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milksnake-tea · 7 days ago

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━━ to walk amongst the living .

Jade's last words continue to haunt Sunday as he is cast from the heaven of Penacony and goes from a Family Head to a mere traveler. On his journey to fully understand the struggles of mortals, he ends up becoming companions with you, a fellow wanderer.

sunday x gn!reader

contains: post 2.3, written before 2.7, sunday is hinted to have asthma, sunday is trying his best but bro hasn't touched grass in years so he's struggling, hardcore yearning from sunday

word count: 3.1k

a/n: SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL BARKSI RIYGHGUGHU if hyv doesnt give us any crumbs on what he was doing before he runs into us again. EXPLODES

taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo , @moineauz

“Achoo!“

The cold was starting to get annoying.

Sunday sighed, biting back his frustration as he wiped his nose with a handkerchief and tugged his scarf to better shield his face. It was a good thing he’d decided to bundle up before leaving Penacony; otherwise, he would’ve already died of pneumonia.

The Planet of Dreams and Festivities was the very definition of a paradise. Everything, from the colors, the sounds, and the temperature was carefully maintained to never be too much or too little.

Sunday did not have such privileges here.

He didn’t remember when the last time he saw snow was. Back home, the closest he’d seen to a natural landscape was the Moment of Oasis, where tourists lounged about on the spectacular beaches - and even then, Sunday hadn’t exactly had time to indulge in such luxuries.

His nose was no doubt red from the cold, and his thighs burned from the long hike he’d decided to torture himself with. Wind battered his hood against his face, occasionally blocking his vision or smacking him. Sunday’s wings instinctively shielded him from the incoming snow that somehow made its way past his hood. He grimaced at the feeling of the ice catching and melting on his feathers, already dreading having to clean them out.

Upon reaching a somewhat flat piece of terrain, he gave himself mercy and allowed himself to stop for a break. His halo, his main weapon against frostbite, glowed gently with a heat not unlike a fireplace as he surveyed just how far he’d traveled.

Mountains upon mountains greeted his gaze, all jagged and covered with the same multi-colored snow that was the staple of this planet. He stood among fallen aurora, and down below, he spied a cluster of bright, warm lights that stood apart from the greens, blues, and purples of the snow: the cities, where he’d first arrived here.

Zastrugi was a planet infamous for its harsh conditions, rivaled only by the recently reintroduced Jarilo-VI. Even so, the people here prided themselves on their resilience, and gladly welcomed those seeking a challenge or a death-defying thrill.

In other words, it was a cemetery of the arrogant and the ambitious, and a perfect fit for Sunday’s current goals. After all, what better way to live a mortal’s life than to endure their struggles?

Sunday looked down at himself. His legs were weak, shaking and trembling from the hike, and no doubt were only kept standing due to adrenaline. His chest burned from haggard breaths, cut again and again from each frosty inhale. His head felt light. He wanted to die.

If this wasn’t suffering, he didn’t know what was.

It was invigorating.

Never before had he felt more alive, with the frost biting at his cheeks and the pain that ransacked his body. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, fighting yet strong and resilient and surviving. A soft smile graced his pale lips as his breath fogged in the air.

How strange, he mused. To find such joy in his own suffering… Was he always this twisted?

“I was wondering when you’d catch up.”

Sunday turned to see you sitting on a rock nearby, snow brushed off of stone so that you could sit without wetting your pants. One of your legs is propped up as you look out at the view, your bored expression proof enough that you’d been sitting there for a while.

You were a fellow traveler he’d met sometime on his travels. Sunday still groaned whenever he remembered your first encounter; he’d gotten swept up in a sudden storm and remembered too late that 1.) he didn’t know how to swim and 2.) his wings were not waterproof. Had you not dove into the raging tide and pulled him out, he would’ve drowned for sure.

Ever since then, you’d accompanied him on his travels - or, rather, he accompanied you on yours. Sunday, with what little he knew of the world outside of Penacony, knew not what his destination was, nor where he should head off to. Your goal was a little more simple - you wanted to see all that was beautiful in the universe.

Even if that meant climbing to the tops of unreasonably steep mountains or camping out in unbearingly hot deserts.

Thankfully, you weren’t opposed to his offer (begging) to join you - on the contrary, you were thankful that he had been the one to say it because in your words, you didn’t know if he would survive if you left him alone by his lonesome.

He still didn’t know what to make of that. For his own pride, he chose to ignore it for the time being.

“Were you waiting long?” he asked, gloved fingers holding the edge of his hood as to keep both it and the snow out of his face. You shook your head, your own hooded cloak flapping in the wind as you looked back out at the view.

“Not as long as I might’ve in the past,” you joked lightly. Sunday breathed a laugh.

Back when he’d first walked alongside you, he’d fought a long and hard battle with his own stamina. It was embarrassing when he thought back on it, how many times he’d have to ask you to stop for a break or even had to be carried by you to the nearest rest stop. Sometimes he wondered why you kept him around, but of course, he never asked.

But he’d grown stronger and more resilient since then, at least, he hoped he did - if not for you, then for his pride.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Your voice was rather wistful as you spoke, a little breathless and hushed, yet clear in the crisp, scarce air. “What do you think? Was it worth it?”

“I’m not so sure,” Sunday tried for a joke of his own - although, he wasn’t all joking. No matter how much he traveled, he could never get used to the feeling of his own breath scraping against his lungs as he heaved for air.

You, intuitive as ever, sighed knowingly. “Sit down. You look as if you’re going to pass out.”

Brushing aside some snow on the rock, you shifted over to make room for him. Gratefully, Sunday fought demons in order to stop his trembling legs from collapsing in from under him as he lowered himself onto the rock. That would’ve been mortifying.

His breath fogged in the air as he sighed, thankful for some rest. Around him, the snowfall was gentle and slow, and as the moonlight from Zastrugi’s two moons caught on each individual flake, ribbons of light came and passed like wisps of smoke.

An echoing click of metal caught his attention. He looked to his side and was greeted with a cloud of steam warming his face. In your hand was a small metal thermos that held what he assumed is either tea or hot water. You gestured for him to take it.

“Drink; you need to warm up before we continue. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you died of hypothermia.”

Sunday breathed his gratitude as he took the thermos. Your fingers brushed slightly, but with the cold, he registered it only after it was gone, and by then it was too late to respond. Still, his heart skipped regardless, and he turned away before he dwaddled too long, thankful for the cold that had already reddened his cheeks.

He blew gently on the liquid within, and took small, carefuly sips as to not burn his tongue (it’d happened before, and it was humiliating). He was delightfully surprised with the subtle floral tastes of white tea, his favorite. It was obvious that it had been sweetened, and the honey added was just enough so that it satisfied his cravings.

But, as Sunday drank away, the tea warming him from the inside, he thought to himself - he never told you he liked white tea specifically, nor did he ever tell you how much sugar he preferred. How did you know?

Had you, every time you’d taken him to a local cafe or restaurant, watched and observed? Had you remembered, from the few times you’d seen him order or make a drink for himself?

His hold on the thermos faltered as fire rushed to his cheeks. In his chest, under all those layers of cloth and cloaks, a dance unfolded, his heart tip-tapping away, a steady rhythm that was both nerve-wrecking and comforting.

Sunday inhaled deeply, wings fluttering ever-so slightly, and pushed his thoughts away to focus on the tea, nearly burning his tongue in the process. You only raised a brow before returning your sight to the distant city. A comfortable silence enveloped the two of you.

As Sunday gazed down upon the scene, a sharp ache in his sides and a stiffness in his legs, he wondered - was this how Robin felt, when she performed from that grand stage of hers. Sure, the aurora couldn’t compare to the lightshow that accompanied his sister’s concerts, but still - there must be some similarities. Here, at the top of this world, he felt light, as if nothing could ever touch him.

“O chosen one, who dared to exceed his bounds. Sever your wings, descend to the mortal realm, and walk their lands. See what this world is truly like.”

Lady Bonajade’s words rang in his head. Instantly a scowl twisted his features.

He’d never liked the IPC, and he wasn’t going to start now - especially not with a snake like her. He could still hear her taunting voice, that indifferent condescention presented as good-natured pity dampening his mood. There wasn’t much that could truly anger him, but it only seemed natural that it was yet another IPC Stoneheart that managed the feat.

But still, she had been right… much to his chagrin. As much as he hated to admit it, he had flown too high from the people he wished to protect. Even the Astral Express - whom he respected far more than Jade - had made it clear: Know your people before you decide what was right for them.

“What’s on your mind?”

Sunday flinched. You peered at him from behind your hood, face gentle yet your brows were furrowed ever so slightly.

“Ah, I apologize.” He lowered the thermos to his lap. “I was… thinking.”

“I know,” you replied. Shifting slightly so that you could lean back on your hands, you stretched your legs out into the snow. “You do that a lot.”

With a kick, you sent the snow flying into an arch off the cliffside, creating another ripple in the aurora.

“Thinking too much in a place like this… seems like a waste, doesn’t it? Try and take a break from your brain, and just- see. Look at where you are.”

Sunday raised an abdominal wing to block the multi-colored snow from falling into his thermos. Shaking the snow off the twilight feathers, he sighed, staring into what remains of the tea.

You clicked your tongue. Snow crunched, and cloth shuffled, before the cap of the thermos blocked his view. Screwing it closed, you took the thermos from him, a twinge of annoyance tugging at Sunday as he mourned the last bits of tea still left in there.

Before Sunday could complain, however, you beat him to it.

“Don’t give me that look,” you teased lightly. “We’re almost to the top - you can finish your tea there.”

The beginnings of a pout tugged his lip, but with a reluctant sigh, Sunday abided. Pushing off of his knees, he brushed himself off.

“Very well,” he relented, but not without fixing you with a flat stare first. If you saw it, you didn’t say anything, for you had already begun your trek to the mountain’s peak.

The higher you climbed, the harsher the snow became. No matter how beautiful something was, Sunday found that he didn’t care if it was pelting him in the face with as much punch as a bullet. His hood became his shield, and he hurried to keep in pace with you.

Because unlike him, who specialized in Imaginary and Quantum manipulation, you were a master of fire. Your footprints lasted longer than his for the mere fact that you seemed to melt through the snow, and as long as Sunday kept close to you, he wouldn’t be at risk into becoming a popsicle.

But that was easier said than done. Again, you were far more traveled than he was, and as such you moved at a much faster pace despite the melting snow’s attempts at slowing you down. Sunday was already dreading the next morning - he’d have to do a full-body stretch for at least half an hour after this was all done if he wanted his legs to be functionable tomorrow.

