#pendant bell lights

[jennhoganillustration]

Great Room - Kitchen

A large transitional l-shaped open concept kitchen design example with a medium tone wood floor, an undermount sink, beaded inset cabinets, white cabinets, concrete countertops, paneled appliances, and an island.

[kenzoparis]

Great Room - Kitchen

A large transitional l-shaped open concept kitchen design example with a medium tone wood floor, an undermount sink, beaded inset cabinets, white cabinets, concrete countertops, paneled appliances, and an island.

[jamesconcannonart]

Great Room - Kitchen

A large transitional l-shaped open concept kitchen design example with a medium tone wood floor, an undermount sink, beaded inset cabinets, white cabinets, concrete countertops, paneled appliances, and an island.

[cgtaxpe]

Grand Rapids Great Room Kitchen

Example of a large transitional l-shaped medium tone wood floor open concept kitchen design with an undermount sink, beaded inset cabinets, white cabinets, concrete countertops, paneled appliances and an island

[marinelethellec]

Great Room in Grand Rapids

Example of a large transitional l-shaped medium tone wood floor open concept kitchen design with an undermount sink, beaded inset cabinets, white cabinets, concrete countertops, paneled appliances and an island

[parkeremerson]

Great Room - Kitchen

A large transitional l-shaped open concept kitchen design example with a medium tone wood floor, an undermount sink, beaded inset cabinets, white cabinets, concrete countertops, paneled appliances, and an island.

[marymars-shop]

Great Room - Kitchen

A large transitional l-shaped open concept kitchen design example with a medium tone wood floor, an undermount sink, beaded inset cabinets, white cabinets, concrete countertops, paneled appliances, and an island.

[simpleesong]

Great Room - Kitchen A large transitional l-shaped open concept kitchen design example with a medium tone wood floor, an undermount sink, beaded inset cabinets, white cabinets, concrete countertops, paneled appliances, and an island.

[varlysuperfan]

New Orleans Galley Mid-sized modern galley with a travertine floor and gray walls, a seated home bar, flat-panel cabinets, dark wood cabinets, glass countertops, a backsplash made of matchstick tiles, and an undermount sink

[kolorkrazedolly]

Kansas City Home Bar L-Shape Seated home bar - large transitional l-shaped seated home bar idea with glass-front cabinets, beige cabinets, granite countertops, beige backsplash and mirror backsplash

[valhousersartwork]

Mudroom in Philadelphia Large image of a transitional foyer with white front door, brown walls, and porcelain tile.

[avoiderdragon]

Home Bar Galley Mid-sized trendy galley travertine floor and gray floor seated home bar photo with an undermount sink, flat-panel cabinets, dark wood cabinets, glass countertops, multicolored backsplash and matchstick tile backsplash

[hcneymooners]

best friends mom ambessa? perchance? love ur fics 🤍

⋆ you made me crazy, you made me wild.

best friend's mother!ambessa x curvy!f!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: a psychic once told you you'd have the kind of love that would mark you for the rest of your life. did it have to be with your best friend's mother?

cw: milf!bessa, age difference, older woman/younger woman, modern au, you and mel are best friends, long rich people vacations, curvy!reader, reader is implied to be a woc but you can still read regardless, forbidden love, sneaking around, vaping bc i have an oral fixation however i have never once smoked i just like the vibe i fear, non-sexual intimacy, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, overstimulation (bessa!receiving, r!recieving), multiple orgasms, tribbing, cunnilingus (bessa!receiving), you go to town on her my god, squirting (bessaaaa does it), tender sex, floor sex, manhandling, light angst, friendship breakups, angst with a happy ending.

notes: perchance is killing me. thank you so much for being so sweet mami. hope you enjoy. also, don't vape kids!

you and mel haven't spoken in three weeks.

the thought sits heavy in your chest as you perch on the window seat of your boutique, one leg tucked beneath you, the other dangling lazily. your cream silk camisole rides up your belly, catching on the velvet cushions behind you. outside, venice beach awakens like a lioness stretching in the sun, all languid and golden.

the brass bell above your door chimes softly in the morning breeze. your fingers find your vape – a delicate thing of gold, engraved with climbing roses – and bring it to your lips in a motion as natural as breathing.

the sweet ghost of vanilla mango curls around you like a familiar lover. you've always needed something between your lips, a fact that amuses your friends and once made ambessa raise an eyebrow in that way that sent heat flooding through your body.

the recent mornings have been sadder and slower than most, though objectively one wouldn’t be able to tell. you keep waking in fits, your body heavy with mourning. your reflection in the shop window shows what you've become in her absence: curves nestled in vintage, mussed hair tumbling past your shoulders, lips stained the color of crushed berries.

a crystal pendant nestles in the soft valley between your breasts, and your rings catch the light as you fidget with the hemline of your denim cutoffs. there's nothing calculated about your appearance today – no performance or intention. it's as honest as you can muster this morning.

the wooden floor creaks beneath your bare feet as you move to arrange a display of moonstone rings. your own fingers are adorned with gold bands, each one telling a story of who you were before that summer in england. before mel, before her mother and that library with its leather-bound books and muggy afternoons, before you watched her, endeared as she peered at her phone with those sunglasses perched on the top of her head.

before you realized that the soft animal of your body had found its home in the worst fucking lineage alive.

your phone lights up again – another message from mel. her name on the screen sends a fresh wave of guilt through you, but not regret. never regret. not about the way her mother’s hands felt on your waist in the conservatory, not about the first kiss that tasted of chlorine and whiskey, not even about the screaming match that ended with you on a plane back to california.

you take another long drag from your vape, watching the morning light fracture through hanging crystals into rainbow patterns across your skin. the salt air mingles with your perfume – something expensive and european that ambessa had picked out because she liked to dress you like a little doll, build your body up.

a customer pushes open the door, sending the brass bell into a symphony, and you unfold yourself from the window seat. your reflection shows a woman who knows exactly who she is – soft-bodied but steel-spined, tarnished but holding out for healing.

you tuck the vape into a vintage ceramic dish beside your register, next to the rose quartz crystal your psychic insisted would bring your true love back to you. you're not sure you believe it, but you keep it close anyway, just in case the universe is listening.

the customer's voice hits you like a wave – crisp, cultured british vowels discussing the merits of different pieces. it's nothing like ambessa's voice, really, but it's enough to send you tumbling back into that summer, that first day when everything changed.

𓇼

mel had been waiting at heathrow, practically vibrating with anxiety, her locs spun into a tight chignon at the nape of her neck—a nervous habit since childhood. you'd fallen into each other's arms like you always did, all tears and high laughter, ignoring the disapproving looks from passing businessmen. it was the same way you'd hugged since you were five, sharing grape juice boxes and childish fantasies on the playground.

"it's just a little cottage in the countryside," mel had said on facetime, twisting her initial necklace. "very quaint, very english. you'll probably think it's charming." what she hadn't mentioned was that her "cottage" was actually a sprawling estate that made downton abbey look modest.

honey-colored stone stretched towards the sky, windows gleaming like diamonds in the afternoon sun. the gravel drive seemed endless, winding through gardens that swallowed the sun within their towering walls. it must’ve been a dream to grow up here, small feet tumbling through the mazes and nothing but the entire world before you. your hand was still clasped in hers on the gearshift of her vintage mercedes, just like always, but you could feel her fingers trembling slightly.

"mom's probably in the library," mel said, killing the engine. "she's got this thing about afternoon light."

she chewed her lip, a habit you recognized from exam days and first dates.

