#so nauseated. truly sick

[macroglossus]

im a simple girl. if i see someone who seems genuinely sweet get their feelings hurt i feel like killing myself

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔗𝔬 𝔗𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔉𝔦𝔯𝔢

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Isolated and weary of your solitary marriage with the prince, you gather enough courage to approach him one night with the declaration that the both of you try to become better acquainted. When you had proposed the idea, you never could have imagined how it would forever alter the dynamic of your union.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: 18+ content. Minor's scram. AFAB descriptions, some female implying terms used such as "wife." Fingering, Oral (F!Receiving), naked female and clothed male, some hints of sub Aemond, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink. Not proofread. Probably very poorly translated High Valyrian, blame the internet, not me. Aemond being a little shit, but also a little soft, just to balance it out. Aemond speaking in High Valyrian because it does unspeakable things to me.

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: 24.8k words. Another unnecessarily long fic because I have no self-control. Reader is a Baratheon. This was honestly just an excuse to write about dragon riding with Aemond. A little bit of Vhagar appreciation because she receives far too much hate.

Life has not been easy as of late. With the threat of war ever-present, looming over the entirety of Westeros like a great storm cloud, thick and heavy with the promise of shrieking winds and a downpour violent enough to rip the foundations of the Seven Kingdoms from the earth and sweep them away in tides of blood. This war could be the end of it all. With dragonflame so readily at the disposal of both opposing sides, there is the possibility of no victors in this battle. All could very well wind up as a victim. Charred corpses to litter the burned lands, scorched black and red from fire and blood like forgotten toys carelessly left discarded and damaged by the children (or the gods) that played with them. 

It is becoming increasingly difficult to nudge it all - the paranoia and worry - back to the distant recesses of your mind. But it clings to you like a stubborn sickness. Making a home in the pit of your stomach like some vile, nauseating thing. It has you hopelessly adrift with no source of salvation to cling to. Especially now that you are in a place that brings you no comfort. Confined within the cold, labyrinthian walls of a castle that you do not truly know beyond the whispers of its name and the faint, watery memory of once dining in the Great Hall as a child while people jovially chattered and feasted on banquet. 

It's all so lost. Being forced to show a polite expression and nod and entertain lords and ladys that hold no true familiarity or warmth to you. Strangers with faces that would smile and stare as though they have known you for years. It is all so restricting. Binding and tight and clinging to your person like the new garments that you have been gifted with upon your arrival to the Red Keep; forced and expected to sport the customary garb and accessories of the Targaryen culture and trends. All wrapped up and pinned up in fine jewelry and embroidered fabrics like a prized broodmare. 

But perhaps then, even "prize mare" is giving yourself far too much praise. Prized pawn is far more fitting of a term. Just some plain, ordinary piece meant to be moved about the board at the whims of the player. Plucked to jump from square to checkered square with little care. You are a simple instrument on a much bigger board; the scope of which, you know is entirely beyond you and your imaginations. 

It makes it all so difficult to not be cross. To push down the anger that prickles at your flesh like hot coals and burns within the chasm of your ribcage. You feel cheated somewhat. Used and played with despite having prepared for this possibility since the moment you had been delivered from the safety of your mother's womb and into the chill of the world. It should be no shock that you have found no comfort. Not in your daily duties and the nugatory responsibilities and diversions you must fill your time with; all of the needlework, entertaining and book reading. It is tedious. Dull. Weak distractions against your harsh reality. That here, so far from home, you are well and truly at your lonesome. Wed to a man who wants little to do with you beyond your expected obligations.  Though you might truly have only yourself to blame for that. Your husband had worn his intentions on his sleeve when he had arrived Storm's End that one tempestuous evening, bearing his true colors to your father and your sisters when he had traded for the Baratheon House's allegiance and loyalty in the exchange for accepting your hand in marriage. He propositioned such terms swiftly. Shockingly so. Sheading little thought to the requirement - it was as easy as breathing for him. All while you stood alongside your sisters, being mindful to keep your spine rigid and head held high while your future was bartered away so easily; swallowing down the unease that stirred in your gut. 

And even with your reservations on the matter, and the buried urge to rush forward and object, you could not help but to study him from your place beside your siblings. You had heard stories of the Targaryen family your entire life. And although you had seen them once before as a young girl, the memories had done little properly illustrate the nearly ethereal grace with which he carried himself with. The first word that had crossed your mind when you first watched him prowl into your family's ancestorial home was simply just:

Stunning. 

For most men you would have used handsome, or dashing. And perhaps those words could be used for the likes of Prince Aemond Targaryen, but there's something about them that does not quite do him the proper justice. He was imposing as soon as he entered the space. Footsteps softly echoing along the stone floors as he approached your father's throne with nothing but pure confidence in his stride. As though you were the guests and not he. And like a moth drawn to a steady open flame your vision had immediately been caught and fastened onto him as though you were placed under spell. 

A simple, harmless fascination, you like to tell yourself. After all, it is not so strange to be captivated by a man who is said to be closer to a god than man; one who rides on the back of a great dragon. And when you first saw him, even with all your uncertainty of his arrival, it was impossible to look away. To try and not to study the countenance of a man you have heard so much about. Tracing the pronounced ridge of his aquiline nose, the keen cut of his jaw, the curved shape of his lips that were set with a slight purse. His features were decidedly sharp, but it suited him well with the assured way he held himself. The scar that marred the left side of his face could do nothing to damage his beauty. A beauty that is so inherently Valyrian. Attributes that mark someone who has blood of the dragon rushing through their veins, smoldering their hair into shades of smoke. And his hair was no different. Spilling down his back like rivulets of pale, silver silk. 

But it was his eye that had caught your attention the most. Even with only one to look, it peered at the world with a focus that was nearly unnerving. Locking onto your father in striking shades of either blue or violet - you could not tell at the time from the distance that had spaced between you. 

And in the moment that you had stood and evaluated him with a sense of wonder and dread, his eye had never flickered over to you. He had hardly spared you a glance. Holding his focus entirely on the Lord before him with the hints of a satisfied smirk nudging at the curled edges of his mouth, even while he held himself so composedly. Like he was truly pleased with the trajectory of the evening. The lack of his attentions on you should have been more than enough to clue you in on the trajectory of your life with the prince. Moreso than the ominous tempest that raged outside the stone walls. Downpours and thunder are no strangers to Storm's End, often ravaging the world beneath with flurries of rain and winds strong enough to lift waves to thrash the against the surface. But that day you had decided that the storm that had blotted out the golden hue of the sun was not simply just a common occurrence, but instead a bad omen. One brought on with the arrival of the prince, set as a warning - a blight on the future of your matrimony that heeded nothing but misery. And you had been right in some regards. 

You knew for certain that as soon as Aemond Targaryen had stepped away from you to stalk after his young nephew with the insistent ravings, flashing a blade with nothing but a crazed scorn in his voice, that you would find no solace within the cradle of your marriage to the prince. And the death of the Velaryon child and his dragon that swiftly followed that night only solidified that assumption. You are married to a mad man. 

One ruled by duty and strategy, but a mad man, nonetheless. 

Even with that in mind you could not help but to long for a connection with the prince. No matter how minuscule or spurious it might be. Your associations with the second born son have been spars at best. Done purely out of obligation at best. Each time you had ever been within each other's presence it had been out of a means to project the image of husband and wife that was expected by the masses and the court. The wedding, the feast you had partaken in, the consummation of your marriage. It was all done with an air of detachment from the prince. He was never rude, or untoward with you, but there was silent boundary that he had sliced between you with his absence and apparent lack of interest in your union. The nights that he would bed you were few and far in between. Done out of the necessity of producing an heir rather than a means to show affection. You could feel it in the clinical way that he touched you. Gentle, firm and somewhat rigid when he would guide you to bend over the foot of the bed with the palm of his hands, lifting up your skirts swiftly as though he is always eager to be done with it and somewhere else. 

You are not a foolish young girl anymore who would listen to your late mother's romantic stories and tales of besotted, star-crossed lovers with a rapt, captivated attention. You now know the nature of marriages. Especially those of highborn society. The expectations of them. They are often done out of the means to strengthen political alliances, not done out of a declaration of love. 

Still, it would be nice to at least know the man that you are set to spend the remainder of your life until the Stranger finally takes you from this mortal realm. The desire for it burned at you, ate at you with teeth that ripped and gnawed at your heart piece by vicious piece until you felt hollow. Not even Queen Alicent, despite her best, though often rare efforts to bring you ease has managed to pull you from the depths of your melancholy.

You wanted more. You were weary of belonging to a stranger. A man who made no attempts for as much simple conversation with you but spent every waking moment strategizing for bloodshed and the success of his house. You knew that if you meant to alter the course of your union with the prince that it is you who must go to him. And the thought of that terrified you greatly. 

You had heard the tales of those who dared to claim dragons that had no desire to be asserted. Those fools' endings were all same. Snapped up between the sharp maws of the great beasts to be swallowed in a gruesome lump of bloodied meat and crushed bone or engulfed in raging flames of bright, molten gold. You had absolutely no desire to become one of those fools. And despite knowing your husband so little, you were able to gather enough, that despite his cunning, he was also undeniably impulsive. Lead by the ferocity and the heat of the dragon blood that coursed throughout his body and burned within his soul like the fire they spit from their throats. If you went to him in the endeavor of drawing him into a connection that he truly did not seek, the only thing you might gain in turn is his ire. 

And so, you had resisted the urge for as long as you could. Settling for the brief interactions you shared during the supper's spent with the family, or the moments when he would meet you within your chambers to do his duty has husband and prince in the hopes of planting his seed and creating his successor. But it all quickly caught up with you. It was not enough, living on the meager crumbs that these encounters provided. Quickly you had decided that you would rather hypothetically get scorched alive by the scorn of your husband than continue to spend your days as a living dead woman, drifting about the cold corridors like a ghost wondering about the life that could have been, had you simply just confronted him. 

It was nearing the night, just little before the hour of the bat, that you found yourself standing outside the doors of his chambers, with soft lilac hues of the twilight slipping through the windows that lined the corridor and painted the floors in dusty shades of lavender. It was purely unbecoming of a young woman to be out so late without an escort, even if she was intending to meet with her husband. It had made the anxiety quivering in your chest even stronger. Fluttering like some wild, frightened creature while your mind swarmed with paranoia and hesitation. Your thoughts had seemed determined to persuade you from your intentions, begging that you turned heel and returned to your quarters before you were noticed. 

Perhaps he was already abed. Deep in slumber and at peace in his rest. Or perhaps he was not even in his chambers at all. Busy with matters beyond yourself. 

It was all almost enough to tear your feet from their place on the floor, but your body seemed eager to betray you, and before you could even notice the movement of your own hand, it was lifted and the sound of your knuckles rapping against the cool wood of the door had rung out within the confines of the hallway. Sharp, loud, and almost violent in your ears. Echoing out like nails being struck into the face of a coffin. 

You nearly flinched, mouth running dry at the realization of what you had just done, and with it the urge to flee had never been so great. Trembling up your spine like a cold breath. You had hoped that he would not answer. That he truly was asleep or vacant from his apartments, but like a twisted jest, the universe had answered your desires, and the sound of his voice slipped from beyond the door. Muffled by the obstruction, but no less commanding. Unable to ignore the call, you had drawn in a deep breath. Steeling yourself and the relentless patter of your heart before you drew the door open and slipped past the threshold with the drag of your skirts whispering ominously as you went. 

The air had seemed to shift when you had entered, and the shadows that clung to the corners and ceiling of the room felt as though it was prepared to swallow you whole, had it not been bayed away by the low flickering the candles that burned about the space like plumes of delicate amber. Your eyes had flitted about the quarters like a startled doe's, desperate to learn the structure of the area as though you might have to flee. Your vision had skipped over the various tomes and documents scattered about the tables; the random objects placed about in meager means of decoration. But you could appreciate them at least, for giving you a small glimpse into the mind of the man you have been bound to. Much like the chessboard left perched atop a tabletop, like a clue to his intelligence and keenness for scheming, and the quills and ink vials and parchment spread along his writing desk. 

But you were only able to distract yourself for so long before your attention had been tugged along as though by an invisible string to focus on the man sitting across the space from where you stood, one of the aforementioned documents held within one of his hands while he watched you steadily. His expression was mostly neutral. But even with how easily he was usually able to school his features, you could see the hint of surprise bleeding into his gaze. The subtle raise of his brow and the confused purse of his lips. You could practically see the question ready at the tip of his tongue, and you loathed the awkwardness that permeated the air. Stifling and prickling like a rash along your skin. 

"Wife," he finally greeted. Though you could still hear the dull bewilderment in the softness of his tone. 

It took you a moment to collect yourself, feebly trying to shake the uncertainty that still clung to you and when you had finally willed yourself to speak, you could only think the gods that your voice did not quiver, even though it was but a few words. "Lord husband," you returned the acknowledgement, nodding your chin slightly in substitute of a curtsy.  You watched closely as he gently placed the document in his hand down flat on the desk, tracing his face and the shadows the spilt across his features from the dim candlelight and the remaining, dull remnants of sunlight that managed to slip in through the windows; the reflection of the fire and sun glinting within the captivating shade of his eye. 

"To what do I owe the honor?" He inquired. 

It had been enough to snap you out of the daze that had clouded over you, jerking you from it so suddenly that you had nearly gasped with the realization that you had been staring. Embarrassment burned at your cheeks, hot and uncomfortable. You cleared your throat, straightening your shoulders in an effort to at least appear confident, but you swore that you had caught the edge of Prince Aemond's mouth twitching up in the semblance of a smile, letting you know that you had not succeeded in your aim. 

"I wished to speak to you." You had answered, clasping your fingers together in front of yourself, and you were now unable to ignore how clammy they had become. 

"So late in the evening?" Came his quick reply, the brow above his good eye perking ever so slightly. And if you did not know any better you would let yourself entertain the idea that it nearly sounded playful, had his face not been so woefully lacking joy. 

"Yes," you said just as fast. You had to ignore the weight of your tongue in your mouth. It suddenly felt too thick. Too clumsy. 

He only hummed in response to your answer. The sound was low and inquisitive, thrumming through the air like warm velvet. And though he had not spoken a word back to you, the singular eye that had he pinned you with bore into you with enough focus to drive you to speak. Forcing the words from your still lungs like a grip that did not exist. Wringing your breath from your body with only the weight of his gaze. "I would like . . . " Your voice died out as quickly as it had risen, snagging within your chest like it had been caught on something. It did not help that your nerves were alight. That your heart was beating wildly, like a skittish animal. But it was mostly just irritating. It had made you feel stupid, the way that your body refused to yield to your own commands. Far too caught within the spell of a primal sort of caution and reluctance to relent to something as easy as talking. 

"You would like to. . ?" Prince Aemond articulated the question slowly, letting it hang between the both of you, as though you were a child. Annoyance had spread throughout your flesh like a wildfire, and for one idiotic moment you contemplated snapping at him. But fortunately, your self-preservation still clung strong and forced you to be mindful of your tongue. 

"This may sound odd," you began, swallowing around the spit that had welled up within your mouth. "But I would like to get to know you better, my prince."  

It sounded completely stupid as soon as you heard it from your own ears, and a part of you had longed to wince but you remained surprisingly unflinching. But Aemond it seemed, had been taken by complete surprise. Even though the slip in his composure was quick and subtle, you caught it. The mild slump of his shoulders, the straightening of his posture, the soft pinch between his brows. All of these minute tells that told you so much, though they were gone just as quickly as they had shown. Melted away and replaced by a composure that must have taken him years to perfect. 

But no matter how small his shock had been, the sight of such a naked, human emotion flickering across his face was enough to break the barrage that sealed your voice. The words seemed to flow from you more freely then in a rush of thoughts and feelings; desperate to finally speak your mind and make peace with yourself, and most importantly him. 

"I hold no delusions over this marriage. I know that our union was a strategic one, brought on by the possibility of a looming war, and the foundations of it are clear." Your sight had flickered back up to his own once more, and the hold of his stare once again threatened to leave you breathless. "I realize that we are not truly lovers, however, I do not think that must mean we are to be strangers also. I wish to know you, husband. I do not expect your affections, or love, but I desire at least the possibility of your attentions. An understanding of each other. And perhaps, if it is willed, a sense of companionship. A comradery." 

He remained horrendously silent from his place across from you. Watching you with a keen eye while the hand that still rested along the desks surface fidgeted, the point of his mid-finger ceaselessly gliding along the back of his thumb. It had made you nervous, the way he watched you. Akin to a predator lurking in the shadows, awaiting its moment to strike for its prey's vulnerable throat. You must have stumbled. Foolishly, like the greedy men in all of those ancient folktales. You slipped within the dark and it was then you knew that the dragon was stirring; throat welling up with fire to burn you down for being so presumptuous. 

"So you are here, in the beginnings of the night, interrupting me in the midst of my duties, because you are lonely?" 

That all that you needed to know that you had truly wandered too close. Assumed and hoped too greatly. Blindly walking into the dragonpit to be burned alight like kindling for a fire. And even with irritation gnawing at you and begging that you speak out in your own defense, you had known that you must tread lightly, even while the prince scorned you like you were a naive girl child chasing after some witless fantasy. He wished to humiliate you it seemed, and even while he was entirely successful in his aim, you would not give him the satisfaction of showing it. But you knew that you had to be tactful. An unchecked rise of your emotions would only serve to go against you. 

"Yes, my prince," you had agreed without wavering. And much like your own, his gaze had shifted. The sardonic edge that it had held changed into something darker. More directed than even before. Studious almost. But no matter how much gravity it had held, it was no longer enough to withhold you from speaking. You kept your voice as light as possible, but the firmness, the fervor behind it was more than apparent, drifting out to fill the silence of his quarters. And with each sentence, you let the courage that you had not allowed before to guide you a step closer to the prince. "Yes, I long to know the man that I am to be tied to until death. Yes, I long to know the father of my future children. Yes, I long to know my husband." And with that you allowed yourself to halt after your final step. Then you were so close to his writing desk that if you had leaned over you could have easily reached out and touched him. But you remained fixed in your place, hands still clasped and shoulders high. "Regardless, if my husband will become a lover or simply an ally." 

He remained silent in his observations. Regarding you closely as though he expected you to suddenly give way underneath his stare and dash out of the room. But you did not. Not even when the chill of apprehension trembled along the expanse of your back, sneaking underneath the fabric of your garments like a cold draft. He shifted back in his seat, muscles coiling underneath the dark leathers of his doublet and for a moment you had considered the idea that he might lunge. That he would strike forward like the instincts of his blood no doubt urged him to do. At the very least, you had suspected cold words. A detached response that would order you to return back to your apartments and to leave him undisturbed of your person until he saw fit. 

"Very well then . . . Wife." His head tilted just the slightest when he addressed you, and the glint of his eye reflecting the light of the many candles seemed to bore into you; notching the words he spoke that much deeper and nourishing the surprise of his agreement. "I will make more of an effort to appease your loneliness, should it bring you ease." 

It was because of that decision - because of that night, that your relationship with the prince had been altered. No longer did he suit to sit along your side at social gatherings, tightlipped and rigid, but now he made somewhat of a strive. Much more than before. Though still quiet, he took more attempts to include you in the conversations that he would bother to indulge in. Typically, unremarkable topics that he would try to join you in on, like snide comment on the lords and ladies or an observation of your gowns. Prince Aemond, you easily concluded, had no idea how to speak to the fairer sex. A characteristic that you might have let yourself see as charming if he were not always so subtly contemptuous and withdrawn. Even with all of the improvements with his communications, his presence itself was still scarce. Constantly torn away by the impending threat of calamity and battle. 

And no matter how much you knew that his absence was entirely necessary for the good of the kingdom, especially after the Battle of Rook's Rest and the unexpected injuries that have left the King bedridden and near death, the prince was sparser than ever, with him assuming the role of Prince Regent in his brother's stead. But like a poison, that bitter, selfish part of you could not help but to be displeased by the near constant lack of his company.  

Today however . . . Today you might actually be regretting his attempts at companionship. 

"You still have not told me the nature of our outing, my prince!" You call to him, trudging after him like a shadow with your skirts bundled and clutched within your palms as you desperately attempt to keep up with his much longer stride uphill. The muscles of your calves have already begun to burn and ache with your body already growing weary of the incline, and the weight of your dress does little to aid you in your climb along the earth, still damp from last night's rain. Realistically, there are only a few paces between you and he, but in your mind, it feels as though there are stretches of land separating you. 

He only offers you the barest look, hardly even glancing over his shoulder at you as his long legs continue to carry him upward. "For someone who is so desperate for my time, I did not expect to hear any complaints," he answers, full of snark even though his tone remains just as steady and soft as always. 

Heat prickles at your cheeks. Though now, with your exertion, it is difficult to ascertain if it is simply from your efforts to trek after him or purely from annoyance. A retort rests heavy on your tongue, but you are unsure if you should bother spending your breath on it. It is tempting. But perhaps later. "It is no complaint; I am simply wondering just where it is that you are taking me. If you wished to go for a walk, perhaps the castle grounds would have sufficed . . . or at the very least, a mention of it would have given me time to at least prepare for more a suitable attire." 

He spares you another glance, managing to look down his nose at you from over his shoulder as he continues his ascent until he reaches the leveled crest of the knoll. Leaving you to chase after him while the damp soil, and soaked grass and wildflowers threaten to slip your traction out from underneath your feet with every step. You have never had the urge to strike the prince before, but here and now, you think that you could if he were only close enough. This time he opts to remain silent. Returning his attentions on what lies ahead of him, and it has a flicker of concern breathing to life inside of you. The paranoid, unfounded thought that he means to kill you tries to sprout. It would explain why he had lured you so far away from the safety of the castle walls, and why he had chosen to leave both of your mounts downhill and unattended to graze. How pathetic it would be, to be slain in the middle of the wood, like a dumb girl lured away by a fae in an old folktale. 

And if the treasonous whispers that dart about the castle are true, that he had been the one to strike down the king above the battlefield of Rook's Rest, then surely, he would have no qualms about killing the likes of you. 

Still, while irritation and caution thrums underneath your flesh, you cannot but help to stare at the expanse of his back as you near the top of the hill, taking in the sight of the confidence in his posture as he all but struts along the earth. The sunlight dances along the pale shade of his hair, bringing to life the faint hint of cream and soft gold that hides within the silver. He is gorgeous out here like this. Relaxed within the peace and confines of nature, while the little birds nestled inside the protection of neighboring trees chatter and trill. For a rare moment like this, touched by sunlight and the air, perfumed with the musk of a storm passed and the fragrance of flowers, it is easy to pretend that he is still not a complete stranger. That the impossible gap that seems to divide you both has grown closer, and he does not look to you as an obligation but as a comfort. 

Another fool's reverie perhaps. But a sweet one that you cannot help but entertain while you raise your muddied skirts to strengthen your stride and widen your steps in the hopes to gain on him. But then blessedly his pace finally begins to slow, giving you the means to finally draw in your straining breaths and lessen the expanse between you, making sure to near him from his right, so's not to walk in his blind spot. He tilts his body just the slightest, angling it so that he is able to give you his focus as you draw near, and you have to try your hardest not to gasp and gulp for air in front of him. You need to give him no more reasons to tease and prod at you. 

The glint of his eye, a color that you have now discovered to be a delicate, yet vibrant shade trapped between a soft blue and a muted purple draws you into his stare as you approach. It seems to hold you captive, grabbing your attention as you come to walk alongside him, no longer huffing and panting, and the ache in your legs begins to subside. 

"You have asked to become familiar with me," he speaks suddenly. Not a question at all, but a statement, and the mention of it has your brows raising just the slightest as you manage a nod. "All I ask of you is that you do not scream or allow yourself to panic." 

The sound of those words alone has ice prickling along your skin and settling within the pit of your chest. And the sensation of your apprehension melding with your bewilderment does little to aid you in properly asking him what he could have possibly meant by such a cryptic statement. The inquiry hangs heavy in your mouth like metal, and your jaw seems to open on its own in the means to ask him to clarify. But then, as though it had been timed, a guttural bellow rings out across the placid atmosphere. Humming so heavily that you feel the weight of it vibrate underneath your feet as though the earth were speaking, shaking a small flock of tiny birds from their perches within forest, forcing them to scatter and flee into the clear sky above. 

The abrupt noise of it has you all but tearing your vision from Prince Aemond's unbothered, observational expression to whatever lies ahead of you. And your eyes nearly bulge from their sockets at the sight of the behemoth that lies only several yards away. How you had managed to miss the sight of such a monumental creature is entirely beyond you. The only excuse you could possibly make is that the beast has flattened itself along the floor of the clearing, leathery wings lazily stretched open, head resting in the miniscule cover of the knee-high wildflowers and grasses that scatter along the hilltop in what might be some sort of attempt of basking itself underneath the suns glow. 