Every now and then, you would glance back at him, as if making sure he hadn’t been swept up in an avalanche - which, if it weren’t unfortunately a valid concern, would’ve damaged his already ruined ego. And each time, Sunday would meet your gaze, and offer the tiniest of smiles before returning to his suffering.

By the time you had reached the summit, Sunday was well about to pass out. The air was thinner up here, making it hard to breathe, and his exhaustion did not make things easier. But he had done it, and surprisingly, he had kept in pace with you.

He breathed as much as he could, swallowing what little oxygen he could grasp from the top of the world. A wheeze or two ripped through his lungs. Wordlessly, you pressed his inhaler into his hand, a pat on his back to congratulate him. Sunday nodded his thanks.

Once his medication had done its magic and he no longer had to focus on the struggles of breathing properly, he realized that the world had gone silent. Snow no longer pelted at his face, and the aurora had gone dark.

And then he swept his gaze, and saw the clouds below him. Somehow, without noticing, he’d passed through them, and entered an entirely different plane of Zastrugi. Here, there was nothing but sky, and the stars - real, actual stars, not the false ones created by the snow, danced in nebulae above him.

And there was you, your cloak flapping in the wind as you gazed up at the cosmos. With so little light, he could only see your silhouette, but he has the impression that your back is turned towards him.

You are silent, as you always are when you see new sights. In moments like these, it was as if your breath had been stolen, and it is all you could do to absorb the picturesque scene before you, engraving it into your mind to store for all eternity.

Once, Sunday had expected you to take photos of your journeys, as a memento. But you never did. No, rather, you would stand there, memorizing every little detail, and then return to your temporary home to paint it instead.

And he swore, those paintings were almost always more magnificent than the places they were based on.

Sunday took one last look towards the everlasting cosmos before coming up to your side. Rather than the sky, the image he drank in was you. Your expression was soft, yet awe-struck, much like a child seeing the world for the first time. There was always a sort of melancholy in your eyes, but also a love for everything that he could drown in if you allowed him to.

You loved the world, and it was that love that he adored.

You turned to him, noticing his gaze, and for a moment, it was if time itself had stopped. His breath caught in his throat, and words died on his tongue. All he could do was look into your star-speckled gaze, all the colors of the universe casting their light onto the two of you.

What expression was he wearing, he wondered? A smile, or perhaps… something else?

But then you raised your hand, brushing it against his cheek ever so slightly, and all of those thoughts disappeared.

A smile wove onto your lips. “You had some snow left on you.”

Sunday tried not to miss your hand as it left him. His fingers trace what you had left, his gaze becoming lidded.

“Ah,” he breathed.

The corner of yours eyes crinkle, and you turned to the cliffside. Leaning over slightly, you peered over the edge, the clouds obscuring the true height of the fall. Sunday blinked.

“What are you planning…” he sighed, crossing his arms. You chuckled, turning slightly to meet his eyes.

“One way or another, we have to get down,” you pointed out. Sunday’s expression fell flat.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Your feet toed the edge, sending rocks and snow tumbling down. “You said you wanted to experience life as a mortal to the fullest, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t aware that included throwing oneself off a mountain.”

You shook your head, a grin surfacing. “You’re no fun, Sunday. Don’t you have those wings of yours? What do you have to worry about?”

Sunday’s answer was immediate. “You.”

“How sweet of you,” you commented as he came to besides you. “Well, then, you’ll just have to catch me, won’t you?”

Sunday squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “[Name], I swear upon all that is good in this world-”

He opened his eyes. You were already gone.

Sunday swore.

Midnight unfolded behind his back, clashing with his white cloak. Without so much as a second thought, he dove into the clouds headfirst, shooting through the sky like a meteor as he searched for you.

The second the fog of the clouds leave, however, he was thrust into a world of color. He fell alongside the snow, and unlike when he was on the mountain itself, he became a part of the aurora. The colors nearly blinded him, if not for the fact that he had his sights set on one thing - your falling figure, so close yet so far.

He tucked his wings as to fall faster. The second he reached you, he grabbed you, arms locking around your waist and pulling you into him, where it was safe.

“You’re a fool,” he scolded as your chest met his. You laughed, throwing your head back to return to the aurora.

“And yet, you saved me all the less.”

Sunday rolled his eyes as your legs wrapped around his waist. His wings returned to their full wingspan, catching the wind and ensuring that your fall didn’t end in a tragedy. He swerved and turned and glided, dodging peaks and keeping his sights on the city.

And all the same, you laughed, nothing short of pure glee in your voice.

And he sighed, fondness squeezing him regardless.

Yes, you were a fool.

But you were a fool he couldn’t help but love.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

#—stellaronhvnters.#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr sunday #sunday x reader #hsr sunday x reader #honkai star rail sunday #honkai star rail sunday x reader #sunday hsr x reader #sunday #x reader #reader insert #y/n #archives 🏵️

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pr1ncessjo · 3 months ago

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Jo. You asked I deliver 🤍🤍🤍

What about first kiss with wade that turns into first EVERYTHING. basically everything sexual lmaooooo. 🥹🥹🥹🥹

MDNI 18+ content ; shy/innocent fem!reader, corruption kink, fingering, lots of pet names, i'm ovulating can you tell?

tysm for the request angel !!! this is part one bc i got kinda stuck lol :P part two soon <333

losing your innocence to wade pt. 1

as much as wade teases and makes lewd jokes, he practiced an astonishing amount of patience when it came to your lack of sexual experience. he respected your boundaries (to some extent). of course, there was the occasional peek at your ass or 'accidental' boner while you cuddled on the couch. he couldn't help it. you were the most enticing thing to him and it drove him fucking mad. he was so used to immediate sex after (or during) the first date, but you really have thrown him for a loop. just as he's about to get close to you, you stop him.

"not yet..." you'll whisper with a little sheepish giggle. if it was any other girl, this would piss him the fuck off. the blue balls alone had him fighting internal demons. but that's the thing. you weren't just 'some girl'. there was something about this whole dynamic that kept wade insatiably hooked. he got to look at everything he couldn't touch and for some fucked up reason he was obsessed with how painful it was.

lucky for him, tonight he gets to look and touch.

you and him were currently snuggled up on the couch watching a random movie neither of you were really into. he had just got back from a mission, suit a little tattered and adrenaline through the roof.

"um, wade?" you ask shakily, pausing the movie and sitting up to face him.

he mirrors your posture so that you know you have his full attention. "somethin' wrong, sweets?" a gloved hand goes to your thigh, soothingly rubbing the skin your sleep shorts didn't cover.

you were trying to find the right words, opening your mouth to speak and closing it several times before huffing, clearly frustrated with yourself. little did he know, you were just has horny has he constantly was. you were simply better at hiding it. but not tonight. you physically couldn't wait any longer. albeit dramatic, you throw yourself at wade, straddling his lap and kissing him above the mask.

he doesn't deny you, but he's definitely shocked. "woah, woah, hey..." his hands find the sides of your face, leaning back as he catches his breath.

for a moment, you take his surprised state personally, feeling stupid and embarrassed. "sorry, that was stupid. i-" stumbling, you start to get off of him, but he firmly plants your hips back down on top of him.

"ah, ah, ah," he tuts, "where d'you think you're going, baby?" he peals his mask up just above the tip of his nose so you can see his mouth. "just thought your first kiss should be with an actual mouth."

you giggle, getting comfortable on his lap again. "oh yeah, right."

"alright, baby, take two. lights...camera..." he whispers, cupping your face and pulling you into a heated kiss, not caring to finish his sentence.

you're not sure what takes over, but your hips start to rock against him. the rough material of his suit against your skin feels so good. judging by the erection you start to feel beneath you, he's feeling good too.

"ohhhh, i see," wade muses, noticing how you desperately chase the friction between you two, "you wanna try me on for size, pumpkin?" he asks, but it's clearly rhetorical because he doesn't wait for a response, gripping your hips and rocking you back and forth against his bulge.

"shit, wade..." you mumble, as the bunched up fabric of his suit hits your clit just right. the sensation was new, but you were hooked, wanting-craving more.

"just wait, baby. haven't even gotten to the main course." he teases, pealing his mask back down before picking you up and walking to your bedroom. his brash action elicits a squeal from you as he quickly kicks the door open and places you gently on the bed. this is new for him, the whole 'slow and gentle thing', but there is something so undeniably hot about how you watch his every move wide-eyed and innocent. he can see your chest rise and fall as he crawls on the bed, resting on his knees between your legs. "mind if i pop the hood, see what i'm workin' with, doll-face?"

eagerly, you nod, chewing your lip with anticipation. with your approval, he doesn't waste a goddamn second, tugging down your shorts to reveal a lacy pair of black panties. if that wasn't enough to get him going, the burgundy little bow in the center definitely is.

"black and red...like your suit." you whisper out shyly, praying he doesn't think it's too much.

"jesus h. christ, baby, i'm hard as a fuckin' rock." he says bluntly, toying with the fabric, "look at you-fuck, look at you...." he starts to thumb your clit over the fabric, your arousal dampening the area more and more by the second. "ah, dry cleaning bill is gonna be a nightmare, but fuck it." he says, more to himself than you, as his pulls your panties down and circles your weeping entrance with his gloved finger.

"oh-" your hips jerk at the new feeling, back lifting off the bed as his digit sinks inside you.

"so tight, sweet thing." he clicks his tongue, trying to stretch you out with another finger, "can't believe i'm the lucky bastard that gets to do this to you for the first time..." wade shakes his head to himself with a chuckle, curling two fingers inside of you.

his skillful prodding has you soaked, biting your lip as you gazed at him flushed. you needed more and quickly.

wade notes your impatience, pulling his fingers out and examining how your arousal dripped down his glove onto the sheets, "huh, well would'ya look at that, pumpkin....someone's excited."

taglist 𓉸ྀི @maneskinwh0re (lmk if you'd like to be added !!)

#©pr1ncessjo #wade wilson #deadpool #deadpool smut #deadpool x reader #deadpool 3 #wade wilson x reader #wade wilson smut #deadpool 3 smut

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bunny584 · 11 months ago

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OBSESSED: GOJO

A/N: Satoru is neither patient nor kind. Pity the poor soul that crosses him. So, don’t cross him 🤭 (ok ok I swear the Yuuta one is up next, Satoru was just being demanding, per usual).

C/W: This man is his own content warning LOL. Mature, 18+

“So. Damn. Pretty”

Satoru snaps a photo of you bent over, contemplating the pastries. Another one to add to the infinite album of his only muse.