"just… don't take it personally if she's a bit… well, you know. she can be kind of intense. dad always says she's an acquired taste."

you remember adjusting your dress, a red-and-white gingham number that clung delicately to your stomach. the bow at the bust had come undone at least three times that morning, and the skirt, airy and flared, fluttered in the slightest breeze. it felt a little too simple, too worn for the looming grandeur of mel’s childhood home, but you hadn’t thought to pack anything else. besides, something was grounding about it—the way the cotton pressed against your skin, the familiar weight of the straps on your shoulders, like it was trying to remind you who you were.

you followed mel through halls lined with oil paintings and antiquities. your sandals clicked against marble floors, echoing off high ceilings. everything smelled overwhelmingly of jasmine and time passed, the atmosphere practically bloated by money’s touch.

and then there was ambessa.

she stood in a shaft of golden light, tall and elegant in a cream linen suit that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe. silver threaded through her dark hair which was braided down into a neat, long plait and when she turned, her eyes caught yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. your psychic's words echoed in your head – "your palm reads of a love that will shake you. stand fast, girl." – and something in your chest shifted, like tectonic plates realigning.

"mom, this is my best friend," mel was saying, but her voice seemed to come from very far away. you noticed how she shifted her weight from foot to foot, how her fingers twisted in the waistband of her maxi skirt. "the one i've been telling you about."

ambessa's handshake was firm, her skin warm against yours.

"welcome to our home," she said, and her voice – god, her voice was like honey over gravel, like smoke and leather. "i trust you'll find everything… adequate."

you managed to say something appropriate, probably, though you couldn't remember what. all you could focus on was the way ambessa's eyes lingered on the wide basket of your waist, the delicate line of your collarbone, the pearl drop nestled between your breasts. it felt like a cigarette dragged slowly across your skin.

later, sprawled across mel's massive bed like you used to do at sleepovers, both of you tipsy on expensive wine stolen from the cellar, mel talked about her latest boyfriend drama – some posh boy from oxford who couldn't commit – while you traced patterns on her linen sheets. but your mind kept drifting to the library, to ambessa's knowing smile, to the way she'd looked at you over dinner like you were a deer she very much wanted to fell.

you didn't know then that those looks would become your undoing.

𓇼

you couldn't sleep that first week, your body stubbornly running on pacific time. the massive house creaked and whispered at night, all those endless corridors filled with shadows. you'd taken to wandering, padding through the halls in your cotton shorts and an old guns & roses tee, your thick hair piled high in a silk scarf that your grandmother had taught you to wrap just so.

that's how she found you the third night, curled up in the window seat of the informal library (because of course there were multiple libraries), reading the beautiful and damned by phone light. your bare legs were tucked up under you, painted toes peeking out, a half-eaten peach leaving sticky fingerprints on the pages.

"fitzgerald at three in the morning?" her voice was rough with sleep, but still commanding. ambessa stood in the doorway in a black silk robe that made your mouth go dry, her hair loose around her shoulders. "how terribly american of you."

"can't sleep," you drawled, your accent thick and lazy in the quiet. "time zones are, like, totally brutal."

the ghost of a smile touched her lips at your exaggerated californian lilt, and something warm unfurled in your chest when her eyes lingered on your face, studying you with a naked interest that made your skin prickle.

it became a ritual after that – you in your sun-faded pajamas, her in sophisticated sleepwear that probably cost more than your rent. she'd pour two fingers of sherry ("none of that silly wine you girls keep stealing." “yeah, sorry about that.”), and you'd talk about everything and nothing.

you told her about your boutique—at the time—dream, about learning to make jewelry from an old hippie who read tarot cards on the boardwalk. she spoke of art acquisitions and board meetings, but sometimes, when the night grew soft and heavy around you, she'd share pieces of herself that felt like an easy glimpse into your future.

mel noticed, of course she did.

"mum’s different with you," she said one afternoon, watching you apply coconut oil to your sun-warmed skin by the pool. her voice was careful, measured in a way that made your stomach twist. "she actually laughs at your jokes. she never laughs at anyone's jokes."

you hummed noncommittally, pretending to be absorbed in moisturizing. but you could feel mel's eyes on you, the same sharp gaze she'd inherited from her mother, taking in how you'd started wearing your nicest pajama sets to your nighttime wanderings, how you'd borrowed one of her expensive face creams "just to test it out."

during the days, you'd lounge in the massive gardens with mel, your skin deepening to further in the english sun while she talked less and less about her boyfriend's drama and more about how strange it was to see her mother so… present. but at night – at night you belonged to the library, to raspy-voiced conversations and loaded silences, to the way ambessa's eyes would trace the crescent of your folded body, the arch of your neck, the fullness of your lips.

"you're nothing like i expected," she said one night, two months in, her voice low and intimate in the darkness. you were sprawled on the persian rug, head tipped back against a leather armchair, humming some alternative song under your breath. your skin glowed warm and rich in the lamplight, a sharp contrast to the pale marble and cream walls surrounding you.

"oh?" you looked up at her through your lashes, feeling brave from the whiskey and the late hour. "what did you expect?"

"someone more like mel's other friends. polished. proper." her lips curved around the words as if they amused her. "not this beautiful little creature in threadbare pajamas, so full of freedom and self-assuredness. you hold your own."

beautiful. the word hung in the air between you, dangerous and flickering. like the growing tension you felt whenever mel watched you both at dinner, her eyes narrowing at each shared glance, each lingering moment. you sat up slowly, your movements sluggish and dream-like.

"i don’t. not really. you make me nervous, but i learned early on how to fake it."

her eyes met yours in the dim light, and the air flooded with something thick and heady. your body felt electric. behind you, a floorboard creaked – mel, you'd realize later, watching from the doorway with dawning understanding.

but in that moment, all you could see was ambessa, all you could feel was the weight of what was building between you, an avalanche you were both choosing to let bury you.

in a matter of minutes, she had her hands on you, your back against her firm chest with two fingers tucked inside of your cunt. your legs sprawled open, your pussy blossoming with arousal like rain on roses.

she was softer than you’d imagined, but it was almost relieving. the tenderness did more for you anyway, sent your pulse more freely throughout your body.

you bucked your hips as heat spiraled up from the base of your spine. ambessa pressed you back down, fingers gripping deeply into your thighs.

“no,” she murmured. “stay down.”

you were nestled into her lap, her fingers milking you gently as you arched. your voice seemed caught in your throat, your neck extended in expectation of a kiss. she indulged you, mouth capturing yours while her thumb slipped past your thatch of curls to play with your clit.

the kiss was wet and sloppy, uncoordinated as a result of your jerking body. still, she fed from you reaping kiss after kiss, suckling at your tongue. she groaned into your lips as you threaded a harsh hand into her hair, pining her face against yours.

in response, she inserted a third finger. you let out a high moan at the added stimulation, rooting a hand around her neck to better fuck yourself down. she laughed lightly at your desire, pumping faster until your cunt dribbled gratitude down her knuckles.

“there you go, sweet girl,” she cooed and you shivered.

you suddenly understood cults and their leaders, how special you could feel when their attention was laved over you. you were trying your best to remain quiet, thick thighs trembling as she fucked you a little harder. your tits were bouncing as you met her thrusts and she hid her face into your neck, sucking and biting lightly.

with a muffled squeal you came, squirting lavishly all over where the two of you were locked together. true to her nature, ambessa didn’t give you a moment. with an efficient maneuver, she slid you around and on top of her. it was then that you realized she was naked, robe hanging open at her sides. you weren’t given a second to admire her.

instead, she tucked you into her and kissed you as she extended her legs out and settled you onto her warm cunt. you collapsed fully into her, face buried in the soft crevice of her heavy tits. she let out a slight hum of satisfaction as she slotted your clits together, hooking a leg over you to better increase the spread of your puffy pussy. eventually, you understood the intention and began to rock steadily against her.

the friction was heavenly and you clutched her tightly, burrowing into her broad body as you chased your pleasure. ambessa was just as frantic, snapping up with a hand anchored into your hair. your silk scarf had fallen long ago but you didn’t worry about it. all that mattered was her deep groans of pleasure and the way she kept fucking up against you.