It is a beast that you easily recognize despite never truly having been within its presence. The sheer mass of the creature, and the rich green shade of its skin easily gives it away as the great Vhagar. You have heard of her name from countless stories. Those passed on down from generation to generation to speak of the ferocity and brutality of the battle hardened she-dragon, of how the size of her alone could blot out the sun from her flight. You have even caught glimpses of her in the air before. Often from within the confines of the castle while she soars high above and far from reach. None of those rare moments or stories had done any justice in depicting the true scale of her. 

And while you stand, gawking like a slack jawed idiot at the sight of her, you can only manage but to wonder the dumb, fleeting thought of how the Crown could ever possibly manage to supply enough sheep for her appetite. And then any semblance of awe or shock is twisted into a pure sense of dread and a primal fear. Your mind blanks as you try to form some sort of reason for you being here. Why Prince Aemond could possibly desire for you to meet his dragon, but you are left with naught. Something primordial and blazing sears throughout your veins with urge to run, but you find yourself frozen stock still instead while your lungs struggle to move and catch breath. You feel as though you have passed away on the spot and left your body behind to, trapped within this singular moment. 

It is not until the dragon begins to lift its head up inquisitively that you manage to regain any control of yourself at all. The sight of her lids peeling open to reveal blazing amber eyes are enough to force your lost voice back into the base of your throat. 

"Wha - why have you brought me here, Aemond?"  

The look he gives you is entirely unsympathetic. If anything, it seems to be amused. The corners of his lips threaten to perk in the shadow of an arrogant smile. If your heart did not feel as though it were seconds away from overexerting itself and giving out entirely, you are sure that this time, you would have struck him. You would love to hear the impact of your hand meeting the shape of his cheek and snuffing out the pompous way that he is holding himself, but he steps away from you before you can even think to act, fearlessly striding in the direction of the colossal dragon. 

"You long to know a dragonrider, lady wife," he answers with the cool timbre of his voice trailing after him and to you. "Flight with one with be the best way to make that connection." 

You are certain that your heart has well and truly stopped with that statement. That it turned still and unrooted itself from the cavern in your chest to plummet down below into your gut. And for a moment you wish that you have misheard him. Despite your internal panic, your brain manages to scramble and put the meaning of his words together quite quickly. The urge to refuse or ask him to clarify illudes you. You are far too bewildered. Too trapped within the seize of your own chaotic emotions to properly articulate yourself and your reservations. There's an anger stirring in you as well. Brewing and twisting with everything else, spurred on from the haughty glance he had given you before making his approach towards the beast he is bonded with. 

You try and fail to connect his reasoning. The logic entirely beyond you, but when you look upon his face it becomes quite clear. No matter how brief your eye contact had been, you saw the dare that had been dancing in his eye quite clearly. He was challenging you. He is expecting you to turn on your heel and run from the trial that he has set before you. And that has lit a sense of competition in yourself unlike any that you have ever felt before. 

He is no longer paying you any attention to see you coming to a sudden grip in resolve. Instead, he has drawn his observations to his dragon, who has lifted her head just enough in a proper greeting to accept the way that he runs a hand along the slop of her enormous muzzle, just above those massive, gnarled fangs that poke like her lips like daggers. The span of his fingers seems so small posted along the swell of her snout, like little more than a speck. And yet he stands before her so confidently. Free from the faintest edge of discomfort or fear. Instead, you hear him murmuring soft words to her. Speaking quietly as though she were a babe in need of praise or encouragement and not a battle worn goliath that has lain waste to armies and dragons alike.

The sound of his ancestor's tongue is beautiful as always. In your short time together, you have heard little of the language from the prince, but when you do manage to catch the glimmers of it from him you make sure to listen keenly. It flows past his lips like a rich silk; all but rumbling and sweeping around words that you do not know but find captivating regardless. It makes you wish that you did understand them. 

It is astonishing that no matter how small the prince appears now in comparison to her vast scale, he still holds himself so proudly. His shoulders are set straight, and head tilted high: the posture of royalty. All while he composes himself alongside a monster that could easily open her drooping maw and swallow him whole. 

But of course, she does not. A low grumble trembles forth from the wide set of her chest, reverberating throughout the air in a sound that could nearly be likened to the purr of a contented feline. It is shocking to see the famed - the feared Vhagar in such a light. And to similarly see the prince in such a manner as well. Both of them are calm. Peaceful on this tranquil, balmy evening. Untouched by their shared excitement for battle and bloodshed. 

It's akin to watching a pair of ruthless gods' slumber. 

And it seems to be that, more so than the sense of rivalry that has been kindled, that inspires you to move forward. No matter how uncertain you truly feel. Despite your reservations the odd sweetness of the situation still has you drawing close. All while a frigid kind of fear pools in your stomach. So, you try to focus on the little bits of life around you. The cheerful singing being carried by the birds of the forest, the soothing whisper of the air shifting the leaves, the saccharine scent of the colorful flowers that sway in the grass. It is all so soothing, so delicate. But still, it does little to appease the anxiety coursing throughout you as you grow closer to the beast. 

With each step forward, she seems to rise bigger; the growing proximity between you both only making her true mass even more apparent, as you are confronted with the mind-boggling truth of her scale. There is no safety of the castle walls to save you, the collection of the trees that surround you in a half circle would not serve to shield you should Vhagar decide that your presence is an irritant. Her potent fire would consume the forest and you with it with a single breath. Here and now, you know that you rely entirely on the word of Prince Aemond to keep her violent urges at bay. 

And that both comforts and terrifies you. 

You make your lungs draw in a shaky breath that does little to calm you as you step closer to the she-dragon. But you are certain that there is not a single thing on this earth that could truly bring you serenity as you bear witness to her. Never in your life have you ever stood before a being that has ever made you feel so miniscule. Not even the sight of the stars in the cradle of the night sky, in all of their multitudes and vastness as come close to the trepidation or awe that she has roused in you. You are small. Insignificant in terms of her looming stature. Pitiful in the decades that she has lived and the feats that she has achieved. You know now why the dragons are said to be old gods. You can hardly process that you are now right in front of one. Watching the rise and fall of her ribs as she pulls in massive breaths. The subtle shake of her wilting neck that shifts as she angles her head in your direction to study you with eyes that almost seem to burn with the fire contained within her. 

Her nostrils twitch as you come to stop alongside Prince Aemond; near enough that your shoulders nearly brush, but a part of you craves the dim amount of comfort that he provides. She is trying to smell you no doubt. Trying to take in your scent as means to familiarize herself with the stranger who travels with her rider. 

"You may touch her," Aemond offers. Or orders perhaps. 

It catches you completely off guard, like most things this evening. Regardless of the gentleness of his tone, it is difficult to tell if it is a suggestion or a command. Having what little knowledge you have of the prince in mind it was most likely the latter. Or it is another challenge of his. 

The sharp blue of his eye pierces through you once again like he is waiting for you to cower. But now, the prince's concerns and expectations are second at best when it comes to the interest of Vhagar. The brief flicker of your gaze on her confirms that she is still quite placid in mood. Her eyelids low with the remnants of the slumber that she had been goaded from. But that still does little to calm you. Dragons are unpredictable creatures. Gaining a trust of her this easily would be ignorance. 

"Does she wish me to?" You ask, and you see that twinge of what might be amusement grace Prince Aemond's features once again. 

"She will hardly pay you any mind." That is his assurance. A useless one. Your unease is strong. But your desire to please your husband, to beat this little challenge that he has set for you, and to form some sort of relationship with the prince - no matter how fragile - is stronger. With all the courage you can muster you begin to lift your hand. Slowly and steady in your movements as not to cause the beast any annoyance. You would not want to suggest to her that you feel entitled to touch her. Dragons can be opinionated things after all. 

A low noise rolls from her throat at the sight of your hand raised just above her muzzle, just where Aemond had lain his own earlier. It gives you pause. Old, primeval instincts rising inside of you bid you motionless. To wait and see what her move will be next. If she will calm or open her armored jaws to snap you between them. 

"Lykirī." 

It is Aemond's voice that speaks out. Low yet firm in its inflection as his tongue purrs out the elegant High Valyrian word in a silky drawl. You know not what he said, but it was enough to appease whatever offence you might have committed. She blinks slowly in response and the growl dies down into a soft silence. Still, you now find it difficult to lower your hand. Sensing your hesitance, or perhaps weary of it, Prince Aemond's own is suddenly engulfing the back of it, nearly threading his fingers with yours as he guides your palm downward. The weight of his flesh along yours comes as surprise. You have felt your husband's hands on you before. In much more intimate places, but it is the care with which he directs you with that almost seems foreign. New and delicate.

Currently he wears his gloves, usually seen on his hands whenever he intends to take flight, and you hate how a piece of you longs to feel them bare. To touch the callouses along his palm, made from wielding the grip of swords in combat and clasping the horns of Vhagar's saddle. It is a juxtaposition to the much softer skin of your own. But you do not find the texture of them offensive in the slightest. You could almost relish the sensation of it had they not been covered by soft hide instead. 

He leans his body much closer to yours. So much closer that the light brush of his breath glides over the side of your face and the length of your throat. The scent of him wafts from his body in the musk of leather, the spice of dragon smoke and the crisp fragrance of wind. It makes you wonder if he had flown long before he had come to the castle to retrieve you. It is all so distracting. The press of him along your arm, the mesmeric sound of his voice whispering soothing words in his ancestor's language. 

But reality comes back to you quickly in the weight of the dragon's flesh settling flat underneath your palm; rough and thick. You have heard before that dragons run hot. Heated up by the fire roaring within their chests. Those words have not prepared you for the warmth that radiates from her and the strength of it. Of the coarseness of her flesh. How sturdy it is. Much like the leathers used in creating amour. Though you suppose that the purpose of her skin is the same. 

Her massive nostrils flicker again and her eyes squint as she watches you. Studies you really. As though she is weighing and measuring you of your worth. Which is not a farfetched idea. It is the dragon, after all, who chooses its rider. She must be deciding if you are worthy of standing in her presence. 

The elation that floods you at the feeling of her beneath your hand comes like the scattering of butterflies. A smile threatens to break across your face at the small success. A rush of joy from still being alive after touching one of the most violent war dragons the earth has ever seen. 

"Are you prepared to ride?" 

Aemond's question rips you from your elation like a sudden storm smudging out the bright warmth of the sunlight. The smile that could have been dies out with the happiness that had filled you. It is water doused over embers. And with it the urge to snap at him is back in full force. No, you wished to answer, you are not prepared to ride, because you were not told that you would be expected to until only moments before. But you keep that complaint to yourself. Locked within tightly as not to offend the prince and the dragon whose massive mouth rests directly underneath your open palm. Still, many questions gush up and stir a torrent up within your mind. 

"How am I expected to do such a thing, my prince?" 

The look that crosses his face appears tired. It makes you wonder if you have somehow asked something foolish, but you come up empty on what that could have possibly been. It is a perfectly expected question. A dragon will only choose a single rider at a time. And only those who are blessed with Valyrian blood could have the potential honor of sharing such a bond. An ancient line that you have no direct lineage to. But the stare that the prince is holding you with now is one of exasperation, yet also sardonic. 

"You will sit on the saddle; I thought that much was apparent." His lips have pursed slightly, making his expression a blend of smug and annoyed. He is toying with you once again. It also makes his boundaries quite apparent. There is to be no possibility of a bond between the two of you unless you push when he shoves. If you let your offence get the better of you now while he clearly raises his challenge, then your relationship with him will be reduced to nothing more than his child bearer. A vessel for his future heirs. You shall not yield. Not even while your heart races like that of a rabbit who has been tricked into a corner by the snarling fangs of a hunter. 

You are soft but firm when you remove your hand from its place tucked between Vhagar's flesh and Aemond's palm. Your determination rests easily on your face as you turn to observe the netting of ropes that are draped down the side of her great neck as a means to climb astride her. Never has something seemed so daunting before. Not the day that you were bid to leave the familiarity of your life in Storm's End, nor the moment that you had given yourself over to Prince Aemond in matrimony. They all seem so little now as you allow your hand to grip one of the lines of worn rope. 

"Lykirī, Vhagar." 

A nervous sweat dampens your fingers as you squeeze your grip along the course lines, the frayed edges digging into your soft flesh. The sound of your husband placating the beast rings in your ears like a warning though she has not stirred from her position against the forest floor, even while another rumbling hum echos from her chest. It trembles throughout your arm from being so close to her, rattling up your bones. For a moment you contemplate removing yourself from the makeshift ladder, but the firm, urging glare that Aemond shoots you from his place beside you and the embers of your determination spur you to continue forward. 

"I will be behind you," you hear him promise as you haphazardly lift your skirts to enable yourself to place a foot upon one of the rungs. It is now you who hardly offers him a returned glance as you focus on raising yourself along the ropes. You expect for Vhagar to disturb upon the weight of you heaving yourself along her neck, but she does not. She remains blessedly stationary as you urge your body to move upward to scale the high length of her neck, for your mind to remain quiet and centered through your internal panic. The way that the ladder wobbles unsteadily as you work to lift yourself does little to quell the way that your stomach flips with the growing effects of nausea. 

You could swear that many moons have passed by the time that you have made it to the top of the ladder, where the ropes meet the smooth leather that creates the structure of the massive saddle. The seat of it is far greater than any other you have ever seen; those having been suited for horses and not the great backs of dragons. But even considering the long forward slop of what must be the equivalent of the rise and pommel and how the cantle stretches slightly backward to support the rider's spine during an upward flight, it is more than apparent that the seat is designed for only a single person. Every bit of grace room is only available for the positioning that must be required in flight. The design of it allowing for the rider to lean forward comfortably in the seat or relax backward, if necessary, but offering little more than that. 

If you were both truly meant to ride together it would be an awkward fit. Surely not one safe for something as perilous as flying. 

The urge to question this little goal of his rises up high. But instead of voicing your concerns you opt to follow through with his desires. If the two of you do truly not prove to fit on the seat and it turns into an ill sighted blunder on his part, then at least you will be able to silently bask in the pleasure of seeing his arrogance dim at the realization of it. 

You reach for some of the leather straps that lie between the junction of the rope ladder and the saddle, using your grip to hoist yourself upward again, slipping a foot into one of the rungs to push yourself within the range of saddle's lowest set of horns. Your fingers can only reach the base of the grip from your current height, but it is enough to enable you to hoist yourself towards the cradle of the saddle, though your muscles burn with the labor. Some torturous thought wonders what would happen should you slip and fall from such a height, and you struggle to block it out entirely as you continue your clumsy ascent. Using the hold that the flat of your feet have within the straps to keep yourself secure as you work on exchanging your hold from the lowest grip and onto one the horns belonging to the higher set to haul your body upward, swinging your right leg out to lurch across the seat. 

It strains your arms as you angle yourself, and the length of your skirts threaten to snag on the curve of your knee when your all but throw your body onto the saddle. But by the grace of the gods, you make it. Your chest slightly heaves from your lost breath, and your muddied skirts have pulled and rucked up above your knees in the most unbecoming manner from the stretch of your thighs around the width of the seat. But you hardly have the ability to pay it any mind while your nerves still cause your limbs to quiver, and your body burns with an excess of energy. 

While you collect your breath, clasping onto the horns of the saddle with both hands tightly enough for the edges of the leather bound around them to bite your palms, the sound of the wind's current whispering in your ear tugs you from your anxieties. 

It is then that you finally realize just where you sit. Comfortably astride the largest dragon, looking down on the world from the ridge of her back. You could see above the trees from this point, the stretches of the wood that gave and showed the lush rolling hills that expanded far beyond your sight. It was all so small and yet so vast this high up, once again making you realize the scope of your existence. You can spy glimpses of King's Landing up in the distance. The glimmer of the rooftops and the spires of the Red Keep, almost lightened in a shade of bronze from the cast of the evenings golden light. The sea beyond it glittering in a reflection of the sun, like a flat mound of shifting coins. 

The sudden weight of a hand clasping the grip along the free space just above your own snaps you from your awe. You hardly have time register it as the prince effortlessly swings himself into the saddle, notching a place for himself between your hips and the support of the cantle. His presence forces you to scoot further up along the swell of seat, much higher up than you are meant to be, but the press of his body flat against your own gives you little choice. The angle of it practically has your rump perched against his hips. And when his other arm reaches around your other side to grip the opposite horn of the saddle, you find that you have been completely enclosed in his body. His chest is pinned snug along your back, and you can feel the point of his chin nudge along your shoulder as he looks past you. 

There is something horribly intimate about it all. Something that you did not even think to consider when you agreed to this. But now that you can fully feel the warmth of him seeping through the layers of your garments to slip through your skin, you could not find any other word to call it. If your mind was not already so preoccupied with your anxieties, it would have easily latched onto the fact that your skirts are still indecently rucked around your thighs, improperly showing off the fabric of your stockings. It could have made you fidget or heat up with embarrassment had you the mind to, but you are far too preoccupied with what is to come. With the weight of your husband so near you. So high up here, with the wind stronger than it had been down along the ground, his scent seems to pool around you. It fills your lungs with musk and spice, and your body longs to draw it in like a glutton, but you do not allow yourself to. You manage yourself to maintain the steady inhales that you have been taking thus far. 

"Remain calm," he reminds you. 

As if on cue Vhagar begins to shift. Her giant head lifts from the meadows floor with a low grunt, as though the action alone costs her a great deal of energy, causing the weathered, battle worn flesh along her neck to wobble loosely along her throat. A bout of nervousness prickles in your gut as the motion jostles you forward. On reflex, your grip rightens around the horns, latching onto the pitiful bit of comfort they prove. Anxiety spreads along your fingertips and toes as she digs the wrists of her great wings into the earth to push herself onto her feet. A simple action, but for you it invokes nothing but unease. Her movements continue to nudge you about, all but prodding you backward to the press of Aemond's chest, and now you are actually thankful for how he is seated behind you. Offering a sense of support that you might have fainted without. 

You can feel the subtle shift of her muscles even through the saddle, and it wobbles just the slightest from the quiver caused by her old flesh. It has your unease spiking. And you think that you yourself could fly, fueled by nothing but your own apprehensions. 

There is a noticeable shift in how she holds herself once she balances on her legs. And incline in her spine lifts as she raises her head high, removing her weight from her wings to unfurl them. You can hear the leathery sound of the thin skin unraveling, spreading out wide enough like sails of a colossal ship preparing to leave port. 

You know what is coming, but you naught of how to weather it. All you can do is stare ahead, looking past the expanse of her neck and to the sky above that you will soon be soaring through. He must be able to sense your anxiety. Or perhaps he felt the tension of it in your back, in the rigid set of your shoulders, because he manages to press himself even closer against you. Like he means to cradle you to him. He releases a single hand from its grip long enough to place it along your waist to steady you. Your mind instantly latches onto the sudden pressure and warmth of it. Your body longing to lean into the weight of his palm but you keep yourself motionless as he leans himself close until you feel the brush of his words along your neck when he speaks. 

"Be still, wife." His voice rumbles out all placid and velvet. The sound of it so close to your ear that it has a tremble skipping down your spine. You can only hope that the thick of your combined attire hid it from him, but his hand flexes against your waist; fingertips pressing inward, and you know that he noticed it. But he fortunately makes no open marks of it. "With me as your guide you will be safe. When she begins her ascent, lean forward into it. It will help to keep you balanced." 

And as quickly as it had appeared, his hand is gone from its position on your waist to return its grip on the horn. You crave to have it back on you again. To have the support of it on you once more, even with the phantom sensations of it still live on your skin, though you do not bother to dwell on your foolish desires. You can only focus on the instructions that he had set. The direction of it serving to ground you, even as the saddle underneath shifts just the slightest as her wings expand. Now entirely unfurled. 

The anticipation of it weighed heavy. Murmuring across the air like something electrical as though you were in the midst of a storm and lightning looms ahead. But apart from a few scattered clouds, it was all but clear skies. Vhagar was prepared to soar. Her muscles were coiled, stretched and tense, and were it not for your being astride, you are certain that Aemond would have commanded her to take off much sooner. If that truly is the case, you are thankful. 

His ribs swell slightly along your back, and the command slices through the air, simultaneously exacting and clement: 

"Sōvēs!" 

Wind claps underneath the great stretch of her wings as she lifts them only to bring them down in a powerful downstroke. It snaps her from the ground in a quick lunge, and the sudden rush of being airborne causes your stomach to turn. You scramble to come to terms with the abrupt weightlessness of your body. It is like all of the breath has been snatched from the depths of your chest as Vhagar brandishes her wings in great, long stokes that sound akin to tremendous waves crashing against the surf; sharp and frightening like a whip slicing towards its target. 

A horrid thought enters your mind, whispering vile things, such as what would happen should you fall off. How you surely would not survive a plummet from such a height. It has your hands tightening around the grips of the saddle. Squeezing so harshly that your tender palms sting. But you almost welcome the burn of it. It is a good distraction from the nausea, from the disorientation that comes from rushing far from the earth so quickly. Now she truly begins her climb upward, and you just barely remind yourself of Aemond's previous command; tipping yourself forward to press yourself along the swell of the saddle as she rises. 

Much as he promised, the change in your posture does help to keep your seat firm as she works to bat her wings to scale her flight. Aemond dips down low after you, resting himself over your body to follow his own instructions. Even while Vhagar approaches her ascent at a slant, the incline is still enough to put strain on your arms as your own weight attempts to pull your backward. You can already feel the strain of it in your limbs, searing along your muscles and setting an ache deep near your bones. 

Never had you ever truly put in mind the physical prowess and endurance a dragonrider must have to properly seat their mount until now. It almost makes you feel idiotic that you would not have truly expected the demands that such a thing would imply. Already the wind claws at your face, slicing at your cheeks like it means to maim you, stinging at your eyes enough to prompt tears to pour. It is difficult to draw in a proper breath as the air passes too quickly for your lungs to properly catch, making you fear that you might suffocate. It feels as though your chest could combust. From the debilitated ability to properly breathe or from the confused sense of excitement, you are not entirely sure. 

Your being has been split down the middle. Caught in a strange limbo of an icy terror and a bubbling kind of joy as she continues her ascension, carrying you both high until the forests below become less defined and meld into blotches of rich greens. You cannot tell if the laugh the begs to erupt from you is one of elation or hysterics, but it froths inside of you with a warmth that rivals the heat that radiates from the brilliant sun above. Your lips part in the semblance of a breathless laugh as your eyes dart to take in your surroundings. The earth is so distant now. Reduced to a flat stretch of emerald and hunter, and the gentle rolling slops of hills and valleys that, in some points giveaway to farmlands. You can spot organized rows of green that must be rich vineyards, and there are many quaint little houses and homely settlements that sparsely dot about the scape. 

Being so high up within the heavens makes the rest of the world seem so small. Reduced down to dots and shadows and shades of color. It reminds you vaguely, of the ancient war table that sits within the council chambers of Storm's End; the stubborn, enduring anatomy of Westeros etched into the face of it, mapping out all of its splendor in its factions and landmarks. 

Out of your peripherals you notice Vhagar's wings tilt, moving to level her body out of its angled position, settling so that she is able to coast on the winds. It near instantly releases the strain on your arms, allowing the sting to ebb from your clenched muscles as you will yourself to try and relax, and the harsh cusp at which the biting wind had struck you with finally loses its violent edge. Still quite strong but no longer clawing along the shape of your cheeks and your unprotected eyes like it means to rip at them. 

It is Aemond who straightens himself first, removing his weight from your back to properly sit astride, completely comfortable in his place along his dragon and untouched by a semblance of worry. Even though you cannot see him from his place behind you, you are still able to sense the composure that he holds himself with. He is entirely within his element. At home here on dragonback. The arm that had grasped the grip on the left of you releases, moving past the line of your vision to where he probably allows it to casually hang at his side, now supporting his clasp on the saddle with only a single, sturdy hold. 

It takes you much longer to will yourself back into an upright position; finding solace in the weight of the saddle pressed to your stomach. But is a crutch that you do not wish to exhaust, and so you right yourself until you can once again feel the expanse of Aemond's chest, snug against your own in an unintentional semblance of an embrace. That stubborn little part of you loathes how the other half preens at the sensation of it. Yearning to bask in affections that are not truly there like some lovestruck girl child that elects to ignore the obvious indifferences displayed by the object of her infatuation. It irritates you to no end. Filling you with a conflict that you do not wish to bear but are unable to ignore. Aemond does not love you, that much is clear. The nature of your union, the quiet apathy that he has shown you thus far have been unobtrusive but very telling in this. Even now, as he makes an effort to test the nature of your will and your desire to truly get to know him, hauling you upon the back of his dragon, it seems to hold closer bearings to that of a trial than a well-meaning rendezvous. 

The look that he had given you when he asked if you were primed to take flight was playful, almost in a malicious manner. Like he was expecting and counting on you to decline and flee. It makes you ponder if you have actually managed to surprise the prince by accepting his proposal and clambering astride the beast's saddle. If your decision to stay and meet his little challenge head on has pleased him at all. 

"Geptot, Vhagar!" Aemond commands, shouting to be heard over the roaring winds. Obediently, the great dragon adjusts the massive span of her wings, muscles rippling to rearrange herself on the support of the currents to redirect her glide in the direction of King's Landing and the vast glittering waters of Blackwater Bay that extends beyond. It is still such a shock to see such a tremendous creature acquiesce its will to the instruction of a man. A man that may sustain the blood of the gods, but still a man, nonetheless. 

