#nothing but respect for my high ladies
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sapphic feysand (+ female rhys)
shout out to- the gays
#acotar gay agenda lives#this is the future liberals want#female rhys could [redacted]#and then [redacted]#nothing but respect for my high ladies#sapphic feysand#acotar
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concept: a video of Feyre glowing with happiness set to Light My Love by Greta Van Fleet
#feyre#high lady feyre#nothing but respect for my bad bitch high lady who gets shit done#I think Feyre glowing when happy isn't talked about enough#feyre archeron#feyre acotar#feyre cursebreaker#feyre supremacy#starlitfeyre
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Trueform sukuna who never kisses his concubines. EXCEPT he only kisses his favorite concubine aka reader 😞🎀
𝝑𝑒 synopsis. you’re the only one deserving of lord sukuna’s.. direct affection.
tags. true form!sukuna x concubine!reader. fluff, suggestive at most. uhh exhibitionism ? kinda but nothing crazy sexual happens, so pda. size difference. reader gets called ‘doll.’
you’re standing at the entrance of the estate, along with some other concubines. four of them. uraume is there with you as well. you’re all awaiting the one person you’re serving; ryomen sukuna.
it’s silent. the women don’t dare to speak up nor do they dare address you in a menacing manner because of uraume’s presence. you’re thankful for them. you really don’t want to have another petty fight with the concubines. not before your little trip to the village nearby.
you’re all accompanying sukuna to meet up with an infamous clan leader. it’s official business, but you’re needed as a sign of your lord’s high status. you’re basically his trophies that he likes to show off.
“interesting choice of clothing,” sukuna finally shows up. you all bow, showing respect. you look up and only then realise that he’s addressing you. his eyes wander over your figure, “who’s chosen that for you?”
you glance down at your kimono. it’s a beautiful red—suiting the color of sukuna’s eyes. your hair is put up in a neat bun, with a matching crimson hairpin that represented who you belong to.
him.
“my lady-in-waiting, my lord,” you say quietly. you cannot see it, yet can easily feel it; the jealous glares from the four women. they’re dressed in the exact same color red, yet their lord hasn’t paid them any mind. not even a glance.
sukuna just hums in response and makes a mental note of your answer. at least his human servants are good for something. he continues to shamelessly check you out.
“lord sukuna,” uraume interrupts carefully. they bow their head once the king of curses looks their way with a stoic expression, “we’ll have to leave now if we wish to make it there at dawn.”
it’s a gentle reminder, but there’s some urgency in their voice. sukuna rolls his eyes—he may have some official business, but he’s not attending that. not before taking care of other more important stuff first. “silence,” he comments to uraume, heavy steps heading your way afterwards.
your eyes meet his. you blink in confusion, eyelashes fluttering. the sight makes sukuna’s hands twitch at his sides. the way you stare up at him with such naïveté is making him want to destroy it.
you’re unsure what sukuna wants from you. as he orders, everyone stays quiet. you watch as his big hands wrap around your body—your waist engulfed by his warm palms. your eyes widen, but before you can question his actions, your lips are sealed by his.
it’s rare that he does this. kissing sukuna is a privilege. one that no one has ever gotten the honour of having, except for you.
you’ve tasted him. you’ve felt his tongue slither against yours. you’ve had his saliva mix with yours. you’ve had him grunting in your mouth.
you’ve had it all.
no one says a thing. even as your feet are lifted from the ground by the sheer strength of sukuna’s grip on your small body. to reach his lips properly, he has to pick you up and hold you against his chest. it’s his favorite thing to do.
“pretty thing,” sukuna coos with a grin. you can feel his lips curling up menacingly against your mouth. it makes you whine. you instantly shut up once you realise that you’re still outside and surrounded by others—who are basically waiting on you two to be done.
you’re embarrassed to the point that you want nothing more than to hide your face against sukuna’s chest. but he will not let you until he’s had his fill. your tongues swirl around each other passionately, followed by him sucking on your bottom lip and biting it with his sharp fangs.
“my lord,” you whine quietly. you know this’ll end up like that one time in the garden. where he shamelessly took you in front of his servants. you’re unsure if it’s a smart thing to do right now. sukuna has an appointment to go to after all.
his mouth doesn’t stop interlocking with yours. his thick fingers tug at the hairs on the back of your neck, causing you to part your lips in surprise. the king of curses takes his chance and explores your warm little mouth. the one that he’s claimed as his the moment you became his concubine.
you tug at his sleeve as a reminder. sukuna grumbles in annoyance, but he knows you’re right; he should let go. his bottom set of eyes dart over to uraume for a second and upon seeing their expressionless yet determined face, he sighs.
all that official business can suck his dick.
sukuna finally detaches his lips from your now wet and swollen ones. you’re breathing hard, trying to catch your breath. you’re flustered to the point you actually bury your face into sukuna’s chiseled chest. you’re sure this’ll be the only talk around the estate for the upcoming week. you’ll become the victim of some more. . . bullying.
the king of curses notices that you don’t let go of him at all. he grins at the sight of you so desperately clinging onto him. he tries to undo the little mess he made of your once neat hair in the meantime.
“what? want me to carry you all the way there, doll?” sukuna raises an eyebrow, teasing you as per usual. you don’t let go of him since you’re still cooling off. you’ve never really kissed outside of the bedroom. it always happens behind closed doors, so this one time took you by surprise.
you shake your head and plop down on your feet again. “no, my apologies, my lord,” you straighten the material of your kimono and don’t even dare to look at the others. uraume would understand, since they’re used to their lord’s antics, but the concubines will cause big trouble once you’re back home.
sukuna nods in acknowledgment. he still got that evil smirk on his face. his thumb brushes the smudged lipstick from the corner of your mouth, cleaning up his mess once again. he’s nice enough to do so today.
“heh.” sukuna lets out an amused chuckle before walking away and ahead of you—the others silently following, as do you. you’re right behind him, on his right side, as he turns his head to yours, “just so y’know, i’m not done with you.”
you know sukuna isn’t. you can easily tell by the way that he didn’t even bother to wipe the lipstick from his own lips. he’s wearing that stain like it’s a medal of sorts. evidence that you’re the only one he’s ever going to show such affection to.
either way; you’re in for one hell of a ride once you’re back from your little business trip.
#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader#sukuna x reader#jjk x you#sukuna x you#jjk x y/n#sukuna x y/n#jjk fluff#sukuna fluff
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I wanna make it (so badly)
Art Donaldson x Fem Reader
Warnings/Contains: reader is AFAB with she/her pronouns, swearing, inappropriate employer/employee relationship, dry-humping, a lot of heavy petting, implied age gap, effective-infidelity (reader tested, tashi approved), oral sex (f!receiving), art is a bit of a pervert and mega-pathetic (endearing), references to religion (worship).
Word Count: 5.8k
i white knuckled the steering wheel on the way home from this film thinking about art donaldson- this is, essentially, an ode to that
Youth tennis lessons, $20/h, call for details
Finding work was hard, keeping work was harder.
Cleaning, baby-sitting, pet-sitting, pet-walking. There was virtually nothing you hadn't tried.
Odd jobs, odd hours, and the occasional odd employer.
You'd played tennis for the last couple years of college. Nothing remotely competitive but you and your friends had looked cute in the skirts and they'd give you whole hours out of class to play.
You were above average with a good arm and better patience.
Another odd job to add to your growing list.
You'd been particular about where you'd posted the ads, the neighbourhoods you'd chosen. Only the ones with manicured lawns and white picket fences.
Tacking the paper to boards in upmarket cafes, fancy supermarkets, ladies-only gyms.
The kind of people that want their kids playing tennis and could find their way to increase your pay- if you did well.
You always did very well.
So your little car looked a little out of place in this neighbourhood, fingers holding the scribbled post-it note with the address. Your scrawling handwriting detailing the "Donaldson's" were enquiring within.
Pulling up outside the house, you had a quiet inkling that you might've been out of your depth. Whoever owned this house deserved more than an above-average-ex-college-student that only learnt the sport to spend time with friends.
But they'd requested you, you'd have to let them come to that conclusion on your own.
Your knuckles only hit the door once before it was being swung open by someone that looked destined to be a security guard, like he'd come out the womb with his future decided.
What the fuck had you gotten yourself into?
He'd left you in the "formal lounge" to sit smack-bang in the centre of a couch that wouldn't even fit in the lobby of your apartment building- let alone the apartment itself.
As you admired a painting on the wall that you'd only ever seen in books, high heels on the stone floors made you jump in your seat.
The most beautiful woman you might ever see in your life appeared before you and said your name in a way that had you standing from your seat.
Your face faltered just enough that you hoped she didn't notice. There was something about her that told you she noticed everything.
Fuck me, that's Tashi Duncan.
If you know a thing about tennis (or even just watched the news) you know exactly who this woman is. You remember her more from your childhood but you remember her all the same.
The woman that once held the world by the balls.
She apologised for her husband's absence, that he was busy. It wasn't lost on you that the "husband" she casually referred to was Art Donaldson, US Open champion.
The Donaldson's.
Ah fuck.
Tashi went on the explain that they were wanting to begin lessons for their daughter Lily. You assumed this was the one you could hear running circles around the informal lounge.
"With all due respect, am I not the least qualified person in this home for that?"
You watched a perfectly formed cheekbone lift in what was nearly a smile. Strangely enough, something in the pit of your chest was dying to make her do that again.
There was something about her that demanded to be impressed.
You were no exception to the rule.
"My husband and I have seen some of your matches, we liked what we saw."
How? Your 'matches'- if you can even call them that, were nothing of note. You don't even think faculty bothered to watch them. You weren't quite sure why they'd even recorded them.
A silly part of you began to wonder how they'd even got a hold of them- until you remembered who they were.
The Hermes and Peitho of tennis.
"You did? I always thought of myself as more of a casual player."
"And that's what we liked, we know better than anyone how brutal tennis can become. We want someone to help Lily enjoy the game."
Oh, okay then.
You'd made a quasi-college-career out of purely enjoying the game. You were sure you could foster the same spirit for the six-year-old performing the entire 'Encanto' soundtrack in the other room.
Tashi laid down a tight schedule, Monday to Friday, 3pm to 6pm. You would teach Lily the wonders of the game on the court behind their home.
Their home you'd come to find out was a luxury rental when you'd complemented Tashi on another of the art pieces that'd apparently come with the place.
You'd also come to find out they typically live in hotel rooms, but they'd settled in this area for the time being as Art had a good thing going with a regular playing schedule and a sporting-goods deal.
You nodded along like you could begin to understand a life like that.
As she showed you back to your car (the one you suddenly felt humiliated for her to see you own), she called your name one last time from the doorway.
"You undersell yourself, we'll give you eighty an hour."
She left you choking on your tongue with one foot in the car and the other on an Italian cobblestone.
You were never going to walk or sit another dog again.
Lily was going to win her first Grand Slam by ten if that's what they'd pay you.
As your peeled your car from their turn-around area, you watched a Jeep Wrangler slow as it passed you. You couldn't see through the tint but you just knew it was him.
And you knew he was watching you.
-
The minute you'd told your roommate the situation you'd come into, she'd called bullshit.
A few texts from Tashi's now saved icon and a weird little photo you'd taken from inside the guest bathroom, it'd been enough to convince her.
"Fucking hell, are you God's favourite or something?"
You'd argue you were quite the opposite, she of all people should know. She'd seen some of the states you'd come home in after your other random jobs.
Felt good to be the winner.
Even just once.
In the air of some girlish fascination, she brought up a Youtube video of "Tashi Duncan Career Highlights" courtesy of "tennisguy779."
You'd protested it, rolling your eyes while feigning disinterest. No use, the minute you caught her out the corner of your eye- you were captivated.
It was entirely possible to imagine she hovered above the court, like there was a greater force placing her exactly where she needed to be, exactly when she needed.
It was even easier to believe she was just that good.
As you watched her play, listened to the sounds the game could draw from her- you wondered if this was how she and Art had felt.
Had they curled up in their informal lounge like you were right now? Had Tashi studied your every move meticulously like you assume? Had Art passed comment on your form? Did he think you were any good?
Tennisguy779's lineup changed quickly to "Art Donaldson Career Highlights" and you felt your chest constrict. An inexplicable feeling washed over you.
Like you'd been caught with God's forbidden fruit.
Your roommate had tried to question why you'd effectively flown off the couch, only to be met with a muttered 'goodnight' as you shut the bedroom door behind you.
Thin walls meant you drifted off to sleep that night with the rhythmic sounds of Art, grunting his way through an ATP Challenger.
It was no surprise you dreamt of him.
-
The Donaldson's tennis court was down a steep set of stairs, set back into an oasis of lush greenery.
Perfect for a 6-year-old's first lessons.
You didn't know if it was the grand balcony that overlooked the court or the fact a well-manicured Tashi stood atop it, but you felt positively observed.
Lily was in the midst of showing you how she could do a cartwheel (she couldn't) when the voice in the back of your head started echoing a promise of $80/h.
"Alright, lets channel some of that into your elbow."
Give a six-year-old a racquet half the size of her and she's going to blow effective chunks, but at least she has the spirit. Maybe it's her energy, maybe it has been a while since you've been on the court-
The kid's running you ragged.
Coupled with her height, you're spending more time bent over than you are up straight and it's all going to your head. All you can hope is Tashi isn't up there watching you stumble after the ball.
But you're sure there are eyes on your back.
Lily is a quick learner and you work out a tradeoff of one tennis skill for one spinning heel kick (mandatory that you watch).
Roll on 6pm and she's dog-tired, however, she's managed to hit the ball at least twice. Surely that's earned your keep. She lays star-fished on the turf and murmurs something about a piggyback.
You know you're about to earn your keep.
By the top of the staircase, you're more than happy to hand over a Lily-shaped-sack-of-potatoes to Tashi's mother. As you emerge from behind an ornate gargoyle, your suspicions proved correct.
Art Donaldson had been watching your every move.
Left alone on the balcony with him, you're acutely aware of the fact he's standing between you and your exit, and he's just had a full show of you bent over and flitting about his tennis court.
That and you still haven't said so much as 'hello' to the man.
You dwell on it for a moment and then there's that feeling back in the pit of your stomach, like any minute you'll be caught with fruit in hand- in throat.
The Original Sin.
Luckily, Art made the decision for you, crossing the space to shake your hand. If he noticed the way your hand trembled, he didn't seem to mind.
"It's nice to finally meet you."
You wished you had more to say to him, or maybe something more intelligent. Something better than a quiet "and you."
He was the better conversationalist, thankfully. Head motioning to the court, he looked down his nose at you when he spoke.
It should've felt condescending. It didn't.
"How did she go out there?"
"Yeah, really good- not a Disney character I can't name now."
He laughed.
Really laughed, like the joke was better than it was.
Like there was a preening little flutter inside you that said "do it again!"
You shrugged your shoulders like making him happy came naturally as you squinted up at him, as if he was the sun.
"You were watching? You must've seen her picking it up?"
Because he was the expert. Because he is the champion.
He hummed as he nodded, eyes skywards like there might've been something more important behind the clouds.
"Must've been distracted."
Within an instant- his eyes flickered to your own and you were sure he watched them change. He must've seen something he liked, the corner of his lip quirked up before he spoke again.
"Come on, I'll sort your payment and then we'll let you get home."
And for whatever reason, his hand fit perfectly in the small of your back as he lead you inside.
-
And how quickly did you become a strange piece of furniture in the Donaldson's home- in their life?
An ottoman for Tashi to rest her tired feet on.
An abstract piece on the wall for Art to admire when he passes it.
A projection of constellations across the ceiling to keep Lily bright behind the eyes.
At least you belonged- there was no doubt that this was where you belonged.
That wasn't to say your tennis skill had improved any, lesson after lesson you still couldn't wrap your head around why they'd even signed you on, let alone kept you.
"Ok, don't watch that one either- maybe just do what I say and not what I do."
You hadn't nailed a single one, at this point you couldn't blame Lily for skipping around pretending her racquet was a horse.
Wasn't like she'd be learning anything if she was paying attention.
"Ok, here we go just- ok right, when your parents ask how today went, please be kind."
"Your elbow is too low."
It was a miracle you didn't scream.
Art entered the court with a swagger that you could only assume struck fear when he was your opponent.
Right now it struck pure embarrassment and Lily wasn't helping.
"Daddy, she didn't hit a single one!"
"Alright, I don't think daddy needs to know that-"
"Daddy knows, daddy's been watching."
Daddy really needs to stop calling himself that.
Lily and her racquet took off for another tour of The Grand National as Art approached you with quiet determination.
It was like waiting for impact, his eyes never wavered off his daughter as he made towards you. At the last moment, he snapped his attention in your direction- with a smile that should've felt condescending.
It wasn't.
"If your elbow is too low you lose topspin and power."
If you deserved the $80/h you were earning, you might've known that.
As Art stepped up to you, the turn of the planets on their axis slowed down and it could've been entirely possible to believe it was only you two.
And Lily upon her trusty steed.
The gallops of her tennis shoes thinned out as Art placed one hand around your elbow, lifting it higher. His other hand held your waist as he pulled your back flush to his chest.
"Lily, go find grandma."
Then it really was just you two.
Your heart hammered against the shell of your ribcage, blood rushing around your ears as you felt Art's chin perch at your shoulder.
"If your elbow is high enough," His hand lifted it up and you let it stay there. "And your hip is turned."
He didn't have to say it with the gravel in his voice, but he did. He didn't have to hold your hips as he moved them, but he did. He didn't have to stay without so much of an inch between the two of you, but he did.
With one hand in the curve of your waist, he tossed the ball into the air with the other- then he whistled.
Like the obedient thing you didn't know you were, you raised the racquet and sent the ball flying through the air without even blinking.
As the streak of green hit the court and rolled away, you found yourself lying in wait, as if you were waiting for something- your next command?
"Good girl."
There it was.
Under the all consuming effect that Art Donaldson just seemed to have on people, you'd entirely forgotten you were in a position you could be 'caught' in. By his all consuming wife, of all people.
So, you should've moved.
Quite honestly you should've straightened up and cleared your throat and thanked him and told him it was time for you to go home.
You should've moved.
But Art wasn't moving. If anything he was staying purposefully still at your backside.
Obedient thing you seem to be.
"Show me that again?"
So,
You teach Lily the bare basics of tennis for three hours and receive $80 on the hour.
Then Art spends three hours of his spare time teaching you to perfect your swing- in a way that couldn't ever vaguely resemble professional.
A simple transactional arrangement.
Your tennis improves on a slow but sure basis and he gets the most off-court action he's seen since college.
Even if it is just heavy petting on astro-turf.
A hand under the hem of a tennis skirt. A pressing hip against your own. A deep breath as your hair brushes past him.
You figure Art will take what he can get.
And it's never enough to raise alarm. Sure, there's that fluttering in your chest that warns you might get 'caught' but you're never quite sure what one might 'catch' if they found you out.
It's undoubted who that 'one' is though.
The one who holds the cards- holds the throat, maybe.
Tashi, who's presence precedes her perhaps more than her reputation. Even when she isn't there, she's there.
So, when Art's hand lingers too long on the outside of your thigh and you think you can feel it verging into the territory that'll change everything- it's Tashi on your mind.
You're beginning to think your conscience sounds a lot like Tashi.
-
Who are you if not obedient to the Donaldson's?
Chasing Lily around a court.
Adhering to Tashi's every request.
Being Art's fantasy.
Being Art's.
Most of the time, anyway. Three hours a week.
Something to keep him bright behind the eyes, maybe. Something to keep him happy. Something to keep him-
Winning?
He tells you he plays better with you around. The way he says it makes you giggle, a girlish little noise that sort of just slips out. He serves the ball with his eyes on you and, sure enough, it lands smack where he wanted it too.
Everything where he wants it. When he wants it.
Shy and inconsequential touches and glances shared just between you.
Until, well- until they weren't.
"Would you like a coffee?"
Tashi's mother had taken Lily off to bed, leaving you and Art separated by an island. Kitchen island.
He braced both palms against it as he watched you watch the door, wondering if you should cut and run, wondering if someone else might come through it.
Talking yourself out of it. Whatever it might be.
"Yes please."
Even he looked surprised, brows raising an inch as he turned to the Nespresso machine. You took the moment to watch his back, the muscles moving under the cool-dry fabric of his shirt.
You spent all your time pretending not to notice him that actually allowing yourself the chance to study him made you lightheaded.
Had he always looked this captivating?
He broke your focus with a coffee cup, sliding it towards you as he rounded the bench. His eyes didn't even waver off you as he took a sip of his own.
It wasn't lost on you that he managed to tongue foam off the tip of his nose.
This was the longest you'd stuck around after a tennis lesson, longest you'd allowed yourself to be in his presence. You weren't quite sure how big this thing could get.
Your mouth was opening before your brain had decided it was a good idea.
"Mr. Donaldson-"
"Art."
"Uh, Art- I really appreciate the help you've been giving me- uh, you know- with tennis."
He placed his coffee mug down, nodding as he did it. "My pleasure."
Naturally.
That brain of yours was still firing off at a mile a minute. There was a very tiny voice right at the back that said it was up to you how this night would end- you had a choice to make.
Placing your coffee mug beside his, you scanned his face to find him already looking at you. Perhaps the choice was already set.
Maybe it was fate.
All he said was your name, it could've been the way he said it- but your whole body was losing the rigidity it'd formed when he first asked you to stay longer. When he'd made the choice.
Crossing the small gap between you two, Art was careful to keep one hand on the kitchen bench as the other hovered beside you. Not touching you,
Yet.
One step closer and the tip of Art's nose was touching yours. You think you might've been able to smell the coffee off his breath.
It thinned out- leaving you with his sweat. Musk. Art.
A sudden surge of morals overcame you, your voice broke out as a gasp.
"What about Mrs. Donaldson?"
"Actually, it's still Duncan."
You screamed.
Right in his face.
Tashi's voice made you jump out of your skin.
However, Art didn't move. As you turned your head to gauge the way his wife stalked across the kitchen, you felt his nose brush against your cheek.
Tashi retrieved a tall bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge, taking a poignant sip as her eyes flitted between the two of you.
What a fucking sight.
Her husband, eyes shut and face pressed pathetically to their daughter's tennis instructor- his hands itching to close around your waist.
You, young and bleary eyed looking utterly caught. Staring up at her like she might decide your fate.
It took all your strength to find your words.
"I’m not here to teach tennis, am I?”
“No, of course not. You’re frankly terrible at tennis.”
There's the Tashi you were expecting.
Her words should've stung, but they didn't. They couldn't, not when her husband was laying his hands against your back and rubbing soothing circles down the length of your spine.
Not when his lips were mouthing wet kisses along your cheek.
Not when she was right. Spade's a spade.
"Why am I here?"
She snorted, a real dissatisfactory sound- like she hoped you were smarter than that. She was halfway to her bedroom before she cut you loose.
"Careful, he makes that sound before he cums."
-
And he had, just like she'd said.
Art had cum in his shorts, pressed up against your thigh with his face still smushed against your own.
And you'd taken it, obedience in spades.
You'd stood there and let him hump your leg like a bad dog and you'd even pat his head and whispered kind words in his ear after the mess he'd made.
Then you slipped out the front door to your car and you'd pretended not to notice that there were two bedroom lights on upstairs.
You hadn't even divulged the freaky details to your roommate when you got home.
But the showerhead knew all about them.
Visions of Art on the clouds of steam- replayed in your head the sounds he'd made right in your ear.
How he'd whimpered your name when he splashed his boxers like a fucking teenager.
It was no surprise you dreamt of him.
You even showed up next day, valiantly. You didn't run for the hills or even straight to a tabloid about how weird the Donaldson's really were.
And maybe that's why you hadn't told your roommate either.
Because telling someone what Tashi allowed? What Art liked?
That'd mean you'd have to admit your dirty little secret.
You loved it.
When you showed up, something was different. No usual chatter in the house, no shoes by the front door. You checked out the front window to see what you'd missed when you arrived.
Tashi's car was gone.
"She's taken her mom and Lily to the ballet."
At least you didn't scream this time.
You were lucky your back was to him, lest he see the self-righteous little smile that broke when the words settled.
"Oh, ok."
"I'll see you on the court."
Oh, ok.
Lest he see the disappointment that took over.
Following him close behind, you didn't know why you were effectively surprised that he still wanted to continue with your lessons. You'd half expected- hoped, he'd bend you over the kitchen island.
Tennis was fun too, you guess.
Thinking about it, something that bold didn't seem the style of the man who'd nearly blacked out rubbing up on you. Beckoning you onto the tennis court with two fingers and a wry smile did, however.
You fell into your usual position, hip turned and elbow curved on your side of the court. You waited for him to appear behind you, chest melding into the curve of your back.
It never came.
Art took long strides towards the net, vaulting it in one smooth motion. He ended up parallel to you, waiting with a ball and racquet in either hand.
The smile had left his face, a rather blank expression taking over as he sized you up. And there was that fear- knowing what it felt like to be on the wrong side of him.
This was going to hurt.
From the moment he pressed the ball to the neck of his racquet, it was all over. Your feet were never in one place for more than a second, your arms burned above you, your head permanently on a swivel.
Art didn't look like he'd broken more than a sweat.
You knew he had, you could see it in the neck of his shirt. But he didn't look it.
He looked calm, he looked in control, he looked-
Like he was enjoying himself.
For every rally that you managed, you thought you saw an inkling of pride set in his features.
For every serve that you missed, you knew you saw unbridled lust.
Not a point scored in your favour, you hit the ball towards him one last time before you collapsed to the turf. Flat on your back, reminiscent of your first lesson here.
You watched the clouds shift over your head, listening to your pulse thick and fast in your ears. Just underneath it, you could hear footfalls approaching.
No hurry, but impending.
Soon, the sun above you was eclipsed by Art Donaldson. His golden hair shone with the halo of light behind it.
Now this was God's favourite.
"You can't be giving up this easily?"
Forcing a laugh, you threw your arm up and over your eyes. "Wanna bet?"
Turns out he did- turns out Art struggled to do anything but win.
Somehow, you found it within yourself to stand back up. This time it was only a practice, you weren't brave enough to face off against him another round.
This was more your speed.
The hand that wasn't holding your elbow was curving around your front, the pleats of your tennis skirt lifting over his fingers. You felt a warm hand slowly moving across the front of your underwear.
Two fingers migrated south, pressing against the seam of you- he must've felt the pure heat radiating beneath his fingertips.
Turning your head even an inch, you found the curve of his nose pressing into your cheek.
"I didn't give up."
He hummed, the vibration rolled across your shoulders.
"Mmm, you didn't."
The hand sans-racquet dropped between your thighs to press his palm into your cunt. It was Art who flexed your fingers and cupped it.
"Where's my prize?"
There was no trophy, no podium, no medal.
But there was Art between your legs, slinging a knee over each shoulder like he might've been the real winner.
You'd never been inside the 'changing shed' behind the court, of course it was nicer than your actual home.
Your head made contact with the hard wood behind you, bench digging into your ass as you felt a hot mouth moving against the seat of your underwear.
Running your fingers through his hair, your gripped the ends of it- tugging him closer until you felt the flat of his tongue through the thin fabric.
Needy fingers tugged the ruined garment down your thighs, tucking him into the pocket of his shorts. You knew all too well that you'd never see them again.
You were sure Art would be seeing a lot of them.
His tongue ran up the split, one long stroke before you felt the curve of his nose press to your clit. The ridge of it moved as his tongue retreated back to your entrance.
With everything he had.
Your eyes had been rolling back in your head as you arched your back, the moment you were able to find a semblance of control- your gaze fell before you.
Naturally, Art was already looking up at you. Two hands splayed across each side of your hips as he pulled back to wrap his lips around your clit.
You couldn't help the hazy little smile on your face as you watched his eyes.
Utterly devotional.
The more you tugged on his hair, the hungrier he seemed. Pulling from the root seemed to spur him on, seemed to tell him 'good job' and he was responsive.
His tongue flicked beneath your clit, pressing it to his upper lip as he brought two fingers to your entrance. He stroked a couple times, making your hips twitch against him, before he sunk in to the last knuckle.
Turns out Art had a style about him. One he brought to the tennis court and, seemingly, to the floor of his changing shed.
The style was calculated.
Every move he made was engineered to get something out of you- a reaction, a whimper, a twitch. He was doing what he did best.