“fuck, honey,” she murmured and you wanted to tell her that you knew, that you understood.

but you couldn’t. you were rendered pathetic by the threat of your second orgasm and settled for cumming inside of her with a wet wail. you could feel her legs shaking but you knew she hadn’t finished, and with a great groan you slid off of her.

stumbling slightly, you stood and rearranged so that you were kneeling in between the apex of her legs with your ass high in the air. as you dripped onto the carpet you began to lap at her and reached a hand up to twist and pinch at her nipples, alternating between her tits.

her breath began to shudder, her chest heaving as she ground down on her tongue. it only took a couple more broad strokes up her pussy and a relentless circling of her clit for her to finish, the liquid dowsing your nose and chin. the spray was thick and warm.

pleased, you hummed into her and started the whole thing up again. she cried out, legs closing around you in a suffocating crush.

not once did you let go.

𓇼

the fight had been brutal. even now, the memory makes your stomach churn—leaves you flinching, sick, and unsteady.

“jesus, [name],” mel’s voice had been sharp, cutting through the quiet. “you’re playing house with my fucking mother.”

“mel—”

“no!” she snapped, her words laced with disbelief and venom. “i can’t believe you. what? are you just desperate? taking whatever scraps you can get? ‘but i love her, melly!’”

her voice pitched high, mocking, cruel in a way you’d never heard before.

“i mean, my god, just go to therapy. don’t go fucking my mother!”

your hand cracked against her cheek before you even registered the motion.

“fuck you,” you spat, trembling, the tears hot and blinding.

she staggered back a step, wide-eyed and disbelieving. you mirrored her shock, your palm still stinging. the silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the harsh sound of both your breaths. ambessa had stepped out moments before—it was just the two of you now, suspended in the aftermath.

her lips parted as if to say something, but no words came.

your ticket was booked that afternoon, your bag packed by evening. you were gone before the sun had fully set.

𓇼

you close the shop early, your hands moving automatically as the weight of the day presses down on you.

the steady drag on your vape blurs the edges of your thoughts, a small comfort that does nothing to ease the growing ache in your chest. by the time you arrive home, the haze has lifted, but it leaves behind a sharp clarity: you’re alone. sadder than anything. the kind of heartbroken that settles deep in your bones and brings you down, quiet and constant like a low hum you can’t escape.

so you’re surprised when you’re met with a sleek range rover loitering in the parking lot outside your apartment complex.

you didn’t expect to see her this soon. or ever. didn’t want to. three weeks of silence, of space between you both, and you thought you were okay with it. you’d been fine with the quiet, with the absence. but there she is.

mel is right outside your building, sitting pretty and cross-legged in the backseat, the car’s headlights casting long, soft shadows over the cracked pavement. ambessa is sitting in the passenger seat, her face illuminated by the glow from the dashboard, and something about the way she holds herself makes it clear that she’s on the edge. she probably didn’t even want to do this. maybe she’d flown here for mel. maybe mel had flown here for you.

your chest tightens as you stand there, frozen for a moment, caught between the impulse to walk away and the need to understand what’s brought them here. you don’t move, just watch.

the undiscovered truth is that ambessa’s done this for both of you.

mel’s been struggling without you. she’s noticed it; this is her daughter after all. mel hasn’t said it outright, but ambessa can see it in the way her shoulders slump when she talks to anyone else, the small, tired smiles that don’t reach her eyes. she’s miserable without her best friend. and then—gradually—ambessa realized how much she needed you, too. wanted you.

the air between you and the car is heavy with guilt and longing. you can see it in mel’s face, too—how much she loves her mother, how she wants this to be different, even if she doesn’t quite know how to fix it.

and you? you feel a bit numb. maybe it’s the dredges of your vanilla buzz. the sadness in your chest, the loneliness, the quiet hope that maybe—just maybe—this could still work? it’s half dead, half living. you can’t tell if you’re ready to talk, to face what’s been left unsaid for so long. but you know one thing for sure: you’ve missed them both.

you keep standing there, rooted to the spot, watching the car like it’s some kind of omen. the silence feels louder than anything you’ve heard in weeks. ambessa remains in the passenger seat, her gaze distant, like she’s trying to work through something too. you don’t know what it is—whether it’s the weight of her possible regret or the silent pressure she’s putting on her daughter.

mel shifts in her seat, and then, before you can even brace yourself, she’s out of the car, the door slamming shut behind her. she’s standing in front of you now, her eyes wide with something that looks like hesitation.

“i didn’t know where else to go,” she says, her voice quiet but raw.

you don’t know what to say. the words that have been sitting in your throat for weeks suddenly seem impossible to spit out. you want to scream, to ask her why she didn’t come sooner, why it took so long. but all you can do is stand there, your chest tight and aching.

“you don’t have to say anything,” mel continues, her eyes darting between your face and the ground. “i just… i didn’t know what else to do. my mom’s…” she trails off, and there’s something in her voice—something that sounds like both love and frustration.

“she’s been miserable without you. i’ve been miserable without you.”

the admission hangs between you, thick and vulnerable. your breath catches in your throat. you didn’t know how much you missed her until this moment. you want to reach out, to pull her close, but you don’t. the ground between you both feels too fragile. finally, you speak.

“you deserve an apology too,” you croak out. “i shouldn’t have gone behind your back and i sure as hell should have never fucking hit you. it was unacceptable and i’m sorry, melly.”

her eyes grow bright and glassy with tears. she nods.

“i’m not going to say it’s fine because it’s not. but thank you for apologizing.”

you nod, resigned to another night of crying yourself to sleep.

i realized,” mel says wetly, “before this whole thing i’d never—i’d never seen you in love. i’ve never seen you that happy. i’m sorry for mocking that especially since you’ve never had that before, and it’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

you shrug, looking away.

“it’s how i’ve been living.”

before mel can say anything else, ambessa opens her door and steps out of the car. she’s quiet, her movements deliberate, but there’s something gentle in the way she walks toward you. she stops just a foot away, and without a word, she closes the gap and cups your face in her hands, her palms warm against your skin.

you blink, the shock of her touch overwhelming.

“i can’t believe you’re here,” you tell her, your voice cracking down the middle. “have you even been to california before?”

and it’s so stupid to say when you haven’t fucking seen her in months, haven’t stopped loving her for days, but ambessa only smiles. her eyes soften as she leans in, her lips brushing your forehead in a delicate.

“i’ve only ever tasted it,” she murmurs, her breath warm against your skin.

© hcneymooners.

⚚ special taglist: @astarcalledtala @sugrcookiiee @16novvs @tnash-tammy @dyk3miffy @iwasholic @fruitfulfashion @absandsevikasgirl @blackdykegirlblogger @fortluocha @neganwifey25-blog @rottngrl3

[sabrinasopposite]

santa doesn’t know u like i do ⋆⁺₊❅。

clark kent x fem! reader

i’ve been there through the good and bad

know how to make you laugh

kiss all your tears away, babe

only I can do that

summary °❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ : its christmas eve in smallville and y/n can’t wait till tomorrow to give her self-made gift to clark kent.

