, we must see the final painting."

He offered you his arm and you grabbed onto it, letting him lead you through the rest of the gallery.

"But this was the last one." 

"Not quite,” he winked and stopped at the last piece, causing you to let out a loud gasp as your own painting was staring back at you. But it had been rejected. How did he get a hold of it and why was it there? The man was confusing you even more by the second. You were convinced that he had just been trying to get you to forgive him just so he could feel better about himself, but now you weren’t so sure. 

You felt tears well up in your eyes as you turned to him. No one had ever done anything that nice for you before. Something so selfless that they only did because they wanted to and not to make themself look good. Maybe he wasn’t the same Benedict that your remembered. Maybe he was finally turning over a new leaf.

Benedict wiped your tears away and even though it was entirely inappropriate, you threw yourself into his arms and he was quick to catch you, almost falling backwards because of how much force you had used to push yourself in his direction. You squeezed each other tight, avoiding the gasps of the people around you. Lady Danbury shooed them away to give the two of you some privacy as you both pulled away. 

Without a word, you pulled Benedict away from the gallery and you both discreetly made your way through the crowd to get outside for some much needed fresh air. You looked out into the garden and couldn’t help but feel like home there.There was something that was so comforting about it that made it seem like you belonged there. You could see yourself there with Benedict right by your side, the two of you facing each other with your own easels as you painted your own portraits of each other. 

You hadn’t thought about him in that way in a long time and wondered where that had come from. Maybe you were overcome with gratitude to him, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was the fact that you couldn’t stop yourself from staring at his pretty lips, wondering what they felt like between yours. And how you could have taken the chance and it would not have been inappropriate.

Without a word, you grabbed him by his coat and pulled him down so that his face was only inches from yours. You pressed your lips to his with so much force that your teeth clinked together and you both were quick to pull away covering your mouths in pain. You couldn’t believe you had done that. That was exactly why you never acted impulsively. It always just ended in embarrassment. 

You just shook your head as you felt your cheeks heat up and turned back to enter the gallery. Benedict wasn’t going to let you get away this time, though. He lost you once and he wasn’t going to let it happen again. And this time, he was actually attracted to you and he was going to let you know just how beautiful he thought you were. 

He grabbed onto your arm just as you were going to open the door and turned you around to face him. His hazel eyes bored into yours as he grabbed onto your chin, lifting it as he bent down. He slotted his lips between yours and you tried to move along with him, mimicking his actions exactly even though you had absolutely not fucking clue what you were doing. 

Your hands moved to his face and pulled him closer to you so you had more access to his mouth, becoming addicted to the feeling of his lips on yours. You had only gotten a little taste, but already wanted to do that exact thing for the rest of your life. Benedict pulled away to let the both of you breathe, but quickly dove in for more as he grabbed onto your waist and pushed you against the pillar that was behind you. You let him lead, taking exactly what he wanted from you as you were pliant under his touch. 

He pushed your mouth open as he slid his tongue inside, letting it swirl around your own and a sound escaped your mouth that Benedict definitely needed to hear again. And the fact that what you were doing was considered wrong only made him love it more. He continued to kiss you like his life depended on it as his hand moved up to your breast, massaging it the best he could over your dress as you let out another moan, this one louder. You pulled away as you felt a weird sensation between your legs, a lot of wetness collecting there. You began to panic as you pushed Benedict away, embarrassed about what was happening. 

“I had a lovely time tonight, Mr. Bridgerton, but now I must go.” You curtsied and then rushed inside, gathering your dress in your hands as you did so. 

You made a beeline for the restroom and locked yourself inside it before grabbing the nearest towel-like fabric and pulled up your dress before wiping. You pulled the towel away not to find blood like you were expecting but found that whatever was between your legs was almost clear. You were convinced that there was something wrong with you, having never seen anything like that before. 

While you were panicking in the restroom, Benedict was pacing in the garden, debating running after you even though he was sure that you had already left. Had he made you uncomfortable? That must have been it because you looked so scared. He had taken advantage of you and now he was going to beat himself up over it. Not reciprocating your feelings when you were a child was one thing, but taking advantage of you was another and now he had ruined his chances with you because he was selfish. He didn’t think that another painting was going to fix it either. Perhaps it was time to finally let you go for good and let you find a man who was actually worthy enough. A man that was actually able to keep you.