Playing a game.
Art struggled to do anything but win.
"Fuck- Mr. Donaldson."
"Art."
Even muffled against your cunt, you were good at following his orders. Even more so when he was the decider of your imminent orgasm.
You threaded your fingers in the sides of his hair, pulling his face flush against you so you could ride his mouth. Taking every last thing from him you could.
It drew the most pathetic moan you'd ever heard, straight out of his chest and hit you straight at your core. The burning coil tight within your stomach was unraveling quickly.
You heard the murmurings of words, among the blood rushing in your ears. Easing up just enough, you let him pull back to speak.
"Tell me this feels good, please."
Your chest thumped, the sight of Art helpless between your legs was one thing. Hearing him beg?
You might black out.
"Art- you feel so fucking good," Dragging him right back where you needed him, the tip of his tongue drove against your clit. "You're gonna' make me cum."
He whined.
A heady drawn-out sound that quite literally sent you over the edge. Your hips lifted off the bench, the heel of your foot digging into his back and making his whine turn into a whimper.
Your orgasm broke you apart until it felt like white-hot flame licking up your sides. Of course, Art never relented, drinking in everything you could give him- literally.
The moment you felt the peak begin to subside, the urge was ramping right back up. Like he knew what he was doing, his eyes locked back onto yours as he sucked at your clit.
He was going for gold.
A quick second orgasm hit, seemingly out of nowhere. Your thighs clenched around Art's head, his hands coming to each of them.
You relaxed yourself a bit, feeling like it might be too much- until you felt him pressing your thighs even harder to either of his ears.
Oh, ok.
Art Donaldson knew what he liked.
You physically had to push him off you, watching him fall back on his outstretched palms as you let yourself breathe for what felt like the first time.
Wet eyes, wet chin, chest rising and falling like he'd run a marathon- Art sat sprawled out before you like he'd stumbled upon an alter (he had).
Breathless, you gestured towards him. Your hand dropped a little as your eyes fell between his legs, wordlessly offering a deal.
A deuce.
His cheeks flushed, more so than they already were. His eyes fell an infinitesimal amount before he spoke up.
"Uh- I already have."
Of course he had. He makes that sound before he cums.
Instead, you heard him shuffle back onto his knees as he all but crawled towards you. He draped his upper half into your lap, head resting against the soft cotton of your skirt.
Coming off the other side of a high, the reality of your situation began to settle for you. Why they'd really called you here- what purpose you really served.
All you could do was gently stroke a hand across Art's head, feeling him go limp against you. Boneless, but not spineless.
He must've known you were going to speak, he must've heard the intake of breath or just felt you shift. He cut you to the chase- beat you to the punchline.
Art nuzzled his face further into your lap as you felt him mumble against your thigh.
"I can't lose- you."
#art donaldson smut#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x reader fic#challengers fic#art donaldson fic#challengers smut#art donaldson x fem reader#art donaldson x fem!reader
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I have a request for Jacaerys Velaryon x reader. They have been married for some time, but Jace still had feelings for Baela. He has never cheated and was always respectful towards reader, though. Jacaerys and her performed their duties and eventually she got pregnant. The fact that reader is now carrying his child makes them grow closer and Jace starts to fall in love with his wife.
For this one, the legitimacy of Rhaenyra’s children was called into question and there was no betrothals between Rhaenyra’s boys and Daemon’s twins.
Warnings: pregnancy (I don't like pregnancies when I read/write, but this one was okay and mostly a small part of the story)
my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time
—
When King Viserys fell, a prince showed up to your home and asked your mother, Jeyne Arryn, for her support to Princess — now Queen — Rhaenyra’s claim. In her message, Rhaenyra didn’t fail to mention her mother, Aemma of House Arryn, and remind Lady Jeyne that she shared Arryn blood through her. Your mother was hesitant, knowing her support would make Daemon Targaryen king consort, but she couldn’t give her support to the Greens. So, she agreed but demanded to get something in exchange: a husband for her only daughter.
You didn’t like the idea of being sold for politics, but according to your mother it was part of being a woman.
Married life wasn’t bad like you thought. Jacaerys was a respectful and kind man, but there was one problem: he had feelings for another.
You didn’t take long to notice that his heart was elsewhere. It was written in the silence. The way he looked at Baela, the way he smiled at her — a special smile he kept just for her. He had undeniable feelings for her. You begged for attention, time, acknowledgment, but Jacaerys was never fully with you. Him and Baela spent a lot of time together riding their dragons together or practicing High Valyrian in the great hall, which left you hurt and jealous. Other than the red gem on your finger that matched the one of his cloak-pin, you had nothing in common.
Sitting in your chamber, you held a necklace of your house’s sigil. The gold was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth. You hadn't seen your mother since the beginning of the war and you missed her dearly. You exchanged messages by raven, but it wasn’t the same as seeing her in person.
A tear slipped down your cheek, wishing for this war to be over soon.
The door of your chambers creaked open, snapping you out of your sorrowful reverie. You glanced over your shoulder and saw Jacaerys in his armor after a day spent teaching the dragonseeds. It was a smart idea to get more dragons and riders on their side, but also a lot of work.
‘’What are you doing?’’ he asked, his voice a mix of concern and curiosity.
‘’Missing home, that’s all,’’ you replied, quickly wiping the tear away and forcing a smile. The weight of the necklace seemed heavier than ever as you clutched it in your hand.
Jacaerys stepped further into the room, running a hand through his tousled hair. He crossed the space between you in a few strides, his expression softening. ‘’Don’t cry. I hate it when you cry.’’ He wiped your tear and sat next to you. ‘’I’ll take you to the Vale when it’s safe,’’ Jacaerys promised, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. ‘’I would take you now if it wasn’t so dangerous to fly over Kingsroad. The Greens have taken Harrenhal and—’’
‘’Is my mother okay? You promised you would send a dragon to watch over my home.’’
He nodded. ‘’Rhaena left this morning with Joffrey and three dragon eggs. They should hatch soon and assure more protection to the Vale.’’
You let out a shaky breath, the news offering a small measure of relief.
A few moons later, you announced to Jacaerys that you were pregnant. It was a surprise as you only had the occasion to lay together two times, but it’s been two moons since you last bled and the maester confirmed your suspicions. You were with child.
The timing was not ideal, but the Queen was beyond happy for you and Jacaerys. She hosted a small feast in your honor, and made everyone keep your pregnancy a secret. Jacaerys was her heir, making your baby his heir. If the news got to their ears, she feared you would become a target for the Greens.
At the table, Baela congratulated you with a smile. You thought she would be bitter, but she was genuinely happy for you.
As the weeks went by, the walls that once stood between you began to crumble and you and Jacaerys started getting closer. He would spend more time in the evening in your chambers, talking by the hearth while eating lemon tarts. And ask how the baby was although your stomach was barely round every time he returned from teaching the dragonseeds.
You’ll never forget the look on his face when felt the baby move for the first time. The stars of complete amazement. He kissed you that night — a real kiss.
On the seventh moon, as you were getting ready for your bath, you felt blood dripping down your leg. Terrified, you asked one of the servants to fetch the maester and the Queen. She had other — more pressing — business to take care of, but you needed the reassurance of a mother by your side.
The news ran through the castle and made it way to Jacaerys, who dropped everything he was doing and ran through the corridors of Dragonstone to get to you.
His face pale with worry when he bursted in your chamber, thinking you were going to lose the baby like his mother did. An early bleeding was how it started.
‘’I’m fine, Jace. Maester Gerardys said bleeding can happen,’’ you said, taking his hand and pressing it over your belly. ‘’Our baby is fine.’’
—
House of the dragon taglist: @khaleesihavilliard @domoron @ididliquorice @lover-of-helios @lover-of-helios @shine101 @tanyaherondale@mikariell95 @serrendiipty @lantsovheiress @gilliananderfuckme @shine101 @tetgod @clayzayden@memeorydotcom @tnu-ree @futuregws @blackravena @winxschester @mysteriouslydelightfulchaos @xxlaynaxx @secretsthathauntus @pilarxxxaguayo @emmavan39 @stargaryenx @erylilly @bbblackmamba @rainedrop97 @dreamer087 @gothicgay14 @ashlatano7567 @superkittywonderland @justaproudslytherpuff @evesolstice @buckysmainhxe @padfootsvixen @scarletmeii @evesolstice @dkathl @kaywsworld @tetgod @padfootsvixen @domoron @weird-addiction @angeliod @xjennyx2 @adaydreamaway08 @mymultiveres @secretsthathauntus @puffycreamcakes @thirsty4nonlivingmen @naty-1001 @katiepie67 @moshpot24x @hc-geralt-23 @lovelynerdytraveler @saturn-sas @zgzgh @sssjuico10 @tabloidteen @timetoten @deekaag @wondxrgurl @aerangi @strmborns @astridyoo15 @daemonslittlebitch @queenbeestuffs @severewobblerlightdragon @agentstarkid @msliz @vane1999-blog @fairyfolkloresposts @todaywasafairytale07 @otomaniac @zgzgzh @thebeardedmoon @golden-library @kikyrizuki @hnslchw @camy85 @winxschester @armstrongscommentsection @withfireandbl00d @randomstory56 @JudgmentDays-Girl @darylandbethfanforever9 @darylandbethfanforever9 @aegonswife @dakotapaigelove @jays-bullshit
All and more taglist: @kenqki@hawkegfs@gillybear17@black-rose-29@fudge13@cece05@laylasbunbunny@gemofthenight@beautyb1ade@mellabella101 @vxnity713 @bisexualgirlsblog@queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart @xyzstar @graceberman3 @mikeyspinkcup @jackierose902109 @daisydark @laurasdrey @mischieftom @fanatic4niall @peterholland04 @idkwhattonamethisblogs @lexasaurs634 @notasadgirlipromise @zoeynicolas @thejuleshypothesis @multi-fandom-bi-bitch @lexasaurs634 @notasadgirlipromise @thejuleshypothesis @katherinejess @rafesgirlstuff @lafleshlumpeater @iamluminosity @Anouknani-2305 @books0fever @papichulo120627 @qardasngan @ghostlyvoidydragon @M0rgans1nterlud3 @dahlia-blossom21
#house of the dragon#jacaerys velaryon x reader#jacaerys velaryon#jacaerys velaryon imagine#hotd jacaerys#prince jacaerys#hotd
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Work of Art
Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x f!reader
Prompt: Marcus Acacius & Nose
Summary: Your pregnancy brings out a vulnerability in Marcus you never would have expected. When he reluctantly shares his insecurities with you, you are more than happy to reaffirm your affection for each and every part of him.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Second-person POV, no use of Y/N, established relationship, arranged marriage, POSSIBLE DUBCON (sex in an arranged marriage with a patriarchal power structure), hefty age gap, pregnant reader, inexperienced reader, insecurity, body worship, nose worship, face-sitting, oral (f! receiving), discovering that you’re in love with your spouse, SO MUCH FLUFF, high likelihood of historical inaccuracy (aiming for vibes, not perfection)
Written for @joelmillerisapunk PPCU Body Worship Writing Challenge
Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3
Read on AO3
It is barely sunrise when the messenger arrives at your door.
Coated in a layer of dust from the road, mounted on the back of a well-lathered horse, and bearing the colors of the empire, the young man demands your staff wake you to receive him – that he is under orders to accept no intermediary, that his message is intended for the lady of the house and no one else. The news of his arrival sends ice into your veins the moment you open your eyes; even as the wife of a general, you do not often receive messages from the front lines, and you could not resist fearing the worst. Curls loose and mussed with sleep, tunica tied almost haphazardly in your haste, you rush to the atrium as quickly as propriety will allow and take the messenger’s sealed scroll with trembling hands.
My dearest wife, it reads. The skirmish on the southern border has been quelled for the time being. In recognition of our efforts, and out of respect for our recent union, I have been granted leave to return to Rome for a period of respite. If the sea is calm and the road is easy, you can look to the horizon for my return in one month’s time. Prepare the household for my arrival. Faithfully yours, Marcus Acacius
The relief you feel at those words is so powerful that you sink into the nearest chair, weak-kneed. Thankfully, your staff are more than competent enough to manage offering food, a bath, and a fresh horse to the harried messenger without your guidance, for you have not the capacity to play hostess. It had been your greatest fear, you realize as you sit there reading and re-reading the general’s letter until your eyes begin to burn with fatigue. You had had such little time as husband and wife before Marcus had been shipped out to the border, and you dread nothing more than the prospect of joining the ranks of the widows of Rome before you even have the opportunity to fully know the man you had married. It would have been such a waste, you think, like a flower cut from the vine when it was barely a bud, cursed never to bloom for the rest of time.
The truth is that although yours had been an arranged marriage, one of convenience, you feel (perhaps naively) that it held great promise. The general had never married, choosing to prioritize his military ambitions over his personal life. However, now that he was getting older, he had determined that it would be wise to seek a wife who might give him an heir to the prestigious station he had earned for himself over the years. Your father, a wealthy, prominent senator, had brokered the match, and a mere fortnight after you had been introduced for the first time, you had been wed.
Marcus had proven to be a gentle husband, a great contrast to what you had believed based on the tales of his ferocity in battle. He had spoken kindly to you and listened patiently, giving weight to your words, treating you like a partner right from the start. He had given you free reign over the household and encouraged you to mold his domus and his staff to suit your tastes. You had had very little time in each other’s presence, but he nevertheless struck you as a man of honor, a man of principle. As a woman in your position, there was little else you could ask for in a match, and the thought had comforted you as you stood side-by-side with this near-stranger and signed your marriage contract.
On your wedding night, he had been as tender with you as he could. You had been able to tell that he was holding himself back, restraining himself from taking you as savagely as he might have wished, but for that, you thought him compassionate. Of course, there had been some pain to start; this you had anticipated. However, toward the end of your coupling, as the general had begun to growl muffled curses into the soft skin of your neck and thrust himself so deeply inside you, you swore you could feel his manhood in your belly, you thought perhaps that it might have begun to feel…good?
He had spilled his seed within you shortly thereafter, bringing your union to a sudden and dramatic end and leaving your tentative, blooming pleasure to fizzle and die in your veins.
You glance down at the swell of your belly at the recollection, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. The fruits of your union that night – and the nights that followed for the brief month he had been permitted to remain by your side – had made themselves apparent shortly after his departure. That had been five months ago now, and it had been an incredible relief to know that you had managed to fulfill your duty to the general so quickly. You had fully expected to give birth on your own, to share the joyous news with him via special messenger like so many other soldier’s wives. Now, to know that he is set to return so soon, that relief is compounded. Barring any emergencies on the front, he likely would be home long enough to be present for the birth.
Birthing was a woman’s business, of course. You knew there was little Marcus could truly do to aid you in your labors. But a part of you, perhaps a very foolish, girlish part of you, could not help but feel safer when he was near. You would sleep better at night knowing he was once again within the walls of your domus.
Easing yourself back onto your feet, you get the attention of the nearest member of your staff.
“Once our guest has been seen to, gather the others in the courtyard,” you command. “We have much to prepare. The general is coming home.”
General Marcus Acacius rides into Rome on a sunny afternoon astride a handsome black stallion. Escorted only by a small retinue of guards and vassals, he travels light, with the economy and efficiency of a man who has spent the majority of his adult life in an army camp. The servant boy you have stationed at the city walls every day for the last week eagerly tells you that he looks well, that he has been asked to report first to the emperors’ palace but that he expects to be home by nightfall.
The news of your husband’s imminent arrival has a riot of butterflies rising in your chest, and you feel the child you carry respond almost instantly, fluttering and twitching against the walls of your womb at your excitement. A smile pulls at your lips, and you smooth your palms over the rounded surface of your belly as if to say, “I understand. I feel it, too.”
You send a message to the kitchen staff with orders to ensure that the general’s favorite meal is prepared for this evening, as well as for his preferred wine to be brought up from the cellar. Perhaps it is a bit silly – this is his home even moreso than it is yours – but you have an odd desire to make him feel welcomed. You want him to know that you have given thought to his needs and his preferences, that you have managed and looked after his home with proficiency in his absence, that you have anticipated his return.
You want to make the general happy, you realize with a flush. Not only for him to be happy, but you wish to be the cause of that happiness. Does that make you proud, you wonder? Or selfish? Perhaps. All you know for certain is that in the brief time spent by his side, all those months ago, you had begun to associate Marcus Acacius with feelings of comfort, of safety, of acceptance. Even perhaps…affection. You like him. Was it so wrong to wish for him to like you, too?
You are in the ostium waiting for him when the general arrives. The sun sets behind him as he approaches on horseback, still in full armor from his travels, and your first thought is that he is even larger than you remember. Blotting out the golden light with the incredible breadth of his shoulders, you think he looks almost otherworldly, like some mythical hero of old returned from a harrowing quest. You can feel your heart speed up behind your ribs, galloping like the hooves of his horse on the cobblestones, and you are thankful no one can hear it but you. You are a woman grown, wedded and bedded and carrying a child, the head of your own household, the wife of a prominent, respected officer of the grand army of Rome. The idea that you should become so flighty, so unmoored at the sight of your own husband is absurd.
When his gaze falls on you, your trembling hands find your stomach, a gesture that has become more and more instinctual as the bump has become more and more visible, and before he can even greet you, his eyes drop to where they rest.
Marcus pulls his horse up short, the soft expression in his dark irises sharpening, intensifying. You watch as his prominent brow draws up, something between shock and awe and hope washing over his face, and then he is swinging his leg up and over his mount, dropping to the ground, closing the distance between you in a handful of long, powerful strides. His eyes do not leave your stomach until he is a mere handful of inches from your body, and you catch sight of his broad, thick-fingered hands clenching at his sides as though resisting the urge to reach out and touch you.
“Dearest wife,” he rasps, his throat dry as he finally, finally flicks his eyes back up to meet yours. “Have you something to tell me?”
You swallow thickly, suddenly overcome with the intensity, the intimacy of his attention. “Welcome home…husband.” Your voice sounds tremulous to your own ears, but you do not allow yourself to dwell on it. Instead, you wrap both of your hands around one of his and bring his dry, scarred knuckles to your lips. Dropping a kiss onto the center ridge, you add, “It is a blessing from the gods to see you well after so many months apart.”
Your name is a sigh on his lips. “It is a blessing to be permitted to return home after so short a time,” he counters. “Now, if my eyes deceive me, I will beg your forgiveness and claim fatigue from the long journey as my excuse. But are you…”
He trails off, as though hesitant to speak the words aloud, and you could swear that someone had reached into your chest and taken hold of your heart for how tight it squeezes at the thread of hope woven into his words. Unable to bear it anymore, you finish his incomplete thought on your own.
“Yes…General Acacius – ”
“Marcus,” he interjects immediately, and you feel yourself flush at the familiarity.
“Marcus,” you echo. “I-I am with child. You are to be a father.”
The breath he releases is long and slow, his dark eyes shining in the setting sun, and if you did not know better, you might think that your revelation had rendered him speechless. However, it takes him only a moment to collect himself, and then he is reaching for your belly with both hands, palms outstretched almost pleadingly. “May I – ?”
You nod readily, feeling a grin split your face, and then his hands are on you, cupping your swelling bump with his sword-calloused touch. His skin catches on the fine material of your tunica, but you are unbothered. He is warm and vital against you, his touch more than welcome after so many months on your own, and as though the precious thing had been waiting for their cue, the child in your womb kicks against their father’s hands.
The general’s brows shoot up at that, his forehead crinkling beneath his dark, gray-streaked curls, and he lets out a rough, strained laugh. “By the gods. It’s true.” Keeping one hand on your bump, he brings the other to the side of your face, wrapping his fingers around the back of your neck, stroking your jaw with his thumb. It’s the most tender, intimate gesture he has ever shown you, and the heat of his palm has your knees weakening beneath you.
“You honor me, amica. Thank you,” he says, husky voice thick with emotion. He presses a brief, dry kiss to your forehead, and you cannot help but wish it had been to your lips instead.
Dinner passes in a blur of sumptuous foods and peppered questions, both from you about his time at the border and from him about how you are settling into your new home, your new role. This is one thing about your relationship that has been easy from the moment you met – it is clear to you that Marcus cares deeply about your perspective on the world. He never rushes you, never cuts in when you are speaking, never attempts to correct you in some demonstration of superiority. It’s a unique experience for you coming from a man, particularly one of his age and rank, and it makes you feel cherished in a way you never would have expected in a marriage like yours. You are under no illusions that yours was a love match, after all, but something about the intent way that Marcus holds your gaze, the way he nods along as you speak, the way he asks such thoughtful questions – it has you all but convinced that he cares for you as you are coming to care for him.
The two of you linger over dinner long past nightfall, but eventually, he stands from his chair at the head of the table, offers his hand to you, and leads you to the privacy of your shared chambers. He beds you that night, as you had expected he would after so long without the touch of a woman, and you go to him willingly. His touch burns with barely-restrained fervor, the expression on his handsome face twisted almost as if in pain, and just as you had on that first night, you feel something building within you as he takes you.
You have no name for it, and yet it feels altering in its magnitude. You feel like lightning, like lava, like some elemental thing ablaze with fire and light, and just when you are certain that the feeling is about to consume you, just as you know in your bones that you cannot take any more or you will surely die –
Marcus spills himself inside you, withdraws, and collapses onto the bed next to you.
The feeling recedes. You catch your breath. Your husband plants a kiss on your hairline, and under his lips, he finds the sweat of your exertion, of your truncated pleasure. He whispers “good night, amica” against your curls, and then he rolls away.
Moments later, soft snores fill the room. The general is fast asleep, but you…
You are going mad.
It is many days later before this madness finally comes to a head.
Every night since his return, Marcus has sought his pleasure in your body. He never forces himself upon you or hurts you in any way; he asks before touching you, always. But as you approach a full week of night after night of thwarted pleasure, you cannot help but begin to find ways to…delay the inevitable question. You have taken to engaging him in conversation as you lay in bed, asking him about the many visitors he has received over the last several days, or about his journey home from the border, or about his favorite horse, Tempestas. He takes this in stride, seemingly happy to indulge you, and the two of you spend long minutes talking softly by candlelight, warm and close under soft, shared sheets.
This night, you decide to ask him about the baby and how he feels knowing that you carry his heir, that his legacy is secured.
You anticipate the smile he gives you, the fond look in his eyes as he reaches out to feel the curve of your belly, as he has done now hundreds of times over the last week. What you do not expect is the earnestness of his words as he tells you, “I have never been a father before. At my age, I did not expect that I would ever have the privilege. Now that you have made it possible, I find that I care much less for legacy or inheritance than I do for…safety. Stability. Peace.”
You soften at that, and on instinct, your hand goes to his hair, brushing his graying curls back from his forehead with gentle, soothing strokes. You have found that this is something he likes, and he leans into your touch like a barn cat in a sunbeam. He seems pensive, and you allow the silence between you to linger while he gathers his thoughts.
“I mourn that this child should have a general for a father,” he admits after a moment. “I will be absent for much of his life. I will disappear for stretches of time that could number in years, and when I return, I will be like a stranger to him. Were it in my control, I would be more present. I wish to know my child. And for him to know me.”
“Him?” you echo, a bit impishly, and Marcus smirks.
“Or her, of course. I cannot claim to know whom you carry in your womb. I shall leave that mystery for the gods.”
You grin back him, enjoying the good humor sparkling in his dark eyes. “I am sure that however much time you are permitted to spend with our child – be it months or weeks or days – it will be enough.”
Lifting himself up on one elbow, the general fixes you with a skeptical frown. “How can you be so certain?” he asks.
“Because it does not take long to see who you are, Marcus,” you reply earnestly. “To see your nobility, your strength, your power. Your kindness. These are all things I learned about you in the mere fortnight before we were wed. Your child shall know these things about you, as well.”
Tucking your hands beneath your cheek, you stare up at him from your pillow. The warmth of the candlelight casts shadows across his golden skin, highlighting the soft crinkles around his eyes, the bridge of his nose, the plush fullness of his lower lip. “Besides, even when you are away, I shall be around to teach them,” you add with a shrug.
“Amica…” He seems a bit overcome at your sincerity, and his low voice rasps like a sword on a whetstone in the darkness. “You are very generous.”
That riot of butterflies returns to your belly as the intimacy of the moment stretches on. Gods, but he is so beautiful like this. No one has ever looked at you the way he does – not with base lust for your body, not with envy for your wealth, not with dismissal for your sex. Marcus looks at you like something precious, like something to be valued. That look makes you foolish, makes your cheeks hot and your tongue loose.
When you speak again, it is without thought.
“When I think about our child…I hope that they look like you, so that even when we are apart, I might have some comfort in seeing your face every day.”
At that, the general lets out a full-bodied laugh and rolls his eyes. Flipping over onto his back, he shakes his head fondly at you like one might a mischievous child. “Now I know for certain that you are flattering me, wife.”
Your brows nearly reach your hairline as a flush of embarrassment races up the back of your neck, darkening your cheeks in an instant. “Wh – No, sir, I would never!” you insist. “I am being entirely earnest.”
“My face? My face upon an innocent babe?” He says this with a scoffing laugh, sounding amused, but when you catch sight of the tightness in his jaw, the wrinkle between his brows, you think that there might be something…authentic beneath his jesting words. “No, my dear wife. It would be far better if the child were to share your visage. Then they might truly be comely to look upon.”
Is it possible…have you stumbled upon a true insecurity, you wonder? It seems unlikely. This is General Marcus Acacius, commander of the emperors’ armies, a man two decades your senior who fought wars on behalf of Rome before you could even walk on two feet. He exudes power and strength and intelligence, and he carries himself with the kind of confidence and self-assurance that comes along with experience. He is a skilled strategist, an indomitable warrior.
Does he truly not see…
Scooting closer to him on the bed, you allow yourself to cup his bearded jaw, to turn his face toward yours. “There would be no greater gift than a child with your eyes, Marcus,” you say softly. “Or perhaps your smile.”
“But not this nose, surely,” he replies, tapping the end of his prominent, hooked nose with one calloused finger. He shakes his head with a wry smile, as though the idea is too preposterous to consider. “I would not willingly inflict such an eyesore upon a child.”
By the gods. He means it, you realize. He has truly surprised you. To your knowledge, the general is not a vain or self-conscious man. You have never known him to care overmuch about how he looks; it was quite a contrast to the pampered upper-class boys you grew up alongside, something you had found refreshing when you had first met. Had you misunderstood? Misinterpreted his lack of self-regard as a lack of care?
You decide it does not matter. All you know for certain is that your husband appears to be under the impression that his appearance leaves something to be desired, and as his wife, you feel it is your duty to demonstrate to him just how wrong he is.
The thought has your heartrate picking up again.
“Do you know…what I thought,” you begin haltingly, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “the first day I met you, at my father’s villa?”
His dark brows knit together in a small frown, as though your words have surprised him. “Tell me.”
Swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat, you confess, “I thought you the most striking man I had ever seen.”
“You flatter me, dear heart.” His words are soft, as is his answering smile, but you can hear the platitude in his voice. He does not believe you.
“No, no, it is not flattery.” With some effort, you push yourself up off of the bed, too emphatic to remain lying down for this discussion. You haul your pregnant body up to kneel at his side, tucking your knees into the warmth of his thick waist, and your long hair dangles over his broad chest as you look into his eyes. “I know that…the circumstances of our union were not exactly romantic, and I know that we do not yet know each other well, but I hope you will heed my words when I tell you that…I count myself extremely fortunate to have been married to so handsome a man.” Glancing down at your hands, you fiddle with one of the many thin, gold rings on your fingers in self-consciousness. “My father could have selected anyone he liked. The fact that it is you who shares my bed, you whose child I carry… It is a blessing.”
It is silent between you for a time, your words hanging in the air like a declaration, but then Marcus’s body shifts against you. Curling up to sit at your side, one of his thick, broad hands comes into your line of vision and wraps itself around both of yours, stilling your fidgeting.
You risk a look up, meeting his gaze through the length of your lashes, and you feel your breath leave your body as you take in the softest, warmest, most tender expression you have ever seen on his handsome face.
“It pleases me to hear that you are happy,” he murmurs, running one of his thumbs along the back of your hand. “And that your affection for my look is genuine. It would not do for you to say such things in an attempt to…endear yourself to me. There is no need. I am already quite fond of you.”
You are quick to shake your head. “Not at all! If I have ever given you such an impression, you have my deepest apologies.”