The snow fell gently, blanketing Smallville in a shimmering hush, as though the world had been tucked into a silver-white quilt. Even the stars seemed to lean closer, curious to watch the scene unfold below. Y/N tugged her scarf tighter, her breath unfurling in soft clouds as she stepped lightly through the snow. Each crunch of her boots on the frosted path felt impossibly loud in the stillness, but her heart raced faster with every step, urging her forward.

When she reached Clark’s barn, the wooden door creaked softly as she pushed it open. A faint golden glow spilled out, illuminating the snow beneath her feet. Inside, the air was warm, infused with the scent of hay, woodsmoke, and something uniquely Clark—a comforting mixture of earthiness and calm.

Her gaze lifted to the loft, where light danced across the beams. She climbed the ladder carefully, peeking over the edge. The sight that greeted her made her heart skip a beat.

Clark was sprawled on a makeshift couch by the loft window, wrapped in a knitted blanket. A steaming mug of cocoa rested in his hand, and an open book lay balanced on his lap. The soft light made his features look impossibly gentle, his messy hair haloed by the glow. He looked like a painting—perfect and timeless.

At the creak of the ladder, he glanced up, his blue eyes widening for a moment before softening into a smile that warmed her more than the stove below.

“Y/N?” he said, setting his book aside. “What are you doing out here?”

“I...” She hesitated, her cheeks blooming pink. “I wanted to see you.” Her voice was soft, almost shy. “Merry Christmas, Clark.”

“Merry Christmas,” he replied, his smile growing. “But it’s freezing outside. You could’ve waited until tomorrow.”

Y/N laughed, the sound filling the space like the chime of distant bells. She reached under her coat and pulled out a small package, its crimson wrapping crinkling in her hands. “I couldn’t wait. I wanted to give you this.”

Clark raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a teasing grin as he accepted the gift. “And here I thought Santa was the one sneaking into barns at night.”

“Santa doesn’t knit scarves,” she retorted, crossing her arms in mock indignation before breaking into a laugh.

He unwrapped the package carefully, his fingers brushing over the soft red scarf inside. His grin softened into something tender as he held it up, running his thumb along the stitches. “You made this?”

She nodded, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze. “I thought it might keep you warm up here. It’s not perfect, but—”

“It’s perfect,” he interrupted, already wrapping it around his neck. “I love it.”

Her heart swelled, and she looked down, pretending to straighten her coat to hide her smile. “I’m glad.”

Clark set his cocoa aside and walked to a small table tucked into the corner of the loft. From underneath it, he pulled out a box wrapped in silver ribbon. “Your turn,” he said, his tone a little more nervous now. “I, uh, didn’t know how to wrap this very well, but...” He trailed off, holding the box out to her.

Y/N took it, her fingers trembling slightly as she untied the ribbon. Inside, nestled against soft velvet, was a delicate necklace. The pendant was a heart, small and simple, but it seemed to shimmer with its own quiet light.

“Clark...” she whispered, her voice catching. “It’s beautiful.”

“It reminded me of you,” he said quickly, his cheeks tinged with a faint pink. “Something simple but... special. And full of love.” He scratched the back of his neck, his eyes flicking nervously to hers. “I just... wanted you to have it.”

Her eyes glistened as she looked up at him. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he interrupted gently, echoing her earlier words.

He stepped behind her, brushing her hair aside as he fastened the necklace around her neck. His fingers lingered on her skin for a moment longer than necessary, and when he stepped back, his eyes traced the way the pendant rested just above her heart.

“Something beautiful,” he said softly, “just like you.”

Y/N reached up to touch the pendant, feeling its weight, its meaning. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but they didn’t fall. Instead, she looked at him with all the love she felt, unable to find words big enough to hold it. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love it.”

Clark’s expression melted into something impossibly tender, his voice low as he replied, “I love you.” He reached for her hands, threading his fingers through hers.

For a moment, they stood there, the world outside the barn fading into nothingness. The snow whispered against the roof, the stars glittering beyond the window, but all Y/N could feel was the warmth of Clark’s presence, the steady beat of love between them.

Then, with a sudden grin, Clark reached to the side and held up a sprig of mistletoe. “I figured I’d keep this handy,” he said, his voice playful but his gaze filled with affection.

Y/N laughed, her breath misting between them. “You really planned this, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” he teased, leaning closer. “But I’d call it good planning.”

Their lips met, soft and unhurried, a kiss that felt like the first brush of sunlight after a long winter. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a promise, warm and steady, that even the coldest nights couldn’t touch.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/N rested her forehead against his, her voice a whisper. “Merry Christmas, Love.”

“Merry Christmas, Sweetheart,” he replied, his voice as steady and full of warmth as the glow in his eyes. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

And as they settled back onto the couch, wrapped in each other’s arms, the barn seemed to hold its breath around them, cradling their love like a secret too precious to let go.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚 merry (early) christmas to everyone! its my gift to u and i hope u like a clark kent!

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ taglist: @blackynsupremacy @alelo23

[tortillamastersblog]

Where Light Bends Wrong - Part 3 | Wednesday Addams

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x reader

Warnings: mild violence

Summary: You’ve kept your secret buried and your power quiet, until Wednesday Addams came to Nevermore and turned your whole world upside down.

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I stay in bed, listening to music until it’s time for dinner. My pendant is no longer glowing, but it’s still warm against my skin, and I can’t shake the sense of unease.

I plan on going to the dining hall just to grab something before heading back to my room, like I’ve done so many times before.

That plan almost immediately flies out the window, though, when I round the corner and almost run into Wednesday, who stands eerily still, as if she was waiting for me.

She’s still in her school uniform, but her usually put-together appearance is slightly disheveled. Her bangs and pigtails are a little out of order, and her uniform is still stained from the rain and mud earlier when I tackled her to the ground.

My hand almost instinctively clutches the pendant of my necklace through my shirt, and I take off my headphones, letting them rest around my neck.

“Uh, hi…”

Wednesday’s sharp eyes rake over me, unreadable. The longer she just stares, the more unnerved I get.

This is our first real interaction, and despite the pendant growing warmer, almost hot against my hand, I can’t say it’s a pleasant one.

“You saved my life,” she says finally, her voice monotone.

I don’t know exactly what she expects me to say to that, so I clear my throat and shrug helplessly.

“Yeah…?”

Her gaze flicks down to my hand, still curled around the necklace, before snapping back up. There’s something in her eyes now. Curiosity. Maybe even a flicker of exasperation.

“Why?”

I almost scoff, caught between disbelief and confused amusement. I let go of the necklace and stand a little straighter.

“…Should I not have?”

Wednesday tilts her head slightly and crosses her arms. “Most people wouldn’t.”

I just raise an eyebrow and deadpan, “Well, I’m not most people.”

I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe a thank you?—but Wednesday seemingly at a loss for words after that isn’t it. Her lips part ever so slightly, like she wants to say something, but then she doesn’t. Her fingers tighten around her upper arms, and I tap into my powers to get a read on what she’s feeling, but just like the first time I saw her, I don’t really sense anything.

So, without further ado, I step past her, still drained from the day and just wanting to get some dinner before going to bed. But then she speaks up again, making me stop in my tracks.

“It’s Wednesday, by the way.”

I turn back around and cock my head questioningly “Huh?”

“My name,” she elaborates, her dark eyes meeting mine. “Wednesday Addams.”

I hold her gaze for a moment, still unable to get a read on her, then just say, “I know,” before finally turning around and making my exit.

I’m tired and, unlike Wednesday it seems,I don’t want to play any games at the moment.