She could consume the both of you a single snap of her jagged mouth. Your bodies would be a pitiful bite for her jaws. And yet she allows you to take up space along her back. To become a vessel to suspend you along the heavens to soar between the sparse clouds that hang within the azure cradle of the heavens like tufts of a lamb's fleece. Vhagar is a violent beast you know. You have heard the stories of her wars and blood-soaked accolades, the battlefields that she has left soot covered and smoking, littered with the remains of soldiers. She is a violent creature to be sure. Honed and defined by violence, and yet it is here, carted among the tepid winds, that you decide that she is a glorious behemoth. One whose years have been stained with the life's blood of millions, but it does little to tarnish the position she has taken in your eyes. Not necessarily one held by affections, but mostly a sense of respect and awe. 

You are not diluted enough to think that Vhagar holds any sort of esteem for you. Had you not been accompanied by her rider; you would have been lit aflame from so much as approaching her, but that simple truth does little to dissuade you from attempting to show her your appreciations though uncertainty and apprehension still takes root in your gut. Your hand has a slight tremor when you manage to peel your fingers from their tight grip around the horn. A symptom of the energy and searing heat that pumps through your veins at your body's instinctual fears rather than a conscious bewilderment, but you do not let it stop you from leaning forward as much as your reservations will allow to place a soft, unsure pat along her back. Though the size of the saddle is so great that you still only manage to stroke its leathers rather than the rough expanse of her flesh.

You know that there is no possibility that she managed to feel your touch through the thick of the preserved hide of the saddle. And even if the buffer had not been there, your hand probably would have felt like little more than the landing of a fly; bothersome and barely perceivable. But it still does work for you somewhat, to help in seeing her more as more than simply a vengeful, aggressive beast. 

It shocks you, when you allow yourself to gaze downward towards the horizon to see how quickly you are approaching the edge of the city. It has you daring to tilt your head downward to see past her wings to gaze upon the sprawling cluster of the buildings and structures that create the capital; the clay tiles of the many roofs burning in shades like honey and ginger. The rich hues only amplified by the golden tint of the evening sun. Smoke pours from the some of the stacks, puffing from the hearths, the people down below working to prepare tonight's dinners. The streets thread throughout the ancient settlement like tan lines of thread, intertwining and connecting to unify the entirety of the city, bustling with people who, from your high vantage point, look hardly more than little moving dots; completely unbothered by Vhagar's flight above. 

It's breathtaking. Literally, of course, with the winds that continuously rush against you, but also in the sense of how stunning the view of it is. Had you, in some other life, been blessed with the honor of a dragon, you fear that you would never come back down to earth. As the fear in your stomach begins to thaw and ebb, giving way to nothing but a bright awe, you realize that you could spend an eternity within the sky at peace. This may be freedom incarnate. Untied from the earthly responsibilities and troubles that ail you down below. Here, it is simply the wind beneath Vhagar's vast wings. The same winds that tug at your hair as though it means to unravel it from its dressings. A laugh, a true laugh bubbles up from your chest, rising with the brilliant, beaming warmth of joy, and the smile that tugs at your lips this time is irresistible. 

You doubt that the purpose of Prince Aemond spiriting you away on this outing had any intentions of truly extending an olive branch. Not one in the expectations of actually solidifying a bond between the both of you at least. This was meant to be a game of sorts; you are still entirely convinced. But even with that in mind, you are unable to feel anything other than gratitude. For so long you have been confined to the unfamiliar walls of the Red Keep. Forcing smiles upon your face to maintain the proper ladylike appearances for your social standing. Exchanging forged laughs with the men and women of the court, batting your eyes like a dazed fool as you suffocate within the entrapments of your own longings for home. Strangely, it is here, where the harsh breezes threaten to stifle to the flow of air into your lungs that you feel at your lightest since you have been at the Red Keep. He knows naught of what he has given you, and even if he did, you surmise that he probably would not care regardless. 

Despite the possibility of Prince Aemond's reasonings, it does not stop you from turning your head, rotating your shoulders as best as you can to enable the motion as you make to look at him. It knocks you somewhat off-guard to see that he is already watching you. You had also not anticipated the proximity between your faces, with hardly more than a hair's breadth left between your noses which are so close they could touch. If you only twitch forward the press of your mouth could easily brush along the plush of his lips. The urge of it comes with the realization that the prince has never kissed you. Not even whilst you both fulfil the duties of your marriage in the midst of the night. It has all been disconnected. Done with the same automated detachment that one does with their chores. It should serve as a cold dousing of reality. It should make the rise of your emotions die down into a tame hush, but it does not. 

Your chest heaves involuntarily at the weight of his stare - of how near he is. Your thoughts are tempted to unravel. To get the better of you and indulge in the smoky, lewd corners of your mind that you have not allowed yourself to entertain, like a sinner giving into their temptations. 

The intensity that always seems to lurk within his attention is ignited ten-fold by the way that the sunlight glimmers within his eye, twinging the flecks of soft violets and rich blues with glints of golden light; it bathes his face in the same hue, making it seem as though the pale complexion of his skin has been kissed and painted by the sun itself; set alight by the dragon's blood that surges through his veins like liquid fire. The tresses of his hair billowing in streaks of a pallid silver that rivals the moons glow. 

He is beautiful. You are forced to mark it once again. How captivating the prince is. Disarmingly so, much like the stare that he continues to pin you in place with. The weight of it seems to reach into you, brushing along the boundaries of your spirit and binding it with its grasp. You are unable to discern the reasonings of his intensity, of what his thoughts might be. If they lean in your favor, or if you somehow may have unwittingly foundered into his bad graces. Just how you may have possibly stumbled is beyond you, but his tempers and his motives continue to be elusive. Still, the desire to speak honestly still hangs heavy. If anything, his attention only amplifies the need. 

"Thank you." It leaves your lips delicately. Or as softly as one can project while soaring through the skies without their voice being lost to the wind, and you can only hope that he was still able to detect the depths of your sincerity and appreciation. But you are certain that he hears you. You see the recognition of it flicker in his eye. Something else passes through it as well. It is an emotion that is beyond your scope of understanding. One that you have yet to witness upon the typically neutral or sardonic expressions he tends to display.  

His eye flickers downward. As though it is tracing the shape of your lips, attracted by the sound of your voice when you had spoken your gratitude. For a moment, you think that you must have imagined it. But the steady focus of his gaze is unignorable. He is truly trailing the contours of your mouth with his stare like he means to study them. Transfixed with a similar brand of concentration that he displays when he pours himself over his duties. But there is a fervor behind it that you have yet to personally witness; smoldering in his stare so strongly that it nearly pulls you into a trance. A molten heat flows down your spine, settling inside the pit of your gut with a warmth that startles you. The magnitude of the sensation is a shock, pulling a ragged gasp from your chest and like a puppet follows after the tug of its strings, your head snaps back to face the horizon to break whatever strange influence fallen over you both.

Your vision blindly locks on what lies ahead, desperately searching for something to distract yourself from the hazed chaos that clouds your mind. Though it is hard to focus with the near fevered way your skin has begun to warm, your chest rising and falling rapidly underneath the hold of your garments. The eye contact that you had shared was broken, but the effects of it still linger on you. It envelops you tightly, tingling over your skin, whispering along your flesh like fingertips. It has bout of nervousness fluttering inside of you like a cluster of frenzied butterflies, and it melts when it meets the foreign rush of heat that muddles you, twisting into something excited and burning. 

It has you adrift in a torrent. Completely at the mercy of your own emotions and desires - the severity of which, you had been utterly ignorant to. You scan the rippling face of the waters below, and the sight of it has your mind sluggishly realizing that Vhagar has flown you all past the boundaries of the city and the edges of the land to coast above the glittering, shifting face of Blackwater Bay. It is a sight that would have encapsulated the entirety of your observation before. You would have delighted in the way that the cerulean waters underneath the dragon's wings reflect the suns light like diamonds laid out along a rich silk, but it has become increasingly difficult to do so as you have become increasingly hyperaware of the prince. The press of him at your back, the enticing warmth of him latching onto your skin and spreading so potently that you think it may have sunk bone deep. 

Still, you hardly have the ability to prepare yourself for the sensation of Prince Aemond melding himself closely against you until the faintest stretch of space between you has been completely eliminated. His hips nudge tightly along yours, all but nestling your rear even deeper into the cradle of them in a manner that is entirely crude.

A confused question rests heavily in your mouth, but it is all but snuffed out when he tucks his head against your own, hooking his chin over your left shoulder as the hand that he had previously dropped from the horn of his saddle once again raises to take its position back above your own, as though it had never left. It makes your heart beat wildly like the wings of a startled bird, and the enlivened rhythm only quickens when his scent envelopes you with his proximity. It swaddles you in that mouthwatering combination of leather and smoke. The earthy musk and robust spice seem to find a home in your lungs. 

"Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys?" 

The sudden velveteen sound of his voice over the whistle of the wind inspires your body to still. As though drawn under a trance every facet of your being seems to become inert. Quiet in its endeavor to listen to the words that spilled from him. You assume that he must be speaking to Vhagar. Entrusting another command onto her in his ancestors' tongue, but the beast makes no movements to suggest that she has heard him. The tone in which he spoke with was low, but purposeful. As though he were sharing a secret, conversational in its cadence. 

You are almost reluctant to draw the conclusion that he may be talking to you instead. For some reason, the idea of such a thing seems so ludicrous, despite having spoken to him before. In brief moments when your paths cross within the castle or when society demands it for appearances. He had exchanged words with you on the ground previously, just before Vhagar had taken flight, yet it all feels so impossible. Strange from the odd rapport that seeps into the atmosphere around you. The gusts that rush past you in dashing currents are unable to destroy the inviting aura that has dropped around you both. Yet is all still so jarring. Abrupt in a way that is strange and new. And the aspect that he is using High Valyrian has left you especially lost. Hanging onto words that you could not comprehend as though they were the answer to a salvation that you did not know you needed.  

"Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke?" His head tips much lower now. So dangerously close that his lips sweep along the edge of your ear when he murmurs to you. 

"I do not understand." You confess, daring to slant your face towards his. Such a minute movement but it has the point of his nose nudging at your temple, drawing him all that much closer. He hums in the back of his throat. A quiet sound as though he is considering your utterance. It is humiliating how it makes your entire being thrum with something that is suspiciously close to delight. 

"Pāsan ziry gaomas." 

Your brows pinch close in a confused furrow as he continues to use his second tongue. It is almost as though he is teasing you. Like he is prodding at a weakness that you did not realize you had; an animal nipping and digging at a wound to watch its prey jerk in its grasp. He is teasing you. The small clues there all connect and tie together a little too finely when the understanding creeps in on you. 

He knows, your consciousness decides quickly. He must have figured out the infatuation you have with his voice. The allure that it has on you when he especially uses it to articulate the rhythm of that old language. Perhaps he had seen it on your face. In your eyes, the way that your breath snags in your throat or how your muscles seen to tense with anticipation at the sound of it. It could make you embarrassed that you have been so obvious in your attraction to it. So much so that he means to taunt you for it so openly. But here and now, with his form so hot along your own and the desire that burns so steadily in your gut, you are unable to find it within yourself to be irritated or sheepish over the fact. 

"Ēza nyke pendagon " - the curve of his lip glides along your ear, and you swear that you can feel the damp warmth of his tongue trace the sensitive skin - "hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao." 

The shiver that skips itself down your spine is completely involuntary. You can only hope that he will assume it to be caused by the chill of the winds, but you know truly that he would be a complete simpleton to think so, and Prince Aemond is anything but. You are sure, without seeing, that his mouth has lifted into the faintest hints of smirk; the impression of it against your ear. Time stutters when his thumb sweeps down along the knuckles of your right hand. It is such a small motion. A gentle, subtle caress. One that would hardly receive one's attention but is so different from any other gesture he has displayed for you that it has something inside of you melting and turning tender. It is damning for you. 

Some kind of plea smolders on the tip of your tongue like molten honey. A plea for what is entirely beyond you. For him to relent and move away to give you air? But even simply the idea of such a thing has you mourning the loss that has not come. This entire situation is nudging at the boundaries of the dynamic you have built with the prince thus far. It is unexpected. Bizarre even. But also, entirely exhilarating in a way that fills your lungs with excitement and looms over your being with a charged type of anticipation. 

And then, just as quickly as he had invigorated the raw suspension between your bodies, he removes himself away from you to hold his posture straight and his thumb slips from your knuckles to return its grip on the saddle horn. You are suspended in air, but the loss of his warmth feels as though the support of the earth has been abruptly tugged from underneath your feet. Humiliation wells up, and anger. It seems like a jest on his part. A cruel trick for what purpose you are not certain. To stroke his own ego. To make you feel like a fool. 

It is bitter in your mouth. The tart of it induced by your bewilderment. It leaves you woefully unmoored as your body craves his even as he still remains behind you, his thighs and hips embracing your own. The whispering of the ocean-salted wind suddenly sounds like a lonely, warbling cry. But even while in the midst of your internal conflicts, the longing has yet to subside; instead pooling in your belly. A gasp pushes from your chest, and you urge yourself to look upon the waters beneath and the horizon ahead. Marking a mark of the clouds that drift about the golden support of the heavens, counting a flock of waterfowl that fly in cluster above the ocean as a means to collect yourself, though it proves to be futile. 

"Let us return home now, wife - the hour grows late." 

You make no means to return a comment or to refute. You remain silent as you both dread and crave the return back to the Red Keep. You have no desire to bear the facade that you have been masquerading in for so long, but being grounded may also help you in gathering the torrent of your emotions. Still, the flight back to Vhagar's chosen plot of earth outside the edge of the forest arrived quicker than you had anticipated, and the dismount from her saddle had nearly been just as awkward as the ascension. Neither of you had exchanged any words as you found your horses still hitched to the branches that they had been left posted at earlier, cropping at the rich grass near the base of the tree with their teeth. 

The bustling of the streets does little to assist the chaotic nature of your thoughts as you guided your mount through the crowds alongside the prince. A part of you was still briefly able to marvel how you had just seen the same avenues from above only moments before; the people who had once appeared as little specs now parted around you to make way for you and the prince. Some daring to pass the two of you fleeting glances as you went about. 

You receive similar looks once within the interior of the 'Keep. The servants and people of the court pass you curious and disapproving peeks at the muddied edges of your skirts as you carried yourself down the winding, grand hallways. Though you pay them little mind. Instead, you direct yourself to try not to focus on the dull, rhythmic tap of Prince Aemond's footsteps from their place beside you as he trails you like a stubborn shadow. He had proposed that he escort you to your quarters, as is expected of a husband. 

There is a new sort of uncertainty that has been wedged between the two of you. Though it is so very different from the quandary that had been there before. This type has no longer tinged with apprehensions or resistance, but instead it is almost alive. The want that festers inside of you is so strong that it is nearly tangible; a creature with claws that means to creep and snatch and a hunger that demands to be feed. You are not entirely lost. You are informed of the body's desires and the symptoms that often accompany it. But it is rarely something that you have ever experienced yourself apart from the few rare nights that you had built up the courage to explore yourself within the privacy of your own apartments. And never have you ever felt it so fiercely, searing and thrumming throughout your flesh. 

The buzz of your previous flight does little to damp the fervor of it. If anything, it douses a potent fuel upon the embers, daring to set the smoldering cinders aflame. The scent of him is strong at your side. Sharp from the winds and mouthwatering with the crisp, spicy aroma of his natural musk, and it is a temptation that you can only hope that you will be able to resist. Your only solace is that the entrance to your quarters draws near, only a few paces left near the end of the corridor, and you look to the massive looming doors as thirsting man would an oasis. 

"I take it that you enjoyed todays outing, my lady," Aemond says from your side. 

It draws your attention to him like an insect becoming hypnotized by the gentle flickering an unguarded fire. You dare to allow yourself to admire the almost lazy saunter he carries himself with, the composed way that he holds his hands behind the controlled posture of his back. 

"I did. Truly." You answer honestly. Not even the muddled state of your feelings and yearning could keep you from repelling the truth from him. You find yourself twisting softly on the heels of your feet as you both come to stand before the entrance of your apartments, moving to enable yourself to meet his gaze. It suddenly feels too vulnerable. You no longer have the buffer of being shielded from his stare as you stand in a pair at the end of the dimming hall. He watches you keenly. His expression is mild, and it is only his eye that displays a faint hint of curiosity, but it is enough to prompt you in continuing. "I do not wish to burden you with my toils, but finding my place here within the court has been an adjustment. The people here have been kind, yet it is still a somewhat of a challenge to find my footing. " You pause, the air snagging in your throat and you find your fingers winding together in an awkward clasp as you work to navigate yourself and bear the weight of his unflinching observation. "The flight with you and Vhagar, it was a reprieve that I did not expect to be afforded. I know that you have been occupied by the priorities of the kingdom and the burdens of the war; you have little moments available for yourself, I imagine. So I am grateful that you made an effort to extend that time to me." 

It all seems so delicate now. Something vulnerable has wormed through the cracks of your already weakened restraints. And you swear that you see something just as uncertain and raw peek through the detached facade of the prince. Such a pale passing of emotions that had you not been paying so much attention to him; it might have slipped past your observation. It looks odd, but not unbecoming on him. He is typically so relaxed and serene. Unstirred by the influences of his surroundings. It manages to endear and embolden you all at once, and as though they have a mind of their own you find your feet closing the small amount of distance that divides you. The prince's vision is latched onto you as you move near, unwavering and heavy in his watch. 

For once in your uncertain relationship with the prince, it is you who seems to hold the sense of power. As shaky and foreign as it is. But he observes you with the same speculative surprise as a predator that has been taken off guard and is deciding on if its energy should be spent on fighting or evading. You make sure to be gentle in your approach, lest you break the brittle, intimate blanket that has fallen the vacant corridor. You can nearly hear the thump of your own heartbeat inside of your chest, pulsing along the palms of your hands. 

You surprise yourself as you dare to lean forward into his space. The scent of him engulfs you, and the perfume of it is almost dizzying. Clouding over you in a rush of subtle spice, leather and wind. It guides you press your lips upon the high ridge of his cheek. The soft divot of the scar catches underneath your mouth; the gnarled slivers of its subtly raised edges. You make sure to be gentle so's not to possibly aggravate the old, damaged tissue. His skin is warm. Sultry and smooth against your lips. You raise a single hand upward to place your fingertips along the sharp sweep of his jaw as a means to ground yourself. Or perhaps it is just an excuse to touch more of him. You are not entirely certain anymore. 

You can feel his chest swell with a surprised breath, muscles pulling taut underneath the leather of his doublet. You fear that you may have overstepped, and it draws you to break the kiss from his skin, though you find it difficult to pull away. He has made no attempt to tear his face from the light hold of your fingertips. He remains fixed in place. Quiet and motionless. For one horrid moment, you fear that you might have actually been able to disgust him. That you had terribly transgressed and shattered the delicate little relationship that you have only just began to fabricate. 

But when you look to meet his gaze the stare that he is studying you with holds a sort of hunger that you have yet to ever experience, and it is so disorienting to be on the receiving end. It completely eclipses the way that he had watched you with during the flight. You are sure that this is how it feels to be stalked by something dangerous and starved. It mutates with the vulnerability that seeps into his posture, and the combination of it melts into an ardor that is stifling. 

You are not sure how to navigate it. Of what this all could mean for you. For him. It has your blood roaring through your veins. Everything falls into a hush. You are sure that the rest of the castle is still lively with the preparations for supper. Servants are no doubt preoccupied by the nature of their longwinded duties, causing the innerworkings of the Keep to astir as they all go about their own matters. But here, in this quiet corridor, it feels as though you have been tucked away into your own private bubble. Sealed away and safe within its dulcet embrace. 

You can see the want in his eye so clearly. Bright and burning in its quality, but he makes no moves to act upon it. It is so strange to see what appears to be a sort of hesitance in the prince. Someone who is usually so certain of their wants and desires and acts on them unflinchingly. Arrogantly, even. It makes him appear so much more human. For once, in the little amount of time that you have known him, he finally stands close at a base that you could compare yourself. Not a god. But simply a man. A man who experiences reservations and uncertainty just as you do. One made of bone and blood - even if that blood may run hot with dragonfire. He still just a man. One who appears as though he wishes to seek you out. To bask in the comfort of your flesh and consume you where you stand but will not allow himself to. 

You are unsure where this sense of hesitancy could stim from. You have already lain together before in the hopes of producing a child and he had not shied away in any of those occurrences; having taken you with that cold, calculating indifference each time. You have no ability to say what has inspired the felling of that austere approach, but the sudden lack of it rouses a bravery that has long evaded you. Your lips, still hovering closely above his cheek venture to press against his skin once again. Much lower than their previous position along the sharp contours of his face, but now only a few scant breaths from his own lips. 

You pause briefly to surmise his reaction. Gauging the shift in his breathing and the way that he holds himself to see if you may have misread and breached an unsaid boundary, but he makes no move to tear himself from your proximity. But that is not enough. You must hear it from him. 

"Do you wish for me to stop-" 

A surprised yelp is snuffed from your throat when the plush of his mouth claims yours in a kiss that is so passionate that it is nearly ferocious. Your teeth clack together from the rough nature of it. It makes your mind draw a complete blank. All semblance of thought mutes down into a quiet hum as every bit of your being draws down to focus on the entirety of him. So heavy in its attentions that you hardly bear notice when he crowds you against the heavy doors of your chambers. So eager that the back of your skull knocks on the thick, ornate wood. The pain that flares is stinging and sharp, but you can hardly bother to pay it any attention as he presses himself along your body like he may starve without it. 

Once it all finally catches up with you, you find your hands reaching to sweep along him explorative, greedy strokes. Your fingers claw at his doublet, slipping along the buttery leathers in a weak grip before moving to clutch at the nape of his neck to draw him closer to you. It is crazed. Animalistic. A perversion of the sort of chaste affections that a lady should share with her husband, but you can hardly be bothered to care while your body is overcome with relief. It is suddenly as though he has become the air you require to breathe, and you are under the threat of suffocating. 

His hands are just as rapacious as your own. Clutching at your hips, your waist; reaching fingers gripping onto your hair. He is like some feral animal that does not know where to bite first. Desperate for the taste of flesh and blood but unsure of where to start. 

His teeth nip at your lips; tongue swiping, and obediently your jaw softly parts to allow him to lick into your mouth. The moan that leaves you sounds shocking to your own ears but it is impossible to be ashamed when the taste of him seems to set you on fire. You are quickly to reciprocate with equal ardor, but it is clumsy and underskilled on your part. And it dawns on you that this is your first true kiss with your husband, so very far off from the demure, obligated peck that he had given to you on your wedding day. It makes you burn all the hotter. Your eagerness intensifying tenfold as you grip onto him as though he may vanish if you do not. 

An almost wounded sound leaves you when he removes his mouth from your own. Though it is promptly stamped out when he nudges your head to the side with his own to latch the wet heat of his mouth onto the tender flesh of your neck. A contented sigh leaves you and your body seems to lose all of its strength, going lax against the support of the door as your head lulls back to bear your throat to the bite of his teeth and the suction of his tongue. You feel as though you are turning to mush. Going pliant underneath his ministrations; the heat of him has melted you like wax. 

It is the low bubble of chatter that breaks you from the haze that dips over your mind like the beginning effects of alcohol. Your eyes flutter open to gaze over the prince's shoulder, though he has not even so much as slowed the searing kisses along your flesh. Whether that be because he simply does not care or because he has not noticed the sound of carried voices you are not sure, but you cannot keep yourself from trying to peer down the long stretch of the corridor to spy for the origins of the conversation. You see no one but you are certain whoever is speaking is nearby. Their voices carried and projected by the stone no doubt, but they could round the corner at any moment and catch you and the prince in a most unbecoming manner. 

You mourn the very idea of stopping him, but the requirement to keep appearances and your position of the court untainted from untoward gossip prevails. It has you slipping your fingers along the roots that grow from the nape of his neck to tug as gently as you possibly can, urging him to pry his mouth from your flesh but he remains unmoving. Almost stubborn in his exploration of tasting the salt on your skin. 

"Aemond," you call softly. "We must stop; we will be caught." 

That seems to pull him from the fervent spell that had been casted over him. He finally allows himself to be removed from the crook of your neck, righting his posture meet your line of vision with a slight pant in his breath. The passion in his stare has not wavered or diminished at all. If anything, it seems all the fiercer. 

 

"Will you invite me into your chambers?" He inquires against your lips. "Will you have me?" 

The way he stated the question was straight forward. Blunt in what it implied. Unshy in its desire. But there is an unmistakable edge to it that is almost frail. Fragile in its essence. You know now that here the both of you are at a fork in the path. One single decision that may decide the fate of what lies ahead, and the balance of your matrimony. Prince Aemond wears that facade of his. Like no matter what response leaves from you he will be unbothered, but you can see the vulnerability bleeding into his gaze. You hear it in his questions. The hope that you do not turn him away. 