Now that your true feelings for your husband have been revealed, you feel as though you can no longer contain them. Under the affectionate weight of his dark eyes, more comes spilling forth, unbidden. “The truth is that even in the short time that we have known one another, I have spent many hours at my easel attempting to recall your likeness in detail so that I might recreate it. Your nose in particular, I find to be most…attractive.”
Your hand moves of its own accord then, slipping from his grip to float across the narrow space between you as though possessed by some covetous spirit. The very tip of your middle finger lands in the space between his eyebrows, and although you make no conscious decision to do so, you trace down the steep curve of the bridge of his nose with a touch so delicate it might as well have been a breeze.
Your own voice sounds breathless and far away to your ears as you whisper, “You look like a sculpture, Marcus. Like the great marble warriors along the garden path. It makes you look stately and…masculine and…commanding.” Between your thighs, you feel your most intimate muscles clench. You have grown swollen and sensitive there, a feeling you have become increasingly familiar with since your husband’s return home. It’s sweet and delicious and utterly torturous, making you want to squirm in your seat, but you resist.
At least…until Marcus traps your hand in his and brings your wandering fingers to his mouth.
Your eyes snap to his, and you watch as he presses slow, lingering kisses across each of your fingertips. The sensation of his hot, moist breath on your sensitive skin has you trembling, and gods, but his lips are so soft. Turning your palm up to the heavens, the general places a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the tender center of your palm, and you feel yourself swaying toward him as though under a spell.
The plush of his lips dances gently across the thin skin of the inside of your wrist, and your pulse thrums beneath his touch as he growls, “There is perhaps…one advantage of such a face.”
“Tell me.” Your echo of his earlier words comes out like a whine, like you are pleading with him, though what you are pleading for, you cannot say.
Marcus appears to consider your request for a moment, his eyes going sharp and calculating, and then he says, “Perhaps it might be better if I showed you. Do you trust me, dear heart?”
You are quick to nod. “Yes. I trust you.”
Inclining his head at you in acknowledgment, he releases his grip on your hand and pulls away entirely. He lays back on the bed then, scooting down so that his head is flat on the padded surface rather than on his pillow. He adjusts himself a bit, shifting back and forth, but once he is comfortable, he looks back at you and pats his chest with both hands. The sound is muffled by his soft linen sleep tunic but nonetheless audible in the silence of your bedchamber.
“Mount me,” he says without preamble, and you swear you can hear the whirring gears in your brain grind to a halt.
“W-What?”
“I want you to sit astride my face, as you would a horse.” No matter how intensely your face burns at the wicked suggestion, you cannot seem to look away. His deep brown eyes are bottomless in the dark, the depths of them reflecting the candlelight like water at the bottom of a well. You can feel yourself falling into them, can feel something at the very core of you tugging toward him, answering his call. If you were to glance down at the rest of his body, you would see the evidence of the general’s own arousal tenting his tunic, but your gaze is trapped, held fast by the magnetism of him.
“Come, amica,” he says after a moment of your silent, scandalized staring. “You may rest your ass upon my chest, but I would have that sweet cunt on my mouth.”
You swallow audibly, still making no move to obey. Wetness begins to pool between your thighs, slicking your skin and staining the fabric of your sleep clothes, and you lose the battle against your urge to squirm. Your thighs clench together, and you shift upon your calves in search of friction, but you find none. You need his touch…but what he is suggesting is –
“M-Marcus, I couldn’t possibly – I shall smother you, how will you – ”
He cuts off your protests with a growl of your name, and in that moment, you see not your noble husband staring up at you. Instead, you see the Roman General Acacius – sharp jaw clenched, nostrils flared, dark eyes blazing.
“I shall not ask again, wife. No harm will come to you or to me. Now do as you’re told and sit on my face.”
You hesitate for another beat, then two, and then you shuffle forward on wobbly knees to obey. Your husband’s eyes burn a path across your body as you approach him, tracing from your parted, panting lips, to your heaving breasts, to your swollen, pregnant belly. You feel the look like a physical touch, and the sensation has your skin flushing, has sweat breaking out at the small of your back and the nape of your neck. With shaking, uncertain hands, you reach out and brace your palms against the gold-filigreed headboard for stability.
“That’s it, nearly there now,” Marcus sighs as you clumsily, awkwardly swing one of your legs over his body. Your knee lands on the other side of his shoulder, and you feel the heat of his touch on your naked thighs almost immediately. With slow, deliberate motions, he pushes the hem of your sleep tunic up to your hips, revealing your bare ass and cunt to the cool air of the bedroom.
You draw your lower lip between your teeth to stifle a whine, and gooseflesh breaks out across your skin. You’ve started to shake, though whether in fear or arousal, you couldn’t say. Gods, you’re so exposed now. The wetness between your thighs is fully on display, mere inches from your husband’s face. It’s mortifying; if you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, you know you would.
Marcus, however, clearly has no such compunctions. His thick fingers knead the soft, lush flesh of your hips and thighs, using his grip to draw your forward, to draw you down. The groan that oozes from his lips into the hot slip of atmosphere between you sounds exactly like the one he makes when he first slides inside you, and you feel yourself clench involuntarily at the tremor of it now sounding between your legs. He must catch sight of this, your body’s own betrayal happening right under that stately nose that started this whole ordeal, for one moment he appears to be watching you settle in with rapt attention, and the next, he is releasing a dark, sinister chuckle and yanking you closer.
You give a thought for resistance then, consider pulling yourself from his hold, but –
Oh, you can feel his breath on your cunt, can feel your dripping curls shift beneath the current of air as he laughs.
You shift a bit on your knees, settling so that your weight rests just above each of his shoulders with his hands gripping your hips from behind you. The lower curve of your ass brushes the fine fabric of his tunic, and you are certain that if you could see his face, you would find his chin mere inches from the part of you that pulses and throbs for his attention. As it is, the roundness of your bump nearly eclipses his head, leaving only wisps of the thick, graying curls on the top of his head to peak out around the edges.
“Marcus?” Your voice trembles with nerves around his name, and beneath you, he sighs.
“Well done, amica, you are right where I want you,” he assures you with a groan. You feel the well-trimmed stubble of his silvered beard brush your lower lips; the feeling startles a gasp out of you, and on instinct, one of your hands flies from the headboard to the top of his head. “Mmm, yes, that’s it – sink your fingers into my hair. Hold yourself steady on me.”
You hardly recognize the sound of your own voice as you whimper, “Marcus – Marcus, please.”
“I know what you need.” His touch on your hips is warm, gentle, soothing. “Don’t be afraid. Now rest your weight on me and let me taste you.”
The joints in your limbs feel like water at the general’s words, at the hot wash of his breath across your swollen center. The embarrassment at your precarious position above his face still fizzes in your veins, making you lightheaded, but molten desire has begun to drown it out. Your mind doesn’t fully understand what is about to happen or what he is asking of you, but it seems that on some level, your body does, because it is absolutely thrumming for it.
There is nothing for it anymore. You cannot refuse him. You do not want to refuse him. Whatever he is about to do to you, your body needs it, craves it in the same way it does air or water or food. When you sink your cunt down onto your husband’s waiting mouth, it feels both like a surrender and like a victory.
“Oh – gods, Marcus – ”
Marcus groans deep in his chest the moment you touch his tongue, and then he is bracketing his arms around your thighs and forcibly seating you even more firmly against him. Dragging the slick, pink muscle of his tongue through your folds in one long, languorous stroke, it doesn’t take long before your thighs begin to tremble around his ears. He is focused, meticulous, thorough in his exploration of your most intimate flesh – sucking delicately at your lips, dipping the gentle tip of his tongue into your soft, quivering hole, using the flat of it to dance around that swollen nub at your apex that pulses with the thunderous beat of your heart. The thick arms locked around your thighs angle you this way and that, and through the sound of your own gasps and whines, you can hear the way your wetness drips at his touch.
Every lick, every suck, every swirl of his tongue serves to drive you higher, and you find yourself mindlessly running your hands over your body to ground yourself – stroking your belly, gripping your hips, cupping your breasts. The latter has you accidentally brushing your hardened nipples with your thumbs, and even muted as it is through your tunic, the sensation has you crying out into the dark room.
And that tongue never stops. Marcus is relentless – inexorable and yet unhurried. You can feel all of the tension in your hips and thighs melting away under the heat of his touch, and yet deep within you, something has begun to twist, to pulse, to squeeze. It feels like it does when Marcus beds you – pleasure stirring, burning, building within you as he grows more and more intent, more and more hungry, oh, gods…
It is miraculous. It is unbearable. It is tantamount to torture.
“Marcus,” you gasp helplessly, your fingers knotting in his hair, gripping the headboard. “I – I need – ”
The general pulls away from your cunt with a growl like an animal, and the sound rumbles through your body as he rasps, “That’s it, beautiful girl. Ride my face. Grind those hips into me and ride my face.”
You understand each of his words individually, but they do not coalesce in your mind. How does one “ride” a face? For a moment, you feel self-consciousness and shame begin to creep in at the edges of your thoughts. There are others who would understand the general’s instructions, surely. Others who would know what he wanted and would do it for him in an instant. For the first time, you allow yourself to consider the women that follow the army camps, the women whose services you were certain your husband had partaken of throughout his extensive career. They would know, certainly. Was there truly anything you could offer him that they could not?
Just as you begin to lose that delicious curl of pleasure in your core, as the fog of desire begins to clear from your brain, Marcus flexes those thick, strong arms around your legs and encourages your hips to thrust, dragging your tender flesh across the stubble of his beard, the plush of his lips, the slick of his tongue. That tongue, suddenly firm and pointed, thrusts into your sex, lapping at your wetness, filling the place that clenches for his cock. With the hitch of your hips, that swollen bundle of nerves just at the top glances across the bridge of your husband’s nose.
“Ah! Marcus!”
Beneath your cunt on his face, beneath your hand in his hair, you feel him nod emphatically, and understanding crashes over you like a wave. “Riding” his face. “Mounting” him, like a horse. This is what he wants. He wants you to thrust your hips against his face, as if in the saddle of a warhorse. To rub yourself against his nose and his tongue.
He wants you to find your pleasure with his body.
As though all your joints and muscles had been waiting on this realization, your hips begin to move of their own accord almost immediately, thrusting against that relentless, ever-present tongue, driving it deeper into the hot clutch of your cunt, and fuck…that nose, that big, strong, curved, perfect nose, glancing off of that most sensitive spot with every thrust. Head thrown back, hands on your breasts, fingers twisting and pulling your tender nipples through your tunic, you experiment with different speeds, different pressures, different depths, but if you are honest with yourself, you are so far gone that it has all begun to feel equally intense, equally delicious.
And so you move with abandon – leaning heavily on the headboard for balance, gripping his hair, you grind your swollen, dripping cunt across your husband’s handsome face, fucking his tongue deep into your body, riding the hard curve of his perfect Roman nose. You feel yourself pulse and twitch and tremble with every thrust, feel him lap and slurp and suck at you with new fervor, feel his thick fingers dig into your hips so deeply you know you will bear his bruises in the morning. You had not known pleasure like this existed, had not known it was possible for you to achieve it. You feel drunk with it, the way it seeps into your veins like one too many glasses of wine, and Marcus drinks you down like the finest vintage.
Your clitoris drags across his nose once again, and you cannot smother your moan at the feeling. “Gods, Marcus, your nose – ”
Against your wetness, the general’s face vibrates with something like a chuckle. “I know, dear heart, I know – I told you, this face has one advantage.”
You shake your head fervently, feeling your long curls brush your back as you grind. “It’s perfect. Perfect, Marcus, I – oh, gods, I feel – ”
Another animalistic growl ripples through your husband’s chest, and you feel him nod beneath you. “Jus’ let it happen, amica. Take your pleasure,” he slurs, mouth full of you.
And you do. You take and take and take, clit grinding, hips thrusting, thighs shaking, lungs gasping, and with every pass, that bright, hot, vicious spiral in your abdomen winds tighter, tighter, tighter. Gods, it feels as though it is going to consume you – to swallow you whole and drag you under, to drown you in your own dripping sweetness, your own savage pleasure.
And then it plateaus, the sensations holding, holding, staying at precisely the same level, dangling you over the edge, and in a far away voice, you hear yourself whimper, “Marcus, please!”
Releasing his grip on one of your hips, the man beneath you lands a single, sharp smack to the meat of your ass, and over the edge you fall.
It’s everything you thought it could be – lightning in your veins, lava in your lungs, something primal and elemental and raw that rips through your body like a tidal wave that leaves you hiccuping whines and shaking like a leaf atop the general’s face. You spill your pleasure down his chin, into his mouth, along his jaw. It slips down his neck and dampens the embroidered collar of his tunic, and the way he groans into your twitching cunt, you would think that it had caused him pain. But no – he feels your ecstasy as though it is his own. You have left your body to soar among the clouds, and he joins you, overcome with the particular joy of being responsible for making his wife – the mother of his child – reach such heights.
When you come back to yourself, you are utterly spent – limp and boneless and sweating as though you had just run at top speed from here to the city gates. You start to collapse, and Marcus’s strong hands are there to catch you, to slide you down from his face to his lap. Gathering you into his arms, he brings you back down onto the mattress and tucks you into his side. His broad shoulder cushions your flushed cheek, and his fingers brush your disheveled hair back from your face as you catch your breath. Through bleary eyes, you catch the way his face shines in the candlelight. He’s covered in your slick.
For a few moments, you simply gaze at each other as the silence stretches between you. It is only punctuated by the sound of your labored breaths as each of you settle, but somehow it isn’t awkward, and you find yourself smiling in spite of yourself. He’s so perfect like this, your Marcus. Hair mussed, face pink, everything from his chin to his nose glowing with your pleasure.
There’s a softness around his eyes you’ve never seen before, an earnest warmth that burrows its way into your chest and makes a nest there dangerously close to your heart. It’s an emotion you have a name for, if you are brave enough to say it, and the thought has you gripping tight to his tunic.
You are in awe of him.
You…you love him.
“And what is your verdict, my wife?” he asks after a beat. His voice is a low rumble that travels through his chest and into your body, warming you inside. “Does this Roman nose still please you?”
A tired grin tugs at the corners of your lips, pulling you out of the seriousness of your thoughts, and you nod as enthusiastically as you can manage. “Indeed, I am not certain I have ever been quite so…pleased before, husband.”
“Hmm. Good.” Marcus tucks the arm around your body into your waist, pulling you even deeper into his embrace. “Then perhaps the thing may serve a purpose after all.”
You reach up and cup his cheek in your palm, feeling the stickiness of your spend in his beard on your skin. “The purpose it serves is that it is my husband’s nose, and as such, is a part of the dearest face in the world to me.” His dark eyes soften at that, and he turns to place a warm kiss on the heel of your hand.
“Though…should you find yourself forgetting,” you add with an impish grin, “I would not object to a…repeat demonstration of its value. If it would be of any help to you, of course.”
This startles a laugh from his chest, his dark eyes crinkling with mirth, and you cannot help but join in. Gods, he is gorgeous, you think to yourself as you chuckle together in the dark. Both in his soul and in his body, your husband is gorgeous.
A hand drops to the place where your child rests, safe and protected inside your womb, and you feel a little flutter against your palm.
You decide then that you care not whether your child bears your face or Marcus’s. Either way, they will be beautiful, for how could they not be, when they have come from this?
Latin Translation:
amica - darling, sweetheart
#marcus acacius x reader#marcus acacius x you#marcus acacius x f!reader#general marcus acacius#gladiator 2#gladiator 2 fanfiction#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fanfiction
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Blood & Steel
Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem Stark Reader
+:✿ Request ✿:+
Request: “After the incident with Blood and Cheese when the Greens send someone to retaliate, instead of finding Rhaenyra they find Reader. Jacaerys goes feral against the attacker. Make him pretty intense since he's become extremely protective of Reader.” CW: MDNI. Mention of arranged marriage, violence, graphic depictions of violence towards children, canon typical violence, nsfw themes, angst, arguments
Word Count: 7k
Since you arrived at Dragonstone, you grew more and more fond of your arranged marriage. Particularly you grew fond of the man you were to marry. Jacaerys was a kind and patient man. Something you did not think you would be fortunate enough to marry.
You and he often spent your free moments looking for solitude from the talks of war and politics. Soon, you and he would spend time on a small patch of land separated from Dragonstone, hardly an island. It was only about twenty miles wide if that. But it became your haven. You could spend hours away from the weight of the war.
You missed your home, but here on the island sand, you found comfort in the presence of Jace and Vermax. And Jacaerys found the same in you.
That day you had been away from the castle for hours, and you knew sooner rather than later, someone would come looking for you both. You sighed as you tore your eyes from the calming and consistent waves crawling up and down the sands of the beach. You turned to look at your betrothed who lay on the sand with his eyes closed. Desperately trying to push out the fact your time was running slim.
You sat beside him, running your hand through his hair trying to gain his attention. You lay down, getting closer to him, “My prince.” You whispered teasingly.
“Mm?” He hummed furrowing his brows but refusing to open his eyes.
You continued to play with his brown curly hair as you smiled softly, “We’ve been out of Castle far too long.” You said begrudgingly. You knew it was time to return though you were not looking forward to the return of somber and formal interaction between you and high lords.
Jacaerys groaned, “Ah,” he rubbed his eyes before finally and reluctantly opening them, “I can’t find sleep there.”
You breathed a laugh, “You seem to find it well enough out here.” your fingers finally left his hair as you were about to stand.
As soon as Jacaerys felt your touch abandon him, he grabbed a hold of your hand and pulled it close to his chest. “Only because you are beside me,” he said with an earnest gaze.
You understood him. He had an unbearable weight on top of himself, one similar to the one on top of you. You knew he could only find pure comfort in the presence of something… familiar and uncomplicated, love. You thought on it for a moment, wishing to help him. “Perhaps you could sleep beside me tonight.” You said without any real thought of how it might have sounded until Jacaerys looked at you with wide, but excited eyes. “Meaning nothing so bold-” You choked on your own air as you corrected yourself.
“Course you did not,” Jacaerys said quickly with a shake of his head as he sat up.
You sat quietly for a moment, “What of it then?” you asked.
Jacaerys looked towards you trying to hide a smile, “I cannot promise I won’t feel temptation.”
You smirked, “Temptation?” You scooted closer to him, “Temptation for what?” You teased. It was not a secret to either of you that you both wished to hold closer intimacy with one another. Though Jacaerys was not a pious man he did take the opinions of high lords and ladies seriously. They already thought lowly of the bastard prince, he would not have them think lowly of their future queen. He wished to protect your character and your reputation. Though you held the opinions of high lords and ladies to almost no value at all, you reluctantly respected his wish.
“You tease me?” He asked faining offense.
“Do I?” You pretended to be shocked by the accusation, but soon your facade was wiped away by an earnest smile, “Sleep in a chair beside the bed if you must. I merely wish for you to find sleep.” You said plainly without any hint of lust or jest. Simply wishing to help him in any way you could.
He held onto your hand slightly tighter, “What if someone were to find out I was sneaking into your chambers?” He asked with a smirk, teasing you back.
You scrunched up your nose and scoffed as you looked out into the ocean, “Fuck what those high lords and their hypocrisies think.”
Jacaerys stifled a laugh, “Is that any way for a queen to speak?” He asked as he leaned in closer to you.
You shook your head and smirked, “Not queen yet. Still a Lady, and hardly that.”
“You are very much a Lady.” He mumbled as his danced over your facial features and down over your body.
You pushed his shoulder and stifled a laugh, “You’re a dog.” You said scrunching up your nose at him. Feigning disgust, when really you felt butterflies in your stomach.
He playfully pulled you closer, “And you a wolf.” he said as his eyes sparkled in yours. “May I kiss you?” He asked softly.
You smiled, “You needn’t ask.” You said as if he asked you a ridiculous question.
He returned your smile, “I like to hear you say ‘yes’.” He said as he stared longingly at your lips.
He didn’t move an inch, waiting for your approval. You rolled your eyes and with a smirk, you conceded, “Yes.” And his that, Jacaerys pulled your lips into his with a hand grasping at the back of your head gently. You could not wait until your wedding, so eager for this man to become yours in the sight of the Gods. All you could think of each time your lips met was how rare this kind of love must be.
Though you could not think of it long, your haven was interrupted by the loud and shrill sounds of a horn. “What was that?” You questioned as you looked over to Dragonstone.
Jacaerys looked over to Dragonstone as well. He knew the horn was to call members of the council together in an urgent meeting. Though it was only used when in times of critical importance. He took your hands and helped you stand, “We’d better get back.” He said, trying to keep you calm, but also trying to return as soon as possible.
“Has something terrible happened?” You asked as Jacaerys ushered you over to Vermax as quickly as he could.
As Jacaerys helped you climb on top of the green beasted he shook his head, “I cannot be certain.” He spoke honestly, and strapped you into the saddle before he climbed on, “If it has, I promise you will not be affected.” He said in an attempt to comfort any anxieties you might have been feeling.
You couldn’t understand how that was meant to help, “If you are affected, I am affected.”
Jacaerys however, did not respond, merely he pulled on the reins of Vermax as he took off into the sky, set on returning to Dragonstone.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈
Upon your return, you were rushed into the council chamber. You were told of a vile act that had taken place within the Keep, an attack on the Greens. Normally this would have been a beneficial evil. But this time, the act was so gruesome it was hardly an attack on the Greens' claim, it was an attack on the Blacks’.
Two men snuck into the chamber of ‘Queen’ Helena’s children. Maester Gerardys relaid the rest of the story to the Queen and the rest of the council, “It is yet unclear how the Keep itself was breached. The boy’s head was severed from his body. Thousands witnessed the procession.”
You felt sickened by the description of the attack on the babe. You placed a hand on your chest, over your heart. Jacaerys took your hand and held it under the table. Wishing to comfort you while hiding your emotions from the High Lords.
Rhaenyra shocked spoke with disbelief, “And they are accusing me of having a hand in this?”
Maester Gerardys nodded, “It appears so. There have been messages sent to that effect. Throughout the realm.”
Rhaenyra scoffed, “We must send our own messages, denying this vile allegation.”
“I will do so at once, but I am not sure they will be received in good faith.” The Maester said cautiously.
Rhaenyra paid no mind to the comment, “And we must double our guard, here and in Driftmark. There will be swift retribution in one form or another–”
“I have seen to it, Your Grace.” One of the lords spoke. The idea made you feel weary. She was right, it did not matter whether she did have a hand in the murder or not. The Greens would blame her for it and would see to it that they were avenged.
Jacaerys stood from his seat, “Let me fly out on Vermax.” Rhaenyra looked at him with concern. Jacaerys however spoke with courage and ambition, “Rhaenys is needed in the Gullet and I can watch for movements from Kings Landing.”
“No,” Rheynera said quickly with a shake of her head as she turned her attention back to the matter at hand.
She saw Jace as a fragile and delicate thing, something she could not jeopardize more than she already had. You understood how she felt, she’d already lost one son on dragon's back she didn’t wish to lose another. And if you were honest, you were somewhat grateful for it.
Though you could see the frustration, and embarrassment grow on the expression of Jacaerys’s face. As he sat back down you placed a hand on the back of his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. Just enough for him to ground himself back into reality, and know you were with him.
“It must be said that the damage to our position is immeasurable, at a time when we most need loyalty to our cause.” Some high lord spoke again through the tension building in the room.
“But it’s a lie.” Rhaeynera scoffed, finding the accusation ridiculous, “Having lost my own son, that I would inflict such a thing on Helaena, of all people. An innocent!” She proclaimed.
Alfred Broome, a high lord who had grown too comfortable with his position began, “The death of Prince Lucerys was a shock and an insult. A mother so aggrieved might, naturally, seek relief in retribution-”
As you felt anger rising in your chest, the Queen shot up from her seat and charged towards the arrogant man. “Are you suggesting, Ser Alfred, that my grief drove me to order the decapitation of a child?” She nearly spat her words at him in disgust.
“I merely thought, perhaps, an action taken in haste.” He stammered,
“Mind yourself.” You said out of near instinct. Your anger had gotten the better of you but it seemed well warranted.
Her grace stood staring down the overly confident man. However, exhibiting far more strength than you would have had, she sat herself down.
Once she was sat she looked over towards her husband and uncle, Prince Daemon. You felt weary of the man ever since you had heard the stories of his brutal and seemingly erratic behavior. Daemon now in this council meeting, discussing the beheading of an innocent babe was smirking.
It made your stomach turn as it did Rhaenyra’s. Her face dropped, and she then dismissed the council meeting.
Jacaerys angered by his mother’s decision to coddle him, stormed off down one of the halls. Rather than follow after him you allowed him to go his own way, you decided to wait in your chambers for his blood to cool. However, it was not long til you yourself were summoned by the Queen.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈
As you walked down the hall towards the council room, you noticed an enraged Daemon storming out of that very room.
You stuck to the stone wall and kept your eyes on the ground. You never felt particularly welcomed in his presence. As he stormed past you he did not speak a word nor did he look at you at all.
It was times like this when you wished you were back home in the North.
As you entered the council chamber, you noticed a broken glass of wine on the floor, and the Queen wiping tears from her eyes.
You entered the chamber cautiously, “You wished to see me, your grace?” you asked softly, not wishing to upset her further.
She seemed somewhat startled by your sudden presence. She stood, wiping another tear away. “Our position has been weakened as you know.” She said as she walked towards you, “You are a great asset to us, the greatest we have now.” Her words hung heavy over your head, but you knew it was true. “Send a raven to your brother, Cregan Stark. Please try to persuade him to send more men. We need the North more than ever.” You nodded, and just as you turned your back to her, about to leave she spoke once more “You must know I did not order this.”
You turned back around to face her, “Never.” You shook your head and spoke with conviction. You stepped closer to her, “I shall send the raven at once. My brother will know this is merely a tragedy and a vile rumor.”
She took hold of your wrist and hand, gripping onto you tightly, “I depend on you.” As she spoke you could hear the desperation in her voice as it wavered. You could tell her words were true.
Rhaenyra was gladdened to have you there. You would be Queen one day, you had to witness the hardships of that role. And she was grateful to see you could weather them, and stay loyal to her house.
You bowed your head to her with the utmost respect you could offer, “I’ll not fail you, your Grace.”
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱
The day was long.
Daemon had fled Dragonstone on Caraxes. You had no knowledge of where he was to be going when he would return, or what this meant for your soon-to-be husband’s future. The Queen had fled Dragonstone as well. For what purpose you did not know. But you were confident she would return. It was not in her nature, nor her character to abandon her children.
The castle felt cold and empty. All you could hear was the sounds of whiny children, Joffrey asking for his mother, while Ageon and Viserys cried as their nurses cradled them.
You could not find comfort in a place like this. It felt eerie and unsettled. Like the ocean before a storm. As you struggled to find sleep you longed for the company only Jace could provide.
Hoping his blood had cooled enough, you dragged yourself out of bed and sought him out.
You found him in the first place you looked, the library. He was always in the library. “Jace?” You beckoned out softly as you entered, wrapping yourself tighter in the robe you were wearing.
Jace was sitting at a desk, holding his head in his hand as his other flipped through the pages of a book, “A child was beheaded. The lords' faith in my mother waivers. And she flees.” He said without looking at you. It was clear he was still frustrated, no angry.
Though you did not know where the Queen had gone, you knew it had to be a reason of importance. But you could understand Jacaerys’s anger.
You began to step closer to Jace, not intimidated by his anger. “Your position is a difficult one, I would wager.” You leaned against the desk he sat at, “As I imagine her position is also a difficult one. I cannot pass judgment on her actions.” You said softly.
Jace looked up from the book on the desk, “Has this shaken your belief in my mother's claim?”
“No.” You asserted quickly, “Your mother did not want for this. It was clear she rebuked the act with all her heart. Her claim was given to her by birth, no force but death will change that.”
Jace looked back to the book he was reading, “Not all of the realm sees it the way you do.” You could feel the frustration building in him.
“I’ve written to my brother. He shall send us more men. Spread the truth about the murder about the realm.” You said hoping it would ease his mind, though you could see it did nothing. You sighed “You should sleep.”
Jacaerys scoffed, “How can I? Damon has fled to plot his own war, my mother vanishes from her responsibilities, and now our claim has been weakened by the death of an innocent child.” He rubbed his eyes, “I am alone with these responsibilities with lords who pester me for answers.”