This whole interaction was a little weird and definitely not how I expected our first conversation to go, but then again, I don’t really care that much. It’s obvious that Wednesday is trouble, and I’ve already got that in abundance.

I’ve got to admit, I am a little intrigued by the fact that my powers seem to be acting up around her for some reason. And the fact that she seems to have her emotions on such a tight leash that not even I can get a read on her. But again, she’s trouble. And I’ve got other things to worry about.

Also, the fact that she couldn’t even bring herself to simply thank me for saving her life makes alarm bells go off in my head.

She’s curious, that much is obvious. And she seems intent on always getting what she wants, which is a dangerous combination especially when it comes to me and my powers. If Ajax is already a little too curious for my liking, I bet Wednesday would be a million times worse.

I pop into the dining hall, avoiding Enid’s eyeline, and quickly grab a bowl of spaghetti bolognese before heading back to my room, taking a bit of a detour to avoid potentially running into Wednesday again.

I eat on my bed with my headphones on and place the empty bowl on the nightstand while simultaneously reaching for my book.

As I go to open it though, a faint hum of music manages to reach my ears despite my headphones, so I take them off with a frown, wondering where it’s coming from.

Almost instantly I realize that it’s not loud enough to be breaking through the noise canceling function on its own, and that it’s accompanied by an already familiar heartbeat, which can only mean one thing.

Wednesday.

Instead of trying to tune it out though —I know I wouldn’t be able to even if I tried— I settle into bed and close my eyes, letting my ears pick up more.

She’s playing the cello, I realize after a moment. It’s an unfamiliar piece, but it’s beautiful and eerie at the same time, something I usually wouldn’t listen to, but I’m intrigued by the fact that playing the cello is one of Wednesday’s seemingly many talents aside from fencing.

She keeps playing without missing a beat and before I know it, I actually drift into a light sleep.

I catch some snippets of a conversation between Enid and Wednesday at some point after Wednesday stops playing, but I’m too far gone to know what they’re actually talking about. All I know is that it’s sincere and seemingly compassionate on Wednesday’s end, which is something I wasn’t sure she was capable of.

“Y/N?”

Weems’ voice makes me stop and turn just as I’m about to reach for the door handle of my favorite Jericho bookshop.

“Oh hey,” I smile softly at her as she walks up to me. “What are you doing here?”

She returns my smile and gestures across the town square where I see her parked car in front of Doctor Kinbott’s practice. “Not much. Just making sure Miss Addams gets to and from her therapy appointment without trying to escape.”

I raise an amused eyebrow at that. Not just because I didn’t expect the whole running-away bit on Wednesday’s part—although that does seem like something she would do—but also because I didn’t peg her as someone who goes to therapy.

Weems seems to read my mind because she explains, “Her mother warned me she might try to escape. And she’s not going to therapy of her own volition. It’s been court-ordered after what happened at her last school. I believe you’ve heard the rumors?”

I chuckle in disbelief and shake my head. “Yeah, I heard.”

I know Weems wouldn’t disclose this kind of information to just any student, but we’ve kind of become family ever since my adoptive parents dumped me at Nevermore. I don’t see her as much of a principal anymore. She’s more like an aunt to me, and she knows she can trust me with this kind of information because she knows I wouldn’t blab.

“She really is a handful, isn’t she?” I joke, which makes her smirk ever so slightly as she steps forward to brush a leaf off my shoulder, probably one that snagged on my uniform during my walk through the woods.

“You could say that, yes.” She steps back again before tilting her head and asking, “So, how are you?”

Under normal circumstances, I know she’d just be asking to make polite conversation, but I’m sure she’s gotten word of my behavior since Wednesday arrived. You know, me eating alone in my room every night or that pencil-snap incident in Thornhill’s class.

I meet her eyes, and for a moment I consider telling her all about how Wednesday’s presence has completely unnerved me—what with my pendant glowing and my ears constantly picking up on her heartbeat, even now—but then I think better of it.

If I tell her, she’ll just worry, and it seems like she’s already got enough on her plate. I also haven’t even checked the book in the Nightshades’ library for any information about what’s going on. Maybe there are some answers there. If there are, I don’t have to bother Weems with it. If not, I can always talk to her later.

For now, though, I figure it’s best to keep it to myself, so I say, “I’m okay. A little tired, but I’m fine. Glad it’s Saturday.”

Weems nods along, but there’s a glint in her eyes that tells me she knows I’m lying. She doesn’t press me on it, though. She simply checks her watch and then asks if I want a ride back to school with her and Wednesday later, but I decline.

I don’t know how long I’m going to be in the bookshop, browsing the shelves and getting lost in a book or two, and I don’t particularly want to be in an enclosed space with Wednesday and Weems because there seems to be quite a lot of tension between them.

“Well then, suit yourself,” Weems says with a soft smile. I go to brush it off, but then we both see Doctor Kinbott stepping out onto the street across the town square with a frown on her face.

“Oh no...” Weems mutters under her breath, and I don’t have to ask to know what’s happened.

Wednesday managed to escape somehow.

I know it’s not funny, but it’s definitely impressive that she managed to get away, and I can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corner of my lips.

I try to hide it, but Weems still catches sight of it and shoots me a dirty look before hurrying off to talk to Kinbott about what happened.

I just turn and head into the bookshop, knowing Wednesday hasn’t gotten very far. Her heartbeat—steady and clear—is still nearby.

I browse through the shelves for a little over twenty minutes with my headphones on before stepping outside again.

It’s a peaceful day today, and I would even consider it to be beautiful, even though the sky is overcast and a soft breeze rustles the leaves of the trees in the town square.

I soak it all in, ignoring some looks from strangers who eye me weirdly because of my uniform, before heading to the Weathervane to get some coffee.

As soon as I step into the quaint café though, I spot Wednesday sitting by the window, and I have half a mind to turn back around and walk away, but that would look weird, so I pretend not to have seen her and take a seat at a table with my back turned to her.

Weems must not have found her yet, otherwise she wouldn’t be sitting here. It doesn’t explain why she’s here in the first place though, but as I pull out my book and glance at Tyler behind the counter—who seemingly can’t keep his eyes off her—I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because of something that went down between them.

What that could have been, I have no idea, but I can hear Tyler’s heart skipping a beat every time he glances at Wednesday, while she seems to be completely unfazed by him.

Iris, a barista a couple of years older than me and who I’ve known ever since I came to Nevermore, takes my order with a friendly smile a moment later before I settle back into my chair and open my new book.

I start reading, but not even a minute later, my pendant warms up again and I don’t even have to look up to know who slides into the seat across from me a second later.

I try to ignore her, but the faint smell of linen that clings to her and the way she clears her throat when I don’t look up makes it impossible. So, I look up and try not to take notice of how the sharpness in her dark eyes makes my chest tighten ever so slightly.

“Yes?” I ask politely, closing my book in my lap.

“You do know that it’s incredibly impolite to walk away in the middle of a conversation, right?” It’s not a question but rather a statement.

Even so, I just frown and ask, “Huh?”

“Yesterday,” she clarifies, exasperated.

Is she serious?

I put my book on the table and cross my arms. “Oh, well, I was under the impression our conversation was over. I’m sorry if you felt... abandoned?”

Wednesday bristles, seemingly offended, and sits up even straighter than she already is. “I don’t need you to apologize.”

“Okay?” I shrug helplessly, not really knowing how to feel about this. “Then what do you want from me?”

“I—” Wednesday pauses, and a very tiny frown pulls at her lips as though she doesn’t actually know herself. And then, before she can respond, the door opens and in walk Lucas Walker and his cronies, dressed in pilgrim attire.