You’re wearing his favorite pair of yoga pants. And his eyes ride your curves without any brakes in sight.

The pants are suctioned to your rounded hips from your hot Pilates class. Your precious little cunt is so puffy from all the heat and sweat, well outlined like a perfectly packaged gourmet dessert.

You never wear underwear with them. And always try to skirt by him when you come home after your workout. Self conscious about how he always tosses you on the kitchen counter and laps you up until you’re screaming his name like a prayer. Eventually squirting all over the Italian marble.

Satoruuu. You couldn’t have waited until after I showered?

You always blush and whine and avoid his gaze. Hands squeezing down on your thighs, trying to hide how they tremble for him.

His adorable, sweet girl.

He leans back against the window of the coffee shop. What’s a couple more minutes of eye-fucking?

Satoru places his rounded black glasses in his back pocket and pops a dark chocolate Hershey kiss in his mouth. What he really wants is your pussy melting on his tongue but chocolate will do for now.

“He’s so hot.” The shrill, irritating, buzz from the airheads next to him shear through his daydream about you.

“Hey, Blue eyes!”

“Sorry sweetheart. I’m spoken for.”

Satoru flashes one of his empty, razor sharp grins. Which means it’s the end of the conversation for him, but the start of a lifelong infatuation for the other party.

Eyes back on you.

He pierces through you. 3 of the 7 cardinal sins wage war against each other within him.

The barista is looking at you how he looks at you and well…

That simply won’t do.

He approaches you like a lion stalking its prey. Satoru towers over you in less than a second. And you don’t notice.

He finds it so troublesome.

You are oblivious and tiny and smiley and vulnerable and so damn trusting. If the Heavens spoke they’d sing your praises. His beautiful, sacred girl.

Men are vile.

With horrible, depraved, nefarious intentions. They see a girl like you and want to violate. And take. And ruin. And push you to your knees. Pin your head against a wall. Shove his cock through the back of your throat until you’re choking and gurgling his name. Pathetic, pretty pleas for mercy. Hot salty crystalline showers raining from your baby doll eyes — it always makes him rock hard. The way you cry when you’re overstimulated.

Fuck.

Wait. What was he thinking about again?

Right. Protecting you. From scumbags like this fucking barista who won’t stop undressing you with his beady eyes.

He can make those eyes go away. Real quick.

You’re up next to order. Satoru snakes his hand around the back of your neck. You startle back into him, just like a wild doe.

“Sato—“

He kisses the rest of his name off your lips. Tonguing every corner of your sweet mouth. Sucking on your warm muscle. He smirks against your feeble attempts to pull away. Gorgeous face flushed cotton candy pink. So shy. So embarrassed. He can feel himself stiffen in his pants.

“S—sat…”

“I’ve missed you, princess.” He pulls away and you’re gasping for air. Sexy little pants. He could fuck you in the middle of the shop right now.

And he will.

“Hi Satoru,” you purr his name and his dick twitches, “you’re being dramatic. It was one night.”

You toss a glance at the barista apologetically. And Satoru decides he definitely has to end him.

“Can I have a small vanilla latte please?”

God. Your voice alone grabs him by the fucking balls.

You longingly look back at the pastries, and furrow your brows. As if your figure isn’t goddamn perfect. You don’t need those silly pilates classes. Satoru could work you out on his cock every day. Would be more than sufficient enough.

“She’ll also take the biggest slice of berry cake you have.” He follows, shamelessly gripping your ass in his large palm.

You muffle a falsetto whine. But Satoru knows that sound. You act so sheepish and innocent. But there’s a pool of lust between your legs right now and he can’t wait another fucking second to sink into it.

“Good choice.” The idiot smiles and Satoru could rip his trachea out then and there.

“And I’ll have an Americano. 2 extra shots of espresso.” He barks his order before kissing you on the forehead.

“Baby, go get us that back booth in the corner. Yeah?”

You give him a tiny smile that dismantles him. So he grips the back of your head for another bruising kiss before sending you off. He lingers on you walking away from the counter. Brazenly taking another photo of you. Completely ignoring the growing line of patrons behind him.

Satoru turns back to the barista, and he watches the blood drain from his face.

His favorite.

A hunter and the hunted.

“Pretty, right?” Satoru muses casually, reaching for the wallet in his back pocket.

“Uh, y-yeah man. S-she..”

“Probably want to fuck her, don’t you?”

Satoru flashes a toothy grin, pulling out a couple hundred dollar bills. He doesn’t carry anything smaller than that.

“W-what? No. No man. I was just. I was being polite.”

Satoru motions for the barista to lean in to hear his next words. He has no choice but to oblige.

“Well, I am going to fuck her. Senseless. In that back booth over there. And if you so much as look in our direction. Or look at her ever again, I’ll rip your throat out and feed it to stray dogs.”

Satoru palms Barista’s cheek two times before stuffing the hundreds into his shirt pocket.

“Keep the change.” Another grin as bright as the sun before sauntering over to the booth with your treats.

“Mmmm, gimme gimme.” You paw at the caffeine and cake, less guilty that you didn’t order the sweet treat for yourself.

He purposefully places them out of your reach.

“Hey! Why—“ Satoru’s large hand encases your neck and pushes your head against the plush booth.

The way you gaze up at him. Wide-eyed. A pretty little deer in his headlights. Oh he loves that about you. How he can read your book front to back with his eyes closed.

His cock can’t stop beating. Against his zipper. Against his thigh. It needs the nourishment between your legs.

Satoru wires his tongue back in your mouth. He bites down on your perfect lips, knowing it’ll get red and flushed and swollen. Just how he likes it when you’re sucking the cum out of him. He can’t feed you his cock here, not yet. But you can sit on it.

You struggle to keep up with his pace. Little moans, little gasps, little “ohs”.

He reluctantly pulls away. Still close enough to your face that the tip of his nose grazes yours. Satoru stares at you. Unblinking. With a quiet smile on his face. He knows what his intensity does to you and he can’t get enough of it.

You squirm. Eyelashes fluttering. Looking in every which direction except into his eyes.

“Look at me baby.” He strums your chin.

“Y-yes daddy.” You whine. So obedient. So pliant.

He much prefers you like this. Not like last night. Out with your friends. Without him. Not letting him pick you up or bring you home. He fucking hates that.

But this. This is perfect.

Satoru stands to his full height. He shrugs out of his black leather jacket before sitting in the booth next to you. Not once breaking his gaze.

You need to be disciplined.

And there’s nothing Satoru loves more than to discipline you with his dick.

“On my lap, little one.”

You eagerly nod and nestle into his legs. His length digging into your clothed flower. He can already feel the heat emanating from your petals.

He drapes his jacket over your lap. Concealing how your bodies are about to mesh.

“I’m going to fuck you, right here, baby.”

“S-satoru, h-here?” He loves when you sound so desperate and nervous. Satoru answers your question with a nip and lick on your earlobe.

“Pull them down.” He husks in your ear.

But Satoru is an impatient man. Your tiny hands take a millesecond too long so he drags your pants to your thighs himself. At the same time unzipping his pants just enough to pull his blushing, leaking lead pipe length.

He’s too big for you. For your petite, doll-like frame. And whenever he rocks you down to his base there’s a Satoru-shaped bludge at the center of your feminine torso.

It makes him want to lock you in his room, forever.

“Oh, oh my god.”

You try to pant quietly when Satoru slides all 10 of his thick, almost inhuman inches into you. And your warm, drenched walls clamp down around him. Like it’s the first time he’s invaded you.

He groans into your shoulder blades. Tilting and rocking you in long, languid movements. Purposeful. He wants you needy. Subservient. Under his spell.

“I missed you last night, baby.” Satoru starts his mind fucking.

“M-missed you…”

“I can’t protect you when you’re not by my side, sweet girl.” He suspends his hips and starts small, saccharine bounces. Making your head bobble like it’s connected to your body by a string.

“Men want to hurt you baby. Take advantage of you.” He continues his rhythm.

You grip the sides of the table. Your cunt creaming all over his length. Clipped, falsetto gasps and whines tumbling from your open mouth.

Satoru’s lips graze the shell of your ear and you evanesce into him.

“You need me. Don’t you pretty? To keep you safe.” His lips trail down your jaw. Nibbling little marks. His territory.

“Y-yes, daddy. I need you.”

Satisfied, Satoru lowers himself back down on the booth. Still violating your womanhood with his length.

So fucking pretty. You struggling to catch your breath and squirming all over his cock. Staining his pants with your arousal.

Satoru pets your head. That’s better. All better.

Just like how he likes you.

2K notes · View notes

queers-gambit · 4 months ago

Text

The Black Dread part one

prompt: after word is sent for Dragonseeds to raise up, you shockingly claim The Black Dread. knowing your stance would all but determine the war, both Alicent and Rhaenyra send emissaries to persuade your allegiance through means of marriage. when tragedy strikes, you fly to war. -> in this part - you claim Balerion and emissaries are sent.

pairing: Jacaerys 'Jace' Velaryon x female!Tyrell!reader pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female!Tyrell!reader -> hair color specified reader -> technically Targaryen!reader -> ALL characters aged 18+

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

series masterlist: The Black Dread > > > next part, part two: read here

word count: 4.9k+

note: ALL characters are aged up - they are NOT minors

warnings: hair color specified reader but it's paramount to the story. Dance of the Dragons AU, Balerion lives AU - kinda heavy introduction. political manipulation, i guess no Baela, Rhaena or Alys romantic interests, ALL characters are aged 18 or older, Muses aren't in this part much, stolen Olenna Tyrell quote(s), Dylan Thomas quote.

though Balerion is not shown in the shows [HOTD or GOT], these are some of author's personal favorite fan art pieces: this this one, but maybe this color

Considering the climate, environment, elements, and location of each region with no true diverse distinction or transition between seasons, summers varied in each corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Notably, the mainland experienced vastly different summers in comparison to the constantly humid Westerosi islands.

This was expected.

Where the weather endured in King’s Landing is dry and stale - lacking cloud coverage, baking all forms of life under the unforgiving sun - Dorne was ideal: temperate, tropical, the temperature usually consistently comfortable.

Northwest of the continent, off the Westerlands coast in water of Ironman's Bay so dark, secrets remain hidden, summers on the ratified Iron Islands were cold due to the winds blowing from the North. The rocky region wet and slippery from rain; never humid, usually biting.