“You are not alone.” You said as you ran your hand through his hair, “The burden is a heavy one, let me hold it with you.” You said as if you were pleading, “I can send ravens and bark at the lords who dare pester you.” Jacaerys did not respond to you, ignoring your words and continuing to read. You removed your hand from him, growing frustrated with him, “And how will reading thousand-year-old histories hunched over a desk in the middle of the night help that?”
“Someone has to do something.” He muttered.
You sighed, “If you insist on it, perhaps you could read in my chambers. Maybe the company would help you feel less lonely. Or I could sleep here-”
Jacaerys interrupted you, “I don’t feel lonely. I am alone with my mother's war to fight. A letter to the North will do well. But it might do nothing at all. So by all means, sleep, and make yourself easy.” He said, his words dripping with anger and frustration.
You stood, shocked by his reaction. “My apologies my prince, I merely wished to ease your anxieties.” You said in a mocking tone.
As you stormed out, Jacaerys knew he had made a terrible mistake. He allowed his anger to take hold of his emotions and lashed out at the one person who wished to make things easier on him.
You stormed down the hall, wiping a tear from your cheek. Your face was red from a strange mixture of heartache and anger. You thought of how Rheanyra looked after Daemon stormed away. You didn’t know what happened in that room but you could assume.
Maybe it was true what all those women in the North said. All men are the same, they are all born of the same nature. You felt foolish to have had such hope for Jacaerys.
But you knew, hot blood has a way of blinding you. You decided it would be best to sleep and wait for you and Jacaerys to calm down.
Once in your chambers, you splashed your face with warm water, washing away your teasers. You then turned to Liana, your Handmaiden. She handed you a cloth to pat your face dry. Once you did, she took the fabric from your hand. You smiled coldly at the girl, “Thank you, Liana.”
The girl bowed her head to you before leaving your chamber.
As you lay down in your bed, you tried your best to sleep. You tossed and turned, hitting and folding your pillows in a desperate attempt to get comfortable enough to find rest. The cries of the babes still echoed throughout the castle’s stone walls.
Frustrated, you once again tore the blankets off of you. Holding a candle to light your way, you followed the sounds of cries.
As you entered the babe’s chamber you saw a sleeping boy in one cradle, and a Handmaiden bouncing the other child in a desperate attempt to comfort him.
“My lady!” The handmaiden called out, surprised by your sudden appearance. “I am sorry, I cannot seem to put him to rest.” She said worrying she’d upset you and your night.
“Seems like a common problem here.” You said with a weak smile. You set down your candle and walked towards the handmaiden. “I find singing soothes them best.” You suggested softly as you tucked your loose hair behind your ears.
The handmaiden chuckled, “I’m not much of a singer I fear.” She said as she continued to rock and bounce the child to no avail.
You stood for a moment looking at the boy. Though he had silver hair, he reminded you of your siblings in the North. “May I?” You asked as you held out your hands towards the babe.
First slightly unsure, the handmaiden placed the boy in your arms.
You held him gently as you swayed him back and forth. You began to hum a melody that your mother would sing to you. The hum soon turned into vocalization. The babe calmed in your arms finally.
He gripped onto a strand of your hair that fell loose over your shoulder. He didn’t pull it, just absentmindedly toying with it.
This boy must have been Viserys. It could be hard to tell at times, but Viserys had curls, whereas Ageon did not. And Aegon slept much better than Viserys did. As evident from the silver-haired boy sleeping soundly in the cradle and the other in your arms. It surprised you how well Aegon could sleep through such noise.
You looked back down at Viserys. As he looked up into your eyes you noticed he and Jacaerys shared the same eyes. It made you think of being a mother to the future King, or Queen. And maybe many other princes and princesses. You wondered what those babies might look like. A bit of you, and a bit of him.
Soon the boy's eyes became heavy and he drifted into a light sleep.
“Can I get you anything my Lady?” the Handmaiden whispered, not wishing to disturb him.
“Perhaps a tea for sleep? I can’t seem to find it but I shall see to it that the boy sleeps.” You whispered as you continued to sway the boy back and forth.
The handmaiden nodded and swiftly but quietly left the chambers.
As you turned your attention back to Viserys you realized the boy was limp and heavy in your arms. He breathed calmly and deeply, snoring even. ‘Finally’ You thought to yourself.
You played the babe into the cradle beside his brother. As you looked down upon them you thought back again on your daydream of you and Jace’s children.
It made you feel excited and hopeful to think of that future. But with this recent turn in the war, and your fight with Jacaerys, you felt doubt. But you were willing to fight for that feeling of hope.
You ran your hand over the boy's silver curly hair once before you heard the chamber door creek open. You turned towards it, expecting to see a Handmaiden holding a hot cup of tea. Instead, you saw a knight, one you recognized.
You wrapped your robe around you tighter, “Ser Erryk?” You asked with concern. Though he looked at you with pity, and what was stranger was his eyes didn’t look like his eyes at all, “You’re not Erryk, are you?” You mutter quietly as you hold onto yourself tightly as your anxieties rise.
Your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach once you saw a cloaked man behind the Knight posing as Ser Erryk.
Viserys began to stir from his sleep, whining slightly. You took a step back, keeping your eyes on the men in the doorway. You placed a hand on the wooden railing of the cradle holding the two young princes.
“It’s the real Targaryen boys.” The cloaked man rasped to the Knight.
With that, the two began to inch their way into the chamber. You moved to block their view of the infants sleeping in their cradles.
“There's gold, silver, anything you desire I will give. Just leave the babes.” You whispered, not wishing to wake the infants to such a horrific scene. Though your heart began to pound so quickly you thought that alone might wake Viserys.
The man in the cloak smirked at your attempt to derail their plan as he got closer and closer to you. His filthy hand tore off your mother’s necklace that hung around your neck. He examined it in his hands before placing it in his pocket. “Blood must be spilled.”
The knight, however, did not find humor or joy in the act he was anticipating. “You’ll take us to the Queen.” He whispered. It was a command, but it felt like a plea. As if this armed intruder had no desire to bring harm to you. But you knew he had the ability and the will to.
You shook your head, “I’ll do no such thing.” Your eyes were wide and filled with terror.
“You will.” The knight said, again, it sounded like he was desperately pleading with you.
“The Queen fled Dragonstone this evening.” You said almost mockingly, “Even if she were here, I’d not take you to her.”
The cloaked man began to walk towards you with a rotten and crooked smile, “You then.” He said with a giddy high chuckle as he raised a dagger towards you.
You moved away from the children, not wishing to bring that terrible creature near them. The man followed after you, “Please-“ You pleaded quietly as he grabbed hold of you. His stench was thick, nearly choking you as he pressed a knife to your throat. He held one of your hands while your other attempted to pull his knife away from you. “I rebuke the act with all my heart-” You quietly pleaded as you felt the knife begin to drag against your skin, cutting into your throat ever so slightly.
You squirmed and the cloaked man began to giggly snicker in your ear. But the knight stepped forward raising a hand to the man halting his action. The man’s snicker died out, as though he was upset he was being interrupted.
“Perhaps-” The knight began, “If you returned to Kings Landing.” The knight was speaking to you, but his eyes stayed on the man, “If you married Prince Aemond, give the North’s power to the Greens.” His eyes then fell onto you, “Then we could spare you.”
“That wasn’t what he asked for.” The cloaked man barked back to the Knight. The knight however did not respond to the man, only looking at you with pleading eyes.
With eyes widened and your heart racing. You felt the cold blade beginning to split your hot skin as sweat trickled down your brow. Terrified, and vulnerable. Still, you knew you would never betray the only man you ever loved or the true Queen. “I’d rather you put my head on a spike.” You said, your voice shaking but your eyes did not show fear, but contempt.
The man holding the knife to your throat grew giddy once more, and the Knight sighed as he grabbed hold of the hilt of his sword. “Then, believe me, I have no choice, " he said with a regretful sigh.
The knight drew his sword, making you gasp and your eyes grew wider, so wide you thought they might fall out of your head. The knight approached the sleeping babes in their cradle and you squirmed violently in the grasp of the cloaked man. As you did the blade only cut its way deeper into your skin but you did not care.
“No!” You pleaded desperately.
“Only one needs to die.” The cloaked man said you could practically hear the grin on his face. “Which will it be?” He asked with a giddy chuckle.
Tears began to fall from your wide eyes down your red cheeks, “Spare-spare them- take me- me- me-” You desperately and quietly pleaded. The man's giddy chuckle only grew more erratic.
But the knight did not move, “I cannot.” The knight said with shame as he looked down at the infants in their cradle.
The man who held you tightly against his blade threw you down onto the ground, “You take care of the woman.” He said with frustration as he made his way towards the babes.
You stood quickly and grabbed a hold of a golden pitcher within the room. You hit the man over the head with it. Making water splash over him, and the babes waking them instantly. The babes screamed and cried as the golden edge of the pitcher cut the scalp of the man open, and he fell to the ground in pain before he picked himself up and ran out of the chamber disappearing in the shadows of the halls.
The knight’s large hand rose and fell on your face, knocking you to the ground. It was at that same moment you heard the shattering of glass hit the floor. It was the handmaiden dropping your cup of hot tea onto the ground. “M’Lady!” The woman shouted.
You looked up from the hard ground to the woman, “Find Ser Lorrent!” You called out. You wanted for a moment to call for Jacaerys, but you would never forgive yourself for bringing danger to him.
As the woman ran down the hall, the Knight begrudgingly grabbed a chunk of your hair as he pulled you off the ground. As he looked into your tear-stained face he noticed the damage he’d already done.
A bruise to your cheekbone that rose to your eye, and a cut to your lip. You could see the shame in his eyes as he brought his sword to your neck.
“Brother!” A voice yelled out. You looked over to the door to see the true Ser Erryk. He drew his sword.
Without exchanging many words, they unsheathe their swords. You took the opportunity to grab hold of the wailing children and run to the door. All you could hear was the sounds of steel clashing and blood splattering the floor. Their identical fighting styles and knowledge of each other’s tactics result in a deadly stalemate at first.
The clash of swords echoes through the halls, as Ser Lorent finally arrives. He did not know who was who, and at such a distance you did not either.
Ser Lorent kept you behind him, as he watched the battle continue. You watched on in horror holding onto the crying children.
You jumped as you felt hands wrap around you. But as you looked you noticed it was Jacaerys, his expression was one of terror and rage.
“Jacaerys!” You said with relief, as he pulled you and his siblings further away from the fight.
He held your face, observing your injuries, “Where are you hurt?” He asked frantically, “Where did he touch you?” He repeated the question several times but you were far too frightened to speak.
You heard the sound of metal hitting the floor, as you turned you saw one of the knights fall dead onto the floor, and his sword along with him.
The surviving Knight, you could only assume was Erryk, stepped forward. His eyes were filled with grief and guilt.
You looked towards him with sympathy, you didn’t know what to say, but you would not have a chance to think of anything before the knight stumbled into the hall. “My Lady,” He said as he turned his sword towards himself, “Forgive me.” He said as he fell onto his sword.
“No!” You screamed out, but it was too late. Erryk lay dead beside his brother.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱
You spent the rest of the night locked away in your chamber with Viserys, Aegon, and Joffrey. The guard around your chamber was nearly tripled at the command of Jacaerys.
“We have no idea how they penetrated our walls.” Ser Alfred began.
Jacaerys marched across the council room, exuding every once of rage he felt, “And where were the members of this council when the traitors threatened their Queen, their Princes, and their future Queen?” He questioned, ignoring Ser Alfred's words. “My betrothed is our stronghold.” He barked at the men in that room. He then marched towards Ser Lorent, stopping inches from his face, “And where were you while the Prince and my Lady were threatened?” His tone was oozing with contemptous rage.
Ser Lorent looked down like a child who was caught misbehaving, “I was abed-”
“A bed!” Jace shouted, interrupting the Knight. “She could have been killed!” He nearly screamed as he continued to march around the room.
“It is not the time for blind accusations.” Lord Corlys began, attempting to settle his grandchild’s rage but failing.
“If I may-” Lady Mysaria began, “The guard has detained someone.” This captured Jacaerys’s attention, “The men whom they have captured are not known to us. However, they were caught attempting to flee Dragonstone in a small boat. With the Ladys necklace.” She said holding up the necklace Jacaerys knew was your mother's.
Jacaerys felt that cold sting of rage crashes through his chest, he grabbed a hold of his sword as he walked towards the door to the chamber, “I’ll kill him myself.” Jace, his eyes watery with angry tears.
Lord Corlys, placed a hand on Jace’s chest, stopping him, “I believe it may be best that we approach this with a level head.” He said in a hushed tone.
“A level head?” Jace scoffed, “He had a knife to her throat!” He barked.
“And he will pay for such an insult.” Ser Alfred said, in an attempt to aid Corlys in calming Jace.
“Insult?” Jace repeated in a mocking tone offended that he would compare what was done to you to an insult.
“Jacaerys.” Corlys said, redirecting Jace’s attention back to him, “We must first extract all the knowledge they have of the attack. Who ordered it-”
“We know who ordered it!” Jace shouted,
Ser Alfred stepped forward once more, “They paraded the boy throughout the streets after his death. Shouting of the depravity of Rheanyra the Cruel.” Jace turned to face Ser Alfred, he looked at him with contempt. Weary of what he was to say next. “We cannot parade the Lady and her injuries to the public but we can send letters detailing each act- the horror they inflicted-”
Lord Corlys buried his eyes in his hand.
“No.” Jace asserted, “I will not allow my wife’s honor to be compromised.” He began emotion building in her voice.
No one said a thing, but they all noticed how he spoke of you as his wife though your wedding had not even been planned yet.
Despite Jacaery’s anger, Ser Alfred continued, “Will the Lords of Westeros support Aegon once they have heard of their depravity, or will they rather not denounce the Greens?”
“I will not let her be seen as weak,” Jace said, his voice dripping with fury.
“Not weak. Courageous.” He attempted to rationalize, “She protected the prince and the queen, nearly costing her own life to do so. Her misfortune will do more for our cause than a hundred thousand knights.”
“I said no-” Jace asserted once more before he was interrupted by a handmaiden.
“I apologize, my prince.” The handmaiden said cautiously, “The Lady has requested such action be taken.” She said weary of how the Prince might receive this information.
“What?” He asked breathlessly.
The handmaiden fidgeted with her fingers, nervously, “She has said, she understands, as a representative of the throne she must make sacrifices-”
Jace shook his head, and rubbed his brow, “She needn’t sacrifice anything.”
“My Prince, the lady has insisted. She has expressed she will not turn her cheek.” The handmaiden said before turning back to leave.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・
In the Dungeon, Lord Corlys entered the cell holding the badly wounded man.
“I would suggest you speak of whom sent you.” Sitting in front of the man, Lord Corlys intimidated him well enough on his own, he did not need much to convince the man to speak.
“I was sent by Ser Criston Cole under the order of the King Aegon Targaryen.” The cloaked man said, still holding onto his bleeding scalp.
“What was the anticipated outcome of this mission?” Lord Corlys questioned.
“Kill the Rheanyra, kill the true born sons.” The man spoke the truth, in a desperate attempt to avoid any more harm. “Arryk muddied it all up. Didn’t know where the right room was. Then didn’t want to kill the boys.” He spoke with haste and fear, “I don’t know any more than that I promise.” With that, Lord Corlys nodded and stood. The man looked up at him with confusion. “Are you going to hurt me?”
“No.” He said calmly, “But I cannot vouch for the Prince.” Corlys said before leaving the cell.
The man’s breathing grew rapid as he saw the prince enter the dungeon.
Jacaerys entered the dungeon, with clenched fists, holding a large Morningstar mace. Jace looked more disheveled than when Lord Corlys saw him in the council chamber. His shirts were unbuttoned and his hair was a mess. His eyes were darker than they normally were. His feet marched along the stone floor as he came into the cell holding the man.
The man did not plea, he only gritted his teeth knowing what was to come. Jacaerys clenched his jaw as he looked down at the man. He thought of the injuries he saw on his betrothed. The cut on her upper lip, the bruise on her cheek, the cut on her neck, and the bruising on her wrist where the man held her against him. The rage grew inside of him. His nostrils flared as he breathed in and out.
The man began to cry as he stared up at Jacaerys. It only made the rage within Jace grow. How dare this man cry after what he had done.
Jace could no longer hold in his fury, he swung his mace over his head and down onto the man’s already cracked skull.
He brought the mace down onto the man, again, and again, and again until the man’s groaning, whimpering, and twitching ceased.
Jace breathed heavily, exhausted by emotion and physical exertion. His face was covered in blood splatter and sweat.
He stood tall over the man, dropping the mace down onto the man's skull before turning and leaving the cell.
Lord Corlys watched as Jace said not a word and left the dungeon.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈
Afterward, word traveled quickly of what the Prince had done to the man in the Dungeon.
It took no time at all for you to have heard of it from several handmaidens. Though it made you feel a certain comfort you still wished Jacaerys would see you, would apologize to you. You valued that much more than violence.
But it would not be long for that either. As you sat by the fire, you watched over the children sleeping in the well-guarded chamber with you. You jumped slightly once you heard the chamber door open softly. Despite you knowing how well you were guarded now you still were on edge. Though your anxieties dissolved once you saw it was your betrothed. Deshovled, with what looked like blood splattered onto his shirts.
Jace had washed his face but had not the patience to change before he could see you.
“You saved my brothers.” Jacaerys spoke gently despite his gruesome appearance, “You showed the realm your heroic bravery.” He said as he approached you. He tried to move your hair to see the cut on your neck, “Show me please.” he said softly but you moved your head so he could not look.
You didn’t look at him, still holding resentment. “Tis nothing.” You spoke dismissively.
Jacaerys got onto his knees, placing his hands on your lap, “I must beg for your mercy.” He bowed his head in shame, “My behavior was abhorrent.” he said shaking his head. You still said nothing. Jace looked up at you, “Speak, please. Plainly, even if they are words meant to hurt me I just wish for you to speak.” He pleaded.
So, you did. “You made me feel useless, unwanted.” You said looking at him with hurt eyes, “I only wished to comfort you. And you pushed me away.” You sighed, “I am not a hero, and I am not brave, Jacaerys. I am hurt and far from home.”
He took in your words for a moment, nodding, “You alone have given us the North, you have saved the Prince and the Queen.” He spoke calmly, “And you have made me a true man and bewitched me, mind and body. I want no one else, and our house could not survive without you.” He took hold of your hands and looked at you with eyes that spoke of the love and devotion he felt toward you, “I was an arrogant fool to make you feel otherwise. Blinded by my own anger towards matters that were not caused by your hand.” You saw his eyes begin to tear up, “I could have lost you. It was so narrowly avoided. I imagined it when I saw those men who attacked you. Losing you… You are my way of life, without you, I could not go on.” He said before sniffing and swallowing whatever emotion was consuming him, before he looked back to you “If I have proven unworthy, I will see to it you have safe passage to the North. No action will be taken against your house.-” He began but you interrupted his ridiculous words.
You scoffed, “I am not going to leave you over an argument, Jacaerys.” You placed a hand on his cheek, “I said I loved you and I meant it.”
“I will live to earn your forgiveness.” He said gripping onto your hand tightly.
“You have it you fool.” You said stifling a laugh. You found it hard to hold resentment toward him any longer.
He smiled softly at you, and then he ran a hand gently over your hair, “May I?” He asked and you nodded.
He moved your hair to see the cut on your neck. He grimaced at the sight, not out of disgust but out of anger for what they had done.
“I said it was nothing.” You said trying to comfort him.
“It is something.” He insisted.
You pushed your hair forward covering the mark, “The maester said it will scar, but can easily hidden.”
“You’ll not hide anything.” Jacaerys said as he placed a hand on your cheek, “You did not have to send those letters.” He said shaking his head. He felt shame for allowing such a thing to happen.
You shook your head, “I couldn’t lay back and make myself easy.”
“You did much more than that,” Jace said sternly, he would not allow anyone to make you think otherwise.
You looked at his disheveled appearance, “Is it true what they said?” You questioned softly, “You-You killed the man who did it?” He looked at you with conviction, “I will not allow someone to threaten harm to my wife and live.”
“Your wife?” You asked with a smile,
“You are quite nearly that.” he smiled back.
You shook your head one last time, “Not near enough.”
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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 1
paring; Azriel x reader
summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.
word count ; 4k
notes; Yo everyone, I'm back with another fanfiction featuring our lovely Shadow Singer. Hope you all like it <3 Just a small reminder: English isn’t my first language, so I’ve tried my best. Enjoy the first chapter!
Part 2
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The dusk sky draped the House of Wind in soft shades of lavender and rose, its tall windows open to the gentle, jasmine-scented breeze of Velaris below. Rhysand’s office, spacious but not ostentatious, offered a panoramic view of the starlit city, where lanterns were beginning to glow and laughter drifted upward like a distant, cheerful hum. The high shelves, carved of dark wood, were lined with neat rows of books and rolled charts, their parchment edges softened by centuries of use. A low-burning lamp cast warm light over a desk scattered with papers, quills, and a half-filled inkpot.
Madja stood near the window with Rhys, both of them watching as wings and shadows moved quietly through the city’s streets below. The old healer’s posture was poised despite her age; her long, silver-streaked hair was bound in a simple braid. Time had etched fine lines around her eyes and mouth—soft marks of the centuries she’d spent mending flesh and bone, soothing pain, and whispering encouragement into the darkest hours of countless lives.
Rhysand kept his gaze on the vista beyond the glass, arms folded casually, the glow of faelight catching in his violet eyes. He knew Madja had come here for something particular. She wasn’t one to linger unnecessarily, nor did she shy from speaking her mind. The hush in the room was comfortable, respectful of the weight of the moment.
Madja cleared her throat softly, her voice as calm and steady as it had been through all the emergencies and late-night visits to the healing rooms. “Rhysand,” she began, her tone gentle yet determined, “I need to speak with you about a matter of some importance to me.”
Rhys turned his head slightly, giving her his full attention. “Of course,” he said, voice low and reassuring. “What’s on your mind?”
She inhaled and exhaled slowly, as though considering each word carefully. “I’ve served this court for a very long time. Longer than many remember—tending to soldiers, midwives, children, courtiers, High Lords and Ladies alike.” Her gaze drifted toward the city lights, as if recalling memories that danced among those glowing streets. “It’s been my honor and my purpose.”
Rhysand inclined his head, respect and gratitude shining in his eyes. “We owe you more than can ever be repaid, Madja. Your skill, your kindness... You’ve saved so many of us in ways we cannot count.”
She offered a small, affectionate smile. “I know my role has mattered. But Rhys,” she paused, and the name alone carried a lifetime of familiarity that few could claim with him, “I find that my hands are not as steady as they once were. My eyes grow weary by candlelight. My back aches after hours bent over the injured.”
A slight breeze stirred the curtains, and the scent of night-blooming flowers drifted in, a gentle reminder of how time moved ever forward. Rhysand said nothing yet, allowing her the space to say what she must.
Madja continued softly, “I believe it’s time for me to step back. To retire from my duties as the court’s primary healer.” She turned to face him fully, shoulders squared, but her gaze kind and open. “I’ve trained many capable healers over the years. The work will continue. The Night Court does not lack for talent or compassion.”
Rhysand exhaled quietly, pressing his lips into a thoughtful line. The notion of Madja not being there—her swift and sure presence absent from their healing wards—seemed strange. She had always been a constant, a quiet pillar in the court’s foundation. But he would not deny her what she deserved.
“Are you certain?” he asked gently, voice low enough that it felt like they were confiding secrets rather than discussing court affairs. “If you wish fewer hours, or only to train the younger healers, we can arrange that.”
Madja shook her head, a decisive yet kind gesture. “No, Rhys. I’ve thought this through. I’m old, my friend. Old, even by our standards.” A hint of dry humor touched her tone. “My future lies in rest, in tending a garden rather than wounded flesh. I wish to spend whatever years remain in quiet peace, perhaps in a small cottage overlooking a meadow or stream.”
In the quiet that followed, Rhysand reached out to gently clasp her hand, the gesture sincere. “We’ll ensure you have all you need. A place of comfort, security—whatever you desire. And know that you will always be welcome in these halls, never forgotten.”
Madja squeezed his hand, gratitude and affection shining in her eyes. “I expected nothing less. You have all grown into fine leaders, fine friends. It eases my heart to know I leave the court in good hands.”
Rhysand released Madja’s hand gently, taking in her decision with thoughtful acceptance. The room felt quieter, a hush that allowed them both to measure the weight of this change. He crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the desk, considering how best to carry out her retirement. There would need to be someone to fill her role—someone skilled, empathetic, and unshakably capable of handling whatever the Night Court might face.
“Have you thought about who might take your place?” Rhys asked softly, meeting her steady gaze. “I can’t imagine you leaving us without a successor in mind.”
A hint of pride lit Madja’s eyes, a spark of confidence in the future she was preparing to leave behind. “Of course I have. You know me better than that, Rhys. I would never abandon my post without ensuring someone could step into it seamlessly.”
Rhys inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if he had expected nothing less. “And who have you chosen?”
Madja’s grip on the windowsill tightened slightly, not in apprehension, but in anticipation of sharing something long-cherished. “I have someone perfect in mind. A child of the Night Court—an orphan of the first war against Hybern, in fact. I took her under my wing when she was very young, taught her the basics of healing and care.”
Rhysand’s brows rose, curiosity piqued. He could not recall all the children Madja had trained personally, centuries and centuries blending faces and names into a kind tapestry of service. “Who might this be?”
“Y/N,” Madja said, voice warm with fondness. “You may remember her. She was quiet but determined, always studying late into the night, always asking how to ease pain more efficiently or mend a broken bone with fewer scars. A true healer’s heart.” She paused, letting the memory breathe life into the silence. “A few centuries ago, she left the Night Court to travel among the other courts and even beyond Prythian’s borders—visiting unknown continents, I believe. All to deepen her knowledge and hone her healing skills.”
Rhysand searched his memories, vague images surfacing: a young, focused individual hovering near Madja’s side, attentive as a student could be. He had been too busy with rebuilding and healing wounds on a much larger scale then, but he remembered the name faintly, the glimpses of a dedicated figure slipping through the halls.
Madja continued, “I reached out to her a few months ago, requested her return. I told her of my plans, that I would soon step down and that I wanted her to take my place. She agreed. She should be arriving any day now, if my calculations are correct.”
Rhysand nodded thoughtfully, pressing his fingertips together. “So Y/N will take on your mantle,” he said quietly, more to himself than Madja. “If you trust her, then I will welcome her home with open arms. I know the court will benefit from such devotion and training.”
Madja’s smile deepened, an affectionate and proud curve of her lips. “She will do well, Rhys. She’s grown into a capable healer—perhaps even more skilled than I. She brings with her new techniques and knowledge from lands we can barely imagine. It is only fitting that someone so dedicated should stand where I once stood.”
Outside, the city’s laughter and murmurs drifted into the room. Rhysand and Madja stood in quiet agreement. As one chapter closed gently, another prepared to open. The Night Court, always at the crossroads of past and future, would soon meet the one who would continue its legacy of healing and mercy.
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The winter air carried a quiet hush as you approached the gates of Velaris. The land slumbered under a light blanket of snow, crystals glittering like tiny fallen stars beneath the moonlight. It had been centuries since you’d last seen this city, and now each lantern-lit arch, each faint silhouette of distant rooftops, stirred memories long tucked away. The cold breeze nipped at your cheeks, but you were well-prepared: a heavy, fur-lined cape draped over your shoulders, its generous folds keeping out the chill. Beneath it, your traveling garb—leather boots crusted with frost, worn gloves, and trousers meant for long rides—hinted at the countless roads you had trodden in your self-imposed exile.
Your horse’s breath plumed in the crisp air, its dark coat standing out starkly against the snowy ground. Every hoof-fall was muffled by that thin layer of powder, giving the night an even gentler hush. Above you, the eagle circled again, a lone sentinel under a sky brushed with starlight and the faint glow of a crescent moon. It cried softly, its voice echoing in the stillness, as if announcing your return.