“What are you two Nevermore freaks doing out in the wild?” he sneers.

I just sigh and roll my eyes, getting ready to get up and ask Iris to make my coffee to go, because they’re just not worth the trouble. But then Wednesday’s attention shifts onto them and she asks, “Why are you three dressed like religious fanatics?” before I can stop her.

“We’re pilgrims?” one of the cronies replies sarcastically, which makes Wednesday snap back with, “Potato, po-tah-to.”

Her eyes meet mine briefly, and I just shake my head as if to tell her not to get into this. But then Lucas slides an advertising flyer onto the table, promoting his dad’s pilgrim exhibition. “We work at Pilgrim World.”

Wednesday’s face hardens, and she pulls the flyer toward her with an almost disgusted look on her face. “It takes a special kind of stupid to devote an entire theme park to zealots responsible for mass genocide.”

Oh no...

I feel the incredulity and anger in Lucas and his goons before any of them open their mouths, so I’m not at all surprised when, after he blinks in surprise, he snaps, “My dad owns Pilgrim World. Who are you calling stupid?”

Wednesday’s eyebrow quirks ever so slightly, obviously enjoying the tension a little.

I warn her with a mumbled, “Wednesday…” under my breath, but she ignores me and says, “If the buckled shoe fits.”

Again, I sigh, and I know things are about to go down, but then—much to my surprise—Tyler steps in.

“Guys, back off.”

I almost snort because who does he think he is? Wednesday’s knight in shining armor?

If I’ve learned anything about her so far, it’s that she can take care of herself.

“Stay out of this, Galpin,” Lucas shoves his former friend back and, again, much to my surprise, Wednesday gets up and actually agrees with Lucas.

“Yes, stay out of this.”

I get up too, but I step to the side so I’m kind of next to, kind of behind Wednesday, who’s now facing three angry pilgrims.

I’m not exactly scared because I know they couldn’t hurt me even if they tried, but I am a little worried about Wednesday. Yes, I know I just said she can take care of herself, but now that there’s an actual threat, I can feel a little doubt creep into the back of my mind.

My pendant also grows warmer, as if warning me, but I ignore it and keep my eyes on the scene in front of me.

The air is crackling with electricity, and when Lucas steps closer to Wednesday and asks, “So tell me, freak. Have you ever been with a normie?” something inside me bristles.

I know the question wasn’t directed at me, but the word freak makes me clench my jaw because it was what my adoptive parents called me right before dropping me off at Nevermore and never returning.

I keep my mouth shut though because I really don’t want any trouble.

Wednesday seems to though, and she calmly says, “I never found one that could handle me.”

Lucas glares at her, his anger almost palpable, but seemingly still contained.

That is until Wednesday jerks forward, saying, “Boo!” which makes Lucas flinch and one of his goons grab Wednesday’s shoulder, ready to strike.

My eyes widen even though I saw this coming from miles away, but I don’t interfere when Wednesday easily deflects his blow and knees him in the gut.

He grunts and bends over before rage overtakes him and he pulls his arm back to strike again, but Wednesday moves out of the way just in time, so the goon’s fist slams right into Lucas’ face.

Oh lord…

Lucas goes down, clutching his nose while Wednesday deals with her first attacker again, somehow kicking him in the chest.

I watch the whole thing unfold with wide eyes, worried and impressed at the same time. But then, I catch sight of movement to my right, and my hand snaps out seemingly on its own, easily catching the third guy’s fist mid-strike to the side of Wednesday’s face.

So much for staying out of it...

He winces from the impact and looks at me with wide eyes while I just shake my head with a mumbled, “Nu uh.”

And then, before I can do anything else, Wednesday has swept him off his feet, leaving all three of them writhing and groaning on the ground.

Wednesday looks at what she’s done, her bangs askew and her breathing a little heavier than normal, before her eyes flicker to me. There’s an unreadable expression on her face, but my ears catch onto the way her heart skips for a second, probably from the adrenaline, before Tyler steps up to us, breaking the spell.

“So, where’d you learn those kung fu moves?”

Wednesday looks back at the writhing boys on the ground before answering, saying something about how her uncle taught her because he spent some time at some monastery or something.

Just then, Sheriff Galpin walks in and I swallow harshly, knowing he is not going to be happy about what happened.

“Tyler, what the hell is going on in here?” he asks, eyeing the scene with a raised eyebrow.

Tyler stumbles through an explanation of what happened, about how Wednesday was just defending herself, while Galpin’s eyes flicker between all of us.

When he looks at me, I quickly avert my eyes because Weems has told me a hundred times to keep my head down and not cause trouble because it could lead to someone figuring out what I am— and what did I just do? I did the exact opposite.

Galpin doesn’t say anything to me though, and instead turns his attention back to Wednesday.

He goes to say something but then—much to my horror—Weems of all people comes rushing into the café.

She looks absolutely petrified by the scene that greets her and shoots me a questioning look before schooling her features into a polite but apologetic smile. “Apologies, Sheriff,” she says to Galpin. “These two slipped away from me.”

I risk a glance at Wednesday, who looks like a kid who was just caught stealing candy from a candy store, before averting my eyes again. “Come on then, Miss Addams… Y/N… it’s time to go.”

Well, looks like I’ll be forced to accept her ride to school after all.

I grab my book from the table and shoot Iris an awkward smile when she tentatively hands me a to-go cup of coffee before stepping forward to leave the café with Wednesday and Weems. But then Galpin speaks up again, making all of us stop in our tracks.

“Wait a minute, hang on. You’re an Addams?” he asks, directing his suddenly cold eyes onto Wednesday.

Wednesday just reciprocates his stare, and I look between them, confused.

“Don’t tell me Gomez Addams is your father?” he goes on, and when he says the name, I suddenly know why Wednesday’s last name rang a bell.

Gomez Addams was a student at Nevermore back in the day, and there was some rumor going around about him having been arrested during his time here, but nothing ever came of it.

Wednesday only nods at the question, which makes Galpin scoff and pull a sour face. “That man belongs behind bars for murder. I guess the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.”

If Wednesday is at all surprised by this revelation—or whether or not she already knew about it—she doesn’t let on. Her face is as blank as ever, but something inside me stirs at the insinuation.

It’s not fair of him to say that, no matter what kind of history he seems to have with her father.

Like always, I bite my tongue though and follow Wednesday out of the café when Weems finally ushers us outside, with Galpin warning Wednesday, “I’m going to keep my eyes on you, young lady.”

Wednesday simply smirks at what I would have understood as somewhat of a threat, which just confirms that she is, in fact, more trouble than I originally thought. And I’m now stuck in the middle of it.

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Tag list: @sunshinez4 @protozoario @automaticpatroltragedy

[novaursa]

Chasing the Inferno

- Summary:  It was during Rhaenyra’s and Laenor’s wedding feast, that the king noticed something he was blind to for far too long.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

This whole work is inspired by this brilliant anonymous ask:

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, has striking resemblance to her late grandmother Alyssa and is younger sister of Rhaenyra. These events happen after The Flames We Hide. To read all the chapters in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 532

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The evening air carries the scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh flowers into the grand hall, mingling with the vibrant sounds of revelry. The hall is a living tapestry of silks, banners, and candlelight, casting everything in hues of crimson and gold. A sea of finely dressed lords and ladies flows beneath the arched ceiling, the thrumming heart of the grand wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon.