[thebadboyfanclub]

Together As One (Daemon x Reader)

So this is more a twisted love type of hype, I hope you guys like the way I portrayed this request cause I wanted to give it more of a dark edge since Daemon is definitely a gray character. Hope you enjoy!

Mothers love their children, everyone could agree upon the unconditional love mothers held for their kind with no doubt in their hearts, songs, poems, plays, and any type of art one can think of have attempted to portray such devotion. None, however, could predict that some mothers have a certain type of fear for their child, like some whisper in the back of their heads warning them about the little glimpse in their eyes that was not like the stars but more of a scorching fire threading to burn everything.

That was the exact feeling Rhaenys had for her beloved daughter, the twin sister of Laenor, it would often baffle her how her husband could not see what was clearly there, (y/n) was always in competition with everyone about everything, the finest clothes belonged to her, she had to ride a dragon first, learn Valyrian faster.

Whilst Rhaenys prayed for her daughter's thirst to settle, the others praised her for her bravery, her determination, and her intellect, something that made (y/n) yearn for more.

“I would like to raise a toast to my dear brother, a married man to our future queen, may your wedlock be blessed with numerous children and a road paved with nothing but joy and success, Prince Daemon, hopefully you are next”

(Y/n) stood with a smile of triumph dancing on her lips before she raised her cup to gently take a sip, as she sat down Daemon's eyes followed her, he was well aware of her game, though he seemed unfazed and almost amused by her comment the truth laid somewhere deeper than the surface, not a single soul in this room would have been able to guess that the delighted twin of now future king consort was playing a game of cat and mouse with none other than prince daemon behind closed doors.

(Y/n) had been relentless in her ways to seduce Daemon, sneaking out at all hours of the night, sending people after him so she could know his whereabouts just so she could magically appear, the combination of sweet wine and her alluring voice was enough for Daemon to stumble and fall right on top of her, taking her for a ride to the addictive roads of lust.

She was stunning, flawless, a true Targaryen that screamed opulence and elegance with a face sculpted by the gods, the common folk would gush over the “oceans Angel” a nickname given by the realm for her angelic features, how would they know how dark her mind could get in order to make everyone yield before her?

-

“Mother”

“Dearest, how are you on this fine morrow?”

“I am well, the little one finally decided to let me get some rest”

“When I was pregnant with you I remember thinking you would kick your way out of my belly, the Apple does not fall far from the tree”

(Y/n)s daughter, Leora, leaned as much as she could to kiss her mother's cheek before she sat down next to her to break her fast, queen Alicent had already taken her seat along with her daughter Heleana and (y/n)s other son Elion, Alicent and (y/n) enjoyed each others presence, a mutual bond based on respect had been build over the years that was sealed by marrying Leora with Aegon and Elion with Heleana.

“The maester said you should drink more orange juice, it will help with the fatigue”

“As well as eat more meat, pregnancy is no easy task, you must be as strong as ever”

Alicent chimed, the birth of her second grandchild was one of the most important events, Alicent adored her first grandchild, beautiful Hael, a strong boy who was just now starting to learn how to walk, still, he had everyone wrapped around his finger.

“I appreciate your concerns but I am fine, healthy as a horse”

“It wouldn’t hurt, let us not risk it dearest”

“I thought once I get older I wouldn’t have to listen to my mother”

“Well I am sorry but that will never happen, drink”

(Y/n) had stepped up and appeared as the perfect mother, loving, kind, and caring, she did love her children, however, what she loved most was the things they could do for her, her firstborn daughter was now the wife of the king first born son, and her son was a strong, skill full knight that served the realm and came back in triumph, how could she not adore her perfect creations?

“How is the king?”

“I am afraid his health is decreasing, the maesters advise him to remain abed for the day”

“Rhaenyra will be questioned, he won’t sit this one out I am afraid”

“Ugh the precious Rhaenyra, I wish I could stay in my chambers until those god-forsaken days pass”

(Y/n)s smile was wiped from her face and in an instant it was replaced with an angry scowl, in a split second her hand had grasped her daughter, Leoras' eyes went wide with fear when they met the angry hues of her mothers.

“You mustn’t speak in such a way, I’ve taught you better”

Leora only nodded frantically, (y/n) had her own opinions over Rhaenyra, she however, knew better than to voice them, not even in such a secluded area of the palace, (y/n)s hold turned from forceful to a caress before she directed her eyes back to her friend and queen Alicent.

“Besides, the king will do as he wishes and if the gods bless him with the strength to stand he should be there, isn’t it right Alicent?”