You know then that you will not send him off down the corridor while you tuck yourself away in your chambers alone. Not as elation and peace wraps itself around you and urges you to tug him closer; guiding him towards you as you make to reach behind to grab for the door latch. 

"Yes, I will have you Aemond." You whisper it softly, as though it is something sacred and delicate. 

That is all it takes to earn his mouth back upon you. Just as starved as it had been before. You are not certain which one of manages to pry one of the doors ajar, but as soon as it is open, you find yourself slipping through the entry as you pull him through by his shoulders as you blindly guide each other across the floor of your apartments. You just vaguely register the sound of the door slamming shut behind you both, but you hardly pay it any mind as his hands sweep along your hips with a grip that threatens to smart skin. The heel of your foot nearly trips along the edge of the tapestry rug, and it is Aemond's firm grip that keeps you secure as you attempt to navigate your clumsy journey to the bed. 

Already his fingers slip behind you, eagerly tugging at your skirts like he means to ruck them over your hips, but then he stops himself short and backs away from you so abruptly that for a second you fear that he is having regrets. That he plans to storm out of your quarters and pretend that this has never happened. His eyes trails over you as he steps away, halting himself he is several paces from you to observe your disheveled state. 

"Undress yourself."  

He says it that poised, calm cadence of his, but the order in it is still apparent. For some reason it makes you pause. You have never been completely bare before him. All of the previous times you had been afforded the crutch of your shift, skin always concealed from view. During your bedding ceremony, while the corridor just outside of Prince Aemond's chambers were crowded with the wedding quests, the attendees of the court and the Crowns Sept, all present to make sure the tradition was followed accordingly, you had still clung to the safety that your chemise had provided you. The two of you were hurdling over so many new steps and parameters in your relationship. For some reason, it does not feel obtrusive or jarring. Simply unexpected. Unfamiliar. But exciting still. 

You reach for the silk placket on the front your bodice, carefully unplucking the golden straight pins that your maidens had secured it with just this morning, being mindful to tack them back into the fabric so they do not drop upon the floor and run the risk of jabbing someone underfoot. Your fingers quiver slightly as you begin to unwind the ribbon lacings underneath, tugging them free from their eyes to loosen the grip of your bodice until the rest of the gown slides free of its grip on your body, enabling you are able to slip the sleeves from your arms for the rest of the garment to pool around your feet. 

You still have several layers to go; held within the confines of your kirtle but he is already watching you with an impassion stare akin to starvation. All of the vigor that he had unleashed on you before in the drag on his lips and the nipping of his teeth has been detained and seized onto with a shaky resolve; his weak restraint projected through the near feral look in his eye. It is clear that he wishes to watch you unburden yourself of your clothes. It gives him some kind of pleasure, to observe you exposing more of yourself to him at his whims. And you would like to indulge that lewd desire of his, but you know that the lacings along the back of your kirtle will be difficult to undo on your own. It is rigid in its structure, and combined with how tightly the many levels silk cord that cross up your spine are cinched, it will be a challenge. Often times it is a pain for even the deft fingers of your maids. 

"Would you so kind, lord husband, to assist me?" You do not bother in awaiting his response as you rotate around to present your back to him. The room is silent, save for the quiet rise and fall of the air steadily leaving and returning to your lungs. You do not hear him diminish the space the separates you both. The sound of his boots along the stone floors does not make a single tap or echo for you to gauge his nearness. But then his hands are just on you, settling at the point between your shoulder blades to pluck at the knot of your silk ribbons.   

The warmth of him wafts against you, causing the hairs along the nape of your neck to rise and your skin to pepper with gooseflesh. You crave to lean back into him. To bask in his natural, soothing heat, but you command yourself to remain stationary as he begins to tug at your lacings. Much steadier and slower than you have suspected. It has anticipation building and churning within your gut. Smoldering and settling like hot coals and molten wax beneath your flesh. 

His lips come to sweep along the junction of your neck, feeling as though they are branding you in their exploration. It should be of a concern with how much that thought thrills you. The idea of walking around with the prince's marks clearly presented for the court to see is an indecorous idea - downright craven. And yet it does nothing but make the flames inside roar brighter. 

You feel the moment that he finished in unlacing the kirtle. It slackens considerable on your torso, before he hastily slips the embroidered edge of the neckline from your shoulders; the truth of his avidity managing to peek through such a simple action. And just like that the materials fall from your body, leaving you in nothing but your shift. It shocks you how quickly his hands find a place on your hips. Fingers clasping tightly like he is resisting the urge to tenderize your skin underneath the pressure of his palms. But that twisted little part of you is still present and greedy. It has you pressing the shape of your rear against his pelvis, and you are unable to contain the delighted gasp that leaves you at the hard press of his cock straining underneath his breeches. 

He has not even seen you naked yet and already the evidence of his arousal nudges at you through the thin fabric of your chemise. He groans as you continue to roll your hips against you his. It's a pleased, low noise, that nearly sounds like a purr rumbling from his chest, and it vibrates along your neck as he threatens to sink his teeth just underneath the edge of your jaw. His fingers begin to tug and lift at the skirt of your shift to pile it around your waist. 

You twitch as he exposes you to the tepid draft of the room; nipples hardening beneath the delicate fabric at the chill. Suddenly, one of his hands is placed before you, fingers hovering close to your mouth as though he expects something of you. Your thoughts scramble along. Already pathetically sluggish and scattered from the lust searing at your being.  

"Take them into your mouth and bite, ābrazȳrys," he guides in a firm murmur. 

Obediently, your lip's part, allowing him to guide the tips of his fingers past them. The leathers concealing the nimble length of his digits is smooth along your tongue. Warm and slightly tangy in its flavor on your palate. The weight of them makes your eyes lashes flutter, threatening to slip closed before a distant voice in the recesses of your mind chides you to follow his desire, and eager to please you gently clamp the edges of your teeth down onto the tips of his gloves. He coos in a satisfied manner when he notices the compliant press of your teeth. He tugs his hand free from the casing of its glove, allowing the now empty garments to lie limp in your mouth before he removes it from between your teeth to discard it somewhere along the floor. 

You vaguely watch his hand from your peripherals as it lifts past the scope of your vison, but the low, wet sound in your ears cues you on what he may be doing. He is licking his fingers. Getting them wet. It makes your body thrum with want. The flavor of his gloves is still strong. A temptation that you never would have imagined. He had used your mouth for something that seems so frivolous, and yet it makes you ache. It reminds you of a bit of course chatter that you had heard from one of the ladies of the court.  A horrible gossip who often whispers of the most perverse of topics between lovers. Though you could not help but to have been intrigued when she spoke of pleasing one of her paramours with nothing but her tongue. 

You know what Aemond plans to do with his hands. The anticipation of it bubbles along the atmosphere like water simmers inside a heated pot, threatening to boil over as his fingers slip between your thighs and part your damp heat with little fanfare. Your body seems to sizzle. A delicious buzz licks up your spine as he sweeps a single finger over your cunt to gather the slick that already threatens to smear down the inside of your legs. Collecting it on the pad of his digit to aid him in delivering a slow, torturous circle along your clit. A drawn-out whine rips itself from your chest, and even with his hand buried underneath the fabric of your skirt, working pleasure between your thighs, you cannot help but to think of the possibility of taking him into your own mouth. 

To delight in the weight of his cock filling it up, weighing on your tongue. How it might taste. The expressions he would make. If his eye would express the same vulnerability that he had displayed to you in the hallway, when he asked if you would have him. Would that hint of desperation no longer be masked, but instead boldly shown? Would his face pinch with pleasure, eye clouded with lust as he watched you on your knees before him?

How gorgeous he would look. 

You have to tuck your face into his shoulder as you helplessly rock your hips against the ceaseless strum of his finger, muffling your cry as he suddenly slips one within the entrance of your cunt, forcing it to stretch and give around its width. He brushes it experimentally along your walls, almost like he is prodding or searching for something within you. Distracting you with the press of the heel of his hand on the bud of your nerves, feeding the fires the pit of your belly. He does find what he is in search of with an adept quickness. You feel it as soon as he does. The blind yet tactful pursuit is rewarded when he caresses something devastating buried inside of you. You gasp, breath snagging as you burrow your nose into his neck, choking on his scent while you search for your voice.  

"Aemond, please." It comes out as hardly more than a wanton moan puffed against his skin, and your hips continue to chase after the exquisite heat that he is effortlessly stoking within the cradle of your thighs. "Please, Aemond. I want to taste you. I want you in my mouth." 

You feel the way he hums in consideration more than you hear it. A nonchalant noise, as though you have questioned him about the quality of his day. As though he was not knuckle deep inside of your cunt. "Hmm, such a temptation. Though, if I recall correctly, was it not my wife who ventured into my chambers with revelations of her loneliness? It seems that I have long ignored my husbandly duties. I think it is due time that I rectify that." 

Those words sound so promising. So sweet in its oath. So, it is entirely cruel when he all but rips his finger from the walls of your cunt, leaving you feeling empty and the scorching embers in your gut smoking but unfanned. A question, an insult, or a cry hang on your tongue, but you never get the opportunity to figure out which it is. Aemond grips you by the shoulders and nudges you in the direction of your bedding, giving you little time to orient yourself through the lustful haze that has clouded your mind over. 

"I want you lying down on your back; cunt spread." His instruction rings out sharply. Like a strategized order that would be given in council. "And remove that fucking garment from your body." 

He spat out the sentence as though the cloth is an offence to him. The sight of it alone enough to rouse his ire. So eager to see you bare before him. You have half the mind to try and tease him, but tonight you can hardly be bothered. The weight of the shift is stifling on your dampened skin, and his covetous stare urges you to do his bid. You do not turn to face him as you disrobe. It nudges from your shoulders easily. Dropping free from your body to leave you in nothing more than your silk stockings and garters, and the diamond accessories that dangle from the lobes of your ears. 

You swear that you can feel the line of his vision upon your flesh. Trailing down your spine, tracing the shape of your ribs as they meet the contour of your waist, skirting along the swell of your arse. You do not turn to face him until you place your knees on the cushion of your mattress, plush and filled with down and feathers, offering you enough support to crawl along the stretch of it before turning on your back as he had bidden. The impassioned look in his eye seems to suspend you adrift. It does not make you feel disgustingly ogled or leered at to be so blatantly admired. He studies you as though he is in the presence of something sanctified. Divine. 

You are not sure of how to compose yourself underneath such unabashed devotion. The only thing that seems to give you any sort of stability is the continued ring of his earlier command reverberating in your mind. You cling to it, like someone who is threatened to be swept away in a rough tide. It is almost absentmindedly that your leg's part, offering yourself up to the insatiable stare of your husband in a manner so vulgar. But you cannot deny that there is something titillating about it. How his posture seems to simultaneously go rigid and slack all at once. A restraint in his composure visibly snapping before he stalks across the room towards you like he means to devour you. 

He is upon you before you can hardly blink. Gripping onto the thick of your upper thigh with his gloved, left hand to further pry your legs apart. Stretching them until you can nearly feel the strain of it in the joint of your hip. "Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys." He lifts your opposite up just enough to nose at your knee, ghosting his lips about the breadth of it as his eye locks with your own sight. Something nearly playful dancing in the vivid shade of colors. "Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?"

He continues to sweep his nose along your flesh. Dragging it downward towards your intimacy, where you burn and ache for him the most. You cannot stop yourself from rolling your hips upward, tempted by the warmth of his breath gliding along your skin and the heat of your cunt. It makes you clench around nothing, as though your body is mourning how empty you are without the stretch of his fingers. 

"Aemond, pleas-" 

He hushes you softly. A placating, quiet sound but it cuts through the air with the swift impact of a steady blade. Like an eager soldier you find yourself falling silent. Focused entirely on him as he lay between your thighs with the relaxed composure of a dragon with its prey already secure between it fangs. "Patience," he murmurs. Though he hardly gives you any time exercise such a restraint because his mouth is on you as soon as the word leaves him. The shock and feel of it sears through you, lashing itself across your body akin to charges of lightning crackling across a storm. Nothing could have prepared yourself for such a thing. The wet heat, the suction of his lips, the skilled slip of his tongue. 

Your legs twitch on reflex, threatening to close but the hand that he had clasped around your thigh keeps it secure in place. Still, it does not stop him from glancing up at you from the apex of your legs with an unvoiced reprimand glinting in his eye. A broken cry shudders from your lungs. Sharp breaths nearly hiccupping from you as he licks at your cunt, burrowing the pronounced, attractive swoop of his nose against your clit while his tongue laps at your entrance. You cannot stop yourself as you begin to sway your hips along the press of it. Practically riding his face with the mindless drive of a woman possessed. Your fingers claw along the blankets; nails tearing at the fabric like it might help you weather through the bolts of ecstasy that ravage your body.  

Your head lifts to properly gaze upon him as he continues to drag his tongue over you, groaning softly into your heat as though he were the one experiencing pleasure. You have heard of women satisfying their husbands with the comforts of their mouths but never the opposite. You know now that it is easily something that you could become addicted to. And based on the pleased pinch between his brows and the way that his eye has nearly slipped closed it seems that he has just as much of an appetite for it. 

"Oh, my gods! Aemond- fuck!" 

You can feel the amused chuckle he releases vibrate along your cunt, making the burning coil in your gut wind that much tighter. He parts his lips from you just long enough to speak, slipping a finger within the tight entrance of your heat just as he does so, crooking it against that delicious spot that he had found nestled within you earlier. "Such a filthy mouth you have on you. How unbecoming for someone who holds the title of a princess." He mocks, crudely stroking and curling his finger within the tight warmth of your cunt. You think distantly to scold him. To remind him of who has drawn such untoward responses from you in the first place but then he is guiding a second digit in along the other, making you stretch to accommodate them; causing your mind to blank. "What would they think if they could see you now? Mewling like well-paid whore."  

You are not sure why that awful little comment has warmth drizzling down your spine like drops of warmed honey. You feel yourself flutter around the ceaseless pulse of his fingers, back arching in a means to draw him deeper. He notices as well. Of course he does, ever so observant. It has him humming in that considering way of his. Like he is pleased with his discovery. You expect another witty remark from him but get none. What he chooses to say next is even more damning. 

"I'm going to fuck you with my fingers, and you are going to be a good little wife and peak on my tongue." 

His tone leaves no room for argument - not that you have given him any in this state. Especially not when the sultry drag of his mouth returns to your cunt to join the clever curl of his fingers. The combination of it threatens to make you sob. Your body writhes when he takes your clit into his mouth, sucking at it gently with steady pulses of his tongue. One of your hands blindly reaches to grip his head, threading your finger through the silken tresses of his hair as though it might ground you; keep you from floating away. It is all so overwhelming. Too much and yet too little. And like a starved glutton you find your opposite palm coming to slip along your own torso, sweeping along your feverish skin to explore your breasts. You mindlessly reach to take your nipples between your thumb and fingers, rolling and plucking at it to further stoke the fire in your belly. 

You hear the sound of Aemond's pleased groan, no doubt watching you from his place between your legs as you touch yourself. Already the rapture flooding your veins begins to rise up. Cresting upon you like a wave being tossed within a great tempest. You can practically taste it. Dancing along your tongue like something sweet and hot; burrowing into the cradle of your hips by the euphoric drag of his hand and tongue. 

"Aemond!" You sob. With the intent to warn him or to merely cry you are not sure. Your face pinches as the grip of your pleasure begins to close around you, holding you tight within its vice like it means to wring every ounce of euphoria from you. "Aemond, I'm going to- gods-" 

The glide of his mouth and fingers is almost brutal. Precise and nimble in his intent to hurdle you headfirst into the throes of bliss, and he is certainly achieving that goal. You can feel the muscles within you drawing up tight; fire lashing and curling over you and wearing at your soul. You can hardly speak. Now struggling to get out broken panting breaths and pieces of the prince's name as your release bears down on you. He shows you no mercy in your state, continuing to suckle and lap at your cunt like he means to drink you down. 

It is with a wrecked scream that you reach your peak. The cry that rips from your throat is short and hoarse, and there is no doubt that some unfortunate soul wandering the hall has heard you. Though you are too beyond yourself to care. Sparks bursts inside your flesh, dousing you in a bliss that you have naught ever brought yourself. Like a mindless animal your body continues to ride itself against the press of Aemond's tongue, his nose, his fingers, all of which still work against you to draw out the euphoria that engulfs you. 

It is not until you hiss from the sudden tenderness in your cunt that he wills himself to pull away, giving you a reprieve to lay boneless and spent along the plush of the bed. His breath is raged when he rises from your hips, face smeared with the evidence of your pleasure, his stare is wild. He looks disheveled, hair disordered from when you had gripped it and chest pulling in frantic gulps of breath. He nearly looks just as winded as you. Though you are surely partly to blame with how you had desperately pushed his face into your cunt like some sort of sex-crazed whore. And the patch of leather that conceals his eyes has become slipped from its place. Not enough to display whatever grievous, old wound may rest beneath, but another unintended brush against it may knock it askew completely. 

You do not think when you guide yourself to sit up and lift a hand, thoughtlessly using your thumb to nudge the leather back down to rest securely above his socket. But the realization seems to come to you both unanimously. His own hand coming to grip your offending wrist, keeping it suspended in its place in the air; your fingertips still resting on the structure of the patch. 

 The stare that passes between the both of you is joined by so many varying emotions. Many of them extending from his side: a brief flash of anger, bewilderment, unease. And then, there it is again. That trace of vulnerability that he tries so hard to contain. But it seems to always be there. Lurking underneath the surface like pain disturbing an old wound. And like a shadow, you see that hint of hope again too. It is the only things that keeps you from shifting from him. Of giving him space that you would have otherwise assumed he needs. But now you draw near. Resting on your knees to sit before him. Instead of attempting to withdraw your hand from his clutches, you instead reposition it to cradle the side of his face, maintaining to keep your touch light in case he chooses to remove himself from underneath your hand. 

Few breaths pass, and he makes no moves to do so. He leans closer. It is such a tiny gesture. A barely perceptible movement, but you feel it. The difference in weight against your hand. The glint in his eye pierces into you with a desperation. Like he is expecting you to suddenly come to a realization and flinch away out of fear. Like he is hoping that you do so. 

But you will do no such thing. You shift closer to him, making sure to be careful as not to accidentally prod his eye patch from its place while you clutch his cheek. He observes you closely. As though he is studying you. Searching for a shred of hesitation or disgust so that he may turn you away. The opportunity for him to do that does not come as you lift to seat yourself upon his lap. His chest expands almost shakily as he gazes at you. Eye slightly widened as though he is in a state of awe or disbelief. The sheer unabashed emotion reflecting inside that gorgeous mix of blue and violet could make your heart ache and skip. You long to tell him of how you feel. The breadth of your emotions. Not quite love yet, of course, but it must be the beginnings of it with how tender and passionate it burns, like the birth of a blaze. 

But that may be too much to confess. Perhaps, your actions will have to suffice for now. 

You are certain he gasps when your lips press against his, tongue sweeping along the plush of his mouth like he had done to your earlier, gathering the tart and sweet taste of yourself on your palate. The flavor of your own arousal does not deter you in the slightest. Not the damp of it against your skin as you draw him into a soft exchange of kisses. Much softer than the one that he had inspired in both of your earlier. This somehow seems so much more explorative. Delicate, even with the heat that begins to simmer beneath the surface once more. 

Your fingers once again slip and find purchase in his hair, nails lightly scraping at his scalp as your hips begin to undulate against the bulge that still presses against his breeches. He groans, panting into your mouth while he runs his hands along your nude flesh, reaching down to grip the swell of your arse to aid you in grinding your hips with his. The hard impression of his cock nudging at your cunt through the fabric of his trousers is delicious, even while you are still slightly tender from your previous pleasure, licking a sensitive fire along your skin. Still, it does not stop you as you continue to grind yourself on him, wanton and aching once again. Delight peeks through the drunken haze of your desires as he removes on of his hand from you to slip between your bodies, fingers reaching for the laces of his breeches where he eagerly pulls at tugs at them to draw them loose. 

He groans sharply in relief when he guides himself from the restraint of his trousers. The alleviation must be great, with how long the straining weight of his cock has been tucked behind the material. You hear it in the low hiss that rises from his chest, and it has you humming softly at him, a light reposeful sound as you continue you to exchange a languid, unbroken kiss with him. The both of you unable to tear yourselves from each other, even has the hot length of his cock comes to rest against his stomach, now pinned between the pressure of both of your bodies, burning against your ferverish skin. 

"I need to feel you," he breathes against your lips. "Let me have you." 

You peek your eyes open long enough to consider him, and the longing that burns within the depth of his stare knocks something inside of your soul off guard, shaking the very foundations. Such raw, unprotected emotion. He stares at you as if you are the creator of the heavens, having fashioned the moon and the burning of the stars with only your hands. It makes you unsure of how to stand unwavering, unaffected underneath such a devoted gaze. If only he knew that it is you who wishes to worship him. To pour your affections and adoration onto him like an acolyte offering their deity tokens and praise. 

An understanding seems to pass through the both of you, a wordless communication. He reaches down to grip himself as you post your hands upon his shoulders, your nails burrowing into the leather of the doublet that he has not bothered to shed as a means to braces yourself as you line the head of his cock with the entrance of your heat. There is little fanfare before you begin to lower yourself onto him, splitting yourself on the head of cock as you use your thighs to settle downward. You walls stretch to accommodate his girth, fluttering as he guides you open to find solace in your body. A strained set of words seems to squeeze from his chest, all of them in that beautiful language that you yet to understand. It has a sense of pride flaring. A deep, hedonistic satisfaction welling up to know that you have such a strong, composed man crumbling around the edges from nothing more than the grip of your cunt. 

You place another brief kiss upon his lips, a smile tugging at them when he nearly tries to chase after you, but you distract him by further sinking yourself down around his length until your rump meets his thighs. His mouth drops open in response, eye fluttering at sensation of your walls clenching and flexing around him as though it means to somehow draw him deeper. 

The pressure of him inside of you, carving a space for himself within you almost makes you breathless. It licks itself up your spine like a bolt of lightning, forcing your body to shudder and draw closer to his, subconsciously seeking out the warmth of his skin and mourning when you feel nothing but the dim chill of his leather doublet. 

"Aemond," you beg softly. Your hips seem to have a mind of their own as they begin to lift themself upward to roll back down, working to repeatedly spear yourself on his cock with only desperation and hedonism guiding you. His hands come to grip your waist, spreading his thighs out wider to find a better stance to drive himself up inside of you easier, aided by the slick of your arousal, causing his thrusts to become even more pronounced. The sensation of his girth stretching you out to its shape, veins dragging along your walls has your back curving taut like a bowstring. 

The warmth of his mouth suddenly closes around one of your breasts, tongue lapping at the peak of your nipple as he continues to drive himself inside of you in a devastating rhythm. It has your mind drawing a blank. Going white like a wall of fog as embers and fire sear at the pit of your gut. Your lip's part. Soft gasps panting from your throat as he continues to ravage your body for his pleasure while further tearing you through the depths of yours. It seems to choke through you, forcing you to hiccup and whimper around the insistent pounding of his hips, the weight of his cock dipping inside of you. 

It is disoriented and abrupt when he shoves you onto the flat of your back, knocking what little bit of air was still contained inside of your lungs out and leaving you stunned. You can only lay and take it as your mind scrambles to gain a sense of clarity, while pleasure scalds itself throughout your veins, snuffing your body in a cloud of smoke. His body extends over yours, only supported by his arms posted on either side of your head. His mouth leaves your breast with a subtle nip of his teeth, sparking pleasure with their blunt edges, making you arch your chest to seek out more of it. 

But he ignores the blatant offering, opting to nudge himself up to kneel to better support his weight as he grabs one of your thighs to swing your leg along the perch of his shoulder. It somehow manages to drive him deeper. Effectively punching the air from your chest, the crown of his cock brushing along something inside of you that has your body twisting along the support of the bed. A sob wracks through you and your eyes nearly roll in the back of your skull. You distantly hear yourself whispering his name. Repeating it over and over again with all of the devotion and desperation of a mantra, of a prayer meant for the ears of a god. And here above you now, he certainly looked like one. Pale eye blazing and wild with his lust, hair unkept and freeing from its tie, a sheen of sweat glittering along his pale flesh like flecks of gold and stardust. 

"There she is," he marvels in a coo; pleased and smug in the debauched thing that he has reduced you to. A complete juxtaposition to the longing, vulnerable man that he had been just moments before. "My sweet wife gone dumb and pliant beneath me. Do I satisfy you? Having you like this? Taking my cock so obediently. " You moan in agreement, hips twitching and jerking to further aid him inside of you. Even while it feels like he is deep in your gut, shoving your breath from you with his rhythm, you crave more. "I should keep you like this. Fucked and filled. Would you like that, ābrazȳrys? Stuffed full until it swells your belly with my heir?"