You arrive with the grace and splendor expected of a Targaryen princess, a vision that commands the attention of every eye that lands on you. The dress you wear is a rich deep plum, the color of ripened plums at dusk, lined with golden thread that shimmers in the light. The sleeves are long and bell-shaped, flowing with each movement, while the bodice is tightly laced with intricate embroidery of dragons in flight. Around your neck, a delicate chain bears a pendant of a dragon curled around a glittering ruby—a gift from your father. Your silver hair is braided in intricate patterns, falling down your back with hints of shimmering ribbons intertwined through each strand. 

You sit beside Rhaenyra at the high table, your twin sister glowing with happiness under her finely woven veil. She leans toward you with a playful smirk. “I see you’ve decided to steal the attention for yourself tonight, Y/N. Not even the newlywed princess is safe from your charms.”

You laugh softly, returning her smirk. “It’s not stealing, dearest sister, merely borrowing for the evening.” Your eyes flick toward the bustling crowd, scanning the faces, seeking a particular one even as you engage in idle conversation.

You find him across the hall—Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, the man who has captured your heart in ways you would never openly admit. His broad shoulders and easy smile cut a striking figure amidst the revelers. He leans against a pillar, eyes fixed on you with a heat that makes your pulse quicken. Even from here, you can feel the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken challenge in those dark eyes. A smirk pulls at your lips. Tonight is not just about celebrating your sister’s marriage—it is a dance, a game of fire and shadow that you and Harwin have played many times before.

As the feast progresses, the lords and ladies rise from their seats, drawn to the center of the hall where the dancing begins. You stand, gracefully gliding down the steps, the train of your gown trailing like liquid night behind you. Many lords vie for your attention, each more eager than the last to have the honor of a dance with the daughter of the King.

You indulge them—one by one, offering your hand with a practiced smile that promises nothing but amusement. Lord Beesbury twirls you first, his steps light but unremarkable. Lord Tyrell is next, his flattery sweet yet forgettable. Each time the music swells, you shift, gliding seamlessly into the arms of another suitor, all while casting sly glances over your shoulder to see if Harwin is watching.

And he is. His eyes never leave you, following every step, every spin, the set of his jaw tightening each time you turn away just as he moves closer. You can feel his impatience building like a storm, the tension of the game heightening with every dance.

Finally, after what feels like endless teasing, you find yourself caught in a whirl of movement, spinning until you are only steps away from him. Harwin’s expression is a mix of hunger and frustration as he makes his move to claim you at last.

But just as his hand reaches for yours, you slip away, turning instead into the arms of a young knight from the Westerlands, offering him a dazzling smile that is only for show. “My, Ser Harwin, are you growing weary of this dance already?” you tease, your voice lilting as you catch his gaze. You can see the fire in his eyes, a silent vow that he will not let you slip away so easily next time.

When the dance ends, the Westerlander knight bows low, eyes filled with admiration as he releases you. And as you turn, Harwin is there—closer than before, a step ahead of any other. This time, you do not pull away when his hand grasps yours, his grip firm and warm, sending a shiver down your spine. His voice is low, rough with suppressed desire, as he murmurs into your ear. “Do you truly believe you can keep running from me, Y/N?”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a smirk as you meet his gaze fully, violet and brown heat clashing. “Run, Ser Harwin? I am only leading the chase.”

Without giving him the satisfaction of a response, you spin away from him, the hem of your dress sweeping across the floor as you are swallowed back into the crowd. You glance back over your shoulder just long enough to catch the frustration in his expression before disappearing into the throng of lords and ladies once more. Harwin will catch you like he always does—of that you have no doubt. The thrill is in making him work for it.

But for now, the game continues, and you savor every moment of it.

The night is young, and so are you—dragon-blooded and bold, playing with fire and reveling in the heat that comes with it.

The music swells, a lively tune that fills the hall with mirth and energy, but it does little to settle the unease that creeps into King Viserys’ chest. Seated at the high table, he holds a goblet of wine, though he has barely touched it. His gaze drifts from one side of the room to the other, watching the mingling guests, the lords and ladies spinning in intricate dances. Yet his eyes keep returning to the center of the hall, where Rhaenyra and Daemon move together with a fluid grace that borders on impropriety.

His brow furrows as he watches them—his daughter and his brother. The distance between them is too narrow, the smiles exchanged too familiar. Even now, after all these years, Viserys cannot fully discern what lies behind those shared glances. His hand tightens on the armrest of his seat, his knuckles whitening with the effort to maintain composure. The court is watching; he cannot afford to let his concerns show. Not here. Not tonight.

But then, from the corner of his eye, something else catches his attention—a flash of deep plum silk, a braid of silver hair glinting in the candlelight. His eyes shift, narrowing as he tracks the movement, and there you are, his younger daughter, Y/N, weaving through the crowd with that same effortless grace, the very image of your late mother Alyssa in her youth.

Viserys watches as you glide from one partner to the next, a playful smile ever present on your lips. Each lord who steps forward is charmed, entranced even, but there is one figure whose presence never strays far from your orbit—Ser Harwin Strong. The son of his current Hand, a man known for his strength and loyalty, but also for the intensity of his gaze, a gaze that now rests solely on you. 

Viserys leans forward slightly, frowning as he observes the exchange unfolding before him. Harwin moves closer, clearly intent on catching you, and you—ever the playful one—tease him with fleeting glances, spinning just out of his reach each time he draws near. The way your eyes gleam with mischief, the way you turn your back only to glance over your shoulder at him, invites more than just a dance. It’s a game, and one that is all too familiar to Viserys, who remembers his own youth, and the thrill of such pursuits.

But then Harwin catches you. His large hand wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, closer than what is proper for a dance in front of the entire court. Your laughter rings out like silver bells, light and teasing as you push back against him, yet the way Harwin’s hand lingers—fingers splayed possessively against the silk of your gown—does not escape your father’s notice. The look on Harwin’s face is far too unguarded, a mixture of admiration and longing that sends a jolt of concern racing through Viserys.

Viserys’ chest tightens as he watches you lean in, saying something that makes Harwin’s smile sharpen, though the words are lost to the music and laughter that fills the hall. Then, just as quickly as he caught you, you slip away again, your skirts swirling as you twirl out of his grasp, leaving Harwin standing in the middle of the floor with a look of mingled frustration and desire. The scene plays out before Viserys like a vivid memory, like something he should have noticed sooner, something he should have acted upon long before tonight.

His eyes narrow as he follows the thread of events with growing unease. You laugh and dance your way out of the hall, light-footed and swift, and though Harwin remains behind for a few moments, his gaze tracks you with the keen eye of a falcon. Then, as discreetly as he can manage, Harwin moves toward the exit, following you.

Viserys’ grip on his goblet tightens until he fears it might shatter in his hand. He remains rooted to his seat, unwilling to cause a scene, yet the implications churn in his mind like a dark tide. The daughter who bears his blood, a Targaryen of pure lineage, slipping away with the son of his Hand? It is unthinkable—and yet, Viserys cannot ignore the undeniable connection between the two of you. The way you moved in tandem, how easily you played off one another as if you were two parts of a whole. It stirs something in Viserys, a deep-seated dread that this could lead to something more—something he has not prepared for.

His gaze shifts, and he meets the eyes of Lord Lyonel Strong. The Hand is seated farther down the table, looking distinctly uncomfortable, as though he too is aware of the precarious position his son is placing him in. When their eyes lock, Viserys does not miss the brief flash of unease in Lyonel’s expression, followed quickly by a nod of acknowledgment, as if to say he understands what Viserys is thinking. And, undoubtedly, he does.