“I couldn’t have phrased it better, my dear”

-

(Y/n) and Alicent were each other's shadows, one compelled the other and in the end one way or the other the result was one of their favor, (y/n) was disciplined and had mastered the act of a gracious and lovely princess, Alicent was strict and slipped under everyone’s nose as she cloaked herself with the act of a pious queen, the two of them had years up on the horse of being able to maneuver their way around the kingdom so the men would not suspect a damn thing.

Viserys had seemed to get worst which made him unable to attend even when Daemon and (y/n) went to his room to assist him, the king could not even sit up let alone walk, Daemon was disheartened, thankfully for him his dutiful and beautiful wife let him rest on her shoulder and like a soothing salve her encouraging words went over his wound of his beloved older brother nearing his end.

“My Love”

“(Y/n)? What- what has happened?”

“I apologize for waking you up my dear, it is your brother”

“Viserys? What about- no”

“My dear husband, you must be strong, I am so sorry”

(Y/n) grasped Daemon's hands tightly before she brought them up to her lips to kiss his knuckles, of course, she was one of the first to know, Alicent had rushed to her chamber and delivered the news herself, she had waited patiently as the king took his last breath, Alicent told no one, not even the maester, (y/n) had to know before anyone.

“Viserys”

Daemon had been taken over by his thoughts, they’ve always had their differences but at the end of the day, they shared the same mother and father, a bond that could never be broken, no matter how many times Daemon has run off he always ended up by Viserys side.

“My love, I understand that this is too much for you, however, we must prepare our daughter”

“What does Elora have to do with this?”

“She is to be queen, she needs her father”

“Queen? Have you gone mad?”

(Y/n) bit her bottom lip in combination with her head tilting to the side, as if nothing but a mere candle lit her face Daemon could still identify the features that he so adored but now he could not wrap his head around what was his wife suggesting.

“My lord husband, King Viserys has left us, it is only natural for his son to succeed him”

“It is expected for his firstborn, Rhaenyra, to do so, not Aegon”

“Where is the princess? But in a place where she could have visited if she wished, when has she even attempted to come and visit her beloved father who was in agony all these years? She only came when her privilege was at risk and then blamed Alicent who has served by the king's side for his illness”

“This is not a matter to discuss”

“But it is, the gods know I loved Viserys and he had been good to me, but let us not forget he killed his first wife in his desperate attempt for a male heir, he remarried and Alicent gave him an heir and a spare and still it was not good enough, he passed by you and his sons to bury his guilt by calling Rhaenyra the heir, it wasn’t because he trusted her or because he saw something in her, he passed the title on to her because he did not trust you and then because he wanted to wash the blood of queen Aemmas from his hands”

Silence fell upon them, (y/n) pulled away from her husband and headed towards the door, as his hand rested upon the handle she turned her head back to lord husband who was visibly shaken, (y/n) might appear disheartened but she could detect that her monologue had started to creep on to Daemons heart.

“I love you with all my heart, that is why I shall leave you to grieve, if you wish to run to her I will…. Understand, it is not like I ever doubted the unconditional love you have for the realm delight, now might be your chance to pursue it”

Her tone was drowning in sorrow leaving Daemon with an unwavering sense of guilt in a dark room as his wife had disappeared to place her hand over a war of fire and blood, (y/n) was correct, Daemon did love Rhaenyra, still, he did not place his flame for her over what he had built with his wife over the years.

(Y/n) walked away with a smile of triumph, she had done her part flawlessly and now she was certain that Daemon would be by her side before the crown was placed on Aegons head, however, she did not have time to waste, Alicent and (y/n) were the ones to wake the new king and queen, preparing them for what they had destined to be.

“You may enter”

“Prince Daemon is asking to see his daughter and wife, alone”

(Y/n) stopped brushing her daughter's head, carefully placing the golden brush down before she looked down at her daughter who nodded in approval.

“Let him in, do not allow anyone to disturb us”

“Right away”

The girl curtsied as quickly as possible before she disappeared only to be replaced by none other than Daemon. (Y/n) took a sharp inhale through her nose once he entered the room, preparing herself for a mental battle, surprisingly when her eyes scanned for his she was met with a certain lightness, an ease to him that caught her by a pleasant surprise.

Instinctively a small smile played on her lips, her Daemon was dressed in his black attire, leather suited him, and his hair was pulled away from his face the way she always told him to do it.