 

It douses you with fire. The comment engulfing you as though you have been guided into the starved clutches of an inferno. The satisfied stare that he pins you with only makes you feel bare and exposed despite the intimate positions that he has had you in already. Like he is piecing you apart and gazing at your soul. Even with the filth that he casually rambles, it does nothing to dampen the tenderness and hunger that seeps into your bones and gnaws at your being. Your body thrums with the delight at being claimed so primally by the prince - by your husband. To walk about the great halls with his babe safely tucked away inside your stomach. The idea of it has you clawing at his back, no doubt leaving marks along the leather, and it is a great regret that it is not his skin that you tear the traces of your nails along. 

"You will truly be so beautiful in such a state. There will be no mistake that you're mine. Mother to my child. My wife." 

The possessiveness that streaked through his words made you arch into him, driving the metal clasps of his doublet into your flesh, causing the skin to sting. You can hardly pay it any mind though. Not while you are hurtling towards your peak. The promise of your release rushing towards you with the intensity a liquid fire. He too is close. You can see it in the furrow between his brows, the pale stutter in his breath which begins to meld into low groans; feel it in the slight falter in his pace. 

"Please, Aemond." You moan, just barely managing to get your tongue to cooperate in forming the plea. His eye locks onto you with the concentration of a hunter, but that softness, his need is beginning to melt it around the edges once again. "I want you to let go. I want to feel you filling me up." 

His hips flounder for a good moment, and it takes him a bit of correcting to regain the fluidity of the brutal stride that he had set, though once he does it is like he had never faltered at all. The almost violent bliss smoldering along your being still engulfs you and nips at you like it means to rip you apart. He swears sharply again. The sound of your wish, both a beg and a command having the most delicious effect on him as he continues to build that euphoria within the base of your stomach, causing the muscles there to clench tight.

"I'm yours. All yours." You assure breathlessly, aiming to appease the proprietorial nature that he has shown you. That is all you can manage before the euphoria finally crests and completely blindsides you within the deluge. You feel outside of yourself as your body writhes, cunt clenching around the deep stretch of his cock as he continues to pound into you, tipping you into something akin to a drunken stupor. It is rapturous. The sheer weight of the pleasure that possesses you and leaves you little more than a vessel that can only lie and try to survive the onslaught. 

Aemond's body shudders over your own, spine curling inward to tuck his face within the crook of your neck as his own peak seizes him. His groan rattles along your throat, followed by a strained fuck as a burst of liquid heat floods inside your stomach, filling you with warmth. His hips jerk shakily, meeting the languid pace of your own as you both work to assist each other in riding out your shared highs. Though it does not take long for either of you to lose your vigor, muscles and bones going lax as you both relent to the weight of your spent bodies. He does not bother in removing himself from the grip of your cunt as he all but collapses on top of you, effectively pinning you to the mattress with his weight. 

You make no effort to move him from you - you find no desire to. The air around you is thick with the scent of sex, still thrumming and alive with the fervor of your shared lust even as it ebbs from your body, replaced with the temptation of sleep. Contentment and exultation pools in your chest, syrupy and thick from the pleasant warmth of his form along yours, and it guides you to glide your fingers through the silken strands of Aemond's hair. He has made no efforts to extract his face from your neck. Perfectly at peace to keep himself tucked against you with his flaccid cock still buried deep, as his breathing levels out into steady puffs against your skin. 

"We cannot sleep, my Prince. The servant girls will be here soon to prepare me for supper." You warn, though he does not stir in the slightest. A hum leaves him. The only confirmation you receive that tells you he has heard you. He almost seems to clutch onto you tighter, as though he longs to burrow into you and meld into one. So desperate for your touch even while he hides so many facets of himself from you. There is no way to truly foresee what the future has in store for you and him. For the welfare of the kingdom. The home of your children. There are many uncertainties. Many stimming from your Aemond himself, the many lethal edges that create his being. But that is fine. You are patient. Tonight has marked a new turning point for you and he, you are certain. You will wait no matter how long you must for him to come to you, and to reveal himself and his truths to you unabashedly. No matter how damaged and bloody and wild those parts of him may be. 

You are certain that you will marvel in the twisted beauty of it regardless. 

"I will get up shortly." He finally replies, tone gentle and rich in your ear. "Let us just lie here for a moment; just you and I." 

Does this truly please you, wife? - Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys? To be here with me? - Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke I believe it does - Pāsan ziry gaomas It has me wonder of all the other ways I could please you - Ēza nyke pendagon hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao

So beautiful and sweet like this, my wife - Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys Do you taste just as sweet? - Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?    

[andersonfilms]

Abby and reader getting into an argument where they both know r is right but Abby is just being so goddamn stubborn ohmygod. So r just ups and flashes Abby with their tits to shut her up. Abby stutters and slowly loses her resolve until she finally shortcircuits

❛ THE PRETTY GIRL BEHIND THE BAR. ❜

♱

†⠀warnings y disclaimers — eighteen+, dom!reader, sub!abby, poc!friendly, jealous!abby, soft nsfw, stubborn!abby.

Abby never should have been flirting with the bartender. She knows it just as well as you do. You had every right to be upset. Abby was your girl, not anyone else's, and she just let it happen. Right in front of you.

It made you sick and God, her dismal of it was even more infuriating. Her stubbornness shining through as you tried to make her see where you were coming from, but it seemed the attention was going right to her head.

"So, what if she was flirting? Why does it matter?" Abby was trying to worm her way out, but you wouldn't let her. Not this time.

"It's one thing to entertain it Abby but c'mon, look with your eyes. You let her feel you up right in front of me. Do you seriously not see how disrespectful that is?”

"She was not all over me and she did not feel me up." Abby defended.

"Really? You're going to play dumb right now? That's the side you want to take. You've got to be kidding me." Clearly, you were frustrated but your words only angered Abby.

"You're calling me dumb right now? For the love of god, she didn't touch me."

"Maybe you didn't notice because you were too caught up in the pretty girl behind the bar but anyone with eyes could see she was all over you." You walked away from her as the two of you walked into your shared apartment as Abby slammed the door behind her.

"She kept touching your arm and you did nothing. She tugged at the end of your braid; you did nothing. Anderson, she was looking at you like you were a piece of meat and you just let her! It was like I was fucking invisible." You were beyond pissed and the smirk on her lips wasn't helping.

Abby was too damn confident for her own good, always putting her foot in her mouth before she even spoke.

"Anderson? Wow. You're really angry, baby." She took a step closer, but you took two steps back.

"Don't 'baby' me. Are you being serious right now?"

You couldn’t believe her. She had the nerve to stand there, beautiful as can be, with a smile you would kill for but right now? You wanted nothing more than to deck her in the face. Abby always did this, and it pissed you off to no fucking end. Abby always had to let you know how wanted she is and how lucky you were to have her. It truly was nauseating.

“Just admit it, Anderson. She fucking touched you and you let her.” You threw it back at her, tired of this back and forth.

“If you call me Anderson one more time, I swear to god.”

“You’ll what? Flirt with someone else in front of me?” You stepped forward, cocking your head to the side. “I have to say, the more you do it, it might just lose it’s impact.”

“Are you sure? You’re pretty wound up right now, baby. Just can’t stand when my attention is elsewhere, can you?” 

You wanted to scream at her, but you couldn’t. Even if the chances of those baby blues welling up into tears were slim, you couldn’t let your anger get the best of you. All of this was intentional. Her pressing, her flirting, her acting like she oblivious to it. Abby wanted a reaction out of you. Boy, was she getting one. Still, you didn’t want to do anything to upset her, even if it seemed she was trying to do the opposite for you.

If she wanted to play with fire, so be it. You’d just have to cool her off enough so you could have a conversation about this without her cocky persona jumping in at any given moment.

The smirk dropped from her Abby’s face as soon as her brain registered what you were doing. Carefully, nimble fingers were unbuttoning the vest top you had on. You’d worn it just for her too. Abby loves the way it makes your breasts look, cleavage busting at the top. It usually would make her insatiable, but no. Tonight, she decided to keep her attention elsewhere.

You would make her pay for it.

“What are you doing?” Her breath hitches, and you try to smirk but you’re failing just as she was before.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“W-We’re fighting now, right?” Abby was so unsure of herself. Part of her believed she was imagining this. You slowly taking off your top, and God you weren’t wearing a bra either.

You really were trying to kill her, Abby thought.

“Yep, you’re really pissing me off, Anderson.”

“T-them, uh, why- oh fuck.” Abby tried to speak but it trailed off to a curse as you tossed your top onto the back of couch and made your way right to her.

“Why don’t you tell me exactly why your attention was elsewhere?” Your perky tits on display for her was torture, because she knew if she tried to touch you, her hand would be smacked immediately.

“C’mon, don’t be shy Anderson. Tell how much of a crazy fucking girlfriend I am. Go on. Fucking speak.” You demanded from her, but the blonde still found herself tripping over her words, unable to complete one sentence.

“I-I, um, y-y-you know, fuck, what do you want me to say baby? Please, I’ll do anything. Jus’ want to make it up to you.” Her eyes maintain eye contact with flesh exposed for her enjoyment, or rather yours. You liked doing this to her. Flipping the dominate switch to submissive and watching her crumble.

Abby knew it would be more than worth it once you had the harness and strap on, fucking her so dumb. Her pussy fluttered at the thought of it. She wanted you to stretch her out – turn her into your little fuck toy. You liked it, loved it even. Tearing apart someone so strong, until she was putty in your hands and begging for it.

It’s what she deserved after pulling the little stunt today.

She needed to be put in her place and you were more than happy to oblige.

“For starters, stop looking at my tits and look in my eyes.” Abby obeyed you, anticipating your next move.

“Now, be a good girl. Go upstairs, strip for me. I want you naked on the bed, and Mommy will be up there to remind you exactly who you belong to.” You slapped her ass as she moved hastily up the steps leading into your bedroom.

Let’s just say, Abby was in the for a long night.

[mibkid]

I find it so funny the most recurring thing in this fandom is that when portal sickness occurs, if it occurs, the one who almost ALWAYS gets nauseated it's Four. THAT BOY DOESN'T GET ANY BREAKS LMAO. (occasionally it's Hyrule but mostly Four). The fandom truly were unanimous about that. LMAOOO.

[umeumeumee]

your lips, my lips

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- clarisse la rue x daughter of eros! reader

synopsis: valentine’s day- something that everyone truly disliked. until one moment, something changed.

authors note: this is not apart of fault is false (sorry!) but i’m sick with a really bad cold today and i wanted to write something special for clarisse on valentines! so.. Happy valentine’s day, everyone!

Valentine’s day.

Something humans found to be dear to them, coupled people exchanging gifts to one another on the fourteenth of February; the holiday of love.

in camp half blood, valentine’s day was celebrated to the fullest extent of its potential— it was so dear to humans as they had a rather short life span, hence a day to express your love to someone was so precious to the weak minded people. at camp, the holiday was acknowledged by the campers to recognize the importance of being half human, and half god, as well as the lovey dovey atmosphere that followed after. The same was done with other important holidays, such as Halloween and Christmas.

Clarisse la rue did not find the holiday to be particularly pleasant- or pleasant at all, for that matter. Valentine’s day was stupid in her mind. two people smuggling each other in both emotional and physical affection? openly displaying affection? i front of people? such thoughts made the daughter of Ares want to gag.

but than there was you— daughter of Eros, your charm was an automatic reminder of your heritage, and a stark figure of your character.

clarisse felt like a child by how hard she fell for you, stealing the breath from her lungs at every glance she caught of you.

your pretty smile, your wonderful eyes, your sweet face. Clarisse la rue was pissed at herself when she finally realized exactly what her feelings meant, shoving them down like lava to a volcano.

But like all creatures of nature, it was ought to burst out somehow.

and for the young daughter of Ares, her volcano ruptured on valentine’s day- to her fury.

it was a sunny day, but it had never felt so dark to clarisse. Her footsteps shook the earth as she angrily marched through camp, shoving heart shaped balloons from her path and kicking roses she saw on the floor.

The curly haired girl had caught wind that you’d received numerous valentine gifts- chocolates, flowers, posters and even jewelry. knowing people other that clarisse had been eyeing you down for a while made the flickering flame inside her chest burn down towers with her rage.

She stormed through camp with fire following her trail, each step was quaking those around her.

She stormed to cabin 39, where the children of Eros lay.

everyone knew the children of the Greek god of carnal love’s children rivaled those of ancient Greek goddess of love and beauty, Aphrodite. You were point of that accusation, the most beautiful girl Clarisse had ever laid her eyes on.

and even now she as she had a torch lighting aflame her chest, she still yearned for your touch— even as she was heading in your direction to explode in a way she wasn’t sure of.

She took a sharp turn around capin 56, for the children of eris— their dark aura usually affecting clarisse now deflected off her skin like a bow to raw metal, the children watching in discord as she stormed to the door of cabin 39.

Clarisse slammed her cinnamon skinned hand against the polished wood harshly, waiting with furrowed brows for someone to answer the door. When she saw the handle move, her back subconsciously straightened.

The wood was pulled back and you were revealed— in all your nauseating, grueling, pure beauty, smile growing wide upon the sight of the curly haired girl outside your door.

“Clarisse!” your voice was smooth like honey, sticky like maple syrup and sweet like sugar. Clarisse ignored the warmth that flushed her body at the soft call of her name you expressed in joy, stupidly gorgeous smile widening at her presence.

in honest, clarisse wanted to bathe in your touch- your voice, your gaze and your heart. She yearned for you in a way she’s never felt, her defensive and rough external force disintegrating pathetic into nothing when you traced your honey soft skin along her arm, pushing hair from her face as the only scent she cpould smell was the sweetness of your person.

Clarisse was scared of her feelings in fact, and the idea that you might like someone other than her had her at the edge of her seat. She knew that it was likely, and if she truly did want you— today would be the day to make the claim.

She huffed, squinting her eyes as you moved from the doorway to welcome her inside. she reluctantly agreed, tucking her chin upward as she took steps forward. Instantly, the smell of sweets and tea attacked her senses with not a single warning— sugar and honey the only smell she could register.

Her face scrunched, overwhelmed by the smell— you laughed, covering your smile with your fingers as you usually did, a cute habit clarisse admired.

“sorry, glykó korítsi. Cole went all out for tou Agíou Valentínou.” Clarisse tucked her face away from your view, scolding herself for faltering under the stupid greek nickname you’ve given her; “pretty girl.”

She took a moment to gather herself, huffing in an upset expression when she examined your cabin.

god, there was no place Clarisse hated more that the Eros Chilren’s Cabin.

the cabin has an intense aura that can drive other demigods insane with arousal— unless that demigod is the child of a love god or goddess once activated by a child of Eros. Clarisse was lucky enough to know you to the point you spared her the torture of the curse on your cabin, and was beyond grateful the so called ‘blessing’ can also be deactivated at will.

clarisss recalled when you first exposed her to your cabin- On the northern part of the first floor, it has a room that can bring to life any sexual and or romantic desire, as well as an exact copy of the person they desire. clarisse found it odd, disgusting even. Nasty fantasies coming to life? how alone and sad does your life have to be you have to imagine yourself with someone you love? she could laugh in their face and ridicule them until they run away crying.

In the living room, there are several shelves with books containing all kinds of unknown and known love stories recorded throughout the ages. It has a large TV in the center, and a rather nice leather couch, may the daughter of ares be so kind to say.

In the east wing lies the kitchen, and on the west wing lies the public bathrooms. There is romantic music playing softly in the background through the means of a record player. That is another reason clarisse despised your cabin; the music.

There is a chandelier hanging from the ceiling with artwork of all kinds of people procreating with one another. On the second floor lies the bedrooms of the children of Eros. Clarisse only knows that because…

Her face turned a subtle shade of pink, barely noticeable on her skin, but the warmth was all the same.

“so, why are you here?” your sticky sweet voice tore clarisse from her thoughts— thoughts she tries her best to… forget.

she cleared her throat— “I wanted to escape this holiday but obviously i came to the wrong cabin,” she lied through her teeth, gesturing to the many heart and love balloons and decorations littering your cabin.

You smile, “You definitely did. This is the last place you should come to on Valentines. Why not go to Eris cabin?” you question, obviously not catching the not-so-obvious hint clarisse thought dropped for you.

“Clearly. and those kids are lame.” she crossed her arms, scanning the area. Your cabin was something else. She felt her cheeks warm once more at the people making out along the stairs of your home, rushing upstairs to the soundproof bedrooms.

Her gaze flickered away, catching yours. Your eyes were red, same as your fathers. They were filled with so many things clarisse could only put her finger on, but all she knew is that her words always died in her throat at their gaze.

“Well, you are welcome to stay, anyway.” you hum, tucking some hair behind your ear as you shifted your weight to a different leg.

Clarisse stood standing with many various of feelings— her knees were uncharacteristically weak, tummy doing summersalts inside her belly, hands shaky as all she wanted to do was—

“come on,” you motioned her over, a strange smile on your face. Clarisse felt herself become uncharacteristically excited as you led her up the stairway to your bedroom, her steps close behind yours as you waved to your siblings in the halls as they sent you a teasing smile before retreating back into their own rooms, with someone who bore little clothes.

Clarisse would never forget the first time she sat foot in your room— a cold winter night, a heated moment— something she would never forget, even though she tried.

as you lead her down the familiar hall, music played lightly from the stairways entrance, echoing throughout the cabin. The sight of your door came to her view, your hand twisting the handle and revealing your room.

Clarisse got immediate flashbacks to the last time she was here, knees once more weakened by the remembrance.

You gently slid your hand down her arm, pulling her into your room and closing the door. Clarisse looked around nervously— your room wasn’t very decorated, only a few things representative of love here and there- most likely gifts from your father. You sat on your bed, eyes pulling clarisse in by the throat as she sat beside you.

It was an awkward silence— at least on her behalf, valentine’s day was always an opportunity to seem unhappy. but as she sat with you, the tension in the room was chewing her skin and muscles off her bones.

the bed shifted for a second, and Clarisse looked over to you— your red eyes staring daggers into hers.

They were so beautiful, a blood like red— so many emotions swarming in them— so many things to represent who you truly where— they held passion, desire, sexuality, lust, danger, action, drama, joy, stress, radiance.

Clarisse could barely hold herself back as your smile encased her in a cage, trapping her, tormenting her— The cinnamon skinned girl was about to make a daring move- but you did first.

You slammed your lips to Clarisses, bed creaking slightly from the fast, sudden movement of your action— but clarisse waisted no time kissing you back. Your lips fell into sync together, dancing in a rhythm that was so perfect you wanted to melt into her.

Her hands landed on your hips, and yours in her soft curly hair— she shoved you down, back meeting the soft pink sheets of your bed, the sound of you two devouring each other the only sound in your room other than the faint valentines music bouncing through the walls.

You pulled her hair, a soft groan leaving the girls lips as she trailed her kisses down to your neck. You hummed, completely emersrd- the feeling of her lips on you was so sweet— you wanted to faint.

But you quickly realized that it wasn’t nearly as cute as you thought, as a sharp pain ate at your skin where she was feeling on your neck. You gasp, the warm feeling of blood barely falling from your neck. She’d bit you.

“clarisse-“ she silenced you with her own lips, the taste of your blood swarming between your mouth and hers, and you melted into the kiss once more.

the kiss was harsh, filled with desperation from both parties, hands touching every possible part of each others body as you lay on your bed.

You weren’t sure, but you guessed this was her way of asking you to be her valentine.

and being the daughter of Eros, there was no better way to ask.

[tonyboneysblog]

MOTHER HEN: PART EIGHT

parings: hawks x mother!reader

wordcount: 3.4k

warnings: descriptions of panic attack

note: I was laughing maliciously while writing this I hope yall know

summary: you, the mother of Fumikage Tokoyami, are just a simple nurse! Who caught the eye of a certain pro.

two weeks.

two weeks without a single word from hawks.

whatever, no time to think about him.

not when poor Fumikage has exams, sweet thing needs help!

“Fumikage, twelve times nine- cmon…”

Fumikage stared blankly at the paper, he may not look it but..he does not know his times tables.

“I-I don’t know.” He continues to stare at the paper filled with different questions you’ve written down

“Twelve times nine.”

“You repeating it isn’t going to help me, mother.” His eyes flickering towards you and the paper.

“Just guess!” You exclaim.

“110!” He exclaims back quickly.

You smack his head gently, “so close- so far…”

Fumikages head whips up, “I was wrong?!”

“By like two numbers, it’s 108.” You pat his head gently.

Fumikages head droops slowly in defeat, “I’m failing.”

You chuckle softly and Fumikages small bit of depression, truly you doubt the entire times table will be on the exam.

You tap Fumikages chin, “keep your head up, you’re not failing anything.”

Fumikages head drops into your lap, signifying that he’s waving the white flag on studying for today.

You pet his feathers gently, your son’s been through a villain attack so you suppose he can rest!

Fumikage did mention a training camp if he passed both exams, thought he wasn’t able to tell you the location since he himself didn’t even know.

You personally wanted to bring him some food when he got home sick- Fumikage could never go over to the houses his few friends were at.

he missed his mama too much, that’s what he said.

Thought your heart was it dismay, you could feel like something was off but you couldn’t quite place it? it was deep in your gut.

if you focused too much on it then it would become nauseating.

But it was just a feeling, not truly affecting your daily life!

If you remembered correctly, Fumikages exams were tomorrow- then the training camp?

well you were quite prepared, you already predicted that Fumikage would pass with flying colors- which he did- so you gave him the most delicious meal your could think of.

With a mouth watering apple pie for dessert.

Sometimes Fumikage confused you, and bird liking apples feels wrong..but Fumikage is also just human with a bird for a face.

Your son’s confusing.

Fumikage is obsessed with apples, when he used to sleep in your bedroom you could swear it smelled like a tangy, ripe apple.

then we he left, so did the smell.

and the apple scented products didn’t help, kids said he smelled fruity so he went for more woodsy scents.

never got the apple out though.

You can take the apple out of the boy but not the boy out of the apple you suppose?

You watch joyfully as Fumikage huffs down all the food you prepared, mostly for him but it could feed a family of three or four.

Fumikages a growing boy- you’re not judging!

“You excited for camp?” You ask with excitement lining your words.

Fumikage muffled out a quick “very” almost choking on his food.

“Don’t talk while eating, you’ll choke.” You point at him.

Fumikage glares at you softly, but fixed his little attitude quickly. Whipping mouth, then pointing towards the pie.

You chuckle softly, cutting the pie dutifully into a thick piece of warm apple pie.

Fumikage holds the plate like it’s a million dollar vase, like it’s valuable.

Then he basically eats it in three bites, damned bird beak.

You can tell on his face he enjoyed it, reminded you of his father but only for a second.

He always said that your cooking made his heart swell.

well he’s not here and hasn’t been for 16 years, no point dwelling on the past.

Which is what hawks is doing at the moment, with Mirko more specifically.

Mirko rests her head the bench, arms behind her head while kicking her legs lazily to a slow tempo.

Hawks is hunched over, his hand covering his mouth while mumbling.

Mirko sighs, “you know I can’t hear you right? Stop covering your mouth.”

Hawks straightens up, leaning back on the bench with a huff.

“I mean- why would I get angry at her for kissing mean?!” His voice growing louder.

Mirkos head whips over to look at hawks, “she what..?”

“Relax, it was only on the forehead.”

Mirko deflates, pouting.

“So, let me get this straight before I yell at you.” Mirko starts slow and calculated.

“You wake up from your little nightmare in her house, then she comforts you like a “baby” in your opinion- kissss your forehead, you yell at her for confusing your small brain and then storm out?”

Hawks stays silent for a moment, staring at Mirko.

“M-my brain isn’t small.” He stutters out.

Mirko shrugs her shoulders, “don’t into that stuttering habit again, commission hates it.”

Hawks sighs softly, nodding.

“Still- my brain isn’t small, I was just confused.” Hawks retorts.

Mirko sighs heavily, agitated that she has to spend her dinner break listening to hawks, “Why are you confused..?”

Hawks plucks out a loose feather from his wings, twirling it in his fingers gently.

“I don’t know..I wanted her to do that but I still got angry.”

Hawks relaxes into the bench, staring up at the stars.

“I didn’t expect her to do it I guess? I worked so hard on trying to get her to like me and when she did that- I didn’t know what to think. Kinda like I reached my goal, but I didn’t reach it the way I wanted to.”

Mirko hums, her feet tapping softly to a faster tempo than before.

“So, your just upset cause you didn’t get the kiss you wanted?”

Hawks closes his eyes tightly, “it’s not that..i guess I didn’t want it?”

Mirko kicks his leg, “You did want it- you practically vent to me everyday on how you want to pounce and kiss on her.”

Hawks scoots farther away from Mirko, “I don’t know then, I dont even now why she kissed me anyways.”

Mirko knocks his ankle again, “She has a whole kid, her motherly instincts probably just kicked in when she saw a sad little birdy.”

Hawks hums, placing his hand over his face blocking the moonlight from seeping in.

Even though hawks was devastated on the fact that the both of you have basically cut contact, Fumikage was ecstatic.

And he even gets to go to a training camp to make his quirk better, with all his friends?

he’s living the absolute dream at the moment.