The Reach boasted pleasant summers; lush and green with fully bloomed gardens, perfectly balmy. The Stormlands lived up to its name and was plagued with frequent storms. These were usually warm rains - opposite the Iron Islands. The Crownland's annually hosted hordes of tourists at their ever popular summer attraction: temperate beaches. And why wouldn't they? The Crownlands's usually kept moderate temperatures and plenty of vast coastline to offer reprieve in the surf.

However, the only exception to sweltering, stereotypical climate that ransacks the Realm is the North - an expansive outlier. You see, in the North, summers are cold but winters are REALLY cold. From Bear Island to White Harbor, the dreary, overcast summer sky reflects on year-round, bright, pristine summer snow, making it glitter and blindingly glow. This results in the curation of a blue-grey filter naturally exclusive in the North.

However, tonight - You weren't ankle-deep in North summer snows. You weren't wheezing in King's Landing. You weren't vacationing in Dorne. You weren't sloshing through the Stormlands.

Tonight, you weren't on the mainland.

Tonight, you were on Dragonstone - ancestral home of your distant, estranged family.

Bullfrogs belted their croaky song, loud and incessant; as if trying to individually greet each twinkling star in the inky sky - the ever faithful audience; intrigued by this reckless and dangerous suicidal showdown you embarked on. Crickets chirped in a soprano choir; dotting around the maze of tide pools - cratered by the same porous, jagged, volcanic rock that defines the unpredictable, natural coastline. Frothing alto waves of dark navy, violent, salty sea brutally crashed against rock - the booming baseline of the frog's and cricket's private duet sang in perfect harmony.

All that was missing was a little red crab with a Jamaican accent encouraging you "kiss the girl".

Night had fallen. The winds were cold as a storm rumbled overhead. Rain fell sideways. Lightning streaked the skies.

You navigated through the dark - a slippery, dangerous feat.

Few windows of the castle gave a subtle, dim light; indicating the residents were more than likely turned in for the night. Still, despite the lack of patrolling guards and other witnesses, you remained in stealth mode. Only fools allowed themselves to feel cocky when their guards go down. When someone allowed their defenses to go down, mistakes are made, capture is imminent, the mission is a failure, and surrender to the enemy's mercy is forced.

Your presence on Dragonstone wasn't for romance - no girls (or boys) for you to kiss. This wasn't a social visit to recreationally mingle with the Velaryon Prince or Targaryen Princess Twins. You're not conducting research curriculum - no time to study flora, fauna, volcanic activity.

To the winged terrors, Dragonstone Island is a recognizable safe haven that promotes healing - the one place these miraculous beasts could relax, ease their defenses; be vulnerable with lowered guards. This sense of safety gives freedom away from the confines of Dragon Riders - simply allowed to be true, authentic, and animalistic.

Currently, a couple dragons sought refuge on the island, nesting, minding their own business; others sought rest, retirement, peaceful isolation. Several took advantage of the heat and loitered around the volcano, the Dragonmont.

They weren't just any dragons, some were rogue, wild; some released after captivity; all unclaimed, riderless. This tempted several persons to rely on arrogant luck and try their hand at harnessing the terrible beasties - but they never returned.

Summer days stretched long, giving limited time to move under the cover of darkness, and the nights progressively shortened each day leading up to the solstice. Your journey was miraculous, having never navigated open water before yet somehow arriving at Dragonstone after setting sail from King's Landing by yourself. Perhaps you had a hidden talent, a subconscious sailor mentality; maybe you were just lucky, or maybe your boiling emotions made you defiantly determined - running on pure spite to stay alive, unharmed, and without capsizing in an effort to complete your mission.

Most of the time, you relied more on logic than emotion, something that helped keep you balanced, grateful, rational. Leading with logic arguably "made" someone intelligent; solution oriented, stubborn, hardheaded, unwilling to compromise (a common foundation when leading with emotion).

Yet logic made you very black and white - no grey area. Logic is cut and dry. Logic is sometimes sophisticated. Logic is also stubborn. Logic abandoned empathy. Logic could be explained. Logic identified applicable reasonings and explanations. Logic is hard to argue against. Logic sustained battles of wit. Logic is sometimes discriminatory. Logic always tells the truth. Logic has limited loopholes.

Logic is fact driven, and when paired with your own rooted moral and religious beliefs, made you subconsciously judgmental.

There's a well-known proverb, quote, "it's not the destination, but the journey." Yet some philosophers think the destination is mundane, anticlimactic, boring, sometimes disappointing and unfulfilling while the journey is much more fulfilling. The journey is what's worth; an adventure, where development inflates, where a story worth telling lies.

Logic is the destination. Leading with emotion is the journey.

Leading with emotion develops thoughtful decisions. Emotions sharpen empathetic abilities. Emotions sometimes changes perspectives, broadens horizons. Emotions allow for differences in opinions. Emotions curates safety. Emotions heightens generosity. Emotions expands willingness to help. Emotions softens situations with compassion. Emotions often strides towards peace. Emotions structures harmony. Emotions accepts all. Emotions could be overwhelming. Emotions don't always have one, single, clear victor.

Leading with emotion makes you easily reactive, being why you made a conscious effort to engage logic; keeping yourself in check.

You often never lost your cool; always having a handle on things, but sometimes, it was a challenge. Emotions demand to be felt, and no matter how hard you train yourself and practice relying on logic, you were still human.

Both leading with logic and emotion made you passionate, sometimes synonymous with stubborn. Either way, you ended up here - on Dragonstone - slinking around in the dead of night as if a criminal on the run, trying to avoid the Rogue Prince's nefarious, outlandishly violent City Watch.

You were dedicated to the truth, hence your willingness to embark on this suicide mission. You know it's out there, becoming desperate to find it; never settling, fed the fuck up of mindless gossip the court whispered and hissed about. Enduring years of scrutiny and unfiltered rudeness made you confident, wanting, and energized to justify your claims, prove self-worth, assign relief, terminate turmoil, tension, and assumption.

Yeah, yeah, yeah - but what truth are you dedicated to? Your family's lineage and heritage, your birthrights, your position in society. Your contributing livelihood. They only thought you a young lady boasting the Tyrell surname - a broodmare to sell off. After Queen Rhaenyra proclaimed herself, you became incessant to prove you were so much more than a pretty fragile rose to be set in a vase.

Truth became your Eighth God; being a dedicated, loyal, trusting, worshipping follower. And the truth was, you're a Targaryen as much as a Tyrell, and by all means, had as much of a right to claim a dragon as any of the rest of them.

You refuse to take detours, cut corners, violate, or cheat to obtain your goal(s); arriving at your desired end result with integrity, completing your mission by barreling through obstacles with laser focus - like a predator stalking prey.

Boots slapped and clicked on wet rock, splashing in puddles, splattering mud up your legs to soak into your breeches. Heavy humidity - thick and muggy air - coated lungs and stuck in nostrils, being suffocatingly stuffy; breathing becoming difficult. You could physically feel the condensation in the air - hair adopting a mind of its own; beaded, clammy skin becoming uncomfortably sticky, palms slick with sweat. You missed the dry heat of the capital.

Dark hood of your cloak hid your vibrant hair; the material swishing, swirling airy fog low to the ground around your creeping form, creating an ominous energy. You half expected a ghost to appear at your flank.

The clanking of the night patrol's armor was heard first, alerting you to a diminishing window; sliding into the mouth of one of the dragon caves in time for the White Cloaks to stalk around the castle's perimeter walkway.

Even with thick rock cocooning your form, the rumbling of the nested dragon's slumber was heard; loose pebbles, dust and other debris showered from the cave ceiling. Despite the heat of the Dragonmont, you heard the slow echo of dripping water.

Your choice to come to Dragonstone, was it a logical decision? Or driven by emotions - fed up with the rumors, sneers, disrespect, critical judgement from everyone in King's Landing? ...yes.

Navigating a dragon lair was dangerous, but navigating a dragon lair with ZERO experience was an anticipated disaster. Surely, you must've lost your mind because no mentally stable person would dare step foot in this cave - let alone scale the depths in search of an ancient beast that could (and possibly wound) treat your charred body as a BBQ appetizer. With a gasp, you slipped on the rocks, hissing when the heels of your palms took the brunt end of impact and slit open; tiny pebbles sticking to your open flesh. You whimpered gently, jagged rocks digging into your knees as you cleared your hands and slowly found your feet.

Even with knowledge of your heritage, you hadn't grown around the scaly Targaryen counterparts like any and every other legitimate offspring. You were long divided from that side of your family, missing out on fascinating Valyrian traditional customs. It made you a slightly bitter.

No dragon egg in your crib. No hours-long practice in the Dragon Pit. No reptilian anatomy studies. No personalized leather saddle embellished with a three-headed dragon. No claim to ancestral privilege or birthright. No unique morality, nor holier than thou complex. No generational beast to inherit.

Skin free from the lingering, invasive, embedded stench of dragon hide.

You used to think learning Ancient Valyrian was a redundant waste of time, education, and resources. You were raised in the ancestral keep in the Reach's capital, Highgarden, under your father, Lord Tyrell, and his beloved wife - the Vanished Princess - which made this secret sleuthing harder to rationalize or explain, given no Targaryen ever lived in Highgarden. Never before were dragons hosted in The Reach, and therefor, a Dragon Pit was never erected.

So, you know how when you're a kid and see something at the store that you really want but your parent says no because you already have too much shit? They might've made their point by saying something, like, "Where do you think you're gonna put all that?"

Well, Highgarden is the toy box and you intend on bringing home one of those enormous stuffed animals won at a carnival / festival.

If anyone knew of this plan, they might've sent you to the medical institute the Citadel in Oldtown operates; involuntarily commit you to the structured research program that studies different mental and physical medical phenomenons.

Truth was, this wasn't even your idea. Your grandmother, who definitely either spent time in one of the Citadel's cells or should, encouraged you. Perhaps that should've been a red flag, but it was too late now, her words echoing in your mind ―

Be a dragon.

The gardens you walked through were in fragrant, full bloom; providing a sweet air to combat the foul words you admitted with your arm looped in your grandmother's. You paced evenly through the overgrown foliage, the bees buzzing to drown your words.

"Perhaps, something is wrong with me," you sulked, "because surely, it cannot be this difficult to find a match. It seems I need to lower my standards, I could not attract a decent man if I were covered in honey and he were a fly."

"Perhaps try covering yourself in shit, then," she advised with a knowing smirk.

"Grandmother."

"Well, it's curious, isn't it?" Celia asked.

"What is?"