Velaris—once the place of your youth, where you learned the first steps of healing under Madja’s patient eye—felt both familiar and strange. You had wandered distant courts, continents with different climates and creatures, honing your craft and expanding your knowledge. Yet here, now, the curve of a familiar street corner, the warm glow of lamplight on old stone, tugged at your heart. It was nostalgia mingled with quiet apprehension, the weight of centuries settling gently on your shoulders. Back then, you had left as a young apprentice, uncertain and hungry for wisdom. Tonight, you returned as a seasoned healer, with secrets and skills gleaned from every corner of Prythian and beyond.
At the gate, a couple of sentries wrapped in thick cloaks watched your approach. The lanterns beside them radiated a comforting warmth against the frosty night. They noted your horse’s slow pace, your cape embroidered subtly with practical patterns, the saddlebags heavy with bandages, tonics, and texts. They glanced upward at the eagle, curious, but found no threat in this silent dance of traveler and guardian.
One guard stepped forward, voice muted yet carried easily through the still air. “Late traveler,” he said, respectful but cautious, “state your name and purpose.”
You drew the reins gently, bringing the horse to a stop, your dark mount stamping once on the snowy ground. A faint smile touched your lips as you pushed back your hood, exposing features sharpened by experience, softened by understanding. Even now, the cold flushed your cheeks slightly, and a strand of white hair slipped free, catching the moonlight.
“I am Y/N,” you said, your voice steady and warm, echoing with an old familiarity. “A healer returning to the Night Court. I believe I am expected.”
The guards exchanged a glance—this name carried weight, a quiet rumor of a healer summoned home by Madja herself. They stepped aside, allowing you entry, no further questions needed. Beyond them lay Velaris, blanketed softly in winter’s hush. You remembered it bustling with life in greener times, but even now, beneath the snow and distant laughter, you felt the city’s heart welcoming you home.
With a gentle press of your heel, you urged your horse onward. The eagle’s shadow passed over the gate, and then it soared above the rooftops, perhaps to find its own perch. A familiar scent drifted through the crisp night air—something like cinnamon and distant hearth fires. You took it in, remembering quiet evenings of study and healing in warm, lamplit rooms.
You had left as a student, eager and uncertain. You returned a master of your craft, ready to shoulder the responsibilities your old mentor had chosen for you. The quiet crunch of hooves in snow was the only sound as you entered Velaris, a place you had not seen in a hundred lifetimes, yet still knew in your bones.
As soon as you passed through the gates, you swung your leg over the horse’s side and dismounted with a practiced ease. The animal, sensing your familiarity, snorted softly, its breath making small clouds in the winter air. The snow crunched beneath your boots as you took the saddle in hand, leading your horse forward at a leisurely pace. A few onlookers spared curious glances—travelers weren’t uncommon in Velaris, but your arrival at this late hour and in these quiet conditions drew subdued interest.
You let your gaze drift, taking in the sights around you. Velaris had always been a jewel among cities, but under the moon and dusting of snow, it gleamed with a serene kind of splendor. Buildings of carved stone and elegant wood bore soft, golden lights that spilled onto cobblestone streets. The scent of fresh bread and distant hearth fires mingled with the crispness of winter. You noted subtle changes—new sculptures in gardens, fresh murals adorning certain walls, the hum of gentle magic woven into everyday corners. It had grown even lovelier with time.
You had heard the tales, even far away on foreign shores: the once-hidden city revealed to the world, the ferocious attack it had endured, and the grand victory that followed. Rumors traveled quickly among healers and traders, and from what you gathered, Velaris had suffered but risen stronger, its spirit unbroken. The idea that your old home, once so secretive, had been thrust onto the world stage still left an odd taste in your mouth. You’d never imagined such an outcome all those centuries ago.
And Rhysand—when you’d left, he’d only just ascended as High Lord after his father’s passing. You remembered him as calm, shrewd, haunted by new responsibilities thrust upon him too young. Now, you’d learned that he had reigned through wars and alliances, reshaping the Night Court into something more open, more formidable. Most astonishing of all was the whisper that a High Lady stood beside him, equal in power and rank. Such a thing had been unthinkable in the old days, when tradition and suspicion ruled the courts.
You ran a hand along the horse’s neck, both reassuring it and steadying yourself. Time had flowed like a great river, carving new courses in this land you once knew. The Night Court wasn’t just shadows and silence anymore—if anything, it hummed with a brighter, more inclusive magic.
A small smile tugged at your lips, though touched by nostalgia. You wondered if you would still recognize old acquaintances, if any remained. Madja, of course, you would know. She was the reason you had returned. But what about the healers who trained alongside you, or the courtiers who once sought your help for quiet fevers and twisted ankles?
Your breath fogged in the cold as you carried your saddle and led the horse onward into the velvety night of Velaris. In that soft hush, surrounded by lamplight and murmuring streets, you acknowledged what had been and what now was. A thousand changes had come to pass while you walked distant roads, yet here you were again—a piece of the past stepping into the present, ready to adapt and serve once more.
With a gentle tug on the reins, you guided your horse through Velaris’ winding streets until you reached a small inn known for accommodating travelers with mounts. The sign outside bore simple script and a painted image of a horse’s head, letting you know this was a place that catered to riders who needed both rest and a safe spot for their companions. A narrow stable area hugged one side of the building, the wooden stalls visible through an open arch, and the soft whicker of other horses drifted out into the cold night.
You tied your horse securely at a hitching post near the stable entrance, giving it a few soft strokes along its neck and murmuring quiet words of reassurance. The inn’s lights glowed warmly through its windows, promising respite from the chill outside. Carrying only what you needed for the night—your saddle and a small bag slung over your shoulder—you stepped up onto the worn threshold.
Inside, the inn’s atmosphere enveloped you like a comforting blanket. The interior was modest yet inviting, with low ceilings supported by dark wooden beams that lent the space a cozy, intimate feel. A large hearth crackled at one end, its firelight dancing across the polished floorboards and simple, sturdy tables. The scent of mulled wine and hearty stew drifted through the air, mingling with the faint tang of old wood and woolen fabrics. A few patrons sat scattered around, some nursing tankards, others finishing quiet meals, their murmured conversations melding into a pleasant hum.
Lamps hung at intervals along the walls, their warm glow illuminating the simple artwork—landscapes of rolling hills and starry skies, scenes that might be familiar to travelers who came and went. A rack near the door held thick cloaks and traveling staffs, and straw mats by the hearth encouraged weary wanderers to warm their feet by the flames.
Approaching the small counter near the fire, you found a stout figure in an apron waiting, brows lifting slightly at your approach. The innkeeper—a middle-aged fae with kind eyes and a no-nonsense posture—took in your travel-worn attire and the faint smell of stable hay clinging to your clothes without judgment.
“I need a room for the night,” you said, voice low but clear. You placed a few coins on the counter, enough to cover lodging and a decent meal. “And a safe place for my horse,” you added, gesturing out the door with a tilt of your head.
The innkeeper nodded, pocketing the coins and scribbling a note in a ledger. “You’ve chosen the right place, traveler. We’ve a stable hand on duty tonight, and plenty of hay and water for your mount. I’ll have your belongings sent up to your room—top of the stairs, second door on the right. Will you be needing dinner?”
The gentle crackle of the hearth made you realize how hungry you were. “Yes, please. Something hot.” The tension of your long journey began to ease as you spoke. Soon, you would have a warm meal and a quiet room, a moment to gather your thoughts before facing the days to come in Velaris.
The innkeeper nodded again. “We’ll have stew and bread ready for you in a moment. Make yourself comfortable.”
You thanked them quietly and made your way toward a table near the fire. Settling down, you let the warmth seep into your bones. Outside, the snow continued to fall lightly, dusting the night-silenced streets. Inside, the inn’s modest comfort wrapped around you, a gentle reminder that, for all the changes beyond these walls, solace could still be found in simple things: a crackling fire, a hot meal, and a secure place to rest.
You thanked the inn’s attendant who brought your things upstairs—your saddle and bag neatly placed in one corner, your personal items laid out on a small bench. As soon as the door closed, you set about making yourself comfortable. The tiny room was modest but cozy: a single bed with a thick quilt, a wooden chest for your belongings, and a narrow door that led to a private washroom. The lamp on the bedside table glowed softly, illuminating rough-hewn beams overhead and the simple woven rug underfoot.
The bath you drew was warm and fragrant, a rare luxury after so many months on the road. You sighed as the hot water embraced your tired muscles, steam rising to blur the edges of the lamplight. Every ache and tension slipped away, replaced by a gentle calm. You lingered there longer than you intended, letting the warmth and quiet stillness soothe the raw edges of your journey.
Eventually, you stepped out, drying off with a towel that smelled faintly of lavender. Pulling on more comfortable clothes—soft trousers, a loose tunic, and thick socks—you immediately felt lighter, more at ease. Settling into the single chair at the small desk, you opened your sketchbook. The pages bore neat sketches of rare herbs, diagrams of organs and nerve clusters, annotations in your own careful handwriting describing remedies learned in distant courts. You added a few more notes now, clarifying a technique you’d picked up in the Winter Court for combating frostbite injuries—how their healers used crushed frost lily petals to reduce swelling.
You’d barely finished jotting down a final sentence when a gentle knock sounded at the door. Crossing the tiny space in a few strides, you opened it to find the innkeeper’s assistant holding a tray. The rich aroma of stew—savory and warm—wafted into your room. You offered a quiet thanks, voice hushed as if not to disturb the hush of the night. The assistant nodded politely and retreated, footsteps receding down the hallway.
Placing the tray on a small round table by the window, you pulled up the chair. The stew steamed before you—thick and hearty, with chunks of root vegetables, tender meat, and herbs that reminded you of home. Next to it was a small loaf of crusty bread and a pat of butter, already soft enough to spread easily.
As you dipped your spoon and brought the first mouthful to your lips, the flavors bloomed across your tongue—rich, comforting, and exactly what you needed. Your gaze drifted past the rim of the bowl to the window. Beyond the glass, the Sidra River shimmered softly under starlight. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the night, catching in the glow of distant lanterns. Across the water, the Rainbow—Velaris’s famed artistic district—was lit with gentle hues, colors blending seamlessly into the darkness.
The scene was a masterpiece of tranquility: the star-flecked sky, the quiet city, the snow falling softly as if trying not to wake the world. You savored another spoonful of stew and leaned back, allowing the moment to settle around you. Here you were, in a city you’d left centuries ago, come home to take up a mantle left by your old mentor. So much had changed and yet this moment—warm meal, quiet window, gentle snow—reminded you why you returned. Comfort, safety, purpose, and memory woven together in a tapestry of starlit peace.
You finished the last of your meal, wiped the bowl clean with a piece of bread, and gently pushed the tray aside. The steady warmth of the stew had settled in your stomach, making your limbs feel pleasantly heavy. Outside, the snow continued its quiet descent, dusting the rooftops and the narrow streets with sparkling powder. The lamplight in your room seemed softer now, the hush of the winter night wrapping around you like a familiar old cloak.
Rising from the small chair, you crossed the room and extinguished the lamp on the bedside table. Only moonlight and the reflection from the snow-blanketed city remained, sending faint silver shapes dancing along the floorboards. You slipped beneath the quilt, the scent of wool and lavender drifting from the linens. The mattress gave slightly under your weight, a gentle cradle after so many hard beds and forest floors.
Your thoughts drifted naturally to the meeting you’d have the next day. Madja’s voice echoed faintly in your memory—her gentle, steady guidance so many years ago. Tomorrow, you would see her again, no longer as a wide-eyed apprentice, but as a seasoned healer returning to take up her mantle. The idea hummed softly through your mind, a mixture of anticipation and a quiet, nervous pride.
The distant murmur of Velaris lulled you: the soft creak of settling beams, the whisper of the Sidra’s current, the faint call of a night bird. Within moments, the fatigue of long travel and the comfort of a true bed smoothed away the edges of wakefulness. Your eyelids grew heavy and closed, shutting out the gentle glow of stars and snow.
Wrapped in warmth and memory, you drifted into sleep, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow would begin a new chapter—one you were finally ready to embrace.
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#azriel fic#azriel x you#azriel x reader#azriel x y/n#acotar fanart#acotar#rhysand#azriel acotar#cassian#a court of thorns and roses#acotar x y/n#acotar x reader#acotar x you#acotar fanfiction#azriel shadowsinger
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The North
Uh oh. New hyperfixation just dropped.
Pairing: Cregan Stark x Tragaryen!Reader
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The cold cuts through your thick cloak as you descend Cannibal’s side, his black scales glinting faintly in the weak northern sun. Winterfell rises before you, a stoic fortress that speaks of enduring hardship and unyielding honor. The men waiting at the gates, wrapped in furs, watch you with expressions ranging from curiosity to mistrust. To them, you are not the Dragon Queen’s emissary, not a rider of the Cannibal, nor a strategist who has studied every battle fought in the Seven Kingdoms. You are just a girl—a second daughter.
But they will learn.
Cannibal growls low behind you, the sound reverberating in your chest, and the men instinctively step back. You hide your smirk as you step forward, head held high, your boots crunching on the snow-packed ground.
Lord Cregan Stark waits in the courtyard, his gray eyes like a winter storm, scrutinizing you. He is taller than you imagined, broad-shouldered and clad in furs that make him appear even more imposing. A faint scar bisects his left eyebrow, and his expression is as unreadable as the Wolfswood in winter.
“Lady Targaryen,” he says, his voice deep and resonant, carrying over the murmurs of his men. “We do not often see dragons in the North, let alone one such as yours.”
You incline your head, keeping your voice steady despite the cold biting your cheeks. “Cannibal and I go where duty commands, my lord. My mother has sent me to call the banners of the North in defense of her claim to the Iron Throne. The honor of House Stark is known even in the halls of Dragonstone.”
His eyes narrow slightly, but not unkindly. “And yet, she sends you instead of your elder brother. I wonder why.”
The question hangs in the frosty air, a test if ever you’ve heard one. You meet his gaze unflinchingly.
“My mother does not send fools to treat with wolves,” you reply. “Jacaerys flies east, but I have studied the North’s history and strategies since I was old enough to hold a book. I know its people, its lords, its victories—and its sacrifices. You may question my youth or my blood, Lord Stark, but do not question my ability.”
The corners of his mouth twitch, perhaps a hint of amusement or approval, but he says nothing for a moment. Finally, he gestures toward the hall.
“Come inside. The North is not kind to dragons—or their riders—when left too long in the cold.”
You nod and follow him, acutely aware of the curious gazes trailing after you. Cannibal rumbles again as you leave him behind, his presence a lingering shadow even as you step into the warmth of Winterfell’s great hall.
The great hall is alive with the warmth of a roaring hearth, its walls hung with banners of direwolves and the scent of roasted venison thick in the air. You sit at a long table, opposite Lord Cregan, with his advisors flanking him. They are older men, clad in heavy furs and carrying the stern expressions of those who have weathered many winters.
From the moment you entered, they have looked at you as though you are a curious ornament, a bauble sent south to charm and flatter.
“…Of course, it is a delicate matter,” says one, a gray-bearded man named Lord Mors Karstak. His tone is patient, as though explaining a simple concept to a child. “The men of the North value strength, but they also value respect. Perhaps it would be best, Lady Targaryen, if you left the… delicate matters of war to those better suited to them.”
Your spine stiffens, the words wrapping around your pride like a vise. You meet his gaze, your expression unmoving, even as your blood begins to boil.
“And what exactly do you mean by ‘delicate matters,’ Lord Karstak?” Your voice is even, but it carries an edge sharper than Valyrian steel.
The room falls still. Lord Karstak shifts in his seat, clearly expecting you to demur, but you do not give him the satisfaction.
“Well, my lady,” he begins again, his tone softening as though you are a maiden too tender to hear the truth. “The raising of men, the planning of battles, these are tasks that require a certain… authority.”
“Authority,” you repeat, leaning forward slightly. “I see. And what about riding dragons, Lord Karstak? Do you believe that requires authority?”
His brows furrow. “I—of course, my lady, but—”
“Do you ride a dragon, Lord Karstak?”
The question lands like an arrow, and the other advisors glance at him uncomfortably. He clears his throat. “I do not, my lady.”
“Do you command the loyalty of a beast that has lived longer than the walls of Winterfell?” you press, your voice growing colder with each word. “Have you flown above the clouds, stared down armies, or felt the fire of your mount burn away the enemies of your house?”
Karstak is silent now, his face redder than the embers in the hearth.
You lean back, letting the moment settle before turning your gaze to the others. “I may not have gray in my hair or the winters of the North etched into my face, but I am a dragonrider of House Targaryen. My mother has trusted me with the honor of commanding dragons and men alike. I suggest you remember that before assuming I am here to embroider banners or pour wine.”
Lord Cregan remains silent, but there is a glimmer of something in his eyes—approval, perhaps, or at least curiosity.
Finally, it is another advisor who speaks, a lean man with the pinched face of a fox. “Well said, my lady. But the North is no place for grand gestures or fiery displays. It is built on trust and loyalty. And trust is not so easily won by words alone.”
“Trust is earned,” you agree, your gaze steady. “But if you wish to see action, you need only ask. Give me a challenge, and I will meet it. If you seek proof of my worth, I will provide it.”
The men exchange looks, some dubious, others intrigued.
Cregan finally speaks, his voice calm but firm. “That will not be necessary. Lady Targaryen has come here with her mother’s trust, and I intend to see that trust is respected. If any of you doubt her words, you may speak to me directly.”
The tension eases, though Karstak continues to glower. You incline your head toward Cregan, silently acknowledging the support, though you know this is just the beginning. If the North requires proof of your strength, you will give it to them in full.
You are no gentlewoman of the court. You are a dragon. And soon, they will all understand.
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acotar: feeding my complex
If you know me irl 🎶no the fuck you dont 🎶
This is azriel x reader x feyre x rhys smut. Everything is under the cut. (i'm so nervous posting this omg)
(3.7K YALL WTF POSSESSED ME)
title is from complex by xana pls listen xana is one of the best artists ive ever heard!
‼️Minors Do Not Interact‼️
(i already know minors are gonna ignore that bc i have common sense)
notes: probably ooc rhys and az. i do not see them as the type to share mates but like, it’s hot. you could see this as wlw fetishization but as a pan/bi/queer woman this is a goddamn wet dream so i approve it. (duh i wrote it)
This is mainly porn with no plot, but i snuck some in.
kinks: ass play, tongue sucking, female worship, voyeurism, switching from top to bottom real quick, dirty talk (i tried), praise, oral (fem receiving), mating press, pussy slapping, edging, mentioned past knife play. I think i got it all folks.
It all started from a dinner with Feyre and Rhysand. Aka your childhood best friend and her husband. You and Feyre dreamed of double dates with your spouses as children and now you finally have it.
You four occasionally had these dinners, typically once a month.
After the meal, you four were in the living room area, Azriel was on his second glass of wine, Rhysand and you weren’t drinking. Feyre was on her first glass. The fire was crackling with life, causing the room to warm.
Then you four began sharing silly secrets. It started with Feyre and Rhysand fucking in paint, which gave your husband ideas. Then you and Azriel admonishing them for fucking in the literal sky. But then they scolded you two for knife play. Especially when they found out Truthteller’s handle was used to fuck you.
“How did you even grip that?” Feyre asked.
Azriel smirked, “who said I was the one holding it?”
“Who the hell did you invite to your bed and why wasn’t it us?” Rhysand asked, jokingly but you warmed at the idea.
“The shadows you fool.” You laughed, sipping your water. “Az pinned me down and sucked my tits while the shadows pinned my legs down and used Truthtellers handle to fuck me.
They were silent and then, “I love how you have no filter, baby.” Az coughed.
“So do I. Damn.” Feyre said. “That’s spank bank material.”
You snorted and Rhysand just tipped his glass to you.
Which then the conversation turned into friends having sex, and then:
“You mean to tell me, you and my High Lady would have sex?” Azriel asked, surprised clearly. He knew you were into women but it was different knowing the object of your past affections was his close friend and High Lady.
“I mean, yeah.” You shrugged at your mate. “Two girls that the village wanted nothing to do with. Might as well do each other.”
“And by the way, it was a loving and very respectful relationship. Platonic sex!” Feyre declared from her spot on the couch.
“Huh.” Rhysand said. “You know, I expected not to like that but…” he trailed off. “The thoughts are nice.”
You snorted and looked at Azriel, who was looking at you with an expression that could only be described as eye-fucking.
“Are you serious?” You asked him grinning. He had the decency to blush.
“What?” Feyre asked, looking towards you.
“He’s into it too!” You laughed.
Feyre laughed as well, “I mean I don’t blame them. We are quite hot together.” She scooted closer to you on the couch.
“That we are.” You grinned and clinked your glasses together.
You all quickly went onto other topics, but you both could tell that the boys just could not stop imagining you two together.
“Okay, how do we bring you two back to the present?” Feyre asked.
“What do you mean?” Azriel asked.
“You two have been acting so weird since we said we used to hook up. So how do we stop that weirdness?” Feyre asked.
“We just never imagined our wives with equally attractive women.” Rhysand shrugged.
You gasped, “are you saying I’m as hot as Feyre? That's the best compliment.”
He was silent. He actually looked sheepish, he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck and everything.
“What?” You asked.
“He’s saying you’re as hot as him.” Azriel said.
You gasped even louder. “Seriously?!”
“I mean, you are,” Feyre shrugged.
“And Feyre is….as attractive as you are, love.” Azriel said.
“Awww Azzie..” Feyre cooed teasingly. “That's so cute.”
The tips of his ears became bright red.
Rhysand stuttered out, “it’s just, hard to imagine so…” He trailed off
You turned and looked at Feyre. “They wanna see us smooch.” You giggled.
Feyre rolled her eyes. “Come here.” She grabbed your face and pecked you on the lips.
When you turned towards the boys, they were wide eyed but not satisfied. “You’re blue-balling us.” Rhysand huffed.
“Oh? You wanna see us do what?”
Rhysand was silent and looked at Azriel then you two. Feyre coaxed, “words baby.”
“We want to see you two make out.” Azriel ended their misery. “And maybe…” He shrugged.
“Maybe?” You prodded. You knew exactly what that voyeur wanted to see. But gods, this was fun enough for you. And it was turning you the fuck on.
“Maybe if it’s hot, then we fuck you both together.” Azriel snapped, but it wasn’t malicious. Your mate snapped when he was flustered, which was rare. So you were eating this shit up.
“If?” You chuckled. “Baby, it’s gonna be.”
“Yeah yeah you know you two are hot.” Rhysand muttered.
You giggled, “then we have to go to bed, don’t we?” You asked Feyre.
“Duh.” She laughed, downed her drink then grabbed your hand. You both took off down the hallway, the men nearly tripping over themselves to follow you two.
You two beat them to the bed. You both fell into a heap of giggles as they ran up the stairs.
“Is it weird if I’ve missed kissing you?” Feyre asked. She threw off her baggy shirt, so her bra was on display. But left her shorts on. “As much as I love Rhys, kissing girls is just.” She kissed the air.
“I feel the same.” You giggled into your shared air. You shucked your shorts off, revealing the granny panties you were wearing. If you knew this was coming, you would’ve worn a hot set. You left the big tee shirt on.
“I’m not wearing panties, I wanna leave some mystery.” Feyre said.
“I would’ve worn a hot set if i knew this was happening.” You laughed, you could hear the boys were close to the bedroom.
“It’s not fair you look hot in granny panties.” Feyre groaned.
You laughed as the boys arrived, now the fun could begin.
“C’mere.” You grinned and Feyre did as well.
The two of you sat on the bed, facing each other. Your knees touching. Very much aware of your husbands at the end of the bed waiting for you two to kiss. Their heated gazes stroked the inferno that was in your cunt. Throbbing.
When you and Feyre’s lips met, the world went silent. Kissing Feyre was always like falling into a comfy bed. Soft, plush and safe. As much as you loved Azriel as he was your mate, and you obviously were sexually attracted to men. You also were sexually attracted to women. There was never a worry with Az. He never wanted to invite anyone to the bedroom because he didn’t trust anyone.
But these, these were two of the people he trusted most.
Nothing beats kissing a girl.
Your mouths opened for each other, your tongues caressing each other. Lewd sounds were the only sound in the bedroom aside from Azriel and Rhysands heavy breathing. Feyre pulled you against her, your tits rubbing against each other, you wore no bra underneath so the contact caused your nipples to pebble. She ran her hands underneath your shirt, scraping her nails against your back. Your hands wove into her hair and pulled her even closer. Her nails dug into your plush hips.
She pulled away, “Gods, I missed these hips. Fucking perfection. So soft.” Between each sentence she pressed a kiss to your swollen lips. “Felt even better sitting on my face. Remember that?”
“Gods how could I forget?” You whispered. You smelled the musky, manly scent of Azriel and Rhysands arousal, you felt your pussy throb at the aroma of them and the sweet smell of Feyre’s mixing.
You captured Feyres lips between your own. Better than a drug. More addictive and exhilarating.
You heard rustling and then the sound of clothes hitting the floor.
You felt warm heat radiate at your back as large thighs cradled your butt and hips. Azriel’s warm hands went around your waist to hold you. He kissed your neck. You felt his cock in bump into your plush thighs. Rock hard.
How far are we going with this? Rhysand created a link to all of your minds.
As far as you boys would like. This isn’t new for Y/N and I. Feyres throaty laugh echoed in your minds. Safe word?
Peach. Like Y/N’s ass. Azriel said as he spanked you.
No ones gonna get possessive and rip out someone’s throat? You asked as your tongue licked down the side of Feyres throat, your teeth scraped her skin. She let out a breathy moan.
Nobody else I trust to fuck my wife than these two. Azriel responded
Glad you have so much faith. Rhysand said. Can’t wait to make your wife see the galaxy.
yeah watch me make your wife come. Was all you said before your fingers dipped into Feyre’s shorts.
Azriel chose that moment to slip his hand into the back of your panties and spread your ass cheeks with his long thick fingers. Just rubbing outside the tight ring made you quiver. You weren’t a fan of penetration there, but a little bit of ass play never hurt.
You snuck your hand into her shorts, her smooth, wet pussy was warm and inviting. You wanted to sink into it with your tongue and fuck her so hard she didn’t know her name. But, you’d do that another time, either with Rhys coming down her throat or just watching while Azriel pounded into you from behind, you weren't picky.
You gathered her slick and brought it up to her clit and continuously rubbed circles on the bundle of nerves.
Based on the way her thighs clenched around your hand, you knew something was going on in the back. Then you saw the lube in Rhysands hand get thrown onto the bed and knew that she was also getting some ass action.
“Is he fucking your ass?” You asked her. She groaned. “You got my fingers on your clit, your husbands in your asshole and you’re giving my husband a filthy fucking show? You grabbed her face with your free hand, “open.” You ordered.
She did so without complaint, her tongue sticking out as you took her tongue between your lips and sucked on it like it was your favorite candy.
You pulled away long enough to say, “dirty fucking girl.” You saw her eyes roll back into her head as you took her tongue in your mouth again and sucked it.
You moaned around her tongue as Azriel began pressing harder against your tight asshole. He began rubbing faster. You whimpered. You weren’t afraid to admit that it doesn’t take much to make you finish. But you also have a faster turnaround time than most. It helps that this sight, this situation was the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced.
You let go of Feyre’s tongue. “Wanna sit on my face baby?” You asked Feyre as she pitched forward into your shoulder. “Huh? You can sit on my face while Az fucks me and you can suck Rhys’ cock. How does that sound?” You rubbed her even faster.
She let out a louder moan as you felt her thighs quiver around your hand.
“Or maybe you wanna see what the biggest wingspan feels like.” You grinned, you saw Rhys’ eyes flash a stormy violet. “His cock is so thick, baby.” You panted against Feyre’s temple. “You can feel every vein as you bounce. I bet it’d stretch you out so ni-“
You were cut off when someone threw you down on the bed. You looked up to see Rhys’ eyes pinning you down. One of his hands pinning both your wrists down. “Azriel.” Was all he said.
“Yeah?” He asked, still discombobulated from the shift in position.
“Pleasure my wife out while I eat yours out.”
Your husband, your mate, let out a dark chuckle. “As you wish, My Lord.” Your mate sent a gentle caress down the bond. It was almost mocking.
It was fucking hot.
Rhys let out his beast form enough that his wings spread even wider, his right hand that wasn’t holding your wrist turned into his beast claws. And his cock was a hard rod against your inner thigh.