Until you rudely throw a remote at him.

You hop over and onto the couch, “Your pick.”

Fumikage relaxes into the blankets you threw onto him, what’s with you and throwing things.

Fumikage always enjoyed picking out the movie, always finding gems in the dirt.

Fumikage continues to scroll through all the options, sadly not finding anything that caught his eye.

He huffs, “there’s nothing good.”

“Not true, you just have terrible taste.”

Fumikage slowly looks over towards you with a “are you serious” face, which only makes you burst into a fit of giggles.

“You’re not funny.”

You gasp dramatically, “you’d say that to your own mother?!”

You kick his arm playfully, your laughter dying down at his hardcore facial expression that he’s sporting at the moment.

Almost like he’s planning something in that head of his..

“What’s on your mind Fumi?”

“Where’s that weighted blanket?” He cocks his head to the side, which is not a thing he does usually.

You play dumb, “What blanket?”

“The one you got me so I’d stop sleeping in your room.”

Truthfully, you have no idea where Fumikage is even going with this.

“Sold it.”

“Liar.” He retorts.

you gasp again, “don’t call me a liar!”

Fumikage hums, all you do is just confirm his suspicions.

Next time he sees hawks he’s getting that blanket back.

Hawks doesn’t need any piece of you, plus Fumikage actually did in-fact use that blanket..

Only when he went to his friends though.

And maybe when you worked nights.

not his fault he always put it back where he left it, he has manners unlike another bird he knows.

What should you even do in this situation?

change the subject obviously.

“You going to that training camp tomorrow aren’t ya?”

Fumikage nods, pride swelling into his chest.

“It’s quite exciting.” He responds monotone.

“Yea I can tell by your voice.”

Fumikages face droops slightly, “if I remember, it’s starts early in the morning.”

“Your trying to get out of hanging out with me?”

Fumikages eyes shoot wide open, “no- I-i just meant that I’d have to be there early!”

You hum, “then go to bed, don’t want you all groggy and mean to your classmates.”

“Is that what your co-workers say about you?”

“Bed, now.” You point towards his bedroom door.

Fumikage chuckles out a small “fine”, making his way to the bedroom.

“Night mom.” He calls from the bedroom.

You hum, “Night Fumi.”

You didn’t give me his nightly ruffle and kiss, you doubt Fumikage would notice though.

You wouldn’t be able to see him in the morning either, work starts just an hour before Fumikage would wake up.

You also try your hand at finding a decent movie, though your efforts were for nothing.

The feeling in your stomach wouldn’t settle.

it just got worse until it made you sick from doing nothing.

You stand up, walking over to the bathroom, trying to find some medicine that would deafen the effects.

Probably just an upset stomach, you thought.

The feeling settled, slowly may you add, as you walked over to your nest.

Letting yourself fall into the mess of blankets and small plush’s, including that damned hawks one.

your hands felt- sweaty? clammy more like, you felt nervous for something but it never came.

Reluctantly, you grab onto the soft plush.

It was nice to occupy your hands.

the feeling didn’t leave, only softened.

That’s all you needed though.

After you woke up and left for work Fumikage texted you, just checking on you of course.

He inherited your anxiousness.

Though you continue to work through the day, hoping that Fumikage had fun on his small little trip.

You got less texts and phone calls but the explanation was that they were wringing him dry.

intense U.A…that could be an email.

On the third day of Fumikages training camp, you got not texts or calls.

And when you got home from work, maybe around 11:30? The nausea came back full force.

It was a gut feeling, you tried to calm yourself down but you ended up texting Fumikage a quick message to see if he was okay.

He didn’t respond.

he was probably asleep! That was the logical way of thinking.

most logical.

you turn on the news, mostly to distract your brain from Turing to the worst possibility’s.

Fumikage was fine, no one knows where he is.

neither do you.

You sit down onto the couch, nervously biting your nails.

It doesn’t say anything about U.A. which Is a good sign.

Only says something about a spotted forest fire that they’re trying to deal with, weird that the flames are blue though.

Even more news stations can be seen in the background, they never care about forest fires? It’s not like All Might of Endeavour will be there either, so why do they care so much?

The longer you watch the news, the more information released, it seems like the aftermath of an attack but it apparently has the possibility to still be continuing.

Fumikage still hasn’t texted.

You heart doesn’t drop until they say “U.A.” And “villain attack” in the same sentence.

It’s a fucking fire, and there’s students.

is Fumikage okay?

did something happen to him?

is that why he hasn’t responded?

you can feel your breath quicken, bringing too much air yet none at all at the same time.

The scream that comes from you is guttural.

Your neighbors probably think you’re being murdered, you can’t stop though.

Imagine if you didn’t get off of work.

Would you had to see Fumikages body on the stretcher?

The nausea comes back again, you can feel yourself getting lightheaded.

And sudden knock on the door knocks you from your thoughts, only for a moment.

Quickly, you walk over to the door.

It’s police. They came to tell you Fumikages dead because U.A. Is an incompetent school-

“Y/N” hawks voice calls gently.

You don’t know what to feel, why is he here?”

“W-why-“ “I heard on the news.”

You look terrible, horror is written all over your face.

Hawks holds your shoulders, “He’s okay.”

good thing for that, you practically fall into him.

Sobs rack your throat, you can’t stop crying even though you finally know Fumikage is fine.

Hawks closes the door behind him, slowly pushing you towards the couch.

trying to make you comfortable.

He holds onto you as you cry your heart out, he can feel his ache.

He was notified on the radio before the news was, villains attacked the secret training camp.

He flew like a bat out of hell to make it to your house, he thought about going through your balcony but that would’ve scared you.

He holds onto you, rubbing your back and trying to tell you to just breathe.

You hold onto him tightly, until your knuckles are white.

He brushes your hair gently, taking off his gloves beforehand.

“Y/N, calm down.” His voice is stern but gentle.

You only respond with more sobs.

“Everything’s okay, I promise you.” His voice almost sounds like he’s begging you to feel better.

To feel like it’s not your fault.

You take a big breath, trying to control yourself.

“W-where is he?” You ask slowly through hiccups and sniffles.

Hawks continues to hold you, “most likely at the hospital getting checked for any injuries.”

He can feel your breathing speed up, “he’s fine, he’s a strong kid.”

You push your head farther into him, trying to find comfort in him.

“Why’d you come.”

“…I don’t know.” His voice tender.

You hit his stomach, “I’m not forgiving you for ignoring me.”

He chuckles nervously, “I know.”

“I despise you.”

Hawks sighs, “..I know.”

You hug onto him a little tighter than before, exhaustion coming down onto your body.

You can’t drive to the hospital like this.

“Hawks.” You mumble out from his soft jacket.

“Yeah?”

“Please go get my son.” You beg him.

Hawks nods softly, placing his gloves back on and gently settling your back onto the soft pillows.

“I was planning on it.” He sends you a small goofy smile.

you can’t return it, only just a huff of amusement leaves you.

Hawks makes his way out the door and over to the a hospital that Fumikage would most likely be at.

Hawks guess was correct since he was able to Fumikage next to the vending machines.

Fumikage glances over to hawks, then realizing that it’s hawks he stares dead at him.

“Hi Tokoyami.” Hawks calls cheerfully.

Fumikage tilts his head up, “Why are you here?”

“Your momma asked me to come and get you.”

“Liar, you just gonna kidnap me and bargain my mother for her love to ensure my safe return.” Fumikage says with an 100% serious face.

Is this what you have to deal with everyday?

Hawks smiles, “No, quite the imagination you got.”

Fumikage doesn’t return it, only grimacing.

hawks sighs, “look, your moms worried sick- just let me take you home.”

The vending machine makes a soft clutter as Fumikage speaks, “How’d she find out?”

“The news?”

Fumikage makes a small tsking noise, then dropping to the opening of the vending machine.

“Get me my drink, then you can take me home.”

Hawks laughs, clutching his stomach softly.

This kid is seriously trying to make some trade deal.

Hawks walks over to the vending machine, hitting it in the middle then shaking it.

A loud clunk comes from the opening, fumikage reaches his hand into it only to have two drinks.

He grabs both, a free drink is a free drink.

Then looking at the second one, “my mother, she’s okay?”

“Slightly disturbed, but alright.”

Fumikages words suddenly quiet down, “dkd she cry?”

He talks his foot nervously as hawks nods, then Fumikage hands him the second drink.

Hawks raises his eyebrows in surprise, “what’s this for?”

Fumikage looks away, “I’m aware that your…infatuated with my mother, and I’m assuming that you comforted her when I was unable to. This is a token of my gratitude, Hawks.”

Hawks smiles, snapping open the drinks.

Two birds with one stone, Mirko. He got to technically get good with you and your son!

Fumikage doesn’t make eye contact with hawks again, maybe it hurt his pride to thank someone he apparently despises so much.

Hawks walks out of the hospital with Fumikage, who really only had scratches apparently.

A lot of the other kids had a lot worse, one even being kidnapped.

Hawks wrap his arms around Fumikages waist, lifting the two of them into the air and making their way back to your home.

The flight was quiet, not awkward like last time.

It was enjoyable in hawks opinion.

Walking through the door, Fumikage stops just to stare at you.

Your lips wobble as you open your arms up to him, inviting him into your warm embrace.

Fumikage runs into your arms, shaking.

Hawks didn’t even notice Fumikage was affected by the attack.

Your holding Fumikage so tightly, it makes hawks heart feel..empty?

Seeing something he wished he had, not you holding onto him but his own mother.

Fumikage starts to stutter, trying to not let the tears affect his speech, “mother- im so sorry!”

You mumble to Fumikage that he did everything he could’ve possibly done, that he has nothing to apologize for.

“I-i let dark shadow out of control.”

you hug him tighter, you don’t really understand how it feels to be Fumikage, how it feels to have someone else attached to you.

You can only whisper reassurance into him ears, kissing his forehead softly.

You look over to see hawks standing there awkwardly, so out of place.

The only place you know where to put him is with you.

You reach out your hand to him, he grabs it.

You whisper quietly, “thank you.”

Hawks only tightens his grip on your hand, wanting to feel the pressure of your bare hand against his but he’s unable to due to the thick gloves he wears.

Fumikages cries grow softer until it’s quiet, seemingly fallen asleep.

You smile, happy that he’s home.

But you have another business to attend to so you shift out of his hold, laying him down onto the couch.

You look at hawks, “We should talk.”

He nods sheepishly, following you to wherever you’re heading.

You open the door, sitting on the steps and patting the spot next to you.

He sits down next to you, letting out a small breath he’d been holding in.

He speaks first, “I’m sorry for being angry with you.”

You hum, almost like you’re urging him to continue speaking.

“You confuse me, and I regret..w-walking out like that..” he stutters.

His wings flutter softly, ears growing red as he covers the lower half of his face.

he mumbles something incoherent.

You giggle softly, “What did you say?”

“I-i said I enjoyed…your a-affection.”

You hum, “thank you for the apology, and compliments.”

hawks nods, his ears growing redder.

You pinch his ears softly, “Fumikage wants his blanket back.”

“It’s mine now.” Hawks says sternly.

You laugh and stand up, waiting for hawks to do the same.

“You should get some rest at home.”

Hawks nods, standing up and making his way down the stairs.

Until you grab his shoulder softly, “hold on.”

Hawks looks over to look confused slightly.

You push up his visor towards his forehead, kissing the space between his eyebrows gently.

Hawks wings puff up and almost spread to their full length before he stops them.

“There, your reward.” You say nervously.

Hawks nods, seemingly speechless by your actions.

Then making his way quickly down the stairs, bolting out of there like a mad man.

Taking off into flight, only slightly off balance and almost tripping.

Hawks quickly flies home, shedding himself of his clothes and throwing himself onto bed.

Grabbing your blanket and holding it close.

He starts to giggle and kick his feet like some school girl.

If only Mirko could see him now.

Actually- he can’t wait to tell Mirko.

TAG LIST: comment to be tagged!💕

@lost-in-horrorland @boopjuice @validveenus @qardasngan @arminsarlerts @star-the-rabid-dog @bunni-teeth81 @lightsgore @portgasdbruh @camejlo-35 @marsbars09 @tharae514 @yoongiwantsme @kimahrii @pink-jello-fish @l1vvvvv @miy-svz @bumblebeebutter @lacunaanonymoused @emmmeoo

AUTHORS NOTE:

I am genuinely so sorry that I can’t tag some of you guys, tumblr won’t even let me and I feel like I going crazy😭 I hope the people who I could tag were able to see this next part part and again I’m really sorry! But you better love me again after all that fluff😒

[mieldreams]

Payal

Summary: Anakin Skywalker is the roommate of your best friend's crush. That's all. Well, he's also a pain in the ass. But could one dance and a lucky pair of payal change things?

pairing: Anakin Skywalker x desi!reader (or just reader who's familiar/involved with that culture, no physical descriptions involved)

Warnings: None, except for 'i haven't proofread a single fucking thing' :) sorry for the mistakes in advance.

A/n: wrote something on a whim again (this is the first ever time I've written a proper fanfic tho *_*). Happy navratri y'all

Edit: Here's some payal playbacks aka any moodboard/refs if you want to know (songs, outfits, word meanings etc.)

It was Navratri, the festival in honour of the Goddess Durga. Nine nights of colours, prayers, and a whole lot of dancing. Oh, and the sweets! You couldn't wait to just rot your teeth on those festive delicacies.

It was the 5th night of festivities and today's celebrations were mainly the daily prayer and the dandiya dance. The special event for today however, was the ladies' dance competition. Your best friend had practically dragged your ass to get your name registered along with hers and your other friend Pari's, a half-assed promise of treating you to your favourite food at that fancy restaurant on the other side of the city to bribe you into the elaborate bollywood-esque romance scheme to seduce her crush. "There's no seducing!" she whisper-shouted, standing at the booth where you had to give your name, her cheeks immediately heating up at your insinuation. "I just want him to... see me, you know?" and you couldn't help but mentally scoff at that, why was she so blind? "Plus the price is money," she added, smirking as she picked up the pen to write down the names.

"Well shit, you should've said that first girl, I'm always looking to make me some moolah" your smirk matching hers even though your brain was already exhausted just *thinking* about the hours of practice she was gonna make you do to make sure everything was perfect to the T. That was over a week back, and after hours of choreographing and practising and picking out the costumes, the day was here, and despite all the whining you had done during practice, you couldn't deny that you actually hoped that her plan worked. Was it because you were tired of your oblivious best friend and her equally oblivious man playing dog and the bone with their feelings? Nooo, you could never be tired of your darling best friend's endless rants about how 'handsome he looked at the cafeteria today, in his lucky white cashmere sweater his ex-grandma gifted him in 2019' (how did she know that?) or how 'it's so sad his little sister's goldfish died because it jumped into the pot of boiling water for tea, and they've invited us to its funeral' (what?). And it most definitely wasn't because you were starting to get sick of having to watch them make those nauseating googly eyes at each other every time you hung out, for the past year. (though you wondered if it would only get worse when they finally got together.)

That's right, when, because if those two failed to get their ship sailing after tonight, you were 100% planning on just walking up to each of them, asking them what time they're free for dinner and setting them up on a date yourself. Your mental planning however, was disrupted by the creaking of the metal gate to the lawn space that had been rented for the festival. You turned around, a smile immediately pulling on your lips at the sight of the said man you were downright ready to shake like a maraca till your best friend got her deserved confession (though you expected the same on her end as well, of course). Though the smile immediately fell as well at the sight of another man walking in right behind him. Anakin. What the hell was he doing here? And truly, the scowl that pulled on your face was hardly your fault when his eyes met yours and his lips immediately turned up into that infuriating smirk as the two of them headed towards you. But before you yourself could march up to him and demand why he was here, your best friend ran up to you, gripping your arm to stop herself from crashing into you (you supposed the accidental intervention was for the better, since asking him such a thing might only give him more reason to mock you, it was obvious he was here with Krish, your best friend's crush who was also very unfortunately college roommates with Anakin, seriously how did someone as sweet as that guy get stuck with a moron like him?).

"C'mon it's time for the competition to start, ours is literally the second performance!" She started to drag you by the arm only to stop immediately at the sight of Krish causing you to crash into her. "Are we sure you can dance in the competition when you can hardly manage to walk without stumbling?" his voice immediately caused you to raise your head, glaring daggers as you squared up to throw your own taunt about how he just had to be oh so special and wear black even though tonight's theme was white. Unfortunately, you were beaten by Krish as he elbowed Anakin harshly in the rib, making you snicker at his grunt of pain, before walking even closer towards your best friend. "Aamani... hi," Krish breathed out, shifting his weight from one foot to another. And though you wanted to roll your eyes at how his eyes seemed to literally twinkle as he looked at your best friend, or how he always took time to call her by her full name despite all her friends calling her Manu, like he just had to say it every time to even begin to appreciate her entire being that he was so clearly besotted with, you couldn't help the small smirk that tugged on your lips as you gently pried your arm out of her death grip. (when the hell did she get so strong?) ‘Let's leave them to it, then.’ You thought to yourself.

And with that you walked away towards the small stage, knowing they'd most likely not see or hear anything besides the other person for at least the next half hour. "They're not gonna leave each other's side for the rest of the night, are they?" Ugh, Anakin. How had you forgotten? and now he was following you, great. "Well, they wouldn't normally, but we do have to perform our dance and we're up second, which means the lovebirds will have to sacrifice at least half an hour for final practice and the performance." Hold on, why were you entertaining him? You stopped suddenly and turned to him with a scowl, "and I'll have you know I can dance very well and I-" "Is that why you're wearing red? for the dance? I thought the theme was white today," the audacity this man had to interrupt you. "Oh did you? Is that why you instead wore black?" you popped a hip with a closed fist resting on your hipbone, raising a jeering eyebrow at him, his eyes immediately drawn to the movement and indirectly your exposed midriff and then the shiny white stud in your belly button. He gulped before quickly averting his eyes to the stage behind you. "I think they announced that they're gonna be starting the competition soon," he replied instead.

Oh shit.

"Good luck" was all he said before walking away towards the audience gathering up for the performances. Oh shit, you really had to find your best friend fast.

───────── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⁛ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──────────

Half an hour later with your costumes readjusted and makeup re-touched you were ready to get on stage. You weren't worried about messing up as much as you were about not keeping the same amount of energy for the next half an hour. That's right, your original plans of going mostly unnoticed as your best friend's supporting dancer for a mere 4-5 minutes went down the drain the minute she blabbered about you being a dancer as a kid to the aunty from down the block who was arranging her own group dance performance and immediately downright ordered you to join her group as well. At the time you didn't mind much but now, now you were wondering if you could pretend to sprain your ankle after your first performance to avoid the other one. I mean a whole half an hour of continuous dancing? and worse, the traitor that was your best friend wasn't in the second one and so you'd been entirely alone with a bunch of strangers during the first few practice sessions. (you knew it wasn't her fault the lady didn't ask her to join but you were sure she might have accommodated another person considering it was a big dance number) So here you were now, about 30 seconds away from getting on stage, sending a quick prayer that you don't throw up at any point considering they were pretty much back-to-back dances. As soon as you heard your group being announced the three of you walked onto the stage to get in your positions. You used the brief gap before the music started to scan the huge crowd, immediately spotting Krish almost at the very front of the audience, closest to where Manu was standing, but Anakin wasn't beside him like you expected. Your eyes continuing their scan to find him in the crowd before you even realised what you were doing. Wait, why the hell am I looking for him? I need to focus on the count before the music starts.

And as soon as the music started your body naturally moved to the rhythm and beat, a light laughter bubbling in your chest as you felt the stress melt away with each step. You had forgotten just how fun being on stage actually was, and with the atmosphere of such joy and celebration it was that much livelier. Before you know it, the performance was over, Krish walking quickly to the side of the stage as you got off, still high on the adrenaline and euphoria of performing after so long, and everything had gone smoothly too. It was hard to keep the smile off your face, even more so when you saw Manu and Krish talk animatedly at the bottom of the stairs to the stage, her head thrown back, laughing at something he said and then nodding enthusiastically with a toothy grin. Her expression changing to that of shock for a brief second as Krish immediately picks her up to twirl her around, her laughter dancing in the cold night air once again. It was only your obnoxiously loud teasing whistle that broke their bubble, though only temporarily. You had to go back on stage in five minutes and you wanted to make sure that Manu had company since you wouldn't be by her side for at least the next half an hour. Though realistically you knew it was her who wouldn't be by your side for the rest of the night. Ah, young love... or whatever.

"So now that the two of you have finally been cured of your obliviosis, have fun kiddos," you smirked, "and make sure to be safe." You winked at the pair, earning you a half-hearted angry call of your name from Manu as Krish let out an awkward nervous chuckle, burying his face into her shoulder. Aww, you had embarrassed them. "What? I'm just saying, have her back by 11." you gave a pointed look at him to which he immediately straightened up, enthusiastically nodding to your words while Manu continued to glare at you. "Back by 11? What am I in middle school?" "If you were in middle school I'd want you home by 9 Miss, just what the hell sorta parents did you have?" You looked down at your watch realising your 5-minute break was nearing its end. "Okay lovebirds, I gotta go, but seriously have her home safe if you guys decide to leave the ground," you said pointing a finger at Krish, "and you,"your finger pointing at Manu now, "don't forget to text me when you're leaving and when you get back home, alright?" She left his arms to quickly walk up the stairs to the top where you stood, pulling you into a bear hug as she rocked you side to side without even giving you a chance to hug her back as she held your arms at your sides, "I'll text you." She freed you from the hug to squeeze your palms in hers, "I had a lot of fun with the dance, thank you. And good luck with your next dance, sorry I won't be there to watch it, I mean we could stay till it gets over. we'll have the rest of the night anyway. Hey Krish, maybe we should stay for–"

But you immediately cut her off, "absolutely not, you've been looking forward to this day for almost a whole month now." You shook your head as you saw her open her mouth to argue, "plus I know you have that scarf you knitted for him in your bag." you smirked as her eyes went wide with surprise, not having expected you to know that. "Pulling that lovely 'oh it's a cold night, isn't it? Here, I just so happen to have this beautiful scarf that I definitely didn't knit just for you, here, let me wrap it around your beautiful neck. Oh no, you don't have to give it back to me at the end of the night, I have a matching one at home that I totally didn't plan as a couple’s thing, no seriously you can keep it' on him? There couldn't be a better opportunity." You laughed as her ears became bright red, "I hate you and your Nancy Drew observation skills." she mumbled out of puffed cheeks before immediately pulling you into another hug. "I love you. Good luck." "Thanks, I love you." In the end, you were about 2 minutes late to your dance and the aunty's scary face as she hurriedly signalled you to get into your position made you cringe on the inside, but oh well whatever, there were so many people you doubted that anyone had noticed there was supposed to be another dancer. You were here now anyway. You were halfway through the dance, your back turned to the audience when you felt a sharp gaze on you. Weird, there were about 100 people watching you, why did you feel this one particular stare stand out? It was only when you completed the circle to turn to face the audience again that you immediately connect gazes with the sharp eyes you had felt on you. Anakin. He was standing at the very back, close to the water coolers and refreshment tables, leaning on one of the empty tables with his arms crossed. His gaze never leaving yours. For a second your thoughts drifted and you were annoyed at how good he looked in the black shimmery kurta, though the top 3 buttons being left unbuttoned was so unnecessarily extra. The sleeves folded over his forearms that stretched the fabric, his collarbones standing out from the open collar. Such a slut. But damn did he look fine. Wait, what the hell? Focus, focus, focus. You couldn't lose count mid-step. And tripping right now would mess up everyone's steps since it was a circular movement. Why the hell would you trip over him anyway? Ugh. And so you focused back on your steps, continuing to feel that strange unwavering gaze on you for the rest of your dance.

Half an hour later, you were entirely done with the dance competition. Your feet hurt, your stomach was grumbling every few seconds and you were sure you'd be getting a headache from being so close to the speakers for so long. Thankfully, the emcee had announced a short break for refreshments and such, before the rest of the dances and then the final event to end the night — the dandiya dance. Were you positively exhausted and maybe even getting real tired of all the dancing and loud music? Most definitely. But Manu had texted you saying they'd be back for the final dandiya dance and you were really hoping to get to dance at least once with her, you know, outside the competition, just for funsies sort of stuff. So your irritation? Nothing some tasty snacks and maybe a cold drink couldn't solve. That was until an unfortunately familiar face came into your view as he plopped into the seat right next to yours at the circular table. Not the two other tables that were entirely empty (wasn't he supposed to be some emo loner who preferred to sulk in a corner?) or even the chair on the other side of the table (though you wondered if having him directly in your line of sight would make it worse). But no, he just had to sit right next to you with his stupid pretty eyes purposefully not meeting yours and his annoying plump lips innocently wrapping around the spoon with a piece of gulab jamun on it. He didn't even like sweets.