The memory rushes back, clear as day—months ago, when Lyonel Strong came to him with a proposition a second time. “Your Grace,” Lyonel had said, his voice steady and filled with the gravity of a man who understood the weight of his words, “there are many fine matches to be made for your daughter, Y/N, from prominent houses across the realm. But I would humbly suggest that what my son Harwin offers may be worth more than mere lineage. His devotion to the princess is unwavering, and his love is without question. He would be a husband who honors her above all else, a union built on something deeper than mere alliances.”

At the time, Viserys had dismissed the notion—politely, but firmly. His daughter was a Targaryen, and surely she deserved a match that would strengthen their house politically, not merely satisfy matters of the heart. Yet now, watching the scene unfold before him, Viserys finds himself second-guessing his decision. Could there be merit in such a match after all? Could Lyonel’s words hold more truth than Viserys had been willing to see? But then again, to allow such a thing would be to acknowledge a love affair that has clearly grown far beyond simple courtly affection.

Viserys’ thoughts whirl, torn between the duty of a king and the love of a father. He knows that if he raises the matter now, it could cast a shadow over the entire evening, drawing unwelcome attention to something that should remain hidden, if only for the sake of peace. And yet, can he afford to remain silent, knowing the path that such unchecked desire could lead his daughter down? His gaze flicks back to the entrance where you vanished, and a part of him itches to rise from his seat, to go after you and demand answers.

But he stays rooted in place, forced into inaction by the eyes of the court and the weight of his crown. Instead, his gaze returns to Lyonel, and he sees the older man swallow nervously before looking away, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. The tension between them is palpable, unspoken yet undeniable.

Viserys takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. The decision he makes next could have lasting consequences, for both you and the realm. As the music swells and the laughter of the court continues around him, the king’s mind churns, trapped in a web of duty, love, and fear.

For now, he decides to wait—he will watch, and if Harwin oversteps again, then the matter will be brought to light. But the seed of doubt has already taken root in Viserys’ heart, and it will not be easily dismissed.

The night is long, but Viserys’ thoughts are longer still.

You slip through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, your heart thrumming in your chest as you make your way deeper into its shadowed recesses. The sound of music and laughter fades behind you as you reach a secluded passage, hidden away from the eyes of the court. This path is familiar, a secret shared only between the two of you. You’ve met here before, during stolen moments when the weight of duty and the eyes of others became too much to bear. The flickering torchlight casts long shadows along the stone walls, giving the space an almost dreamlike quality. Yet there is nothing dreamlike about the tension that crackles in the air as you wait, anticipation coiling like a serpent beneath your skin.

Footsteps echo faintly down the passage, the heavy tread unmistakable. A smirk tugs at your lips as you press your back against the cool stone, the thrill of the chase still buzzing in your veins. He always catches you in the end; it’s a part of the game, a part of the dance you both know so well. You hear him approach, his steps purposeful, a hunter closing in on his prey. You hold your breath, relishing the thrill of being caught, knowing what comes next.

And then he’s there—Ser Harwin Strong, towering and fierce, the firelight casting sharp angles across his rugged features. He looks at you with that smoldering gaze, dark and intense, his chest heaving as he closes the distance between you. “You run from me as if you ever wanted to get away,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

You don’t reply with words, only a wicked smile that dares him to come closer. And he does, with a predatory grace, until his body is pressed against yours, trapping you between the stone wall and his broad chest. “Caught you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw while the other grips your waist possessively.

Before you can retort, his lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s all fire and hunger, the pent-up tension of the night spilling over as he devours you with a need that’s impossible to hide. You kiss him back with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his dark curls as you pull him closer, desperate to close the distance that’s been kept between you all night. Every touch, every bite and nip, is laced with the emotions you can’t express openly—a love too dangerous to voice in the light of day, but undeniable in moments like this.

Harwin’s hands roam over your body with a familiarity that sends heat pooling in your core. He tugs at the laces of your gown, his fingers rough but practiced, until the fabric loosens and falls away, exposing the soft skin of your neck and shoulders. You gasp against his lips as he nips at your throat, the scrape of his teeth drawing a moan from your lips. His own garments follow suit—his tunic and belt discarded hastily, the sound of cloth hitting stone echoing faintly in the small space.

The air between you crackles with a desperate need, the kind that’s built up over countless stolen moments, secret touches, and longing glances. There’s no pretense here, no titles or duties—only the raw, unfiltered connection between you. Harwin’s hands slide down your waist, gripping your hips firmly as he lifts you, pressing you harder against the wall. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, gasping as you feel him against you, hard and ready. The anticipation coils tightly in your belly, every nerve alive with want.

His eyes meet yours for a fleeting moment, and in them, you see everything he can’t say aloud—devotion, desire, and the promise that he would burn the world for you if you asked. But words are unnecessary now. You reach down, guiding him until he’s pressed right where you need him most. There’s a brief, charged pause—a moment where everything hangs on the edge—and then he pushes into you in one smooth, powerful motion.

The world tilts, pleasure and need blurring everything else as he sets a rhythm, hard and fast, the way he knows you both like it. It’s familiar and yet never loses its edge—each thrust, each gasp, sending sparks of electricity through you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, biting down on the rough skin to muffle your cries, while his own growls of pleasure vibrate against your ear. His hands grip you tightly, fingers digging into your flesh as he moves, driving into you with a force that leaves you breathless.

But it’s not just the physical pleasure that binds you in this moment. It’s the intimacy, the shared understanding that this is where you both belong—together, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world. Here, you are not a princess, and he is not merely the son of the Hand. Here, you are simply two people who have found something rare and precious, something that defies the rules of the world you live in.

He kisses you again, slower this time, a searing heat beneath the tenderness as he deepens the connection between you. Your bodies move in sync, finding that perfect rhythm that drives you both higher, closer to the edge. You can feel it building, a tightening coil of pleasure that threatens to snap at any moment. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea, and he responds with your name in kind, low and reverent.

The world narrows to just the two of you—the heat of his body, the rough press of stone at your back, the intoxicating scent of sweat and desire. And then, with one final thrust, the tension breaks, pleasure crashing over you like a wave, drowning you in bliss. Harwin follows a heartbeat later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep, his body trembling with the force of his release.

For a long moment, neither of you move, the air thick with the aftermath of your passion. You stay entwined, foreheads pressed together as you catch your breath, your heartbeats slowing in tandem. His hands are still on you, holding you as if he’s afraid you might slip away even now. And for a moment, the world is quiet, all worries and responsibilities forgotten in the haze of sated desire.

But reality is never far away. Slowly, you both come back to yourselves, and he reluctantly pulls back, letting you slide down until your feet touch the ground once more. There’s a flicker of regret in his eyes, a wish that this moment could last longer, but he says nothing as he helps you adjust your gown, his touch gentle now.

You smooth down your skirts, fixing your hair with a practiced ease, though the flush of your skin and the brightness in your eyes would give you away to anyone who looked closely enough. Harwin lingers, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a soft, almost reverent caress. “You always make me chase you,” he murmurs, his voice laced with fondness.“

And you always catch me,” you reply, the smile on your lips tinged with affection. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the chase.”

He chuckles, but there’s a seriousness in his gaze as he cups your face in his hands, holding you still for a moment longer. “One day, I won’t let you run again,” he says quietly, the promise heavy in the air.

You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you lean up to kiss him one last time, slow and lingering, tasting the bittersweet mix of what you have and what you cannot yet fully claim. When you pull away, you give him a final smile before slipping out of the shadows and back into the world where duty and decorum await.

Harwin remains behind, watching you go with a look that holds both longing and resolve. He knows this is far from over.