"All your life, you've always been more Targaryen than Tyrell; fierce, loyal, impulsive, strong, enduring. Yet now, you return nothing more than a rose wilted from King's Landing's stench, moping about failed relations. Have you ever considered that simple men are incapable of supporting the love and marriage of a dragon?"

"Half blooded does not make me a dragon."

"No, but the spirit, wit, intelligence, spunk, ferocity, cunningness, and determination you display proves it." She paused your stroll, secluded canopy shroud by foliage to provide a moment of privacy.

"Not all would think so," you let your eyes roll.

"Who do you speak of?"

"Those who think I am lying about my own Targaryen parentage, citing the color of my hair as evidence. You would think I'm one of the Queen's sons, the way they whisper."

"Do not listen to busy mouths, sweet child, hair cannot be a sole indication of parentage. I know it's easy to cite, but not all descendants of Valyria have silver locks, and should anyone have anything to say, know they are merely bitter and jealous for your hair is the perfect blend of Tyrell auburn and Targaryen silver. A color that is hard to ignore."

"Yet it's not enough to prove myself to them, Grandmother."

Now Celia sounded determined but angry, "You are every bit Tyrell as you are Targaryen. While you might not appear to their biased eye, there's never been denial that you are made in your mother's fire. Pure blooded or not, you're a dragon, my sweet petal."

"So?"

"Oh, for the love of the Gods - so, be a dragon! Dragons do not fret because men don't blink twice at them, they eat those men! Don't beg for approval; maintain your dignity, instill a new opinion, demand respect! Prove your strength, skill, and capabilities - everything the courts would deliberately overlook. Prove everyone wrong, offer contribution to this war, become a valuable asset who would be foolish to send away. Establish your seat at the table and never let anyone talk down on you again," your grandmother snarled with passion. "There's more than one way to prove you have the blood of the dragon."

"Such as? What would you have me do?"

"I hear rumor there remains a host of unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone. The Queen's son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, has called for dragonseeds to try their hand - they need more dragonriders for their war. Claiming your birthright might be the fastest, easiest way to earn the Realm's approval; doubling as undisputed evidence of who you are."

"What a terrifying thought."

"But what a statement it would make," Celia's lips pulled in a smirk, wrinkles deeper, more prominent on sun-soaked, wrinkled skin. "Tyrells might be flowery, we might sigil a rose - but we are resilient and refuse to wilt; even in the heat of dragon fire. The Realm thinks Tyrells are only pretty faces; pretty flowers meant to be seen and never heard, whose sole purpose is to be left on display. Preconceived as uselessly inexperienced during wartimes; criminally green, pure, innocent - judgement that makes them shockingly unprepared for how deep our thorns prick." Both of Celia's hands grabbed yours, squeezing, advising, "Do not go quietly, my petal, make those who doubted you be haunted by their foolish choice to challenge the wrong woman. Let them seep in humiliation and regret their judgement. Allow your successful conquest to be the biggest 'fuck you' to prejudice, the final nail in any coffin of doubt. Toss your wilted rose of fear aside, petal, embrace the fire that burns in your veins; you are Lady Y/N Tyrell of Highgarden, daughter of The Forgotten Princess, and you will not go gentle into that good night. You will be a dragon."

You were ensuring passage by morning light, intent to deliver yourself to Dragonstone.

Parts of the cave glittered with unharvested gems; a lost collection of rarities nobody dared pursue out of fear of the ancient, terrible Valyrian beasties that dwell in those caves. The walls sweat from combined dragon and volcanic heat, tunnels jagged and uneven; zero holes, cracks, or slits the sun could leak through (if it were up); everything terribly dark. At least there was a scattered pile of preprepared torches to light the way. A permanent odor of limestone and fractioned corpses assaulted your sinuses, dried puddles of blood seeped into rock, the scurrying critters who used dragons as hosts echoed with a twinkling charm - the least menacing reminder that you were not alone.

Claimed dragon chambers varied in size; pitstops along the winding pathways that ended at the largest chamber - a dead end. While other chambers were large enough for sometimes several dragons, this final stop could only be described as a jarring, stomach churning, hauntingly pitched ebony abyss of incalculable depth that played tricks on the mind. An abyss. It was like you were staring Death in the face and anxiety was dredged forth from white hot fear.

With a flickering torch alight in a trembling hand, you slowly stalked down the chiseled causeway that ended several lengths into the expansive, bleak nothingness. Pitch black shadows danced; the air felt electric, seemingly vibrating - alive and judgmental.

The glaring cavern besmirched your family name, hauntingly reminding that your disinheritance resulted in your late dragon bloom. The ebony airy sea identifies and heightens fearful insecurity about your estranged family's rejection, their lack of interest and care for your side of the family stinging; their rejection of familial relationships. The darkness predicted your failure, inability, and humiliation.

The cavern challenged your confidence and determination, your staked ownership and proclaimed lineage; labeling your bravery, beliefs and ambition as arrogant. It sneered about your stupidity, weakness, fear, and anxiety; belittled applied effort and desired goals; questioned your true desires and needs; tested your loyalty.

The cavern rejects any and all attempts before you could even try; unraveling your logic, shunning your emotions; proclaims reactive decisions as immature and lacking control, crowning you as dangerously naïve.

The cavern mocked your desperately pathetic need for station and acceptance; revoking and nullifying public (and private) ladyship, dubbing you unladylike - which, in itself, was insulting to your womanhood. Why do men get all the exciting adventure, but when a woman tries, she's crucified for being irresponsible? Smooth ebony waves reflected your maddening, constant effort and want for acknowledged contributions.

To the naked eye, the cavern appeared uninhabited, assuming the habitat was abandoned. The silence was eery; air buzzing with alarm, deceiving humans that attempted to see through the waves of darkness.

To a "true" Targaryen, this was just a sheet of camouflage the fire breathers wield for their privacy.

No wonder the Red Sowing was so... Bloody and devastating.

A growl was heard, something gravely and deep, intimidating and impressive. You frozen, eyes wide as if it would give you night vision, torch flickering, hands starting to shake. Then you saw prominent movement, lungs stalling and heart hammering. Slowly, a large, scaly, stained snout emerged at a sail's pace.

The more the beast stepped into your sight, your mind could only scream one thing - was coming face to face with a dragon logical or emotional? Because whether logical or emotional, this was a dumb fucking idea there was no turning back from.

So, you steeled yourself in position, dewy sweat lining your forehead to soak your hairline.

112 years After Conquest, dragons flew to war at the behest of the Targaryen family over Rhaenyra and her half-brother's claim to Aegon the Conqueror's Iron Throne. Sister-wife, Queen Visenya, rode Vhagar - said to have been the smallest dragon with bronze hide, yet, as rumor had it, still large enough that a horse could ride down her gullet. Sister-wife, Queen Rhaenys, rode Meraxes - who was larger; big enough to swallow horses whole with silver scales and golden eyes.

Then, The Conqueror, King Aegon Targaryen I, rode Balerion - the fiercest and largest, who’s wingspan could shadow entire towns, swords-long teeth assisting his ability to swallow mammoths whole, and who’s scales, wings, and fire were pitch black. Balerion was called the Black Dread and was so powerful, he could melt steel, stone, and fuse sand into glass. He never lost a battle - against human or dragon.

Balerion was also the dragon responsible for the Burning of Harrenhal, largest castle in Westeros.

In the year 2 BC, Aegon began his Conquest and engaged King Harren Hoare the Black in his keep, Harrenhal, who refused the Conqueror and was met with Balerion’s flames. In fire so hot, it melts stone like candles, the entire House Hoare was extinguished when Harren and his sons perished in the largest tower - later named Kingspyre Tower - though it’s said they haunt the Wailing Tower.

Since then, of Aegon's Three Dragons, only Meraxes boasted a single rider, but to be fair, in 10 AC, during the First Dornish War, allegedly, both Queen Rhaenys and Meraxes met their demise. Vhagar knew Prince Baelon Targaryen, Lady Laena Velaryon, and Prince Aemond as riders. Balerion knew Maegor the Cruel, Princess Aerea, and King Viserys, who, in the year 94, retired The Black Dread - thinking the beast was nearing his end. The dragon outlived every single rider.

In the year 129, Viserys died and The Black Dread stared you in the eye; curating a vibrating rumble deep within his chest that made the darkness dance. It'd been decades since anyone dared face this terrible beastie, thinking he wasn't long for this world; the pair of you curious about the other, no moves made yet.

There was no backing down, there was no turning away. This is what you wanted, for Aegon the Conqueror's mount to see you as you are - worthy of your of blood. You refused to be told you did not deserve your lineage, the Targaryen name, you would not endure disrespect any longer! You would earn your place in this Godsforsaken family, earn station in this Godsforsaken world, or die trying...

That night, Balerion took to the skies again, doing several laps in the air, soaring over King's Landing to let the residents of the Realm know - he flew again.

Your father's family hailed from The Reach, specifically Highgarden; colorful, temperate, lush, bountiful, and abundant. Your family oversaw 75% of the country's sole wheat, barley, grain, and corn production, even germinating the country's most grand gardens - which decorated a rather generous estate.

Despite the vast, open lands, there had never been need for a dragonpit before, so, when you landed your mount, he was left exposed on the outskirts of the Keep. Considering he was the largest thing, you know, ever, Balerion seemed content out there - so, you didn't worry.

It was strange, however, to see anyone without white hair on dragonback. Even stranger to the Realm to learn of your accomplishment; adding fuel to several fires.

The Green King Aegon asked lazily, a hand waving in the air, "Who?"

His mother, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, reminded, "She is of Targaryen seed on her mother's side, but was raised under the Tyrells. She sits to inherit all of The Reach, she will be Lady of Highgarden - "

"Until," Grand Maester Orwyle interjected softly, "her young brother, the Young Lord Tyrell, comes of age."

Aegon waved their words off, complaining, "Yes, yes, but why do we caaaaare about some red headed bitch?"

See, where the Targaryens had trademark white locks, the Lannisters had golden strands. The Starks had deep umber brunette color hair, and while both the Tully's and Tyrell's erred more on the reddish side, the Tully's had darker overtones, like an auburn, and the Tyrell's had lighter, coppery-amber waves. North of the Wall, they say "kissed by fire".

"Because Lady Tyrell has laid successful claim to The Black Dread! To Balerion!" Alicent snapped, quickly adding the snarky punctuation, "Your Grace."

"Well, we have Vhagar - "

"With respect, Your Grace, Balerion could give a singular chomp to any living dragon as Vhagar did Arrax and it would prove fatal," Otto Hightower, the King's grandfather and Hand, quickly stepped in to save his daughter from losing her temper.