"Um— what the hell?" "What?" he looked at you with doe eyes rounded in innocence, and your eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Nothing, never mind," you were too tired and too hungry to start anything right now and what would you even ask, 'Why the hell are you sitting next to me?' 'didn't know there was some rule telling me where I can sit' is what he'd say, maybe roll his eyes at you, the usual stuff. So you continued eating your puff pastry in silence. Until you just had to ask, "I thought you didn't like sweets?" You tried to make your voice sound as non-judgemental as possible, you were only curious after all. "And who told you that?" he raised an eyebrow at you. Truthfully, nobody. But you had noticed the way he always avoided the dessert table at parties and functions, the way he only drank his coffee black; not even your best friend's infamous black forest cake that she had made for Krish's birthday a few months back had tempted him to even grab a Yolanda-approved bite. Yolanda would certainly be proud. Obviously, this had nothing to do with you observing him particularly, you just observed a lot of things around you, and he just very unfortunately happened to be around you a lot, being Krish's roommate and 'brotha from anotha motha' or whatever they said. And yet, here he was eating a freaking gulab jamun that was absolutely dripping with the sugary-est syrup. Did he hit his head on the way or something?

"Did you hit-" "I ran into Krish and Aamani, she told me to give this to you," he interrupted you yet again, turning to face you and pulling out a long silver chain-like thing, which upon a closer look you realised with an elated gasp, was the missing half of your lucky pair of payal, the one you'd been looking for everywhere earlier that evening. "I thought these came in pairs," it was a question from the tone with which he said it, but his eyes remained fixated on the jewellery in his hands, thumb running over the delicate silver with a gentleness you didn't know he possessed. You lifted the hem of your skirt a little, head tilting down to point at your left ankle, "they do. I just couldn't find the other one." You shook your head, going back to taking a sip of your drink, "I like the sound they make when you dance, it's fun, so I thought ek hai toh ek hi sahi," catching his questioning gaze you translated, "if there's only one then so be it, I hardly ever get to wear these anyway." You shrugged, "Manu must've found it later and forgotten to give it to me earlier. I think their dating honeymoon phase is gonna be worse than their not-dating honeymoon phase" You rolled your eyes affectionately, expecting him to make a teasing remark too or at least give you that amused smirk. Instead you saw him give an almost imperceptible yet decisive nod, quickly sliding off his chair to kneel in front of you. "What are you-" He gently lifted your right foot onto his folded knee, his nimble fingers making quick work of the clasp on your anklet. Your stomach fluttered as you felt the warmth of his hands on your cold bare ankle, and you were sure if you still had that sip of cold drink in your mouth, your lungs would be burning from snorting it down the wrong pipe, and definitely not because he might've stolen your breath. His fingers skimmed in a barely there touch down your foot. Till now, his gaze had been entirely focused on clasping the jewellery but now that he was done he lifted his head, looking directly into your eyes from his still kneeling position, your faces a few inches apart. This time you could feel your heart burn. Dang, maybe you should cut down on the greasy food and drinks. His gaze briefly shifted to your lips, but then he quickly got up, dusting off his pants, picking up his empty gulab jamun cup, throwing a quick, "I'mgonnagothrowthis" over his shoulder and then he was gone. He quickly disappeared into the crowds while you still sat there, entirely motionless. Your mind blank except for the phantom feeling from his feather touch on your skin.

It was finally time for the last round of dancing. You had run into Manu and Krish while carrying your trash to the bin, the emptiness of your thoughts completely overthrown by the excited shout of your name. You were surprised they had spotted you first, considering all the doped-up lovey smiles and heart-eyes you noticed when they walked to you. The brief hand squeeze and wide-eyed glance from her let you know you were in for an entire night of dramatic recalling of every detail of their evening and you could only shake your head with a fond smirk. As you all walked back towards the dance area, Manu spoke up, "Oh, did you get the payal I'd given Anakin to give to you?" she looked down at your feet though they were covered with your skirt. You supposed she heard them jingle, the sound louder and more noticeable now that you were wearing both of them. But her question brought back that unwanted memory from earlier in the evening instead, and you fought real hard to keep your face from heating up, inhaling a deep breath as inconspicuously as possible, "uh– yeah, he um.. he did." you nodded your head a little too aggressively, "I mean I got it, yeah." Lightly lifting your skirt to show your pair of anklets safely secured, by the most gentle hands you'd ever felt. This time you felt your ears undeniably heat up. 'What the hell? Why were you so fixated on that one thing? It was nothing. It's not like he was sliding a wedding ring on you or something.' Though for some reason, that thought only made your breath stutter as you felt the lava-like blood now rushing to your cheeks. Ugh, get a grip, get. a. grip. And since you were too busy trying to appear totally normal and shoot the butterflies in your stomach dead, you missed the mischievous look that Manu shot Krish as she gave a quick squeeze to his hand in hers. "Should we really have been spying on them like that? And worse, taking photos of them without them knowing?" and though his question was whispered through a sigh he squeezed her hand right back.

"Oh, hush. 10 years from now when they have cute little munchkins running around, I'll have proof to show that *I* was the one that set their ship sailing." she answered with a smirk. "You've thought about their kids? 10 years from now??" he raised his brows with an incredulous laugh. "Of course. I think about everything." Even the things that you were too practical to consider. Your words, not hers. 'Blind' is what she would call it. You may have the observation skills rivalling that of the most infamous detectives, but she had The Vision. And she knew in her guts that you two were just meant to end up together. "Oh yeah? Then what have you thought about our 10 years? We got 'cute little munchkins' in our cards too?" he tossed an arm around her shoulders, snuggling her close to him to teasingly tickle at her exposed waist. "Mmm, for now our cards hold a very very important mission." She answered and he sighed again, knowing exactly where this was heading. "Let me guess, mission 'get your best friend and my best friend together for the last dance to recreate another Bollywood-style romantic scene?" he raised a brow, coming to a stop as they reached the edge of the canopy of lights and fabrics. "It's only been a few hours and you've already gained the boyfriend-telepathy skills. Impressive." She wiggled her brows at him while turning around in his arms, "I need you to find Anakin and somehow get him to agree to dance." Sensing his hesitation she quickly continued, "I know it won't be easy, but you'll manage. Once we get them both here we need to make sure they're on opposite sides of the circle so that when the final song comes they'll be paired together" she finished. "You really have thought this through, huh? I can't guarantee that he'll agree to dance, I mean it's Anakin we're talking about," noticing her pleading pout he rolled his eyes in fond exasperation, "but I'll try."

With that, he left and she walked to where you were standing, finishing up talking to some old lady, no doubt held hostage to some good ol’ ‘I knew you since you were thisss little’ talk for the past few minutes that the two had spent whispering their plan, but she quickly patted your cheek and left. "So, tonight's the exclusive dandiya night," she wiggled her brows like it was supposed to mean something, it was. You laughed, not understanding her implication. "What about it?" She rolled her eyes good-naturedly, "it's dandiya dumbass. As in, you know, pairs dancing," she continued when she realised your light bulb was still dim. "Oh," you hadn't thought about that, too caught up in the dance competition to care about the other stuff. "Yeah, ‘oh.’ So, who you gonna choose?" "Um...you?" though it came out unsure. "I appreciate the sentiment babe, I really do. I would choose you too–" You raised a brow at that, "but?" "But'" she made a show of dragging out the word then throwing her arms out to her sides, "look at the crowd around you, there's so many kids our age, there's quite a few guys our age too." And finally you caught onto her line of thoughts, narrowing your eyes you shook your head. "Absolutely not. We are not doing this tonight, well I mean you're settled, so I'm not doing this tonight." But the fates seemed to be on her side that night, as she noticed Krish and Anakin talking a few paces away towards the outskirts of the canopy while you both stood at the centre, you hadn't noticed them yet but she could see Anakin shaking his head in a firm no as well. Gosh why were the both of you so difficult? But she also noticed another opportunity walk towards you, and a hopeful scenario played out in her head, courtesy of The Vision. And so she immediately got to work.

"Hey AJ!" she called out to the guy just about to walk by you a few steps away, "didn't you mention that you don't have a partner for tonight's dandiya?" Your eyes widened and you subtly tried to pinch her to stop her from saying the next words but it was too late, "My best friend here also doesn't have a partner, would you mind pairing up with her if you haven't already found someone else?" In speaking to the guy, both of you had turned to fully face him, so she couldn't see Anakin’s reaction anymore. She hoped he had heard what she had just asked this guy. He had. While the two had been devising their plan off to the side, you had been standing at the centre of the canopy taking time to clear your mind and cool yourself. Your gaze was immediately drawn to the gorgeous lights and colourful fabrics that hung above you, mesmerised by how pretty they looked standing out against the dark nighht sky beyond. And though you may never know, Anakin had spotted you right then, standing there in your pretty red ghagra, face tilted to look above you, and it had looked like one of the most gorgeous things he had ever seen, you had looked so pretty with all the lights gleaming in your eyes. And though he was too far to see it, he knew your gaze held that golden twinkle that shone every time you were genuinely happy, though he had hardly been on the receiving end of it. So he had always observed from afar, just as he was doing tonight. His thoughts had been interrupted by the movement of someone approaching him in his periphery. It turned out to be Krish, who clapped him on the back as a greeting and then asked him if he had eaten anything to which Anakin's mind flashed to the almost nauseating sweetness of the tooth-rotting dessert he'd had, immediately followed by the image of the delicate jewellery around your ankle and he quickly shut the door on that thought, instead answering with a single nod.

"Good, good 'cause you're gonna need some energy for a while." Anakin only raised an inquisitive eyebrow in response, while Krish thought of the best, most convincing way to... well, to convince him. "Y/N needs a partner..." "Okay…?" "For the dance, I mean. she needs a partner for the dandiya, she doesn't have one..." he trailed off again, should he just be straightforward with it? "It's you." "What?" Anakin's head snapped to look at him like he was insane. "It's you. You're going to dance with her." "What the fuck? No, I'm not?" it came out as a question because he was baffled as to how his own best friend could say something as dumb as that. Dancing? him? That's fucking funny. "Yes, you are. She needs a partner. You need a partner. The solution is obvious." "Like hell it is. I don't need a partner, 'cause I'm not fucking dancing." He shook his head decisively. "You want to though. You know you want to dance with her." Krish said with a pointed look. "And just what the hell made you think that?" "I'm your best friend, Ani. Do you think I'm blind or—" "Hey AJ!" Aamani's voice had carried over to the two of them, halting their conversation as their attention was now on the two of you, though your backs were turned to them. Aamani's voice was somehow loud enough that they got the gist of it, she had asked this AJ to be your partner, and from the way he walked over to the two of you, your best friend introducing you to each other, him shaking your hand and the dazzling smile you gave him in return, Anakin felt an irrational sorts of a burning pit in his stomach. "Well, looks like the deal's done. She's got her fucking partner." He pushed off the pillar he’d been leaning on, walking away. "Wait! Dude! Where you go—" "Out." and with that he quickly walked towards the back exit of the ground, walking through the gates and out into the cold night. But he had been wrong. AJ hadn't yet agreed to dance with you, or rather Aamani hadn't given him the chance to, stalling him by telling you that he was studying the same thing as you, though he went to a different university. She had been buying time, hoping that any second now, Anakin and his impulsiveness would come barging and say that you've already got a partner. But time was running short as the conversation between the two of you came back to the topic of tonight's dance. "So, you don't have a partner for the dandiya either?" she heard him ask. Where the hell was Anakin? But her movie-like vision for his entrance onto the scene immediately shattered when she turned to see what was holding him, only to see Anakin nowhere in sight and her boyfriend standing alone with a small frown on his face. Catching his eyes she sent him a questioning look, to which he only shook his head dejectedly. And she knew her plan had failed. For her, at least. Because when she turned back around, she saw you agreeing with AJ to meet up under the canopy before the start of the dance before he excused himself, mentioning something about helping move the chairs or whatever. You too said something about meeting up with one of your older hometown friends you'd run into right before the dance competition. You'd promised to come find her when you were free to catch up on things. And so you left as well.

But at that point, Manu could only think about how wrong this was. She knew it was her who had asked AJ to dance with her best friend, so she couldn't blame him. But Anakin – Anakin she could blame. And she could also just about drag his ass back here to ask him what the hell was he doing? With the way the whole payal scene had gone, and knowing Anakin's possessive nature, she was almost 100% sure he'd metaphorically sweep you off your feet (before literally sweeping you off your feet during the dance). So why the hell was her best friend going to be dancing with a guy she was (frustratingly) getting along with instead?

Krish had walked his way back to stand behind her, but not even his warmth and the comforting palm he ran up and down her bare arm could stop the disappointed frown pulling on her lips. She turned to her boyfriend with a concerned expression, "Did I just accidentally push my best friend towards the wrong guy, with the right guy storming off to who knows where?"

Part 2: Jhumka

a/n: so.... there's 4 more nights left... do you think they'll ever get their dance? 👀

A/n: Thank you all so much if you spent your time on this trash wreckage fuelled by finals stress and unfulfilled dreams </3

Would love to hear feedback on this one! Don't hesitate to send me any ques or just anything that comes to mind relating to our dearest love-haters and the overzealous matchmakers ;)

[drdemonprince]

Do you have any favourite scary movies?

I love the ambiguity and grief of The Orphanage, and the main character's emotional journey is absolutely gutting.

The Strangers has some of the most subtle, dread-inducing scares of any horror film of its era; if you liked the hidden ghosts in Mike Flanagan's Haunting of Hill House, it owes some inspiration to this film, I think. It truly gave me nightmares.

The newer Suspiria has really stayed with me, and I loved Flawed Peacock's analysis of the film on Youtube as well. I watched both this and the original back-to-back a few months ago, and they're both great in different ways, but nothing tops the haunting, sickening beauty of the end of this one.

28 Days Later is the only zombie movie for me, and yes part of that is because Cillian Murphy was so fuckable in it. I'll never forget the quiet, contemplative air of this movie, which is rivaled only by The Last of Us games. The zombie genre is bloated with derivative crap, but this movie rang in a whole new generation, and did it so well you don't need most of the rest.

The original Saw is a hell of a stage-play-slash-bottle-episode, and it's far more sophisticated in its writing than any of the rest in the series. It really holds up in my opinion.

The Cell isn't really that scary, to me, but it's fucking cunty as hell with incredible costumes and set pieces, and I enjoyed every minute of it. Bonus points for having a minor corruption/hypnosis aspect really tickled my imagination. I just wish that element had lasted for longer.

Speaking of movies that are actually plays -- there's no better Stephen King adaptation than Misery. Kathy Bates absolutely crushes in a nauseating, confining performance here, and the hobbling scene is one you just never forget. To me it's a perfectly paced film, and it holds up shockingly well in the era of stans and superfandoms.

Ghost Ship is my favorite bad stupid horror movie. The opening scene is enough creative nonsense carnage to justify its existence, but stick around through the end for a very weird trip-hop montage.

Dead Silence is another goofy one that gets really inventive with its gore. I love horror movies that do just downright disrespectful, creepy shit with corpses, and that's what this one is all about.

The Boy is a fucking laugh riot to me. The entire premise is so transparent from the very beginning and the thrills are so awkward and tame that it's a great Halloween party movie. If you're anything like me, you and your friends will walk around the house talking about the Boy for days afterward. Brahms is an age regressor king

Some people find Aronofsky's movies to be too over-the-top to connect with, but I think he nailed the internal horror of perfectionism, codependency, sexual repression, and eating disorders with Black Swan. Barbara Hershey's character is so perfectly unsettling that it sets all my people-pleasing, abandonment-fearing issues alight every time. Everything about this movie is confining and distorting, which is exactly how it feels inside when you narrow your entire life to a singular pursuit and are governed by impossible rules.

The Others has exactly what I need for a horror movie to have good replay value: just like The Orphanage, it's final reveal is more depressing and unsettling than it is pure scary, which makes it cut deeper, and it recontexualizes the whole rest of the film. The interiors and aesthetics are great.

Possession is easily the most disturbing movie on this list. This one cuts deep in a confusing, unmooring way -- it makes you feel sick in your soul, hopeless, and put off from relationships. Filming it reportedly ruined Sam Neil & Isabelle Adjani's lives for a good while, and you can see why. This film is the psychological reality of divorce in its unabashed form. To really leave behind a life you once committed yourself to, you have to become almost unrecognizable to yourself, and do great violence to both your former self, and the ones you love. This film gets that, and it's painful. It makes you feel disgusting for wanting things or for staying in a place where you're unhappy.

Happy watching!

[theblueflower05]

Heavy In Your Arms

A/N: We didn't get enough time at High Camp. I swear, it was the perfect setting for hurt/comfort. Forever upset about it.

Word Count: 5.5K

Warnings: Explicit smut. Aged Up characters. Talks of PTSD and war. Injuries. Blood. Angst. Cursing. Oral Sex(male receiving). Riding. Service Top Neteyam. Reader with a praise kink.

Summary: You and Neteyam find moments of peace during the war. Neteyam x Fem! Omaticaya Reader

I was a heavy heart to carry,

My beloved was weighted down.

My arms around his neck,

My fingers laced a crown- Florence & The Machine

Life can change in an instant.

One moment, things are as they have always been. Your existence a well loved pattern, easy and comfortable in the Forests of Pandora.

You had been born after the Long War, after the evil Tawtute had been sent back to their dying planet. You had only ever known peace and kind humans like the scientist that lived in the rickety out post. You’d only ever known the rich and abundant rule of Toruk Makto, Jake led your people to victory and prosperity. The Omatikayan Village had been a beautiful one to grow up in, colorful and cheerful and thriving despite all that it had endured.

Your days had been filled with community and childlike wonder.

That had all changed when the Sky People returned. When they set fire to the Forests just to watch the Great Mother bleed.

Your naivety had been stolen, snatched away by uncontrollable circumstances.

By war.

High Camp is nestled deep within the Ayram Alusing hidden in a twisting impenetrable cave system.

It is bustling and busy and just bit cramped.

The Omatikaya are a resilient people and even through forceful uprooting had managed to make due of the space given. The Stronghold is littered with Canvas tents and woven mats. Small burning fires, and a larger one for the communal meals that are so desperately needed after long days battle.

You spend most of your time in the main healers keklu, working tirelessly with Mo’at and the other medicine leaders. You’d never been much of a healer, always more of a story teller. You’d get lost in the tales of old, in the songs of the ancient ones, but since the invasion, most had honed their medical craft.

It was all hands on deck, wherever you could be helpful you would be.

It’s good. Keeping your hands full is a good thing. It helps to distract your restless mind.

The War Party had left early in the morning- the sun still hiding behind the shadow of the eclipse, and had still not returned yet. You fear that it might be one of those missions, the kind that lasts days and leaves the village in shambles as they wait for the return of the warriors.

You’re grinding Ti’ku’klu seeds into a fine paste, your arm tired as you stare wordlessly into nothing.

The healers tent is quiet, filled with only low chatter and the crackling of the fire, the boiling of the pot that contains a potent medicine. One that needs to be kept hot and steaming. You cant seem to be present, to keep up with conversation when your mind is so far away- soaring over the forest. Focused on the unseen battle

This would be a dangerous one, you’d heard the whispers of the people. The humans were growing sick of the raids. They had heavy precautions laid out- would kill any Na’vi on sight. You trusted your Olo’eyktan whole heartedly, truly, you did.

But the thought of having to lay any more of your brothers and sisters to rest made bile raise in your throat like acid. There had been so much death, so much loss.

You sneak a peek at the woman next to you as she works in sorting bandages.

Zephya is only a few years older than you- and yet the light seems to be gone from her eyes. Dimmed down to something small and wilting. You’d never forget the piercing sound of her cries, echoing off the rock cave walls as her munxatan’s (husbands) body was brought back from the last raid.

Another round of nauseating anxiousness churns in your stomach.

You dont know if you could survive it…

Would you be forced to? Would this war force you to watch the ones you loved die?

The thought of losing your own lover is enough to send you free falling. Spiraling into your own mind.

“That is quite enough” Mo’at tuts her tongue in your direction and you stare at her with a wide, almost guilty expression. Had the Tsahik heard your thoughts? Sometimes you didnt doubt the elderly woman could, with all of her boundless knowledge and those all knowing amber eyes “You will destroy the paste, it is not meant to be so thin”

“Oh” you feel like dunce as you look down at the mortar and pestle in your hand “I apologize, I just wanted to make sure it was well mixed”

“Hmm” she doesn't call your bluff “Why dont you take a break. Go find more herbs, the fresh air wll clear your head. You’re no used to me here with thoughts so loud”

Her words are casual but her gaze is knowing and warm and you nod eagerly “Of course, Tsahik”

You’re happy for the break and the opportunity to stretch your legs, you stand quickly and exit the incense heavy area.

Everyone has gotten good at pretending.

At pretending they’re not terrified, at trying to go on with any semblance of normalcy. The scientists still gather near their trailers, facemasks on and typing away at holo tablets. The karyus’ still teach the younglings, their little giggles can be heard in the distance. You smile, a very practiced mask, at any you pass. Are pleasant. Friendly. Not betraying the inner turmoil you feel-

You’re jostled out of the heavy thoughts.

Nearly rushed straight on your ass, more like it.

“Oof-” the wind is knocked out of you as a small but solid weight collides with your side. You look down and find big golden eyes string up at you- golden eyes so familiar.

“Y/N! Hi!” Tuktirey is the youngest Sully, and probably the one you’ve always been the cloestst to. Back home, years ago, she’d become a bit enamored with you. More specifically, you’re weaving and jewelry crafting skills. Many teased that she was your shadow. “Look, look’it what I made”

You cant help but grin. Her joyful energy is contagious and you’re glad for the distraction. You take the necklace she shoves into your face delicately. Run your fingers over the rows of mis matched beads. She really is quite good.

“Very pretty, Tuk. You’re getting so good! Soon you;ll take my place- the whole clan will be trampling over themselves to wear one of your pieces” You’re words make her blush, make the smile on her face go a bit shy and bashful.

She looks so much like her brother it hurts.

“I did that thing you showed me! You’re right- sometimes the bigger beads need the little ones to anchor them”

Tuk is rarely quiet, always a babbling brook but even she isnt immune to the tense atmosphere that looms, to the toretoure that is waiting for the warriors to return. She talks about the necklace, but her tail flicks nervously behind her. At her side, a carved wooden Toruk toy hangs in her loose grip.

You figure, maybe you can distract her too.

You reach for the toy and she holds tight to it before sighing. You’re probably going to take it, she thinks. Tell her to stop being annoying. Chastise her the way that others had when she’d tried to get them to play with her. All day long, everyone had turned their heads or sighed in annoyance when she’d approached-

You raise the wooden Toruk above her head- and let out an undignified squawk. Your best impression of the mighty beast. It’s dismal, but it seems to satisfy the little girl who instantly breaks out into giggles.

“You better run, Tuk Tuk” you grown payfully, sending the toy into a nosedive “Before I eat you whole”

She shrieks and sets out running in the opposite direction and take after her, ignoring the stares. Should you be back in the medicine tent helping? Maybe. You’d rather play with the seven year old instead.

The two of you play for a while, until your thighs burn and your lungs hurt from laughing. You dont have the endurance of a child, she runs absolute circles around you. She’s fast and agle and quite obviously takes Neytiri’s lessons to heart, even at her young age. You can only use your size to you’re advantage, picking her writing squirming body up and spinning her round-

The horn is loud and echos through the rock walls of the cavernous case.

Both yours and Tuk’s ears swivel, perk up and stand to attention.

There it is. The calls of your people. The sounds of ikran wings flapping.

Tuk writhes in your hold, the back of her head connecting with your lip painfully as she hollers joyfully “They’re back!”

Shes off then, only sparing you a quick glance as you seem to stand there in daze, rubbing your slightly split lip lightly as your stomach does somersaults.

“Come on!” The little one hollers back at you and your feet carry you forward, seemingly of their own volition.

The crowds are building as the people make their way for the edge, where ikrans land by the dozen. Carrying the warriors on their back. Along the way, Kiri and Spider join you. Eagerly bouncing along, following an over animated Tuk.

Excitement and dread bubbles in your stomach, a horribly potent and toxic mix. It’s always like this when they return. When he returns. You’re so anxious to see him, physically there. Alive. So anxious that he might not be-

Your eyes are peeled for the familiar swirling green and blue patterns of Atanzaw, his ikran.

“Mom!” Tuk screeches, of course she spots them first.

Your eyes follow her,

Straight to him.

Neteyam.

He dismonts his ikran, alot less gracefully then his mother did. His actions sluggish and unlike him- it only takes you a moment to notice how injured he is. The bleeding wounds and bruises that litter his body arent pretty and hes limping, not putting his full weight on his right thigh. His face in smeared war paint- blacks and yellows and greens. They make him look intense, as he stangs tall and muscular and still fully dressed in his tsamsiyu(warrior)garb.

When his gaze meets yours your breath gets stuck in your throat.

Usually when he returns they’re bright. The adrenalin of the fight still cursing through his veins like wildfire- this time thats drained. His eyes are filled with barley concealed dread. Sharp with pain.

Your fingers itch and your chest aches, the invisible string that ties you to him taught. You want nothing more then to go to him-

“Sully’s, fall in” Jake’s voice is booming and stern. All Olo’eyktan. Marine. War leader. You can barley recognize him like this. So far away from the carefree doting father he’d always been.