“You know, it’s because of you my wife didn’t get to cum.” He said, one single talon cutting your shirt open. The cool air brushed against the swells of your tits. “If you just kept your fucking mouth shut, she would’ve finished.” He scolded as his wife's moans were in the background, you quickly glanced over Rhysand’s shoulder to see Azriel fingering his High Lady.
“Am I supposed to be sorry?” You cocked an eyebrow.
You had no idea what possessed you to say that to him. You’re only mouthy with Azriel, but not all the time.
You were in a brat mood because the next thing you said was, “you mad that out of all of us I got to fuck her first?”
“Are you always this mouthy?” He asked.
“You have no idea.” Azriel said, taking a break from sucking on Feyre’s tits and fingering her cunt. You were jealous of your husband. Feyre’s tits were spectacular.
Rhysand pinned your waist down and began mouthing at one of your tits. His tongue circled a nipple and he grazed his canine against it which caused your back to shoot up off the bed.
You felt Rhysands claws tap your mental shield, you let him in.
“Praise or degradation?” He switched to the other breast.
“Both. But, don’t overdo it with the name calling please.” You requested. You were bullied as a kid so name calling is a toughie to navigate.
“What words are you against?” He then tore the rest of your shirt off completely. The cool air causing goosebumps on your exposed skin.
“I don’t like being told I'm ‘just a cunt’. Degrade me by roughing me up. Praise my looks while you do it.”
His chuckle echoed in your mind, “oh I can certainly work with that.”
“These beautiful thighs are meant to be parted.” He said as he trailed down your curvy body. “Curves of a goddess too.” He pulled your granny panties off and threw them somewhere.
Azriel always told you how beautiful you were, but you weren’t gonna lie, hearing it from a guy like Rhysand was pretty nice too.
“The prettiest woman I've seen.” Feyre said off in the distance. She was moaning as well. You didn’t know what your mate was doing. But you knew it was good.
You hummed as he spread your legs, he blew on your clit and the air made your thighs twitch.
“Your stretch marks are so beautiful.” He said into your mind.
He licked a stripe between your folds and moaned. He started sloppily eating like a man starved. Your toes were curling, your heels pushing into his shoulder blades and pushing him further into you. Your hands curl into his hair.
“You taste like fucking heaven. Our perfect, beautiful, otherworldly little slut.”
“How does it feel knowing everyone in this room has tasted this perfect cunt?” The breath from him speaking felt like ecstasy as it went over your puffy red cunt.
“Fuck.” Your eyes rolled back.
He pulls away and you whine, then squeak when he slaps your pussy. “I asked a question.” He was just adding fuel to the flame.
“It feels so fucking good. Like I'm a God.” You couldn’t help the truth bubbling out. Anything to get his tongue back inside you. Your pussy was throbbing so hard you were sure they could all hear it. You were a greedy little thing.
“You are a God, you are our God that tastes so fucking good it’s addictive.” He whispered as if the sentence was a prayer.
He then put his mouth to use. He rolled your bud around with his tongue. Having the raw, targeted motions made you more sensitive. Causing pleasurable shocks to go through your body.
“Only we get to make you feel like this, only us. You are ours.”
“Your curves, your plushness, Gods. Perfection.”
Right as your thighs began to shake, right as your stomach began to clench and twist, he stopped.
You could not help the whine. Feyre whined too. It seems the boys had planned something.
The little bitches had edged you both. “She’s ready for you.” Rhysand smirked at your husband, his lips coated in your slick.
Azriel grabbed your legs and pulled them onto his shoulders so quickly it caused you to yelp. The head of his cock slapping your pussy lips.
Feyre was then laid right next to you, both men were now on the bed on their knees.
Realization set in, these bastards were putting you two in mating presses.
Rhysand bent down to kiss his mate, when he pulled away, she smirked. “You taste so good with Y/N’s pussy smeared all over your lips. My new favorite dessert.”
Before you could see Rhysands reaction, Azriel pulled your attention towards him. “Look at you being the favorite slut of the group.”
Your pussy clenched around nothing which caused you to pitifully whine. “You want me to fill that pussy, baby?” Azriel asked. “Show who has the biggest wingspan?”
“Mhm.” You whined again.
“Your wish is my command, baby.”
And together, both him and Rhys, pushed into their wives pussies.
You let out a guttural moan as the delicious stretch came. Then the feeling of being pleasantly full. Almost to the point of too much. You couldn’t help the tears that came out of your eyes. Since the beginning of the night you’ve been pent up and to finally feel the release and that all the build up was coming to an amazing moment.
Your cunt greedily sucked him in, as if welcoming him home. “You’ve always been made for me.” You whispered. You two together were truly like a puzzle, the way your bodies reacted to each other was proof of that.
The fat head of his cock hit your g-spot and the world went white. Your gummy walls felt like heaven to him. And this felt like heaven to you.
“Fuck.” You moaned as he began pounding into you. He curled in on you, his arms came around to your back and up to your shoulders, holding you in place as his harsh thrusts dove into you. Azriel’s balls were slapping against your ass, a feeling that will never get old. His head going to your neck.
Sounds surrounded you, Azriels panting against your skin. Azriel and Rhysands grunts. The sounds of skin slapping, gasps and moans that fell from Feyres lips like a prayer. You could feel the sweat from your back clinging to the bedding on top. Azriels breath against your neck, adding to the pleasure. Your nails clawing at Azriels back.
The bed was moving with all four of you on it. You heard something in the frame snap but you didn’t care. You didn’t care if the bed fell through the floor.
You turned your head to the side to see Feyre getting pounded into so hard her eyes were rolling back. Rhysand had pinned her hands to the bed with his own and practically flattened her against the bedding.
It was so fucking hot.
She turned her head, her mascara smeared and her lips puffy and red. Skin so beautifully flushed. You knew you looked the same to her. Beautiful. You two held eye contact as you were pounded within an inch of your lives, the act alone felt more intimate than kissing.
All of it together made the rope finally snap.
You clenched around your husband's cock hard. Hard enough that it caused him to gasp.
“Fuck, you always clench around me so good, baby. I’m almost there, yeah?” He murmured. Making sure it was okay to continue pounding into your g-spot.
“Use me, Azriel.” The overstimulation didn’t scare you. It thrilled you. You loved squirting and you were ready to do it. “Use me like a fucking toy.”
You didn’t know he could thrust harder in the moment, but he did. You held his sweaty head against your neck. It felt like he was going even deeper, which you didn’t know was possible. He bit into the area between your shoulder and neck, causing you to throw your head back in pleasure.
You heard Feyre’s tell-tale noise and then both her and Rhysand finished. You could tell based on their sounds and the smells.
Then you felt the tingly feeling of when you’re about to squirt. “Az.” You whined and clenched him hard.
His lips grazed your neck as he spoke. “I know, I’m there.” You felt his cock release and then let yourself go.
Your pussy clamped down on him so hard he groaned and collapsed on top of you. The release with Az always felt like you were reborn. Free. Cherished. You knew you had absolutely soaked Feyre and Rhysand’s bed, but you couldn’t be bothered to care.
“Did so fucking good baby.” You said and kissed his temple.
Rhysand rolled over onto the other side of Feyre, Azriel eventually pulled out of you and just flopped on the other side of you. Rhysand snapped his fingers and all of you were in clean sheets and were clean. Still felt grimy but you could live with it until you could bathe. He had the courtesy to magic a blanket over the four of you.
The room was silent except for your panting.
“So.” Rhys began.
“We’re doing that again right?” Feyre finished.
“Yeah.” Azriel panted.
“Fuck yeah.” You agreed. “I already have ideas.”
Feyre snorted, “of course you do. Can’t wait for you to experience the wonders of Y/N’s perverted mind, babe.” She said and you heard her punch her husband's shoulder.
Azriel chuckled, “The shadows fucking her with Truthteller was her idea.”
“Fuck.”
#acotar#acomaf#acowar#acofas#acofs#acotar x reader#azriel x reader#feysand#rhysand x reader#feyre x reader#feysand x reader
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AN: I have been toying around with this idea for a couple of years at this point-the idea of being Elia's lady in waiting, and being aggressively pursued by her brother, Oberyn. I imagine him to be younger, wilder, but just as passionate. There is no Ellaria yet, there is no betrayal, just two people who cannot get enough of each other and Oberyn using his position for nothing but mischief. This is quite obviously before the nastiness that we all know befalls House Martell, lets live in it a while! I have a whole drama planned out for them in my head so I might actually write it all out - lets see if I can find the time lol. (in the moodboard above, the face you see is how I imagine Elia to be, reader is still completely nondescript!) This is unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine- hope you enjoy! 🧡
Oberyn Martell x F!Reader
Pairing: Oberyn x F!Reader
Word Count: 1.7K
Warnings: (18+ NO MINORS) , language, Smut 18+, PIV sex (wrap it up), dirty talk **pregnancy**
Let me know if I missed anything!
reblogs are appreciated
Masterlist
Her skirts swirl in the wind, whipping around her legs like sand. They were the colour of dusk, burnt oranges and yellows, favouring her golden skin, and her dark eyes. Elia Martell–all the Martells–looked best in these colours. You smile at her as you pour her a cup of wine, indulging her despite her delicate constitution.
“This is the last of it my Princess,” you fill the cup halfway, “You know it does not sit well.”
“Yes, yes,” she rolled her eyes, sipping at the wine, “you are worse than Doran.”
You sigh, goodnaturedly, until one of the guards of Sunspear comes, interrupting the Princess enjoying the non-existent breeze.
“My princess, my lady,” He speaks, addressing you respectively, “The Prince, Oberyn requests your company-”
“Oh what could my brother possibly want from me right now?” She huffs out a breath, her winecup getting the brunt of her annoyance.
“My apologies Princess, it is not your company he asks for.” He bows his head in deference, his gaze then moving to you. “My lady, Prince Oberyn awaits.”
Your heart races to hear him calling for you, despite it not being the first time. Elia laughs, and dismisses you graciously. “Go then, my lady. You cannot keep The Red Viper waiting for long, he is prone to sulk, or fight.” Her tinkling laugh follows you where the guard leads, ringing out as you make your way towards his chambers.
You smile to yourself as you walk the halls of Sunspear, the sound of your soft steps ringing out, bouncing off the tiles and the high, arched ceilings. Your heart feels like a bird in the cage of your ribs, fluttering wildly as you finally make it to the giant door leading to him.
You meet the solid wall of his back when the guard opens his chamber door, he is sitting at his desk by the window, head down and quill scratching across a piece of parchment. His head turns at the sound of the door, and the quill is discarded. His eyes are lively when they meet yours, full of mischief and devilment.
“You called for me, my Prince?” You try, genuinely, try to keep the smile off your face. “Is there something you desire of me?” He narrows his eyes, rising and slinking over like some big, predatory cat. He is so tall, his shoulders so broad and the cut of his robes only serves to highlight his best features. The breadth of him, the trim waist, the enchanting vision of his throat and chest on display. All of it conspiring to make you ache to touch him. He laughs low, the sound hardening your nipples.
“Just you, my flower.” He doesn’t so much reach for you, as strike, like his namesake. His arms wrapping around your waist quick enough to pull a gasp from you. His lips descend quickly, pressing against your neck, his tongue following closely behind and all you can do for a moment is gasp in delight, gathered up in his arms with your hands pressed against his chest.
“This is why you pull me away from the Princess? Because you cannot contain your passion for a few hours my Prince?” His hands travel, landing heavy on your backside, while his mouth travels from your shoulder, up to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, a kiss that pushes everything but him from your mind.
“Yes, my love, I cannot contain my passion for you for even a heartbeat.” He speaks the words, turning your heart, and your cunt to liquid for him, before his deft hands pull at the laces and fastenings of your dress.
“My Prince, I am to serve-” He pulls the dress up and off, leaving you in your small clothes, “Your sister, I am to serve–” He cuts off the words with another kiss and this time you moan into his mouth, heart pounding between your legs, knowing even now as you protest that you will let him do whatever he wants, that you need him to.
“My sister is too greedy with you, too selfish.” He undoes his robe, slipping it off to fall at his feet as he herds you towards his bed.
“She keeps you to herself, when she knows of my desire for you.” you tumble into his linens, the smell of him surrounding you, spicy and sweet, like desert heat, fiery peppers, sweet and fragrant oranges.
He slots his hips between your legs, and his cock is so hard it makes you gasp, the fabric of his breeches dampening when he grinds against the small clothes that cover your sex.
“You are insatiable–Oberyn!” You gasp his name when he tears the small clothes from your body, his impatience to have you naked and open to him making him ravenous. He laughs, eyes like black diamonds as he practically kicks his breeches off in his haste to get his cock out.
“I am unwell, my love, truly and deeply sick with want.” He moans the last word when he finally fits himself at the mouth of your cunt, slipping in with one brutal thrust.
“Gods, yes my love, this is what I needed, to be buried up to my balls in this sweet little cunt.” He moans, his tone obscene as he rocks himself inside you.
Your arousal is something as fierce as he, the fullness of him only further inflaming your passion. It is always like this with him, never dull, never calm, always an inferno in your veins and in your lungs. He passes it on to you, his fire catching on your skin and soon, you are clutching to him, begging him, your arousal coating him and dripping onto his bed.
“Yes, yes–” You chant, in tune with every roll of his hips. The sun shining through the window paints everything in his colours.
“Did you miss me, my love? Miss me here?” He punctuates the word with a hard snap of his hips, it makes your breasts bounce, makes you let out a whine.
“Yes my Prince, yes, always miss you–” You open your legs wider, giving him more room to get deeper, to fuck you harder, “Oberyn, you’re splitting me open.” You pull him forward, the temptation of his neck is too great, you suck a mark into it, relishing the way he groans. His hand pulls yours up and over your head, making your chest jut out for his tongue. He teases at your sensitive nipples as his cock strokes, and strokes, and strokes until you are on the precipice, on the dagger's edge of pleasure.
“I can feel it, ready to burst for me–” He smiles, drunk on the pleasure and when he lets go of your hands and presses his thumb to your clit you unravel, clenching and soaking him in your release. “There it is, that’s it-” He speeds up, burying his face into your neck while you take what he gives, his chest pressed up against yours, sweat slicked and warm.
His pace falters and you feel the hot jet of his seed inside, he groans, changing to a dirty grind as he comes deep.
He collapses once he’s milked himself dry, his comforting weight pressing you to his feather bed. Your legs settle around his waist, ankles locking on the swell of his ass and your arms wind around his neck to play with his sweat-soaked hair. He hums as you trail your nails down, tickling at the smooth skin of his back. Your lips press kisses against his shoulder where it rests under your chin. This is your favourite part, being full of him, surrounded by him, loved by him, and pouring all of your affection and love back into him in return.
“Are you quite comfortable, my Prince?” You scratch at his scalp as he takes deep breaths, his softening cock still buried deep.
“Oh yes,” He huffs the words into your neck, his tongue licking a stripe up to your ear, “I could spend the rest of my life here, cock inside you, my body on yours.”
You laugh, full throated.
“Oh I bet you could, rutting away until I’m raw.” You bring your hands to his face, making him face you and you are once again struck by his beauty, no matter how many times you find yourself in his bed, he still makes your heart race. You swipe your thumb across his plump lower lip, and fix the unruly state of his hair. “I could stay here too, Oberyn. I could be here, under you, with you, beside you always. I love you.” You press your mouth to his, and he deepens the kiss, his ardour burning just as brightly.
“I love you, my flower, and what we’ve created. I cannot wait to meet my son.” He brings his hand down, to the little swell of your belly, the one that's barely showing yet. You laugh again, and he smiles, his hand warm against your womb.
“A boy is it? How would you divine that? I am barely showing–”
“I know it is a boy, I can feel it. He will be my little viper, a menace to his instructors, he will have the sweet face of his mother, and the fierce hunger of his father.” He removes himself with a hiss, pulling out and lowering himself until he presses kiss after kiss to the little bump. “Won’t you my boy? You will be the terror and delight of my life.”
He smiles up at you, bright eyed, with all of the love you feel for him shining back at you.
“You, my love, will give birth to princes and princesses, the most beautiful children in all of the world.” He always got like this after, sentimental and romantic and it always made you happy enough to cry.
“Yes my love, he will be all that and more.” You pull him up, wrapping his arms around you to lay your head on his chest. “You know I must go soon, I cannot stay in bed with you, despite my wish to.” He sighs, resigned.
“Yes, Elia awaits, just another moment, and I will let you go.” You laugh, and bury your face into his neck.
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#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#oberyn#prince oberyn#oberyn martell#oberyn x reader#oberyn nymeros martell#oberyn x you#gots fanfic#game of thrones au#game of thrones#game of thrones fanfiction#oberyn x female reader
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yandere simulator; xo (only if you say yes). yjw
interactive roleplaying game: where instead of a yandere winning over your heart, you win theirs. by getting them to say 'yes', only then you will unlock the key to their heart where psychotic love resides.
currently playing. . . xo (only if you say yes)
warning: yandere, slight profanity, some grammar errors (i'm doing my best to study it >_<)
runtime: 3k.
director's cut, — jungwon boo u never fail to prove me that you're legit my muse in writing </3 this is just a fun fun interactive yandere game i randomly thought of, whatever you choose (majority of the votes) decides what happens to you with yandere jungwon :3
character visual: jw
"i'm sorry, but no. you're just not my type—"
you slammed yourself your face on your pillow, burying it so tight it sent you to heaven itself. however you'd rather die this way than pressing the 'continue' button to read the yandere's next words for his darling—which is you.
but you're not even his darling yet, much less being his close friend. maybe just a friend from school?
yeah, definitely.
well, as a twenty-nine years old office lady with her average monotonous schedule with the same routine over and over again for the past eight years, nearing her thirties yet never being able to find a qualified partner that fits her overly high standards—you're left with a game titled 'xo (only if you say yes) you've found somehow on the devil's hours; a game that was immensely difficult to pass, where you would do your best to win over a yandere's heart.
the game's description was too daring, almost too challenging, you are afraid to admit.
"wanna have your sweet affectionate yandere fawning all over you? no worries! however, as the old sayings goes; without efforts, you may never achieve anything—nothing is free in this world. therefore, why don't you sweat a little, get upset a little, cry a little, break a little—like your beloved yandere would once they fall for you? do your very best to get them to say yes to your love confession just once, and all of them—they will give to you.
blood, sweat, and tears; all of them shall be yours as long as you can make them say yes."
© 2024. all rights reserved xo, (only if you say yes)
and now you found yourself on the final level spending atleast, or disappointingly a huge sum of bucks on the game with currency of gems just to speed up the process, with your eyes bearing a newfound dark eyebags as an extra package of consequences.
you swore by your life and on god himself that you're only playing this for fun out of pure boredom and insomnia, however as you thumb through the game's introduction of yandere as it's dominant themes paired with a comprehensive summary of them; you questioned yourself with sheer shock as to why you've never find an ounce of existence about yanderes for the past eighteen years of your life despite being chronically online.
since yanderes are the exact definition of your overly high standards for men, ever since. no wonder you've never found a men like this before, turns out they only exists in fiction—you scoffed at yourself, filled with disbelief as you roll your eyes.
but! who cares if they don't exist in real life? they're now on the tips of your finger, waiting earnestly and eagerly for your love. a giggle so obnoxious escapes your lips, you feel like you are once a schoolgirl again, but without the experiences of one, actually.
but again who cares!
the game flashes a new pop-up, telling you the next step—choose your yandere character to play with. it shows you a list of seven yanderes illustrated on their respective cards, clad in coquettish-sort-of highschool uniforms; pink ties, beige vest over a dark blue shirt and pants paired with their set of flirty gestures as your thumb glided through each character—reading their descriptions; interests & dislikes, hobbies & talents, a little trivia about them, and of course—their strengths and weaknesses.
surprisingly, they had a range of informations so complete it felt like they were real humans. the developers did quite a spectacular job on it, don't they? and even the fact of how their weaknesses remains the same although with differences in how they would act on it or how far they would go; obsession, possession, and damn psychotic—willing to kill for you.
how romantic. . . in a psychotic way, of course. you hummed unconsciously, letting out a sigh after at the disappointing fact of how you still find it strangely attractive in your late twenties.
are you really that of a single pringle? pfft!
as you giddily spend your time trying to choose one of all characters. they're just all too good, looking too good for your heart to take. but one particular character catches your eye, intrigues you even with those pair of eyes—goosebumps ran down your spine as you could feel him gazing back at you.
like at you, literally.
or was it just the game's tactic to make the players like you fall deeper? hm, probably! it definitely was, unless a random ghost must've possessed your phone but that can't be right?
right?! you yelled the same word out loud, snapping your head around your room—looking for any potential jumpscares, but to your relief—thank god. now you can play your little new obsession in peace!
snapping your head back at your phone, eyes lit up in immense stars as you've made up your mind, heart thumping loudly as you scanned his unique features—tapping the "play with me?" soft pink button below the name 'yang jungwon' aka the mischievous leader kitty of the group.
in yandere academy, this group is called enhypen—and they have a bunch of fangirls, and it's not even a 'bunch', the size of their fandom is almost half of the female population in the academy and even outside of its territories—there is this ridiculously long line of female students from other academies. a feat that cannot be totally underestimated, and it's not even surprising as they are packed with dazzling visuals, and a set of numerous talents of their own.
they catch hearts everywhere, left and right, back and forth with their grand entrance to the school. each of them has their own separate fandoms too, and yang jungwon's taekwondo club practices are always filled with hearty eyes paired nerve-wracking screams that his coach spends half an hour yeeting them out.
"huh?" you let that out a tad bit too loud, almost exaggerated even. the game surely didn't turn out the way you thought, as you had the initial assumption that the yandere you chose already fell for you, and that you just had to spend those lovey-dovey levels roleplaying with them with a one or a few more predetermined routes to choose from.
the rules was pretty simple; try to get his heart—make him fall for you in the set duration of thirty days. in other words, there are ninety-nine percent possibility that he might reject your confession out of pure lack of interest. get that three row of bars; friendship, love, and yandereness as high as you can because if you were unable to do so then there will be no second chances of playing the yandere of your choice without paying an excessive sum of bucks, so you just had to do it once and make sure to do it right.
quite a challenging mission, huh? no it really is challenging but you were determined as your nostrils flared out a puff of air, straightening your posture as
the adorable motion logo of the game plays out, loading in a bunch of texts meant to help you along the way;
'yandere has each of their own unique love languages, pay attention!'
'little misfortunes are often a blessing in disguise, sometimes redirecting you away from what we call a 'disaster.'
'completing side tasks will increase your yandere's love bar by two percent!'
it soon pops up a bunch of pinky hearts and sparkling stars after all those introductions and guides before switching to a scene of him, jungwon—standing before you, and as expected, you were instructed to approach him.
the location in his taekwondo club, all while sandwiched in between his die-hard fangirls with those screams that you had to turn down your volume to zero. talk about in starting a cool first impression—well never mind, two choices popped up on your screen.
choice one: wait for him after his taekwondo practices (20% of working out)
choice two: act like a damsel in distress (5% of working out)
"uh," your thumb hovered over the two choices, is this a trap? act like a damsel in distress—what in the actual fuck? who would even do that in 2024?! you begrudgingly tapped on the first choice, and the scene switches to a pop up message:
try again, jungwon left a couple minutes earlier for a dinner with jay!
[ retry? ] [ exit? ]
your eyebrow twitches, what the fuck? just like that . . .? there's even barely a progress and you just have to fucking retry?
and jokes on you as your jaw dropped on the floor with the new set of choices presented before you, four choices—actually.
"what is this?!" you yelled so loud you immediately covered your mouth, peeking outside the window.
day three.
the love bar ain't going the fuck up, it's still there glaring at your face with it's zero percent. well that's fine, atleast the friendship bar goes up a tad bit—by five percent. a progress is still a progress!
but the game is just so greedy! you can't skip a day? sure then! but you only had three gems a day, one is to play the major mission, second to power up your aesthetics, skills, and status. third, to complete your side tasks such as running errands for your home or completing school assignments!
that even takes a whole day to refill back up, and it's not even enough with these thirty days you got and with this slow ass rate of getting jungwon to fall for you! you threw your phone on the bed, huffing like a madman—contemplating whether to spend a few bucks on it or just drop the game altogether. surely, you can't be that too attached with a yandere character, right?
right?!
jokes on you, your fingers find itself on the payment method against your will. ultimately cashing out a few bucks from your bank account with a single tear trailing down from your eye, all of this would be complete waste of money and effort if you fail to reign over his heart.
you let out an almost animalistic growl—filled with downright spite, actually. is this game even for real?! the choices they gave you are almost like deliberately setting you up for failure, definitely is! you were almost sure that is—to the point of contacting the developers themselves but you held yourself in sheer strength of self-control at last-minute, at the last digit of contacting them.
"it's okay, pampering myself isn't a sin." you pat yourself on the back, comforting yourself with a huge pout reaching the floor. it's okay! with a newfound determination, you're sure you'll make it!
day ten.
hopeless! utterly hopeless even the god of romance and cupid's themselves would laugh at you. you would, too. due to the fact that you went as far as googling on how to 'win over a man's heart" or "list of dialogues and actions that makes a man gain interest in you".
one of them even says food, that it is the way to a man's heart. but how the heck are you even going to feed a fictional game character? it would be easier if there was a food dialogue!
right, when is your character—or the game itself deciding to send a heart shaped box of chocolates? that would atleast give you a few percent to his love bar!
throwing yourself at your bed like a ragdoll, groaning and kicking your feet in the air. why do you even bother? for what? your search history is so hopelessly embarrassing, and even more embarrassing was when your co-worker had their eyes ogling at it. your mistake for letting your phone screen lit up for everyone to see, thank god she was the only one. patting you on the back that it was okay, and that she too had her fair share of struggles on fictional men.
truly a fellow comrade, you almost shed a tear.
day seventeen.
is this damn game trying to get on your nerves?
deciding to show a new bunch of rules that they didn't bother to show at the first day—set of rules you mustn't do while proceeding with the act of winning a yandere's heart, that is—you were not to skip a single day of playing—in other words, not spending a time with your yandere as in the game's words itself; they will be lonely and might end up throwing tantrums—loathing you for doing so, ignoring you for a short period or even longer depending on how long you were gone, thus risking the amount of effort you've spent so far down the drain.
and you actually skipped not one but two days because of your hectic work piling up after a fellow coworker's taking a sick leave for a week. . . and that was also after finally getting his love bar up to two percent and friendship bar reaching whopping sixteen percent.
yeah, it's sadly a 'whopping' one for you.
and now it's back at zero, with his friendship bar down to crashing down to nine digit and just as exactly the rules stated; every choice, dialogues, and routes you picked ended up him ignoring you with that furrowed eyebrows and slight pout on his lips, or responding to you in a flat out cold tone.
he's not even in love with you, so what are you even throwing a tantrum for?! you screamed that question at the animated game character on your phone's screen.
day twenty-four.
nah, this won't do. it definitely won't so why are you still trying? you bit your lower lip as you look for cheats, hacks, and tutorials online, praying to atleast find some miracle that could miraculously rocket you to ninety percent of love bar atleast!
since all you have left is six days.
you've spent an embarrassing amount of hours and days on this shit, even more dedicated and focused than you do back in your days as a student. you were so sure by this point that you could actually become a relationship therapist with all these accumulated knowledge!
day thirty.
eyebrows and lips twitching, it is.
level thirty, it is—ending on quite a horrible note, or actually, a total doomsday glaring back at you with all your nonexistent experience combined into a recipe with the title "never been in a relationship before".
a helpless laughter escapes your throat, of course—how can you catch a yandere's heart? much less make him your lover? you've never even caught a human's interest over the past twenty years of your life!
how cruel, how utterly cruel! god truly has it's ways of playing jokes. tears, laughter, giggles, sweat, money and effort—all gone down the drain.
all because of that one sentence ending it all, each word literally jumping out from his animated lips in a bold ass pink letters,
"i'm sorry but i can't accept it. i only see you as a friend, (name). i hope you could understand. . i'm sorry, but no—you're just not my type."
huh?! seriously?! a compelling urge, or a really tremendous one so colossal you can break your table into two parts—all that set of routes you've chosen so far with a careful decision and thoughts just for him to say this? just for the love bar to be at total ten percent?
jungwon, how could you? only ten percent? there's no hint of romantic affections found in his eyes or gestures, his friendship bar only by forty percent (a low score of only being his 'school' friend), heck you didn't even trigger his yandereness. like look at him! his yandere bar is at zero looming percent!
a trace of the pink love bar and red yandere bar nowhere to be seen, this is a pure scam! a love scam in the form of a game! meant to target single old ladies like you, fucking hell!
out of pure rage and disappointment, you slammed your phone on the bed—burying your face on your pillows as you let out a long drawn out, muffled scream. downright mad at yourself for even being so triggered by this whole shit, and at the fact of you acting like teenage girl imbued with hormonal changes,
"can't even get a fictional men to fall for me, i'm totally screwed for life!—"
you're so going to uninstall that shitty game, there's no point in playing anyways when you can't have the same character of your choice.
a notification 'tings' up, interrupting your bursts of tantrums—you look over at your phone with the game still up, a big pink heart-shaped bubble pops up on the screen—slowly draining into a pathetic colour of white, ultimately shredding it apart into a broken heart, mocking at your misery.
however the next message pulls outs a gasp from your throat, appearing in its usual glossy pink heart but a little redder at the bottom.