(Y/n) was not made of stone, she might play like she is though her heart skipped a beat every time she was near her lord husband, Daemon was one of the very few people that (y/n) would throw herself in the fire, even though their love felt like the flames licked her back, that sweet pain of admiration and devotion that the poets would sing and the common folk would go mad.

“My dearest loves”

Daemon declared, that their daughter rose from her chair and ran to her father, she was always the one known to succumb to emotions and this time (y/n) could not scold her over it, Leora was her father's daughter, (y/n) might not have spoken over the matter only to allow the young girl the solidarity of her feelings, inside Leora was always waiting for her father to walk through this door.

“You look beautiful, a perfect gown for the queen”

“Father I-“

“Before I handed you over to Aegon I made you a promise, do you remember it?”

“I will do anything to see you happy”

“I will put myself through war if you tell me that this is what you want, all you have to do is say it”

Daemon was no fool, he was certain that the second that crown graced his daughter's head a war would nip their heels, Rhaenyra would not go down without a fight and that meant that Daemon would have to face her in battle, a battle he was willing to put for his lovely Leora.

“I want to be queen, I want Aegon to be our king”

“Very well, I wish you a fruitful reign, may the Gods smile down upon you”

‘May the Gods have mercy on us’ he thought, with a smile he brushed away those dark thoughts only to place a kiss on his daughter's forehead, a small part of him screamed that this was the right thing, his brother never thought he was good enough, now his brother was on the ground and his daughter was crowned queen and would carry on the legacy of the Targaryen name.

“Go on now, I want to have a word with your mother”

“I will be waiting for you”

Leora informed them before she gave them the privacy Daemon desired. (Y/n) stood as still as a statue, her heart pounding on her chest as her throat grew dry and scratchy, she was the master of composure up until now, faced with the only person who could make her waver.

“My beautiful, sweet lady wife, you spoke harshly last night”

“I spoke nothing but the truth”

She threw back in a cold tone. Daemon only smirked as he started to approach her, she did not dare to move, (y/n) was comforted by his light-hearted manner though there was an underlying mischief, Daemon was playing something, and (y/n) was left trying to catch up before it is too late.

Daemon stood before her, his arm finding her forearms and giving them a gentle squeeze, his eyes gazing back at hers with a glimmer that (y/n) had grown to yearn for, she despised the fact that she had to manipulate him like this, she was left with no other choice but to do this, a side of hers cursed the day Rhaenyras and Daemons fates met, this would have been so much easier had (y/n) been the only women Daemon loved.

“You are so bright, I am almost disappointed that you didn’t foresee this”

“The war?”

“No, me, you think I have not caught wind of all the scheming against Rhaenyra? The upbringing of my daughter to become the wife of my brother's firstborn son, putting our son on the sea the minute he was born to have better knowledge of anything driftmark related to gain the favor of your father, every step you so amazingly calculated with Alicent so you can get our family here”

“You have gone mad”

“I saw behind the facade and that makes you nervous, I was there with you every step of the way you mustn’t be frightened, I let you do all this for only one reason”

“Alright, let us entertain this absurd claim of yours, what is the reason?”

“Because I love you”

(Y/n) mouth slightly parted in shock, Daemon had professed his love for her on multiple occasions but the weight on this one was different, he had pulled what she thought was the perfect cover, leaving her bare in front of him, uncovering her thirst that she had kept away from everyone.

“I love you so much that I will let my daughter become the target on Rhaenyras mind, I will go against the woman that you think threatens your position in my heart, I will put myself in the sword before I let her even get one strand of your hair because you and our daughter want this”

“And you don’t? You always held a grudge over the fact that Viserys never declared you as his heir”

“My brother is dead now and because of you our child wishes to be a queen, I picked you as my second wife because I saw your strength, your determination, you need to come on top, that is the Targaryen fire through and through”

“You truly mean all this?”

“You are my lady wife, you gave me a home, now it is time to show the realm that we are the rightful heirs of the throne, together as one”

(Y/n) reached daemons lips for a passionate kiss, his hands slid down to her waist and pulled her as close as humanly possible, sharing this moment meant everything to (y/n), she had him devotedly by her side, he saw her true nature and walked straight into her fire, surrendering in her and even shielding her and her family.

“Let us find out daughter, I want us to be the ones to place the crown on her head”

“I wouldn’t dare let anyone else have that honor”

Requests are open!