"Well, she doesn't even speak High Valyrian," Aegon scoffed, rolling his eyes; lip curled, slouched in his chair.

"Neither do you," Aemond quipped in his Father's Tongue.

Otto continued loudly to prevent Aegon's response, "With The Black Dread now officially out of retirement and in play, the only choice we have is risk facing him in open battle, or..." His eyes shifted to Alicent, pausing, sighing and revealing, "Send an emissary to negotiate terms of an alliance."

"Meaning...?" Aegon drawled.

"Meaning a marriage pact, Your Grace," Otto supplied sternly.

"With respect?" Larys Strong spoke up, "But the Crown is lacking in their eligible bachelors for such terms."

"Or perhaps, what of someone outside the family? Marry two strong allies of the Crowns? Alliances henceforth might not have to include Targaryen marriages," Jason Lannister threw in quickly, but every Small Council member denied him just as swift.

It was reminded, "There's Prince Daeron."

"Lady Tyrell is actually the same age as Prince Aemond, I do not think she is looking for a husband so many years younger than her."

"Didn't Prince Aemond already secure the Baratheons through a marriage alliance?"

"Technically," Otto agreed slowly, "but given the circumstances and turning of tides, Lord Borros can be treated with in other ways should we need to offer Aemond for Lady Tyrell's willing support."

"Rhaenyra will send terms, as well," Alicent reminded. "Lady Tyrell is Prince Jacaerys' age, she might consider breaking his engagement, too."

The Small Council continued their plotting. Prince Aemond remained silent. Nobody so much as threw him a glance.

When the Black Queen Rhaenyra was informed of your heroics and your identity was questioned, her uncle-husband, Daemon, informed, "Daughter of the Forgotten Princess."

And Rhaenys affirmed, "My sister's daughter... Do not mistake her lineage for guaranteed alliance; her mother and I are long estranged, she's lived in The Reach her whole life - she does not know us. Nor owes us any loyalty."

"Perhaps she could be persuaded," Corlys wondered. "The Lady Tyrell is unwed, is she not?"

"As far as accounts go, yes," his wife reported.

"Perhaps a marriage alliance?" Corlys glanced around the table.

"To whom would you propose?" Queen Rhaenyra asked, all sat around the Painted Table.

"If I may be so bold...?"

"Please."

"Given your marriage to Daemon and his daughter's are shared with our own daughter, Laena... Is there truly need for a marriage pact between the children?"

Rhaenyra cocked her head, "You mean to... Disengage my son from his intended, and engage him again...? Like a pawn in chess? My son, Heir to the Iron Throne, married to Lady Tyrell?"

"Why do you sound displeased by the prospect, Your Grace?" Corlys wondered. "I hear the Lady Tyrell is most beautiful, and we need the Tyrell's wealth like we need their dragon, Balerion. If used properly, he can melt castles alone, Your Grace; burn towns, extinguish entire bloodlines, torch this country, melt the bloody Wall. No living dragon rivals him in size, in ferocity, in age nor experience. He's been at rest for decades now... Something tells me there's a reason he's come out of his nest."

"An omen," Rhaenyra agreed, straightening her spine.

"Precisely - the portents are cast, Your Grace."

"Lord Corlys makes a point," Daemon chimed in, "if by marriage, we secure The Reach and take back the Iron Throne with little to no carnage. Should the Greens fight, not even Vhagar could stand against Balerion."

"Prince Jacaerys is a handsome match to offer," another lord agreed, "which should help sway Lady Tyrell to our side."

"Which also frees both Lady Baela and Rhaena for other pacts - if need be."

"But if we have had this thought, I promise so has Alicent," Rhaenyra stood from the table, staring at the triangle of King's Landing, Dragonstone, and Highgarden. "Who would they offer? Who do they have, unwed, unpromised?"

"Well," Rhaenys stood to meet her Queen, "if we had the thought of a marriage alliance, and the thought to break off one engagement in favor of another, who is to say the Greens would not consider the same?"

It was quiet, a shiver shooting down the Queen's spine. "Vhagar and Balerion are familiar with one another," she grit her teeth, "and Aemond is the False King's brother. He's an attractive match, too."

"I think it's worth making the Tyrell's an offer," Corlys sat back in his seat. "They will receive us both and decide their allegiance - just as the Baratheons did, just as the rest of the Realm has or must do as well."

"Let it be done - if Prince Jacaerys agrees," Rhaenyra nodded, looking to her son - wanting his consent and participation in his own fate. Jace proudly lifted his chin and puffed his chest, nodding while nobody noted the looks of near relief on Lady Baela and Rhaena's faces. In a moment, they had been engaged to Jace and Luke without their thought, input, nor consent. In another moment, they were single young women with the tantalizing prospect to marry outside the family.

"I consider Her Grace's offer an honor."

> > > next part, part two: read here

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

The Black Dread masterlist

i'm already writing it, but, poll for the end ―

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satellite-evans · 6 months ago

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Pebbles of love

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader

Summary: Benedict and his fiancée spend a romantic day at the beach, finding pebbles that match each other's eye colors <3

Word count: 1k

Warnings: pure fluff

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Benedict Bridgerton had always been a lover of art and beauty, and nothing in the world was more beautiful to him than his fiancée, Y/N. Today, they had planned a rare escape from the hustle and bustle of London society—a trip to the serene coastline, where they could revel in each other’s company without the watchful eyes of the ton.

The journey to the beach had been filled with lively conversation and shared laughter, their carriage rocking gently along the country roads. Benedict stole glances at Y/N as she looked out the window, the sunlight casting a warm glow on her features. Her hair, a cascade of silk, shimmered in the light, and her eyes sparkled with excitement and anticipation.

As they arrived at the beach, the salty sea breeze greeted them, tousling their hair and filling their lungs with the invigorating scent of the ocean. They discarded their shoes and socks, delighting in the sensation of the cool, damp sand beneath their feet. The beach stretched out before them, a pristine canvas of soft, golden sand and scattered pebbles, with the gentle waves lapping at the shore.

Benedict looked at Y/N, her face illuminated by the sunlight, her eyes reflecting the endless blue of the sky above. He marveled at how lucky he was to have found her. She was his muse, his inspiration, the very essence of beauty and grace. Each moment spent with her was a treasure he held close to his heart.

“This place is perfect,” Y/N said, her voice filled with awe. “I’ve always loved the sea.”

Benedict smiled, his heart swelling with love. “I thought you might,” he said. “I wanted to share something special with you, away from everything else.”

Y/N reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “You always know exactly what I need.”

They walked along the shoreline, the rhythmic sound of the waves providing a soothing backdrop to their conversation. They spoke of their dreams, their future together, and the adventures they hoped to share. Benedict felt a sense of peace, a certainty that with Y/N by his side, he could face anything.

“Benedict, look at this one!” Y/N exclaimed, holding up a small, smooth pebble that glistened under the sunlight. It was a pale blue, almost the exact shade of Benedict’s eyes. She smiled, her heart swelling with the simple joy of the moment.

Benedict took the pebble from her hand, inspecting it. “It’s beautiful,” he said, his voice warm and soft. “Almost as beautiful as you.”

Y/N blushed, her cheeks a lovely shade of pink that Benedict found utterly enchanting. “Well, aren't you a charmer,” she said, though her smile betrayed her pleasure at his compliment.

“I try my best,” Benedict replied, slipping the pebble into his pocket. He felt a warmth in his chest, a sense of completeness he had never known before her. “But now I must find one that matches your eyes.”

They continued their leisurely stroll, eyes scanning the ground for the perfect stone. Benedict was determined, his artist’s eye sharp as he examined each pebble they passed. The task was more than just a game; it was a way to connect, to see each other in the world around them.

As they walked, Benedict found himself lost in thought. He remembered their first meeting at one of the many Bridgerton balls, where she had captivated him with her wit and charm. He had been smitten from the moment she smiled at him, her eyes twinkling with mischief. Their courtship had been a whirlwind of stolen glances, secret rendezvous, and whispered confessions of love. Every step of the journey had brought them closer, solidifying the bond they now shared.

Finally, he spotted one—a deep, rich brown, with flecks of gold that caught the light in a way that reminded him of Y/N’s eyes. It was perfect, just like her.

“Here,” he said, presenting his find to her with a flourish. “This one.”

Y/N took the pebble, holding it up to her eyes to compare. “It’s perfect,” she said, her voice soft with emotion. She looked up at Benedict, her heart full. “You really think my eyes look this beautiful?”

Benedict smiled, drawing her close. “No, I don't,” he said. “I think your eyes are far more beautiful, my love."

They spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach, collecting pebbles and shells, laughing and talking, sharing dreams and memories. Every moment felt like a brushstroke on the canvas of their love story, vibrant and full of life. Benedict felt a profound sense of happiness as they played like children, unburdened by societal expectations.

As the sun began to set, they sat together on a large rock, watching the waves. Benedict couldn’t help but reflect on how much his life had changed since meeting Y/N. She had brought color to his world, a sense of purpose and joy he had never thought possible.

“Do you know,” Benedict said, breaking the comfortable silence, “I think this is my favorite place in the world now.”

Y/N leaned her head on his shoulder. “Because of the beach?”

Benedict shook his head, kissing the top of hers. “Because of you,” he said simply. “Wherever you are, that is my favorite place.”

Y/N smiled, closing her eyes and savoring the moment. “And you are mine, Benedict Bridgerton.”

They continued to sit in silence, the sound of the waves mingling with the rhythm of their breaths. Benedict held her a little tighter, feeling the steady beat of her heart against his side. It was in these quiet moments that he felt the depth of his love for her, a love that was as constant and enduring as the ocean before them.

As the last light of the day faded into twilight, they stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the pebbles they had collected lying beside them.

Benedict looked down at Y/N, her face serene in the fading light, and whispered, “You are my greatest masterpiece.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears of happiness. “And you, Benedict, are my heart’s truest desire.”

With that, they sealed their love with a kiss, as timeless and beautiful as the sea before them.

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict x reader #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton x fem!reader #fluff #bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction

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wistfulpoltergeist · 5 months ago

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Municipal Muses Museum invites you to the Art of Dreaming! Dive yourself into the mystic and sensual universe of Aidan Rossetti's paintings!

Today the debut of a young artist Aidan Rossetti started. Nine oil paintings in classic style and vivid refreshing palette will take us on the stormy sea of Tartosa and the peaceful Summer spot of Windenburg.

Aidan Rossetti born on Tartosa. He believes he got his talent from two moms - his artistic biological mother and the mother nature herself.