💌 2:09AM
hey there, our precious darling!
we totally get how you feel, there's no need to fret anymore! here we present to you an exclusive package where you will be given a final chance to retry for jungwon! this is a one in a lifetime chance for you—our dear player!
tempting almost, yet you're definitely not falling for that anymore.
and it's all free, let yourself fall deeper and deeper into this world of obsession. you can't really give up that quickly, right?
yanderes never knows when to give up, anyways ♡
free? there's nothing free in this world, even the game itself stated the same words. you've wasted your time, money, and effort on this dumb game and now it's giving a package that is exclusive only for you?
what dirty trick is this game trying to pull off once again?
© pieroulette on tumblr , 2024.
#enhypen x reader#enha x reader#jungwon x reader#yandere enhypen#yang jungwon#yang jungwon x reader#enha scenarios#enha imagines#enhypen scenarios#enhypen oneshots#enhypen jungwon#jungwon
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blackheart: part two
part one - part three - part four
—
Two days after the Battle at Lydden, the campground was abuzz with news. ‘The Northmen are here.’ ‘The Stark has arrived.’ ‘Did you hear? The greybeards have joined camp.’ The whispers were unavoidable as Visenya broke her morning fast. She thought it rather funny that men at war gossiped all the same as their wives at home.
As she began to braid her hair (a wartime style like her mother’s), she thought of a certain young lord who had taken up a pressing residence in her mind.
She worried that the kiss had been rash, impulsive, and ill-conceived. Perhaps I have let the fire in my blood get the better of me, she fretted.
Visenya carried a great weight on her shoulders. Her mother was relying on her to be successful on campaign, while her father was off gallivanting heedlessly. It was of the utmost importance that these Riverlanders respect her authority as commander and be brought to heel. Not an easy feat as a woman. I cannot afford to give even a single reason for doubt in my capability.
It was these worries that had caused her to rebuff all attempts Benjicot Blackwood had made at flirtation since the kiss. He had tried to tease her, or goad her, or even on one fateful attempt last night: find her alone again. Like the day at Lydden, he had approached as she landed after scouting on Vermithor. She had said immediately, before she could change her mind, ‘After one does battle, they can retain a sort of thrill-seeking madness to expend the remainder of their blood-letting energy. It is common enough, but regrettable. My sole focus at this time is on securing my mother’s throne. I can consider nothing else.’ She did not meet his eyes as she spoke, looking instead over his shoulder before forcing herself to walk steadfastly away, and ignoring the flash of hurt writ across his face.
It pained her, as she recalled the morning after, her braid now finished. She could still feel the ghost of him on her lips. Warm and yearning.
We must all make sacrifices in war, she assured herself. Visenya II took a deep breath, steeled her shoulders, and stepped out of her tent to find her place among the war council.
As the morning’s gossip foretold, a new broad figure stood at the table. Cregan Stark was a large man, an impression made only larger by the cloak of furs clasped round his shoulders. The familiar lords bowed, but surprisingly, the Northerner chose instead to drop to a knee before her. Lord Stark took her hand and kissed the back of it, declaring in a low voice “It is an honor, your highness.”
Visenya did her best to mask her amusement, though her eyes did widen at the display.
“Lord Stark, so glad you could join us,” she responded, to some chuckles from the other council members. She looked around the table and caught Ben’s eye. His expression was dark, his usual grin now morphed into something more like a sneer. She looked away quickly and began the day’s deliberations.
—
Near midday, the council adjourned momentarily to see to matters within their banners. Visenya used the time to discern the state of the troops, observing carefully to ensure standards were being met.
Since the victory, certain soldiers had taken it upon themselves to establish a training field. Knights from differing regions clashed steel against steel, trying their skills against one another. She observed the sparring, face impassive. It seemed silly to waste such energy, the war is only beginning, she thought.
“Does the fighting not please you my lady?” Ben’s taunting voice rang out nearby.
His face held the promise of mischief. She was immediately wary, raising her signature unimpressed brow. He took a moment, almost seeming to check that all the gathered were listening, before he stook a step out into the yard and said,
“Well of course, a princess is not trained in such matters, not when you have a dragon to fight in your stead.” He gestured jauntily about like he had made a great joke.
The whole camp stuttered to a standstill. Utter silence across the plain.
How. Dare. You.
Visenya’s blood turned to ice in her veins, cold hard rage bottoming out her senses. Her face must’ve done something terrifying because every man in the near vicinity took a few steps back.
And the scoundrel still just grinned his lopsided grin.
You’ll pay for that Blackwood, she swore in her mind.
“Is that so?” she asked, voice sharp and quiet like a shard of glass. She stalked slowly to the other edge of the training yard across from him, her steps measured and predatory. The knights gathered there scrambled back, dragging their equipment hastily.
Back still turned to him, Visenya looked out upon the troops but did not see them. Only red. With nought a thought for the propriety of the situation, he seems to have that effect quite often doesn’t he, she reached to her back and unsheathed the two blades holstered there.
Then finally, with a Valyrian shortsword in each hand, she turned and looked the Blackwood in the eye.
“To first blood then?” she asked, tone as mild as if she was asking about the weather.
“To first blood,” he confirmed, eyes gleaming. And he attacked.
He was an explosion given form. A savage whirl of motion and violence, seemingly without end and tireless. It was a hacking, slashing, sort of style— unpredictable, but not so crass as to be reckless. The movements had a deceptive sort of tightness to them: where it appeared at a glance that such rabid fervor might leave his flanks open; he was guarded and compact.
All this, Visenya gleaned as she danced circles round his brutal strikes. She parried and sidestepped, studying his every movement like a cat might watch a bird. He was a force, made for chaos and to mow down men in great swathes. But she was finely tuned, a crafted blade made for precision.
He was good, that much was sure. But Father is better.
She waited until his left foot turned out slightly, as she had noticed it did when he lunged two handedly, and with a swift precise kick she knocked him flat on his back. Between one blink and the next, she had a boot on his chest and her two blades crossed at his throat.
There was a moment of utter silence again. Before the camp began their raucous applause. The men were shouting her name, her house words, roaring their approval, but she had eyes only for one.
Ben, his head in the dirt, smiled. A real, genuine, one, not a sneer or smirk. She did her best to remain stoic even as she felt her own smugness tug at her lips. She picked her boot off his chest and pulled her swords from their position, transferring them into one hand so she might offer the other to him.
He took it, and did not let go as he stood up. Instead, he raised it to his lips and bowed, his dark searing gaze never leaving hers as he, slowly, imploringly, kissed the back of her hand.
Seven hells. Visenya suppressed a shiver. She could not tell whether she was still angry or wanted to laugh. She forced herself to recover quickly.
“You have a boot-print on your shirt, my lord,” she teased. Then she promptly turned around and looked at the gathered spectators to call,
“Since the situation has arisen, is there any other who would challenge a duel?” She turned in a circle, watching some soldiers jostle each other forward and others shy away.
“Good Ser Tully,” she addressed, “perhaps a knight can make a better showing on behalf of the Riverlands.”
The knight laughed humbly and stepped forward, “I can certainly try my lady.”
—
Visenya sparred with four men, challengers each from different houses. She remained for the better part of the day, offering advice, comparing strategy, and watching other matches. As the sun fell low in the sky, the group finally dispersed. As she made her way back to her tent, she felt a familiar presence step into stride with her. She did not look at Ben as she asked,
“Are you so troubled that you must resort to insulting me the moment another man dares to exist in my presence?”
“No, my lady” he protested, trying to make light of the situation, though he did appear slightly chastened. “Twas simply a ruse so that I might kiss you. I thought you might find it amusing.”
“Amusing? Amusing that you have so loudly begun a pissing contest with the Warden of the North?” she questioned incredulously, temper rising again. She stopped walking and turned to face him.
Men, she thought angrily, never consider the consequences of their impulses. She felt all her worries about being respected arise within her like a great wave.
“I—” he began, but was swiftly cut off.
“I will remind you Lord Blackwood, that my mother the Queen has final jurisdiction in the matter of my hand. And she has not yet even heard word of your proposal let alone deigned to consider it,” Visenya bit out, anger giving way to something more like distress.
She heaved a shaky breath and took a moment to collect herself. He looked thoroughly chastened now. Squaring her shoulders, she pulled her stoicism about her again, declaring,
“Should you presume to mock me publicly again, Raventree Hall will find it has urgent need for its liege Lord to return from his time abroad.”
With that, she turned to stomp away but was halted by a firm hand at her wrist. Turning viciously, she began, “You dare—”
“Did you speak truly?” Ben asked, voice uncharacteristically timid. “That you regret it?”
She was stricken into silence. He has a habit of surprising me, doesn’t he? Emotions warred within her, crashing against one another like the Narrow Sea. But thinking about his smile today, with her blade to his throat, she could not find it within herself to lie. So she simply shook her head no.
The Blackwood let a breath out through his nose, like he had been holding it, and pressed a quick hand to her face. His thumb flitted over her cheek once, an echo of his roaming pulling hands. For the briefest of moments, Visenya allowed herself to close her eyes and press her face into his palm.
“My mother is depending on me,” she whispered, a confession she did not intend to let escape. “I cannot fail her.”
“I understand,” he replied simply, voice also hushed.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. A long tender beat. Two.
When he pulled away, the look in Benjicot Blackwood’s eyes was something close to grim determination. He backed away and strode into the night, cloaked in purpose.
—
A/N: okay so turns out that was just some random blackwood but we are going to ignore that and continue in the delusion bc its fun
#hotd#house of the dragon#benjicot blackwood#bloody ben#benjicot blackwood x oc#targaryen!oc#targaryen!reader#cregan stark x oc#not really just for the drama#house blackwood#house targaryen
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Stranded | Part One
Featuring (in the next part): Azriel x Fem!Reader, Eris x Reader (platonic), Rhys x Sister!Reader
Summary: Azriel left you in the Autumn Court border while Rhys was at a ball with Amarantha and the other High Lords, leaving you trapped outside of Velaris with the enemy... Requested by @sidthedollface2 here.
Warnings: 18+ only, description of wings and skin burning, misogyny, alludes to SA, let me know if anything was forgotten...
Disclaimer: I do not own SJM’s characters, only the ones I create for the purpose of this story. This is a work of fiction. I do not give permission to repost my work on any other platform or medium. Please be respectful.
Dividers from @saradika
You stood in your black and navy dress, feeling ridiculously out of place next to the maroons, dark greens, and golds of the Autumn Court. While Azriel, one of your best friends and your brother's Spymaster, escorted you to the Court, he quickly forgot his guard duty and winnowed away to find Mor.
"Mor's upset. I gotta go." Was his excuse, leaving you alone and outcast in the Forest House. According to Azriel, taking care of a safe female in Velaris (that he had puppy dog eyes for) was more important than guarding of the Lady of the Night Court in enemy territory. You were sure Rhys would be pissed if you decided to tell him about Azriel's disappearance.
You were starting to feel tired and bored as you stood on the wall, so you decided to leave. If you could get out of the Forest House bounds and cross the wards, you could winnow back to the town home. You really wanted to get out of this dress and take a nice bath. The Autumn chill wasn’t terrible, but you missed the summer breeze in your city.
You walked out of the court, watching as most of the Autumn Court guards paid you no attention. As you made your way out of the Forest House, you took in the fresh air. It was always too stuffy and crowded in ballrooms for you. You were glad to be outside. At least you could stretch your wings out here.
You tested your winnowing abilities as you made way through the wards. However, just as you made to winnow back home, your magic stuttered. You let out a small gasp, trying to reach down to that deep pool of darkness, but just a small puddle was left. You took another breath, trying to recall what you drank. You came up empty, literally, as you didn’t take any drink offered throughout the night.
You heard Rhys’s voice ring through your head. “Keep Velaris safe. Don’t tell anyone. Amarantha has taken our magic. Be careful. Protect the city. Protect each other.” And then he went silent. Your mind… you tried reaching out to him but nothing happened.
You started to panic, looking around to see if somehow Azriel came back for you. But from what you could tell, you were alone. You almost turned back to enter the Forest House. But, with Autumn being nothing short of an enemy, you decided to chance your luck with the forest in front of you. It was too wooded to take off from your current spot, so maybe you could find a clearing ahead.
Taking a deep breath, keeping calm, you started to walk north. If you could make it to Winter, maybe Kallias would allow you to cross into Night uninterrupted. Winter was normally your closest ally, and you quite liked the High Lord when you met him.
You walked for a few minutes, taking deep, calming breaths as you made your way deeper into the woods. Every sound sent a shiver down your spine, and you were just waiting to see that clearing of trees.
Instead, three males approached from the right. You took a deep breath, tucking in your wings as you pressed against a tree. The males appeared drunk, but stable. They weren’t stumbling just yet, but you could smell the alcohol from where you stood. Which meant they would catch your scent as soon as the wind turned.
You took another deep breath, walking forward. They couldn't touch a member of the Night Court. They would be butchered for it. You kept your head high as you continued to walk, only pausing when one of the males called out to you.
"Hey! What are you doing out in these woods?" Sentinels. That's the kind of clothing they wore. They were guards for the forest.
"I'm going home. Can't winnow." You said, tucking in your wings in hope they wouldn't see them in the shadows of the night. You tried to will the darkness to you as you normally would, as Rhys taught you to, but only a little bit of it budged. Amarantha took the High Lords powers... meaning each and every other power tied to their court would be restricted even more.
"Unfortunate. You look like you're a long way from home, as an Illyrian." He said, stalking over to you. It seemed they had no problem provoking a member of the Night Court.
"I am lady of the Night Court. I need to get to my people." You said.
"Ahh, the Night Court." Another one said in a mocking tone. "Lady? You look little more than a whore to me." He said and walked from behind his friend, backing you into a tree. "Shall we see what the Night Court thinks of us when we burn its lady's wings to ashes?" He asked, fire flickering on his finger tips.
Of course. They were in their home Court. No matter how little magic the High Lord had, the land would provide more of it. "My brother will incinerate you if you do."
"My brother." The male teased in a high pitched voice. "Who? Rhysand? That little bastard?" He asked, hand nearing your wing. "He won't even care when we're done with you." He said.
You tried to side step, but two sets of arms restrained you. And then came the pain.
You let out a blood curdling scream as hot, burning flames enveloped your wings. Along with the bark of the tree behind you cutting into your tendons. You fought as hard as you could, pulling away from the males as best you could. The males dug deeper, surely drawing blood from your arms but you didn't know as the fire tore through your wings. Over your pain and screams, you heard a belt unbuckle.
"Never fucked an Illyrian before. Let's see if what they say is true." The male in front of you said. You continued to struggle, but the pain of your wings burning was too much. The smell of the membrane and, gods... the skin of your back, was enough to make you pass out. But you stayed conscious, willed the little magic in you to cast a net of darkness around your wings. You prayed to the Mother that the darkness would snuff out just one tendril of the flames.
Your screams must have alerted the guards of the Forest House, because next thing you knew, a familiar voice was commanding the males to step away. You fell to the ground as the males released you. As quickly as the flames enveloped your wings, the were snuffed out. That didn't mean your wings were repaired. They were completely in ruins. Torn in almost every place, tendons burnt to a crisp that the most important ones had snapped. Your back was raw, blisters forming on the skin. Even the braid that cascaded down your back was burnt, leaving your hair singed and ragged against your shoulders.
You whimpered, the small ounces of your magic working to heal whatever it could.
"Lady (Y/N)," You heard that familiar voice again. You couldn't move. You couldn't look up. Who was talking to you? "It's Eris... we need to get you to a healer before this gets worse." The High Lord's heir said.
"Worse?" You rasped, your voice nearly inaudible because of your screams. You couldn't bring yourself to keep talking. Only thinking in your head as your body sagged further into the ground, nothing is worse than this.
Azriel's back seized in pain, a terrible, yet amazing feeling snapping in his gut.
Rhys had spoken to them mind to mind just minutes ago, telling them what happened. And leaving Amren in charge of them.
Azriel couldn't leave Velaris. Whatever magic Rhys threw out completely shut the wards and borders. He couldn't winnow to his High Lord. And more importantly, he couldn't winnow to you. He asked Mor to try and get out, but she was stuck as well. Rhys trapped them inside the city, effectively trapping you outside as well.
Only thing is, Rhys expected Azriel to be with you. To protect you and get you home safely from Autumn. Instead, he went to Mor because she was upset about something. And left you stranded.
He was just about to tell the others that they needed to find a way out when the pain and the snap hit. In a few blinks, his entire world shifted.
The others went silent as Azriel jerked where he stood, his wings fluttering behind him.
"Azriel?" Cassian asked, frowning as his brother jerked again.
Azriel took a few deep breaths as the pain died down, and then came to the horrible realization of what snapped in his gut.
"(Y/N)-" He paused and stared at his family. The ones that might just kill him when he said what he was about to. "(Y/N) is in the Autumn Court."
"What? I thought she came back with you?" Mor said.
"She's in the Autumn Court," Azriel stated again, ignoring Mor, "and she is my mate."
Part Two
A/N: Oof... this was so fun to write!
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#acotar#azriel x reader#acotar fic#acotar spoilers#azriel shadowsinger#azriel#azriel spymaster#azriel acotar#acotar fanfiction#katie writes
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❥ librarian | chuuya nakahara
warnings: fem! reader, meet cute, chuuya is a flirt bc i said so, wined and dined, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, bedroom sex, hickeys, making out, hair pulling, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, rough sex, whiny chuuya, corruption kink(?), reader does not know how to dress to save her life, sugar daddy(?) chuuya, unironic lip biting, chuuya is one hell of a chef, dirty talk, reader reads smut, semi-proofread
MDNI | 18+ content
word court -> 4.7k
“Excuse me, could you keep your voice down, please? It’s a library…” was something that you said more often than you would like to admit. Sure, you only took the library job because of how insanely introverted you were, but that was neither here nor there. You thought that people would have more respect for a place that let you borrow as many books as you wanted, but nope. It was either filled with screaming children, teenagers kissing in the nonfiction section, or the elderly who didn’t know how to open their email accounts, bless them.
Other than the constant shushing (and the resulting glares you get from people you’ve shushed), the library job was nice. It was comforting, it had decent pay, and you got to keep some of the books that no one wanted to check out anymore. Hell, you even got hit on once or twice by freakishly tall men. Then again, all men were freakishly tall in your eyes. You fit the tiny librarian stereotype quite well, which your fellow librarians found to be adorable.
Standing in the true crime section, your heeled feet stood on a step stool so you could better organize books about mafia activity in past decades. It wasn’t a very popular section by any means, mostly because the locals that frequented the library thought that true crime a was bit too niche. You didn’t mind really, it just meant that you got to be on the opposite side of the building and away from the screaming children. Often you wondered what it would be like to be a witness to a mafia hit, how the adrenaline pumping in your veins would make you feel. Lost in your train of thought, you neglected to notice that you were slowly slipping off of the step stool, the backings of your high heels teetering off the edge. It wasn’t a steep drop by any means but it would hurt pretty damn badly if you fell.
Taking an ignorant step back, the back of your heel found nothing to land on. Yelping slightly, you spread your arms out and waved them back and forth in what was probably the world's weakest attempt at flying. “Oh shit-” you closed your eyes shut and braced for impact, hoping that you wouldn’t land on the sharp metal bookshelves behind you.
The impact never came. Instead, you felt a warm embrace of someone holding you. You opened up one eye carefully, your baby hairs covering your forehead.
“Hey, you okay?” A deep and raspy voice snapped both of your eyes open, your gaze landing on a head of ginger hair. The man smirked at you and let you down, making sure you didn’t have any scratches by scanning your body up and down. Or maybe he was checking you out, who knows?
“Uh, yeah. I think I’ll be fine.” You nodded, dusting off your pants. No scuffs on the expensive fabric, thank God. “Thanks for making sure I didn’t hit my head, by the way. Not everyone would do that.”
The man crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, giving you a questioning look. “You must work with some real assholes then. In my line of work, ladies don’t get treated like crap. At least the ones who everyone respects.”
“Seriously? Damn, that seems like a really good job.” You smiled at him, tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear.
“Eh…it has some setbacks. I won’t get into it now, too much bullshit to unpack here.” He bit the inside of his cheek, holding out his hand for you to shake. It was gloved, he seemed like a gentleman. Or maybe he just really didn’t like getting dirt on his hands.
You smiled and eagerly took his hand, looking into his subtly blue eyes. They really complimented his ginger hair and pale complexion, hell, he even looked like the main character in a popular romance novel.
“Chuuya Nakahara, at your service.” He smirked once more, letting go of your hand. He noticed that your hands were smaller than his own, in fact, you were actually smaller than he was. And that was rare, considering he was in close competition with most middle schoolers in the height category. “What’s your name? I wanna know the name of the women I saved from eating absolute shit.”
You giggled and told him your name, putting your hands in your pockets. Chuuya thought your giggle was sweet, like a song bird. It was a welcome sound in his life. After all, Chuuya was used to gunshots and screams instead of the giggling of a cute librarian with a name that fitted her oh so right.
“You got a cute name, y’know. Hope you don’t mind me sayin’ that.” Chuuya placed his hands in his pockets as well, fiddling with the lintballs in the corners of the expensive fabric.
The silent was quite awkward between the two of you. Chuuya, a secret mafia boss who’s experience with women was tainted with expensive red wine. And yourself, a librarian who was so introverted that the world could end and you’d jump for joy.
And yet, something brought the two of you out of your own little worlds and into each others? Was it love, perhaps? Unlikely. Chuuya thought that love at first sight was for suckers, and you thought that love at first sight only existed in movies.
No, there was only unspoken desires between you both. Heart rates quickening, blushes forming on your faces. Chuuya’s mind was racing, his thoughts plagued by images of you. He just met you but god were you sexy. That fucking thrifted turtleneck sweater contrasted hard with your expensive designer jeans that were no doubt a Christmas gift from a wealthy relative. You had no idea how to dress and Chuuya thought that was the most precious thing. Were you really that innocent, locked away in your own little world? You probably had no idea that your sweater hugged the curves of your tits perfectly, that your pants showed off your thighs so expertly. God, it drove Chuuya wild.
What did your lips feel like, so plump and perfect? Where they untained, fresh as snow? Or were you just putting on an act, secretly a vixen behind that innocent and soft stare? Chuuya didn’t know, but he just had to find out. The redhead had only just met you but holy fuck, you were simply perfect. He had to get a taste, even if it was the last thing he did.
“So what’s a pretty thing like you workin’ in a place like this? Do they pay you well or somethin’?” Chuuya asked, leaning against the metal shelving that held the American history collection.
You shook your head and sighed, placing a hand on your hip in frustration. “Unfortunately no, I could really use a raise.” You sighed, running a hand through your comically messy hair. “The only reason I can afford my apartment is that my parents left me quite a bit of money when I said I wanted to live on my own. I’m a lucky person, I guess.” You chuckled at the last bit, flashing Chuuya a smile that drove him crazy. He faked a cough to hide the obvious lump growing in his throat, a tinge of pink dusting his freckled face.
“Yeah, you really are lucky.” He took a step foreward, placing his thumb on your chin, tilting your head up ever so slightly so his eyes met your own. “And you’re really fucking pretty.” He whispered, taking his hand off your chin.
“O-oh, thank you.” You stammered, fidgeting with your fingers as you looked down at your feet. The Mary Jane’s you wore wree slightly scuffed, they always have been. It adds a bit of character, one could say. Chuuya smiled softly and adjusted his hat, taking a step back to give you space.
“Listen, I have work that I gotta get back to or else my boss will kill me. Can we meet up at your place after that. Y’know, only if ya want to. I’m no pusher.” He blushed at the last part, rubbing the back of his neck to avoid making direct eye contact with you. It was strange, Chuuya has always been smooth with the women he met in bars. So why were you making him so flustered? Maybe it was because unlike the girls he picked up before, you were innocent. Pure, like fresh snow.
You were taken aback by his flirtations, though they weren’t unwelcome. You stopped fidgeting with your fingers for a moment, biting down on the plumpness of your lower lip.
“What, cat got your tongue or something?” Chuuya grinned, proud of himself for his little joke.
N-no, well not exactly.” You mumbled, sucking in a deep breath so you could look at the devilishly handsome man in front of you. “I’ve, God this is embarrassing, I haven’t been on a date since college.” Sighing, you stared at the bookshelf next to you. “It’s pathetic, I know. I get if you aren’t interested in me anymore.”
Chuuya frowned and took his hands out of his pockets, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t give a fuck if you’ve been on zero dates or a million of them. That doesn’t matter. I asked if you wanted me to come over so I can fuckin’ cook for you.”
“You can cook?”
“What kind of world are you living in? Of course I cook, what kind of man can’t cook?” Chuuya pinched his temple with his fingers, silently cursing all the worlds incompetent men that drove the standard to decency so low that it was practically in hell. “Sorry, didn’t mean to shout at ya. Old habits.”
“Don’t worry about it, I deal with screaming children all day. You’re fine.” You smile, taking out your phone. “Here, put your number in and I’ll give you my address.”
Chuuya shook his head, a bead of sweat dripping from his brow. “Actually, um, my phone is broken right now. How about you just write it down for me, dollface?” He couldn’t risk putting your information into his phone, what if Mori was going through it? He could deem you a security risk and then only God knows what would happen. Chuuya wouldn’t risk it, he had to make sure you were okay with his…business before he did anything too personal like give you his contact information.
“Oh, sure. I guess giving you my number is too personal, sorry.” You awkwardly chuckled, leading him to the main library desk. You ripped off a sticky note from the pad and wrote down your address in pretty cursive letters. Chuuya smiled to himself as he saw your handwriting, it was the cutest fucking thing. You were absolutely a librarian, no doubt about it.
“So, see you at seven?” He asked, shoving the sticky note into his jacket pocket.
“Seven’s all right. What will you be making me?” You asked, beginning to type away at the library computer.
“It’s a surprise.” Chuuya winked at you, turning around and walking away. You blushed and resting your cheek on your hand. In your mind you were dancing in happiness, finally having landed a date. And such a good looking one at that. Who the hell cares if he’s short, he’s tall to you. Height doesn’t matter anyways.
Your shift ended and you practically skipped out of the library building, clutching onto the messenger bag that carried your erotic novels. The library didn’t carry anything erotic, you just disguisted the books with false covers about local history and lore. No one would be into that shit, so it was the perfect plan. The stories consisted of fantasy romances with sections that were so arousing that you couldn’t read it without thinking that you were committing some sort of sin.
Stepping up the stairs to your apartment, you opened the door and shut it quickly as to not attract any unwanted pests. Mostly bugs, they’ve become a real problem. What would Chuuya think if he saw a bug in your apartment? Your mind was speeding, anxiety building up in your belly. This was your first date in a while, what if you fuck it up somehow? Or worse, what if it goes too well and he wanted to have his way with you. Chuuya was too handsome to refuse sure, but what about you? You couldn’t even remember the last time you had sex, let alone kissed somebody? Oh God, what if that turned him off and he never spoke to you again?
“Dammit, snap out of it!” You slapped yourself across the face, hissing slightly at the pain. Putting yourself together, you strode over to your bedroom and pulled out a dress from way back in your closet. It was a decent length dress with spaghetti straps, your fanciest piece of clothing. The rest of your wardrobe consisted of sweatpants, tank tops with cartoon characters on it, the occasional designer jean, and several thrifted sweaters that had absolutely been worn by a grandfather.