Portraits of Rossetti's partner and muse Arwin De Winter is 1/3 of the works presented in Municipal Muses Museum.

Among others was presented the mysterious picture of ancient warrior watching the raising sun. The model for this picture was Rossetti's brother Roland Blackmore.

Don't hesitate to visit Municipal Muses Museum today to embrace inspiration and fresh experience!

"The Art of Dreaming" is open from 9 Am to 9 Pm on Sunday, Saturday and Wednesday. Entrance tickets 25§

DOWNLOAD PAINTINGS (Patreon / Free)

More about the paintings under the cut↴

The huntsman's resting

Classic pre-raphaelite portrait of a young man resting on the rock. Rossetti called him a huntsman, but we don't see any weapons around which makes us wonder what is he hunting?

Cold Summer Sun

Rossetti described this portrait as a "Cold Summer Sun". A young man is posing at the beach, the wind is touching his hair and the deep blue sea with the snowy mountains lies behind his back. The sun is glistening on the water, but the atmosphere of colours is cold and gives you a chill.

The Portrait of Arwin De Winter (Dark Version)

This is the copy of the portrait of Rossetti's partner Arwin De Winter. As Rosetti refused to sell any original painting of his beloved we can only enjoy a small version of this beautiful art.

The Portrait of Arwin De Winter (Bright Vrsion)

A bright version of the Portrait of Arwin De Winter. How many of these portraits were made you might wonder? According to Rossetti, he pictures his beloved whenever he is in a special mood. As you might guess, quite often, and every time this mood is different.

The Sun Has Risen

On this mysterious picture Rossetti shows us a man standing in the shadows, but a vivid ray of sunlight already pouring on his chest. He's looking far ahead in anticipation, ready to action. Whatever he was waiting for is already here.

Silent Resort

"Silent Resort" is one of the earliest Rossetti's paintings. It's soft palette raises feelings of peace with bitter anticipation of loneliness.

Among the trees

"Among the Trees" pictures the vivid summer landscape of Windenburg. Rossetti's warm green colours under the eternally blue skies bring comfort and rest to eyes and soul.

Before the Storm

Rossetti's "Before the Storm" pictures the diversity and richness of Tartosa's tranquil colors. Bright waters seem calm, but there's something disturbing in the skies.

Soldier Island

Following some whim, Aidan Rossetti called this work "Soldier Island". Due to its solitude, hard and sharp ground that gives shelter and protection to lush greenery, or a line of alert-looking trees, standing at attention like a warrior battalion. Life is a battle, Rossetti likes to repeat, but only within it you find the fertile lands and tranquility of mind.

#FurniturefromWistfulCastle #sims 4 paintings #this is the longest post I've ever made :D #sims 4 decor #sims 4 decor paintings #sims 4 decor cc #sims 4 interior cc #sims 4 maxis paintings #the sims 4 #sims 4 #simblr #sims 4 cc #ts4 #ts4cc #ts4 simblr #the sims 4 custom content #thesims4

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meownotgood · 6 months ago

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don't go, not yet. / gale dekarios x gn!reader, fluff, light angst, hurt / comfort, you bring gale back to life with the scroll of true resurrection, and gale gets a glimpse of your true feelings for him. word count: 3.8k

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T'i n'uthrantha m'ahthra Gale.

The letter held between your thumb and forefinger burns with sudden light, growing hot underneath your fingertips. Fire sears a scrawl of new script onto the parchment's surface. In a puff of ash and molten rock, wings closed around itself, the magma mephit disappears. Its wake scorches the grass, stray dustings constricting your throat. You wave a palm in front of your face, forcing yourself to hold in your coughs, your throat constricted and eyes threatening to water.

Newly formed, the Scroll of True Resurrection curls in your palm. It gives off a faint, promising glow. A gleam that almost seems to exude its own sense of vibrant heat. Your jaw clenches, your hands shake. Your fingers press into the wrinkled parchment, and your heartbeat struggles to keep steady. The thick, mushroom-laden air of the Underdark has never felt more stifling.

You take a slow breath — although it does little to calm you, in the grand scheme of things — before you quietly utter the necessary incantation. Instantly, the scroll blazes brightly, then crumbles into stardust. In its place, your palms radiate with the same sort of incandescent power. Beams of pure energy drift skyward, strands of blue encircling you. Magic flows through your veins; it fills your lungs with a soft, familiar scent, a lingering reverie brushing over your arms, like the crisp air of a rustling breeze.

Shudders traverse over your body. You're hardly comforted, but the forming of the spell between your palms, pressed together and then guided up, does finally provide you with the smallest amount of relief.

Your entire system buzzes as you feel the spell's power. Your head grows heavy, magic swiftly leaving your body to flow through another — and over the ringing in your ears, you still manage to hear the moment Gale takes an initial, irrevocable breath.

With a huff, he begins to rise to unsteady feet. Lingering, floaty spell threads seem to make every movement easier. When they dissipate, leaving him to support his own full weight, he wobbles for a moment, a palm pressed to his chest. At last, you let go of the breath you were holding.

Gale blinks, vision returning from darkness, then blurriness. Vitality crashes through him, blissfully effortless; a waterfall of stamina he'd since taken for granted. He stares down at his feet first, at the flattened grass around where he once collapsed, and he tries to keep from growing dizzy. He looks at his hands. The front, then the back. Dirt and blood are caked into his skin — his blood, clearly. Dried, dark red traces cling to the crevices in his palms, they smudge over the ends of his knuckles. Such a grim implication, he muses.

Still catching his breath, those thoughts are forced to the back of his mind. Instead, he's letting a smile break over his features. As if the very action is remarkable, he closes and opens his hands again, he watches the way they move with amazement. He's alive. Gods, he's actually alive. The precautions he put in place worked. He won't condemn himself, or reduce the lonely depths of the Underdark to smithereens; nor will his demise wind up hurting his unlikely band of companions. And you, you're just fine. He kept you safe, he truly did. You brought him back, he'll see you again —

With a spark in his gaze you find almost gleeful, almost adoring, Gale finally looks towards you.

"My word, you did it!" He's gasping, laughing slightly, disbelief reflected on his face as well as in his voice. He briefly wobbles, further getting used to his weight on his heels. Without looking away from you, he absently continues to flex his fingers, feeling the blood rushing back to them, and he forces himself to take a much slower exhale. "Oh, it's good to be alive!"

You're glancing him up and down once, twice, with an expression on your face he can't make sense of — and he doesn't yet try. If you're angry with him, he's sure he deserves it. All he knows is he's glad to see you. Unbelievably glad.

His chest heaves. Breathing feels startingly simple, especially when the last thing he remembers is how viciously he struggled for breath. The sudden thrum of the orb comes back to greet him, constricting him as it always does, whispering a bitter promise into his ears that it is still here. He could've lost you. It's a realization that pains him far worse than the returning demand to devour within him. As warmth returns to his numb limbs, and as he's silently cursing himself for ever being so foolish, he realizes he almost did. He almost let himself disappear.

"My hands are still cold so that handshake will have to wait," Gale swallows, brushing his palms onto his pants to hopefully be rid of the dirt. His tone remains upbeat. For a moment though, his smile seems to waver, in a way only you could manage to pick up. Only you, given how terribly close you and him have quickly become. You're more important to him than you might realize.

"But in the meantime," He murmurs, standing up straight. "Tha-"

Words left unfinished, Gale is interrupted when you wrap your arms around him and pull him into a tight, fierce hug.

You bury your face in his chest, barely noticing the blood smeared onto your cheek from his filthy clothes. You squeeze him tightly. Your hands grab fistfuls of the back of his robe, nails practically digging into him. Your body presses so close to his, it's as though you were both meant to encompass the same shape.

Gale exhales, deeply, steadily, and he relaxes into your touch. Your arms around him feel right. His heart thumps, skipping to a slightly eager, very real rhythm. Silently, you focus on the soothing sound while it echoes through you. It is calming, grounding. His heartbeat becomes a comfort you wish to memorize.

At first, Gale hesitates, melting into your touch and glancing down at you, his hands hovering in the air awkwardly, mere inches away. In the end, slowly but surely, he returns your embrace.

He hugs you with careful arms, and you slump, shoulders untensing. You breathe a sigh, pressing further into him, attempting to hide a muffled sniffle. His clothes linger with the sharp scent of blood, and the heavy undertone of ruin. When his palm settles onto the back of your head — so delicate, like you could be made of porcelain — you swear you can feel him shake. He grips just barely, keeping you close to him. Guilt roots into his chest and his heart as a gnawing ache. Tired eyes fluttering shut, weak arms embracing you with a tenderness more intense than you've ever known, he holds you close enough to interweave you.

Your heart pounds along to the same eager rhythm as his. Gods, there's too many things you need to say to him; but your lips tremble, and you aren't sure where to start. You want to curse at him, vent your frustrations through the anger and sorrow you've since bottled up. You want to cry, but at the same time, you want to scold him for leaving you scared. For standing in front to take one too many blows meant for you.

You need to tell him what you just can't put into words — Hopelessness, you felt utterly hopeless when you first watched Gale crumple and collapse. Your breath grew caught in your lungs. Swirling emotions you've never felt before clawed at your chest, resounding louder the longer you fixated on him: motionless, his blood pooling onto the cold ground. Try as you might, your mind was so muddled, you could barely make sense of anything in your view.

Back then, with messily-cast spells and clumsy swings of your weapon, you finished the fight mostly unscathed. You scrambled over to him, your boots stained from the blood-soaked grass. As Gale's projection appeared in front of you, framed with a shimmering aura of purple light, you tried not to stiffen at the sound of his voice. You focused on his instructions as best you could, despite the tremble in your hands as you searched for the pouch he kept on him, or the clumsiness to your fingers as you pressed them to the holes in the flute.

Some part of you wonders if there was an aspect of humanity to his projection. If it wasn't just a lifeless messenger, but rather, an extension of himself.

Because you swear, when it — when he — spoke to you, his tone was filled with a familiar softness. The same softness Gale would embody when he asked you, Are you alright? after a fearsome confrontation. A confrontation you both got out of, unlike this one. You felt the same fondness radiating from him as the kind he'd have for you in life, when you talked over a nighttime campfire, his eyes seeming to linger on you for much longer than they needed to.

Gale's shimmering projection gave you an earnest smile, and spoke a little softer, a little more careful. Practice will surely make perfect, He hummed, his warm voice reverberating through your head and your eardrums. Do not fret. It is my utmost belief that you will most undoubtedly emerge successful. I will see you once more soon.

Or maybe, you'd already grown to miss his gentle smile, his tender words. You didn't want to imagine a world where you had truly, irreversibly lost him. Perhaps the familiar softness you thought you felt, his projection's lingering humanity — Ultimately, it was merely your imagination.

You've grown to care for him more than you should. You have known this, regardless of your attempts to deny it. Either of you could die at any time, yet becoming close was effortless, almost as if it was meant to happen. Dire circumstances or not, you were meant to collide; it was only a matter of time.

In the midst of turmoil and shadows of death, Gale has been your soft place to land. You aren't sure what to do with everything you feel. You don't know what you'd do if you lost him.

As Gale lets go of a held breath, his arms pulling you in, your mind becomes calm like still water, yet your heart continues to race. This time, his voice is as warm as the sun; unmistakably devoted. He is your sun, an imprint of warmth in a sea of moonlit darkness.

"Ha, I wasn't- uhm," He starts, stammering, speaking in a quiet tone. You lean further into his shoulder, and Gale rubs the back of your head, brushing his palm up and down with slow, barely-there movements. "I wasn't expecting… such a warm welcome, but Gods, is it good to see you. Even better than good, in fact. For a brief moment, I thought-"

Trailing off with a slow, steady exhale, he doesn't allow those words to come into fruition. Instead, he pulls you a little bit closer, and hugs you a little bit tighter.

"Well, I won't dwell on the outcomes yet to befall us. My mistakes have been righted. By someone very important to me, in fact. No sense in letting such regrets continue to drag us down. We have a rather important mission yet to be accomplished." He hums, his voice returning to its usual air of optimism. "Besides, I believe I still have you to thank for doing the honors to drag me back, isn't that right?"

When you pull away, he's smiling, the glow of the nearby Sussur Tree illuminating his face in hues of soft blue. His hair is a mess, stray strands tickling his forehead. Bruises cling to his skin, still slightly pale, and dark circles are set underneath his tired eyes. But he's here. Finally, your head tipped in his direction to glance at him, Gale gets to have a good look at you.

Your shoulders are tense, shuddery. He feels the subtle shake of your body in his arms. Your face is a blessing to see once more, but your cheeks are tear-stained, your brows are furrowed with some mix of frustration and dejection. And as he moves an instinctual hand to cup your face in his palm, you not-so subtly lean into his touch. Your eyes flutter closed, leaving the faintest sorrowful droplet to fall from your lashes.

Oh. Gale's heart pangs in his chest, heavy and forceful. The unforgiving Underdark might have already gone and punished him for his oversights, but clearly, he misstepped far more than he might've imagined.

"Oh, oh no- I didn't-" Gale nervously brushes the tears from your eyes with his thumb, his entire world instantly sent off-kilter. His words ache when they leave his throat, his vision threatens to grow misty. "Don't cry. I've got you, it's alright- I promise you, everything is and will be alright. I'm here. But I… must have brought you an awful heap of worry. If I had paid more attention, if I hadn't squandered so many chances to attain the upper hand-"

As your eyes finally meet his own again, they enthrall him, capturing all of his attention. He half-expects you to crumble. And he would let you, he would keep you in his arms for as long as you'd allow him, holding you tight, with all the conviction of someone who would do anything to keep from vanishing. Nonetheless, you don't. Not any more than you already have.

You push him away and stand up straight, although there's little force behind the press and shove of your palm to his chest. Glancing down, your weary gaze is now kept on your shoes. You count the specks of blood dotting each boot. Hastily, you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, and Gale flinches, your warmth leaving him once you've separated.

"It's fine." You shake your head, and you swallow, willing your dry throat and tired voice to function. "I'm glad to see you're well. We can head back to camp whenever you're ready."

Gale frowns. "No, it is not- and you, you are most definitely not fine. Come here."

When his hand grips your wrist firmly to stop you from walking away, when his arms wrap around you once more, and you're confidently pulled into another embrace, you don't protest. You allow him to hold you, until your arms are weakly returning the hug. Until every blooming skip of your heart battles the fading ache of worry. Until Gale is exhaling, his breath warm on the shell of your ear, the feeling of his arms around you more than comforting. One arm is kept around your waist, while his other palm presses flat to your back. He holds you with an intensity you doubt you'll be able to forget.

Damn him. You'll be craving this. Craving to feel his touch just one more time.

"I'm sorry. I am so very sorry," Gale murmurs; stupid wizard, with his stupidly soft touch and his terribly soft words. His voice has shivers tracing up your spine, your every nerve glowing from the inside out. Of course you shouldn't be this attached to him. If only he didn't make it so damn easy. "You are important to me. Much more than you may know. I assure you, I will do all I can to make things right."

Your eyes close, your shoulders slump, and you let yourself melt against him. The heavy scent of ash lingering on his clothes envelops you each time you breathe in deeply. There's no need to admit how you feel. Somehow, you sense he just knows, because the pure tenderness found in his every touch screams: You'll never have to let me go.

Time becomes a slow, gradual thing. You aren't quite sure how many minutes have passed since he first held you, until Gale speaks, finally bringing you back to the present once more.

"I'm sure you have questions." His voice is quiet, smooth, and effortlessly calming. He brushes his palm over your back, reassuring you. "I know I would, if I ever found myself in your position. After what you've done for me, I suppose it's only fair that I answer anything and everything I am capable of. No more secrets. You, out of everyone, deserve to know."

"Later," You grumble, pressing closer. He breathes a faint laugh, then a slight sigh, and listens intently to your muffled words. "Tell me what you need to later. Or keep it to yourself, if you must. I wasn't worried about whether or not you'd give me answers, Gale. Just about you."

"Were you concerned I wouldn't return?"

"I…" You can't help but hesitate. "I don't know."

At last, you pull away from him, just enough to meet his eyes. His hands grasp your forearms to keep you close. The way he looks at you is gentle enough to nearly pull all of the air from your lungs.

"I wasn't sure, with your condition and all," You're explaining, looking away. He doesn't fail to notice the flash of fear in your eyes. He's never seen you so shaken. "I know you haven't told me much, but I really didn't know what would happen to you. My mind went to the worst possible outcome, and… It was frightening, for a moment. I didn't want to lose you."

Gale takes a slow breath, gripping your arms tightly, until you're finally led to look at him again. "Sweetheart," He coos; the term of endearment tumbles from his lips before he can stop it, tender on his tongue, even more pleasant in your ears. "I do not wish to lose you either."

You pause, your eyes wide, your breath quick. You almost speak again — perhaps about to accidentally admit more than you should, your heart busy strumming the notes of his name — but before you can, Gale is continuing first.

"I won't leave you." He moves a hand to hold your cheek, subtly tilting you towards him. "I'll fight alongside you for as long as I remain standing. We won't perish, nor let ourselves become mindflayers. We will see this journey through- and, we will do so together, no matter what perils come after us. There's no need to worry about me. I do not plan on letting you down."

"Gale-" You breathe in sharply, then slowly. You're offering him a genuine smile, one that makes a feeling he can't pinpoint flutter over him — something holy, surely. You were sculpted for worship. "Thank you."

"You're the one I should be thanking, if we're being honest." His voice becomes a bit softer, as he murmurs, "And I do thank you. If we had the time, I'd thank you a thousand times over. It is good to be back. Truly. Perhaps I haven't shown the extent of my gratitude enough. You were there for me, in a way few ever have. I won't forget that."

He begins to ramble, seeming lost in thought for only a second before he speaks once more: "The Fugue Plane is… depressing, to put it bluntly. It is a stretch of endless gray darkness as far as the eye can see, every shadow drawing in to swallow you whole. There is no warmth, no light. Compared to that fate, finally seeing your face again after you helped my eyes to reopen-" He breathes a quiet, tender-sounding chuckle. "What a beautiful sight indeed."

You're silent, before the extent of his words finally dawns on you, leaving you to stare at him with a grin and an eyebrow raised. "Beautiful?"

Gale holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger. "There's that smile. Beautiful is hardly grand enough a word, but yes. I want to see no shortage of smiles from here on out, understand? As many as such an adventure allows us, in any case." Briefly, he trails off, hesitating temporarily, his expression growing in resolve. "I'm sorry for upsetting you. I'll be better. Do better. I couldn't forgive myself if- if somehow-"

This time, you're the one interrupting him. "Gale?"

"Yes?"

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

It's strange. Right now, your futures are hardly assured. He can promise not to leave you with his entire chest, he can fight to live even as he's slowly dying, and it wouldn't matter, if the universe willed your efforts to save yourselves for naught. Yet, when you speak, when you're the one looking into his eyes, no matter how outlandish it might seem, no matter what is left of the fading hope he's been clinging to — In the end, he can't help but believe you.

Your gaze is brimming with such conviction. He's doomed. He's so, terribly ruined, and it isn't because of the threat of the tadpole, or because of whatever pain is brought on by the rot inside of him. Gale is completely done in, because when he looks at you, he feels longing settle in his chest, a present devotion that overshadows every prayer he's ever called upon, and he knows the only thing he has to fear is eventually falling in love with you.

If loving you is to be his fate, he thinks even in death, he might finally feel alive.

He swallows thickly, his gaze never leaving yours once you've finally pulled apart. He watches you stand up straight and clear your throat, although your expression still softens with a telltale hint of nervousness. You're precious.

"Stay behind me next time," You scold, "There's no way I'm going through those stupidly elaborate instructions again."

"Oh, come on," Gale huffs. He's composed, but his face is flushed. He can feel the warmth pooling in his cheeks and the ends of his ears. The blood is just rushing back to his head, that's all. "You performed them excellently! I'd say you're already a natural at problem-solving and flute-playing. But I promise, next time, I won't fall so easily. You have no reason to fret. There will be no elaborate instructions, no flutes, and no more magma mephits in your future."

"You better not," You're laughing, and his grin only grows wider when you push at his shoulder playfully. "Die on me again, and I might have to bring you back just to kill you myself."

"Ha. I better not draw your ire, then."

Gale watches you turn on your heels, while he's still awkwardly stuck in place like some invisible, adoring force is holding him there. His palm presses to his chest; bizarrely, the orb is silent, but his heart is pounding way too fast. You're turning back before you've gotten far, glancing at him to make sure he's following.

"You coming? Everyone's waiting for us back at camp."

Gale nods. He exhales slowly to clear his head, he catches up with you, and he ushers you forwards with an arm around your lower back. "Of course. Let us continue on. Lead the way."

#gale dekarios x reader #gale x reader #gale dekarios #gale dekarios x tav #gale x tav

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