The dress slipped onto you no problem, like a glove. You didn’t bother wearing any tights or stockings, the dress covered your legs up nicely. You decided to just leave your hair as it was, draped nicely around your shoulders. Light makeup here and there, if you could count mascara and lipgloss as makeup.
Exiting your bedroom, your hands dropped to their sids as you sat down on your living room sofa. There wasn’t anything good on the TV, and reading an erotic novel before Chuuya got there would have probably ruined the mood for you. Was getting ready too early a mistake? Maybe.
Your eyes watched the clock, your pupils going in circles as the second hand made its rotation over and over again until it was about 6:55PM. A knock was heard at your door, snapping you out of the cycle of clock-looking.
Squealing quietly, you speed-walked over to your door. Taking a deep breath in, you opened the door and there Chuuya stood, holding a bag of groceries in one hand and a singular red rose in the other. “Hey there pretty girl, mind if I come in?”
“O-of course, Chuuya. Uh, sorry.” You stammered, shutting the door as he let himself inside. Chuuya stood in the foyer of your apartment for a moment, quickly noticiny the hundreds of books the lined the shelves. “I don’t know why I’m so surprised doll, shoulda known you’re a huge nerd.” He chuckled, handing you the rose. His outfit was not too different from that afternoon, only the hat and the jacket were missing.
“Thank you, it’s really pretty.” You blushed, placing the rose in a nearby empty vase. “So, um, what are you making me tonight? I’m starving.” You led him into the kitchen, helping him set down the groceries on the counter.
“Kobe beef,” Chuuya said nonchalantly, looking around the kitchen. “Where are your knives? Don’t see em anywhere.”
“In that drawer right there- did you saya kobe beef?” You gasped, taking a step back. “B-but that’s really expensive! This is just a first date y’know, I would have accepted take out!” You stammered, not used to the treatment. Did he really just buy kobe beef for you? How much does he get paid?
“Yeah, what about it? You a vegetarian or something?” Chuuya raised an eyebrow, opening the beef from its luxurious packaging and placing it on the simple wooden cutting board.
“No, it’s just that…well kobe is really expensive and this is a first date! It’s not even at the nice restaurant or anything, it’s my fucking house!” You whisper-yelled at him, walking foreward so your face was inches away from your own. Your shyness was replaced with anxiety, anxiety that you really had no excuse to have.
Chuuya smiled and patted you on the head, rubbing on your hair with his gloved hand. “Don’t worry about that princess, just have a seat and let me cook for you, yeah?” He assured you, gesturing to your kitchen table. “And besides, you’re dressed up like a five course meal, so shouldn’t you be treated to one?” He smirked, finishing up the chopping of the beef. He figured out how to work your stove pretty quickly, placing the beef in a pan with a little bit of truffle oil. The stove roared to life as the beef began to quickly sizzle, a wonderful aroma that smelled like luxury filled your apartment.
You blushed at Chuuya’s comment, sitting yourself down in the chair. You watched him cook, his brows furrowed in concentration.
The beef was done cooking after a bit, being carefully plated with an array of incredibly looking vegetables. Chuuya sat across from you and took your hand in his own, kissing the back of yours tenderly.
“Bon appetit, princess.” He grinned at you, his eyes hiding a lust that was so extreme Asmodeous himself was jealous. He observed how you ate the beef so carefully, so tenderly. You savored each and every bite, sighing occasionally as the flavors hit your tongue over and over again. Chuuya bit his lip as he watched you eat, barely touching his own dinner. You looked absoltuely succulent in front of him, oblivious to how you were making him feel. Chuuya wanted to shove everything off the table and fuck you right then and there, but he decided to be a gentlemen about it. Dine you, maybe wine you, and only touch your pretty body if you wanted him too.
You finished your meal quickly, frowning to yourself at Chuuya’s full plate. “Are you not hungry or something?” You asked, ignoring the bits of beef resting at the corner of your mouth.
“I’m hungry for…something else.” Chuuya smirked, grabbing your dirty plate and placing it in the sink. He stepped over to you and took your hand, hoisting you up from your chair. Carefully, his arm wrapped around your waist so he could pull you in closer to his own form, his fingers running up and down your hip bone. “If you know what I mean.”
You blushed and slowly nodded your head, noticing how his perfect blue eyes seemed to have fireballs igniting within the azure pools. “I…I do. I just…I haven’t had sex in a while. Kind of goes hand-in-hand with the whole dating thing.” You awkwardly laughed to yourself, hoping a joke would lighten the tension.
“I could change that for you dollface, if you want me to.” Chuuya purred, tilting your chin up to his lips were just hovering above yours. “Just say the word sweetheart, and I’ll make you see stars.” He whispered, his hot breath touching your trembling lips.
You thought for a moment, your mouth still agape at Chuuya’s boldness. “...okay.” You breathed against his lips, mere centimeters away.
With your consent, Chuuya crashed his lips against yours. With one hand clutching ont your waist, the other cupped your face quite gently. His kiss was rough and passionate, groaning into your mouth at the sensation that he had so long been craving.
Your hands flew to grab onto his hair, tugging at the longer part. Chuuya moaned slightly at the sensation, squeezing the fabric of your dress. He pulled himself away slowly, choosing to instead attack the delicate flesh of your neck. His lips found your sweetspot and sucked harshly, your lips producing the cutest little moans which only made his cock harder. A bright purple hickey formed in no time at all, definitely going to last a few days.
“You wear turtlenecks, right? Shouldn’t be a fuckin’ problem then.” He growled against your neck, trialing molten kissed down until he reached your collarbone, playfully licking it.
“M-maybe we should go to the bedroom? Comfier.” You managed to squeak out, softly moaning as Chuuya continued to nip and kiss at your collarbone. He pulled away, grumbling at the loss of contact.
“Good idea dollface, smart.” He lifted you up bridal style, chuckling as you squealed. “You’re so fuckin’ adorable baby, y’know that?” He asked, kicking open the door to your bedroom. He practically threw you onto the bed and pounced, pinning your wrists above your head quickly. Chuuya slammed his lips against yours once more, shoving his tongue down your throat as your teeth clashed for dominance.
Taking a break from the onslaught of tongue-on-tongue, Chuuya gently stroked your face with his still-gloved hand. “Fucking good mouth you got, sweetheart.” He purred, shifting himself so he was looking at your hips. “Now tell me,” His hand reached to his mouth, peeling off his gloves with his teeth. “Do you want my fingers or my tongue first, princess?”
You gulped nervously, your face feeling like it was going to explode at any moment from how fucking horny you were for this man. Your legs were practically shaking under him, how was it possible that one man could make you feel euphoria without fucking you?
“B-both, please…” You whispered, not daring to look into his aflamed blue eyes that burned for you. Your aroused pooled in your belly, just waiting to be taken care of.
Chuuya nodded approvingly, lifting your dress up to reveal your panties that were soaked in your arousal. “Fuckin’ dirty girl, so perfect for me.” He whispered, hastily removing your panties and tossing them into some corner of your bedroom. He shivered at the sight of your glistening core, admiring how otherworldly it looked in the dim lights of your bedroom.
“Shit,” Chuuya groaned, gathering some of your slick on his fingertips before carefully inserting his index and middle finger inside of your sobbing cunt. He wasted no time in curling his fingers inside of you, thrusting them back and forth swiftly.
“Oh fuck, oh my God!” You cried out, throwing your head back even further into the soft pillows beneath you. Your legs wanted so badly to wrap around his hand, trapping him there for a while.
“That’s it baby, scream for me. Fuckin’ scream for me princess.” He growled, his lips sucking on your clit roughly. His tongue lapped and sucked at your desperate folds, fingers pumping in and out of you like he was in a competition. He could feel your walls sucking him in, knowing your orgasm was close.
“Fucking cum for me baby, lemem hear those pretty moans of yours!” Chuuya demanded, eating you out like a starved man.
“Oh fuck, Chuuya!” You screamed out his name as your orgasm finally hit, the knot in your belly becoming undone too fast for your own liking. You wish that moment could last forever instead of mere moments.
Gasping and panting, you propped yourself up by your elbows to be greeted with a chuckling Chuuya, licking off your cum with his expert tongue. “You taste so much better than anything I’ve ever fucking had before princess.” He spoke, his voice low and sultry.
Chuuya briefly got off the bed to take off his pants and boxers, gasping as the air of your bedroom hit his throbbing cock. He relished in your shocked expression, your mouth left hanging wide open at the sight of him.
“What, never seen a big dick before?” He chuckled, getting on top of you once more. He lifted your legs up so they rested on his shoulders, giving him the most perfect angle to fuck you seneless.
“Not in a while, no.” You retorted, offering Chuuya a smirk of your own. That one simple movement of your facial muscle was all it took for him to align his cock with your entrance, slamming it inside of you.
“That was so fucking hot babe, do it again.” He demanded, pounding himself into your core without giving you any time to adjust to his length or girth. His hands gripped the undersides of your thighs, occasionally smacking the subble skin.
“Ngh, h-holy fuck! Chuuya, shit! So fucking big, oh my fucking God!” You cried out, your hands making desperate motions to grab onto anything. Chuuya bent down, pushing you into a mating press so he could better hold your hand.
“Shit, fucking scream my name babygirl. Fuck, you’re squeezing on to me so damn tight!” He groaned into your ear, his balls snapping against your ass over and over again. Your cheeks were flushed, mouth gaping open. All that left your lips were wanton moans and cries of pleasure as Chuuya’s cock hit your G-spot over and over again, the pleasure once again pooling in your belly.
“Shit! Shit, shit, shit, I’m close! Chuuya, fuck!” You screamed, slamming your lips upwards onto his own. He happily accepted the kiss, biting down onto your lower lip as he felt your cunt contract around his soaked cock.
“Fuck, can you hold out just a little longer baby? Wan’ cum with you, yeah?” He whined against your lips, furiously meeting his hips with your own as the scent of sex and longing filled the bedroom.
“Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop!” You cried into his ear, not sure how much longer you could stand to not fall into your orgasm.
He growled against your neck, his thrusts becoming staggered and desperate in a relentless tempo as Chuuya’s own orgasm approached him. “Shit, gonna fucking cum. Cum with me yeah, please fucking come with me!”
A silent scream left your lips as euphoria enveloped your body, wave after wave of ecstasy hitting you as your orgasm finally came. Your arousal squeezed and coated Chuuya’s cock, sending him over the edge.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh my God! Fuck…” He gapsed into your neck, his ministrations slowing down until they came to a complete stop. He collapsed onto you, lazily kissing your neck and the hickeys that covered it.
You smiled, peeling the sweaty hairs away from your face as you embraced Chuuya in your arms. “That was…just like the books I read.” You chuckled, running your fingers through his mess of red hair. “Almost exactly like those books, actually.”
Chuuya looked up from your breast and raised an eyebrow, flipping you around so you were now embraced in his arms. “You read porn?”
You nodded, gesturing to your nightstand. “Yeah, I try to keep it a secret though. My coworkers would never let me live it down if they knew the truth.” You gave him a crooked smile, curling further into his chest.
He nodded in understanding, kissing your forehead. “Well, we gotta do this again princess. Because that was…well it was fuckin’ amazing. Who knew the cute little librarian was so dirty?” He joked, poking your cheek teasingly.
“I literally just let you finish inside of me and you’re making jokes?”
“Hey, I’m allowed to be funny. I’m a fuckin’ sex god.”
You sighed and kissed his lips, feeling your eyes grow heavy with sleep. “Y’know, I don’t have work tomorrow if you wanted to stay the night…” You yawned, embracing the feeling of coziness and warmth.
Chuuya was a bit shocked by your words at first, smacking his lips together. He smiled down at you, ruffling up your nest of a hair that was no doubt caused by his body moving against yours for a good twenty minutes. “I’d really like that, princess.” He assured you, grabbing his phone from your nightstand to type something in. “Just lettin’ my boss know I’ll be late for my assignment tomorrow.”
“What if he gets mad at you?” You asked, your sleepy voice filled with just a pinch of concern.
“Well, he can suck my dick for all I care. Although, I’d much rather have you do that.” He winked, throwing the covers above your sweaty forms. “So, are you going to get changed or are we sleeping in our date night clothes?”
“Mm, date night clothes. I don’t think I’ll be able to fucking walk after what you did to me.” You laughed, pulling Chuuya closer. You rested your head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the expensive shirt he wore. “Have sweet dreams, okay? And…pleae be here when I wake up tomorrow.” You whispered the last part before drifting off, the cutest little snore escaping from your parted lips.
Chuuya sighed and kissed the top of your head, admiring how innocent you looked in your slumber. “I promise beautiful, I’m not going anywhere.”
#bsd smut#bungo stray dogs x reader#bungou stray dogs#chuuya nakahara#bsd chuuya#bsd x you#chuuya smut#chuuya x reader#chuuya nakahara smut#bsd x reader smut
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Scarlet Lady Essay: Frightningale
Yet another essay for @zoe-oneesama. Because you deserve it.
I’m not going to bother with a compare/contrast of canon vs Scarlet Lady Frightningale because Frightningale in canon was a pretty forgettable episode. Akuma was lame. Setup was wasted. And it’s removal from the series would lose nothing of value.
So instead, I'm going to focus primarily on the Scarlet Lady version of Frightningale and what it does that makes it memorable.
I guess to start with, I should make it clear that I’m not a fan of shows being lazy, especially when they display a lack of planning or consideration of their story and characters. And perhaps one of the greater indicators of this issue is when a series suddenly realizes they they neglected multiple plot points until it’s too late to give them all the focus they warrant so they end up shoving all of those points into one episode and try to present it like it’s supposed to be an adequate resolution of all that buildup or in any way intentional.
Penalteam was that episode for Miraculous. They had the “temporary heroes” setup going for them but then wasted so much time on filler like Frightningale that it seems like they honestly forgot about it until they were reaching a designated end point and they realized they still had four more heroes they were supposed to introduce. Whoops? Ah well, just introduce them all at once. Not like anyone will care!
And when you treat most of the cast like they’re all as shallow as a puddle, I guess that’s true.
The thing is, when you have a setup where there is a running theme of every person in a specific group getting their own episode/chapter to detail their issues and how they get a power up, it’s going to stand out whenever one of them doesn’t. Especially when that one or more are forced to share their limelight episode.
That’s not to say you can’t do it, but it’s bound to get attention if you do. It reflects poorly on the writing. It shows whom the “favored” and “unfavored” characters are. And it displays the issue with pacing—namely that it’s next to nonexistent until it hits you with the force of a freight train.
But can it be done and be done well? Is it possible to pull off such a thing and have it make sense and fit in lines with the characters?
Well, yes. Off the top of my head, I can think of two different ways to do it to make it work.
And Zoe did both of them.
If you look at Scarlet Lady as a whole, you’ll see a conglomeration of characters—each with stories and arcs attached. They have personalities. They have goals and problems and their own highs and lows. One sign of good writing is that some focus is given to highlight these other characters as people. Individuals in their own right with lives outside of the main characters or situation.
Miraculous doesn't really do this.
Scarlet Lady, however, does. Because contrary to the title, Scarlet Lady isn’t just about Chloe.
It isn’t even just about the heroes.
It isn’t just about Chloe being horrible. Or Marinette being in love. Or Adrien being in desperate need of a hug and a nap. Because while the story is centered around them, it isn’t solely about them. Other characters get focus and growth and their own arcs throughout the comics.
But the big two—the BIGGEST two with arguably the most depth and most growth and quite frankly the best storylines out of everyone in the entire series?
It’s Sabrina and Lila. And their individual stories have led up to this.
As such, this episode—which was mostly filler and all around forgettable in canon, matters here.
It’s where Sabrina and Lila reach the culmination of their respective character arcs.
Yes, it’s when they both get to become Miraculous Heroes and meet their own kwamis, but it’s more than just that! They both hang out with the girls group as full members of the crew, getting to take part in a music video together. It’s also where they both get to stand up for themselves and the city at large while calling out Chloe and Scarlet Lady. This is what their storylines have been building up to and where their growth really shows.
Sabrina started out as Chloe’s minion same as canon—albeit with more attention to her feelings and her responses, no matter how seemingly small, allowing her to feel more like her own person. And through this focus, we got to see her open up more, pull and eventually break away from Chloe and her influence, and over time stand up for herself and try to establish herself both with the class and as an individual.
Lila started off as a liar and manipulator, selfish and self centered, much like canon. Unlike canon, her lies are tied to her issues, noted to be poorly thought through, and give her more introspection as a person. After the lies are revealed, she’s not “redeemed” so much as she is “accountable”, and it doesn’t change who she is. She remains selfish and certainly far from being considered “good”, but she’s letting people in past her walls and masks in a way she hadn’t been able to before.
Both of these things? Figuring out who you are and letting people know you for who you are? They’re incredibly hard. And a lot of time was devoted to both of their journeys along the course of the comic.
Sabrina’s arc was about her figuring out who she is on her own. Outside of Chloe and her previous role of being a follower and lackey. And sometimes it feels less scary to stay with someone toxic than to be alone and facing the unknown. We see it in the way she tries to put herself out there afterwards, reaching out and risking rejection and just figuring herself out. Even or perhaps especially with those she already knows and has a less than positive history with.
And we still see the struggle of her view of herself in this episode. It was in the way she was upset that she legitimately tried to help and it still resulted in bad things happening. And it was also clear when she calls herself a “sidekick” to Marigold after the day was saved, as if it’s a role she still sees herself as and one she struggles not to fall in to. Over time, we’re seeing Sabrina learning that she doesn’t have to be attached or subservient to someone else to have an identity or be accepted.
Lila’s arc involved her figuring out who she is with people. Outside of the lies and manipulations she creates, the masks she wears, and the identities she crafts to make people like her. The “real Lila” is far from the best person and arguably not even a good person, but she also doesn’t have to be for the others to accept her as the still somewhat bad influence she is. She’s still very much selfish and flawed, but she’s less inclined to hide it or treat it like something that needs to be hidden. And isn’t that a common lesson? That it’s better to be liked for who you are than to force yourself to be someone else to be liked?
And at the same time, even with being less than a fully good person, she’s showing that she can still find better ways of acting that allow her to help others rather than hurt them or serve herself. She still hates Scar, but rather than working with Hawk Moth to kill her and risk dooming Paris and the world, she’s instead working with Alya through more legitimate (and legal) means…and hitting Scar where it hurts most. She and Adrien may not be friends, but rather than try to punish him for not going along with her, she’s instead rescued him, putting herself on the line—something that the former Lila wouldn’t have considered doing and one that canon Lila wouldn’t be capable of. Even if she’s motivated by pettiness or self-interest, what would have been straight up revenge on someone who upset her has grown to be something that is working in everyone’s better interests.
Both Lila and Sabrina hid themselves in different ways and for different reasons. So having them both assert themselves and call out both Chloe and Scarlet Lady is a show of their growth and overall a huge deal. It’s not something either of them would have done at the start of the series. Sabrina, because she was a “yes man” who wouldn’t dare to argue with Chloe and Lila because she wouldn’t risk openly doing something to make herself a target.
And now boom! Look at them both! Lila stepped up to openly and publicly denounce Scarlet Lady as not being a hero for real reasons that aren’t just about herself or her feelings—complete with receipts! The girl did her research, noting incidents from before she even came into the picture. Then follow up with Sabrina standing up against Chloe’s machinations and dismantling Chloe’s main source of power: her father. Even better, she’s using logic and knowledge she would have as a former ally of Chloe’s who would know her tricks, taking her former friendship with Chloe and using it against her.
And on top of that, each of them are given the Miraculous by the person they wronged in the past. Marinette to Sabrina and Adrien to Lila. Especially in Lila’s case, it says a lot that they’re trusted. That shows narratively that even with their mistakes and bad choices and continued struggles, they still can move forward—not necessarily to find redemption, but to find themselves and be their best selves.
This is why it makes sense for them to share this episode. It’s also why both of them speaking up matters. They are both publicly confronting their greatest foe, and the fact that their foes are really two faces of the same person further highlights this.
So they both have issues with the same person, are dealing with forming their identities without catering to others, are working out how to have/be friends, were formerly not the best of people, and have a fear of rejection. As such, this isn’t just their obligatory hero episode, this is what their individual stories have been leading up to. Almost like they’re two sides of the same coin. And the comparison between the two helps them both shine.
And speaking of shining, does anyone remember how the all girls team up didn’t get a chance to shine in canon? Zoe sure did.
I have a whole list of problems I have regarding Party Crasher, but perhaps number seven on that list is that the boys got to have an all male temp hero team up episode while the girls didn’t.
In fact, by this episode in canon, only Alya, Chloe, and Kagami actually got to be temp heroes.
To be fair, only four of the guys out of seven in canon got to be part of their particular event in Party Crasher, leaving out Ivan (who often tends to get overlooked) and Nathaniel (who has had a precedent of just literally disappearing from the episode). But originally, part of the appeal of Party Crasher was that the focus was supposed to be on the male classmates and getting to see at least some of them being part of a team against the akuma.
Why then didn’t we get an episode like this with the girls? Or at least something LIKE this?
Frightningale became that episode. And if any of the episodes were to do it, it makes the most sense for Frightningale to be the one.
All of the girls were together to take part in this event. So Zag would have had the perfect excuse to include them all in the fight or just have the girls do something to help even as civilians. I mean, we’ve had episodes do this before. Max in Robustus. Nathaniel and Alix in Reverser. Luka in Captain Hardrock. Let the civilians show their heroic traits even before they become heroes. It’s not a Miraculous, but it’s still giving them focus and expanding on them as individuals.
Instead, canon Frightningale was a filler episode. And not even a good one. For an akuma who forces people to sing or dance, it’s a waste that they just had the heroes spend the whole time rhyming. A waste of writing and talent. I mean, have you heard Christina Vee sing? If there needed to be a musical episode, I would think that the akuma who forces people to sing would certainly warrant it! At least more than it’s Christmas and they sing just cuz.
So this is yet another thing that Zoe improves with the Scarlet Lady version of this episode. Giving us the all girl team up episode so many of us have long wanted and getting to see all the female heroes together at last.
And with this, we get the full roster of friends-turned heroes.
Except for Alix. Poor, poor Alix. ;_;
Your day will come.
In this way, the end where Clara goes a different direction with her music video feels less like a half-assed fix to a half-forgotten plot point and more like something that was built by everyone involved. I don’t know about the rest of you, but given Clara’s excitement over the all girl band playing and Pigella’s gift showing Clara an idea for her video, it highlights the focus on EVERYONE being part of this—both the video and the episode itself. It kind of comes off as a lesson of its own about teamwork and giving everyone a shot rather than focusing specifically only on one or two specific individuals.
And isn’t that what separates the heroes from Scarlet Lady?
But there’s a third important aspect of this episode.
This is the episode where Chloe is smacked in the face with Scarlet Lady’s falling popularity.
Let’s remember that at the start of the comic, Scarlet Lady was fully and widely considered THE Hero of Paris. She was beloved for doing nothing and it was a point of frustration for Chat, who actually was having to pick up her slack. Initially, there was nothing he could do because him being the only real hero among the duo meant he often couldn't stick around after akuma fights to prevent Scar from telling "our story". In addition, he didn’t know who she was or who chose her and why. Then even when it was clear her getting the Earrings was a mistake, for a lot of the first couple seasons, she was so popular that they couldn’t just take the Earrings away from her lest they risk backlash from the rest of the city. It’s a backlash that seems increasingly unlikely as more and more people get to see her behavior and callousness firsthand.
We’ve seen hints of it in other episodes, but none of them were so blatant to Chloe that she couldn’t ignore it or shrug it off or otherwise make excuses to protect her ego.
Prime Queen wanted to focus on Marigold and Chat Noir for their “romance” to try and boost ratings. Alya and Lila made some snarky comments, but Chloe could easily dismiss them both. Nadja also made a comment that nobody cared about Scarlet’s love life, but a lack of interest in her love life isn’t a lack of interest in herself and Chloe despises both of her “sidekicks” and wouldn’t want anyone trying to pair her with them anyway. And Nadja reassures her that they’ll focus on her after they’re done with Chat and Marigold. So yes, she can dismiss that as well.
Reverser has Chloe faced with both of her identities are made as villains in art and a story. However, she clearly looks down on Nathaniel and Marc barely registers to her. So she can dismiss them.
Look at Despair Bear, the Intermission, the interactions with the various other heroes, and the fact that only Chat Noir and Marigold are privy to the Guardian’s secret existence and allowed to pass out other Miraculous. Much has been shown of the other characters being less than impressed with her, snarky towards her, or showing the process of how they discover the truth about her and how she actually handles akuma attacks…namely in that she doesn’t. And Chloe can dismiss all of that because to her, none of them really matter to her.
But Chloe can’t dismiss the fact that a renown celebrity dedicating a music video to the “Heroes of Paris” isn’t including her. Bad enough her sidekicks are taking center stage but she’s not even in the music video at all?
And when someone she despises calls out the reasons why she’s not a hero in an openly public setting surrounded by a multitude of people who all agree with her? You could say it’s insult to injury. But some would say it was a long time coming.
Some Rando: Scarlet Lady sucks! Alya: Marigold and Chat Noir do all the work, not her! Kagami: She’s barely even necessary at this point. Clara: This video and song are to celebrate hope and love. And Scarlet Lady lacks both when push comes to shove. Chloe: ARGHHH! WHATEVER!
It further shows the turning tide of public opinion against Scar. What was once a trickle has grown into a wave, and now Chloe is forced to acknowledge her image and status aren’t as ironclad as she thought. Sure, she could denounce Lila as a liar like she’s done before, but Lila is bringing up instances that Chloe can’t deny: being late (as she’s just plain been a no show to several fights), endangering civilians, and being caught live on camera being willing to let someone die in a particularly horrible way because it’s easier.
This is the episode where it’s not just people seeing Scar is horrible, but acting on it and letting Chloe know they know she’s horrible. It’s reached the point where Chloe can’t just disregard the claims or discount and ignore her critics. And we’re seeing Chloe starting to lose control as a result. To the point she has to force her dad to ruin a previously sanctioned event in what has to be one of his most flagrant displays of abuse of power to date just to shut down her detractors.
And even that would come with more consequences for Chloe if it had been allowed to continue. Sabrina herself points it out that Clara is very popular with a lot of fans—people who would be aware she’s making a music video and whom would be very disappointed if word got out that it was cancelled due to an issue with the Mayor. And given all the very unhappy people we see in the comic in question where she points that out, it stands to reason that the word would get out. Heck, I’d be surprised if someone wasn’t recording it.
Then there’s the love square/hero shenanigans.
Remember how in canon, the whole “playing themselves/risking identities” bit kinda just dropped out halfway in? The kwamis were the only authority figures involved to call out on the risk and of the two, Plagg didn’t care and Tikki gave one knowing stare at Marinette before turning around to gush about the suit. Even though Marinette offers the alternative idea to the music video by the end, there’s no further comment or notice of how she and Adrien nearly blew their identities….or alternatively a comedic take where nobody recognizes them regardless and they worried for nothing. Honestly, I would have taken either setup.
Having Fu present to call them both out shows there is a responsible authority figure watching, makes it clear there are rules they are expected to follow, and reinforces that this was, in fact, a horrible idea. Sure, Marinette and Adrien worried enough to hide their masks, but it should have been obvious that wouldn’t work long term. They are risking their identities, not just to Paris but to each other. And he calls them out for doing it on purpose.
Then there’s the beautiful crescendo of the love square dance in that the two both pretty much have figured out the other’s identity and just want an identity reveal to make it official—which Fu won’t allow. We see it in their playful banter that gets mistaken for “getting into character” and in Adrien in particular pushing Marinette to take part.
This is a point where we are seeing them be teenagers. Foolish of them? Yes. Should they have known better and not done it? Yes. But is it in character and the sort of teenage shenanigans we would expect of teenage superheroes? Definitely. And that’s part of the point. Because they are teenagers. Teenagers in love, no less. Teenagers in love with secret identities to dance around. Which is half the fun of secret identities!
It’s just another aspect to this episode that makes it enjoyable.
So overall, the episode matters in ways that the canon version didn’t and was fun in ways that the canon version wasn’t, making it stand out not just as an episode or a remake of the canon episode, but as its own standalone episode AND a noteworthy point in the overall story.
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