-Its a small thing. A barely there shake of Netryam’s head but it sends a clear message. He doesn't want you to approach. When he turns away from you, giving you the necessary but cold shoulder your unsettled stomach lurches.

It’s like it plays out in slow motion, you watch the family from the edge. An outsider. Not welcome in their obviously private conversation. Even Spider, a human, get’s to be closer than you do.

You’re unwelcome.

The heated words. The way that Jake scolds his sons, you’re not supposed to be privy to it.

“Jesus, I let you two geniuses lead a fleet and you disobeyed direct orders!”

Those words hurt you, for him. You know that they must peirce right through Neteyam. He still hasnt looked back in your direction and you are sure he doesnt want you to bare witness to any of it.

You slink away, slowly falling back. Fading into the background of loved ones reuniting. Warriors returning, alive and dead. The clan welcoming them back with open arms. You wish, as you so often do, that you could welcome Neteyam the same. That you could run into his arms. Hold him the way you ache to after these difficult and dangerous missions-

You convince yourself that you are content with just knowing that he is alive, and make your way back to the healers tent where your presence is wanted.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It gets so cold in the mountains. Frigidly so.

The wind whips through the caves, leaving a bone deep chill in their wake. You keep the fire at the center of your tent going all night long, and can normally be found crouching at it’s hearth. It’s been raining on and off all day, torrential down pour to drizzles- from the sound it seems as though it has finally stopped. Quieted down.

You wonder if the sky is clear and the stars are bright. You miss climbing high into the trees after the evening eclipse. Miss gazing at the constellations, miss basking in the Pandoran night and listening to the sound of the forests.

Mo’at had sent you home, demanding you get some sleep.

It had been three days since the soldiers had returned and they had been very busy. Full of tending to the wounded, and organizing for the dead. You’d thrown yourself headfirst into anytask that was given to you. Kept yourself busy. Useful.

You didnt have the time to mope and obsess over a man that was not yours.

That is what you told yourself at least.

This…thing that you and Neteyam shared didn't have a name or a definition. It had started out of loneliness, out of the desperation for comfort. Before the humans had come back and brought their war upon the clan, you dont think the future Olo’eyktan had ever really looked at you twice. Violence and hurt had pushed you into eachothers arms, both of you seeking companionship. Someone to weather the storm with.

It wasnt love. Not to him, you know that. He would marry a woman with high standing one day- one that could be his match. Become Tsahik.

That wouldnt be you.

For Eywa’s sake, you could barely do stitches. You messed up simple tasks like making salves. You would not delude yourself into thinking it was anything more. Many Na’vi couple without mating, pleasure isn't stigmatized in your community. That was all it was. A need for pleasure. Your body satiates him and that is all.

You cant go looking for him. Begging for his time or his touch.

So you sit by your fire, thread your necklaces, and long for the stars.

You’re humming a tune to yourself, something soft and gentle and melodic when theres a sudden shift. The canvas wall of your tent shakes and your stiffen, reaching for your knife that lies on the makeshift table next to your bed-

Neteyam slips through the flap- easy as anything. Smoothly, his motions fluid from all of those years of training.

Your eyes and mouth are wide open, ears lying low to your head.

“Hi” the man grins, boyish and handsome as ever.

As though he hadnt just broken into your home. It’s not like the two of you hadnt done this before, he’d spend many nights sneakily tucked inside your tent but he usually came through the front entrance.

“Vonva!(asshole)”you hiss at him, exasperated “You- ugh! I couldve stabbed you!”

He’s so handsome it makes you sick. He’s so tall and broad, a few of his braids falling into his face as his eyes sparkle with mirth “That would not be very nice of you, what have I done to deserve such a fate?”

“Breaking and entering is grounds for stabbing” you huff “you scared me!”

Neteyam steps forward a bit, hands out stretching to you, tone gentle “Hey, I didnt mean to scare you. I just wanted to see you is all, Im sorry”

You hate the way that you’re so easy for him. He ignores you for days, and then shows up unannounced and you’re jumping at any and all attention he may give you.

The way that as his large hands engulf the tops of your arms, you lean into his touch greedily.

“It’s fine. It's just- very late. I wasn't expecting anyone” you try to keep your tone even “I was actually about to go to bed”

“Oh?” Neteyam wonders, his tail flicking behind him “Can I join you?”

Your heart speeds up, if thats even possible. Both at his words and his tone. The insinuation right there. He had spent too much time in your bed that really, it shouldn't be a question. You'd always welcomed him into your nest of blankets, your warm arms. In between your soft thighs-

“I'm not sure that would be a good idea” you respond, stepping out of his hold.

Neteyam sags a bit, surprised. His ears swivel and his smile weans, tugging downwards at the corners of his full lips “Not a good idea? Why not?”

You shrug, not able to look directly at him. Instead focusing on his shoulders. His abdomen. He’s still all banged up, the bandaging covering his bruises are expertisley wrapped. Done by the Tsahik herself, obviously.

It’s the perfect excuse.

“You’re still hurt,” you insist ”You need to be careful, you don't want to reopen anything”

A smooth chuckle escapes him and makes a tingle run down your spine. He reaches out again, this time he grabs at your hand, leading it from its place awkwardly at your side to his chest. Pressing your palm gently against his warm skin.

“I'd like to stay with you tonight, if you’ll let me” Neteyam starts, you can feel the vibrations of his strong voice in your palm, pressed against the muscle “I may need you to be a little bit gentle with me though, paskalin”

You're quiet, lips quirked, stuck in your head for a moment as your fingers lightly trace over one of his stripes.

“Y/N, hey-” He seems to be more serious than before as he urges you to look at him “I'm not sure what’s wrong, but If you want me to go I will”

Everything in your body, your soul, protests at his words. There is no part of you that wants him to leave.

You’re being so stupid.

Neteyam could have anyone. Anyone. And he’s here, with you. So what if he doesnt love you. You have to take whatever you can get. You dont want him to find solace with anyone else, dont want him to leave and never return-

You lean in, where your hand is, on his strong chest and place a kiss to the edge of the bandaging. Its a small little thing, a barley there brush of your lips but still. When you look up at him through your lashes you know you must make quite the sight.

“Stay” you urge. “I want you to stay with me tonight,” everynight. ”Please?”

He looks unsure for just a moment, clearly thrown off by your conflicting mood, before he nods. He cups the side of your face then, forcing you to make eye contact with him. No matter how uncomfortably intense- you cant turn away.

“Can I kiss you?” His words make you quake. He hadnt asked, so explicitly, for months. Since the two of you were still fumbly and newly exploring eachothers bodies.

It makes butterflies erupt in your stomach, makes you giddiously nervous. You nod, way too hard “Mhmm”

And then he’s bending down, having to crouch because of how much taller he is, to capture your lips with his own.

Its always so good.

His mouth and the way it tastes and the way it makes you feel. Neteyam seems so sweet, everyone in the clan knows him as the Golden Boy. The perfect soldier- in privacay, in these stolen moments of intimacy, he’s anything but.

His kisses are dirty, all demanding tongue and nipping fangs. He kisses like a man whos trying to get his dick wet. Like he wants to pick you up, crush you to him. Rut into you-

And normally he would. Normally he tosses you around like nothing but a child’s ragdoll(and you let him), but he’s still hurt. Still tender and healing. When you wrap your arms around his shoulders and tug, trying to climb him like a tree, he hisses in pain,.

“Shit” you pull away from his mouth, your lips wet with his saliva “Sorry, I didnt mean to”

He just shakes his head, nuzzling at your cheek “It’s fine, I’m okay”

“Im hurting you” you argue.

“You’re not. Just- be gentle, okay?” Neteyam urges, trying to lean back into the kiss “Grandmother thinks they’ll heal quickly, but my ribs-” he breaks himself off, laughing a little strained. “I fucked them up pretty good”

You frown.

He always does this. Always downplays his pain. You will have none of it, you grab his hand and tug “Come, I will make you tea”

Neteyams hairless brows raise “You dont have to, I’m really fine”

“Bah” you lead him to your bed and push gently on his shoulders until he sits. “Enough, it is no trouble”

You keep an ornate clay kettle next to the fire, boiling water always ready. He watches you as you fiddle with the many little jars in your arsenal, collecting herbs here and there. Steeping them in the hot water before pouring him a steaming cup.

“Here- it is bitter, but it will dull the pain”

Neteyam accepts the tea with a small smile “Irayo(thank you)”

It’s nice having him in your space. In your bed amongst all of your softest things as the fire crackles and illuminates the tent in a warm glow.

The shadows it casts over his angular face make him look haunting. So beautiful.

You like to take care of things. Instruments. Broken pottery. Children. It comes naturally to you.

You dote on him even though he protests, check his bandages and make him drink the whole cup of strong leaf tea, before he lies down. You're perched beside him, still on the edge of the bed mat.

“I didn't come here to be nursed, Y/N” he sighs as you rub salve on one of his nastier bruises.

“Humor me” you reply wryly, your dainty fingers all over him.

It takes him a while to relax, as it always does.

But oh, its your favorite thing.

Watching his walls come down and the facade of Olo’eyktan in training slip. Neteyam is funny and witty and a downright gossip. You enjoy talking to him as much as you enjoy getting fucked by him.

You like that when given the opportunity and the ear to do so; he loves to talk. About any and everything. His deep voice is like a blanket, warming you up from the inside out.

“I feel bad. I sneak in here; scare you and then make you take care of me” He snorts, “You must be so sick of me”

“No” you reassure with gentle touches “Never that”

You dont really know what Neteyam sees in you.

You’re pretty enough- but far from the gorgeous warriors and dancers that throw themselves at him. But when he looks at you, like he is now, you know there must be something. Something that turns those eyes of his to molten amber. They’re hungry, you’ve never seen him look at anything the way he looks at you. Except maybe the prey that ends up victim to his arrows.

He makes you want to be good to him. Be good for him.

“I enjoy taking care of you” you whisper as you trace the leather cords of his tweng, your fingertips dipping dangerously below them. “Can I take care of you tonight, Neteyam? You want me to?”

Neteyam nods slowly, making room for you as you climb carefully over him. Spread his legs enough for you to settle between them.

You cant help it, cant help how much you touch. You cant get enough of the feeling of his strong body under your hands. All of that corded muscle, all of his pretty deep tahini speckled skin. His strong calves, his well built thighs.

When you reach where he’s hard, straining against his cloth, his eyes flutter closed. You rub him until he chubs up, all plump and hard. Until a patch of wetness starts to darken the cloth-

“Help me a little, sayrip(handsome)”you urge as you tug on the strings of his tweng. Neteyam lifts his slim hips, helps you shimmy it down his thighs-

You’ve seen him naked more times then you can count, now. But still. You’re always struck by it.

His cock springs free- thuds against his well toned lower stomach. Drooling and pulsing, the tanhi there exceptionally bright. He’s so pretty, so vulnerable that it goes to your head. Your leaning in, tongue first-

“Wait,” Neteyam gruffs, “I want to see you too”

Ah.

Neteyam was very partial to your body. He’d told you many times- would try to wrangle you out of your skirt whenever he got the chance.

You smile, raising up on your knees before tugging the gossamer top off, over your head, Your nipples are hard and peaked, reacting to the cold. You run your fingertips over them, knowing that he likes a show. He likes to watch. He props himself, arm behind his head as he does so, it feels so lewd to play with your breasts for him. To trail your hands slowly down your tummy, to your full hips- tugging on the strings of your own tweng.

When the mound of your pussy is revealed he groans, he can see the way your slick shines in the low fire light.

“Good Mother” Neteyam’s rough and demanding as he yanks on you, pulls you into a kiss “You’re so fucking sexy”

His kiss is fervent and you could so easily lose yourself to them- you know what he wants. He’s already inching closer to your hot wet slit, his big fingers kneading at your plush asscheeks.

“Lemme take care of you” your mumble is insistent, and he sighs. Letting you pull away. Letting you re situate yourself between his legs.

He just lays back flat once more, a lazy grin on his face. “Okay, baby. Take care of me”

You’d always loved giving pleasure with your mouth, and lovers you’d had before had told you how good you were at it. You liked the taste and feel of a heavy cock on your tongue.

With Neteyam, as everything seems to be, it’s different. You dont just like giving him head, you love it.

You love the way that he jerks when you give his rosy tip that first little lick. You love the salty tang of his precum, so much that you spread it all over. Your lips, your cheeks. You rub his cock along your face, nuzzling it. Your cheeks, chin and nose wet with him. You love the way it stretches your lips as you take him into your mouth- he’s the biggest you’ve ever had and it pushes you to your limit. The hinge of your jaw aching as you force him down your throat.

“You’re such a good girl for me” Neteyam praises you, all choppy. His long fingers tangled in your waist length hair.

That is what you adore the most.

The Omaticayan prince is so vocal. He’s all whimpery moans and deep gritty groans. He lets you know exactly what he likes and doesn't like. And he rains down praise on you like its his job.

You’re his good girl. His sweet berry. His little whore..

You take it so well. So- ah- determined for him. You ram him down your tight convulsing throat ,until you’re sobbing around his dick. Never trying to pull away. Eager to get him off.

It is the most shameful position you’ve ever been put in. You’re addicted to the way that me makes you feel- you could never allow yourself to be this with anyone else.

“I-Im close” He warns as though that's not exactly what you want.

“Good” you hum, before diving back in. Suckling on the head and the sensitive sides of his shaft over and over. Just like you know he likes it.

It doesn't take long at all, you can feel him twitching n your mouth. His balls, so full and swollen, start to pull up, taught and ready to blow.

“Oh fuck, Y/N. Fuck”

He gasps as he knots his fingers at your scalp, as he holds on for dear life, his hips swiveling madly. His belly concaving with his heaving, rapid breaths as as his orgasm rips through him.

It’s a good one. You can tell. He’s biting his lips bloody and grinding his head back into your pillows, eyes tightly closed as he rides the waves of pleasure. The whole time, he fists your hair, holding your face to his crotch.

You take his cum, all of it. Popping the tip on your mouth and catching the thick spurts with your tongue. He tastes so good, it feels so intimate to get to have him like this. You close your eyes and savor it, dont pull off until he's twitching and whining with over sensitivity.

You sit back on your haunches, wiping your messy mouth clean with the back of your hand and assessing the damage.

Neteyam is all shivery, his arm thrown over his face as he comes down from the high. He’s still struggling to catch his breath and you cant help the pride that

“You feeling any better, baby?” the human term of affection rolls off your lips, smug and sultry and he laughs behind his arm.

It takes a few moments, but he finally collects himself “You are way too good at that” he’s told you before, but repeats it as he pulls you close. You’re perched in his lap, his strong arms around your waist as he holds you close.

“I like watching you” you admit between the pecking kisses “I like the way you come”

He smiles into your mouth, you can feel his sharp canines on your lips “That’s my good girl”

You full body shiver at the praise, gritting your forehead against his and breathing through your nose in an attempt not to lose it. You're gushing between your legs, your thighs a sticky mess and your cunt swollen and blood hot.

“Your turn, huh? Come on, I know that pussy has to be needy. You want me to eat it?” Neteyam whispers hotly in your ear and you just groan.

And while his skills with his tongue are legendary, you’re feeling particularly empty, needing to be full of him after weeks of distance “Mmm, no. Want you inside of me”

“Can do” he affirms, his hands going to your hips, nudging you “Lay down, I’ll fuck you, paskalin. I’ll fuck you so good. Wanna’ stretch you out”

“Wait” you press a hand to his chest when you notice the grimace on his face. The one he’s trying to hide as he attempts to lift you “You’re still hurting, Nete”

“I’ll be fine, I’ve got you” He assures, stubbornly “I want you to feel good, too”

He’s not the only one who's stubborn. You wiggle out of his grip, pressing down firmly on his chest.

“We can try something else” you suggest, really not wanting him to hurt himself even worse. Neteyam can get…intense when hes fucking you. It’s all very physical, he pours buckets of sweet down onto you as he works your body.

“You want to get fucked” He reminds you, his hips jerking up pointedly so that you can feel his erection between your legs.

Eywa, yes you do. You want him, you want him to carve his way into your body. To bully your tight walls until they accommodate his wide girth.

You bite your lip and reach for his length, pumping his cock thats still wet with your spit before leaning in close so that you can whisper in his ear “We’re just going to have to compromise”

Neteyam is huffy until you sink down onto him and ride him until neither of you can formulate thoughts.

Until you’re boneless, tangled limbs and buried under your quilts.

The afterglow is your favorite.

Neteyam is always so gentle and tender after sex. He holds you, lets you lie your head on his chest and listen to the steady thrumming beat of his heart as he plays with your hair. The only thing that could make this better is if he reached for your kuru. Is if you got to experience Tsaheylu with him-

It’s not fair,

How could he expect you not to fall in love with him?

The quiet stretches on. The fire is dim and dying and the tent is mostly black, night creeping in and covering you both in darkness.

“I’m sorry” his voice almost startles you, his words confusing and unexpected “I’m sorry I ignored you- the day we came back. I was trying to figure out how to calm my dad down. He was so pissed and Lo’ak’s attitude only makes it worse-”

You don't say anything. You just keep listening to his strong heart.

“I didn't mean to hurt your feelings”

You don't respond for a while. You don't want to shatter the atmosphere that is shimmy fly wing delicate “I was just happy to see you alive. It terrifies me, that you’ll leave on one of these raids and never come back. I dont- I wouldn't know what to do if that happened”

“I'm not going to leave, Y/N” his arms tighten around you and you close your eyes, relishing the way he holds on to you. It makes you feel like maybe you're not the only one desperate for this to never end.

“Do you promise?” You sound young, look so small in his big arms.

“I promise”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Weeks later, The Sully’s leave the tribe.

They’re running, fleeing for the good of the Omaticaya people- that is what Jake says. He claims it is for the best. You have never doubted his prowess as Olo’eyktan until that moment.

The tribe mourns, falls into great sorrow as the family says their goodbyes.

You can not bear to look. You drown in your tears and hide in the crowd. Will not meet Neteyams gaze no matter how much he tries to get you to.

When he mounts his ikran and takes to the skies you feel something inside of you shatter. He disappears into the vast horizon.

Neteyam leaves.

You were a fool to believe he’d keep his promise.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Welp. Um hi guys lol. I was like let me post something short and sweet to come back with before I start hitting you guys with all of my Kinktober prompts next month. Somehow I ended up with a 5k angst filled what could be first chapter of a series. LOL I HATE MYSELF AND THE FACT THAT I CANT WRITE ONE SHOTS.

I literally don't have the time to work on another story, but if this one was a little too much angst, I'd be glad to give us a fix it Part Two.

This will be the last kind of stand alone update until after October. If you havent alread, check out Luna’s( @pandoraslxna )Kinktober prompt list. She is such a gem for cultivating it and helping keep this fandom alive and thriving.

As usual, please leave me some feedback. Good, bad(not mean though lol my psyche’s very fragile rn) I want to hear your thoughts!

Love ya, pretty babies!

[dollivication]

You crying while having sex w evil Dante because you’re scared and overwhelmed and you’re probably both covered in someone else’s blood… (jesus christ Dante pls shower) And he just starts licking the tears off your face freaknasty-style while folding you in half harderrr. (hwatttt who said that not me that’s for sure) ⚔️

DHKJASGJLFOUUUGHHHH !!!! IM TWEKAINGGGFD

⚔️non bless yu… i’m so happy yu see my vision… BUT I CANNOT LIE I FID NOT THINK OF BEING COVERED IN BLOOD DURINH SEX… that’s literawy evil dante waddafuck…

nsfw!!!!!

the smell of iron is prominent in the air, it’s a nauseating odor that makes your eyes watery. your hiccups and sobs drown out from the sound of skin repeatedly coming into contact. you’ve made a mental note; dont look to the left, theres a pair of lifeless eyes boring into you. who is that, anyway? nobody important now that they had gotten in dante’s way.

it’s just too much. you think you’re gonna be sick, stomach churning from the uncomfortable position as dante hovers over you, his eyes crinkled in a disturbing delight as his warm breaths fan your face. he has your head propped up with one of his hands, keeping your gaze on how he bullies his cock into you. you can hardly catch your breath, gasping too much gets you desperate. gasping too little suffocates you.

you don’t know how to feel—so your body reacts for you. clenching around dante’s fat cock, stinging tears beginning to fall down your cheeks despite your attempts to hold them back. your vision is blurry,, making colors fuzzy and mix together.

regardless of the lack of clarity, you can make out dante’s face lowering itself closer to your own. you squeeze your eyes shut, preparing yourself to endure yet another one of his ruthless kisses that bordered more on possessiveness than true affection. but there was nothing.

instead there was an odd warmth on your cheek, slowly dragging upwards and catching each dribbling salty droplet. a wet sensation was left behind in the trail’s wake, a newfound freshness followed by an all too satisfied hum that gave away into a chuckle.

reopening your eyes, blinking a few times to refocus, you just barely catch the swiping of dante’s tongue along his lips, as if he were spreading the taste of you upon them to truly salvage the flavor of your distress.

you weren’t sure what you felt more asphyxiated by—the gradually crushing reality of being stuck with a deranged half-breed, or the increased pressure upon your frail body as dante plunges himself even deeper into your depths, your knees forced to meet the spaces by either side of your head.

..regardless, there was no escape.

IMSOsoooonormallllimeonormallll i lauv u…. thnak u for this viszion.,..,,

[moethewriter]

Idk if you're comfortable doing these but maybe reader is on their month and needs comfort from finnick. Had mine last week the cramps, nausea and back pain was crazy fr lol. Or maybe just a comfort reading been a rough week

Please and thank you have a lovely day 🫶🏾

Of course I can write that anon! Periods are the worst. TITLE: Chamomile Delights WORD COUNT: 1.1k WARNINGS: Period content, fluff TAGS: Can be read as gn!reader (women aren't the only ones who get periods y'all!) A/N: Loved writing this one! Periods are ass, and as a non-binary person who gets them, we all need a little comfort! Hope you all enjoy this! I'm still not feeling 100%, this flu is lingering my friends, but writing has been taking my mind off of that! Love yall! Also not beta read as per usual, sorry for any spelling mistakes! Haha! -

It had come early, and to say you weren’t happy was an understatement. You wanted to die, truly lay down and allow yourself to become one with the earth because anything would be better than this shit. You didn’t remember the last time you felt this horrible during your cycle, usually you could manage but today was just … awful. Everything made you want to cry, or you when something inconvenienced you, you wanted to chuck it against the wall and watch it smash. You were nauseated at the smell of anything Mags brought you to eat, and to top it all of you just felt so fucking miserable.

Finnick had been gone for a few days, off in The Capitol, when your period had started, usually he would be there to provide any sort of comfort you needed but right now you were alone. You couldn’t blame him, Snow had summoned him and many other Victors for a week of galas and to introduce the new Victors. You feigned illness, which in some ways was true, but you were upset he couldn’t stay with you. Had you known it would start, you probably would have gone because at least then you would have your built in space heater.

You wanted to have him near you, as childish as it sounded. He always made you feel better and doted on you. He made you feel better and knew how to take care of you. But mostly you just missed him. His comforting smile, the way he would rub your lower back and just hold you to help you fall asleep. You were miserable without him, and you looked like shit. It wasn’t ideal, but you could make it through the worst alone if you had too. You felt like something that had just crawled out of a sewer drain, and you were sure you looked like it too.

Finnick hated seeing you so ill. He always wanted to make you feel better in whatever way he could. Whether that was holding you while you angrily muttered and cursed at the world for having cramps, or making you a small dinner that he knew wouldn’t make you sick. Well more like got Mags to make something while he presented it to you, he had never been the best cook and when you weren’t well he knew it was hopeless to try and feed you anything he made, it was sweet the way he tried so hard.

Some days he was a pain in your ass, but you didn’t mind that anymore. 

“When he gets home, I swear I’m going to kill him.” You whispered, throwing a pillow over your head, maybe if you suffocate yourself enough, the lack of oxygen flow would stop the pain all together. “Damn fucking President Snow calling his ass away. Maybe I’ll kill him next.” You grumbled under the pillow.

“Kill who next?”

You sat up straight, regretting your decision the moment you cramped up a little more. You felt a small wave of nausea hit you as you covered your mouth. You hadn’t expected him home until far later in the week. 

“What the fuck?” You muttered, squinting your eyes. “You’re home early.” You observed the glitter on him, his demeanor and the way he was dressed.

It wasn’t unusual for him to come back from The Capitol dressed far differently than anything he wore at home. It wasn’t Finnick’s usual style, he preferred a more low key look when he was in District Four, always had, but he did look gorgeous.

“And you look like shit.” He raised an eyebrow, leaning against the door frame. “Are you in pain?”

“I feel like shit, thanks for the observation, Finn.” You rolled your eyes. “Yes, obviously.” You were far grumpier than you wanted to be but you couldn’t help it right now, the light was too bright and you abdomen felt like it was crushing your insides.

“Ah. I see.” Finnick said, exiting the room.

You grumbled to yourself angrily, desperately searching for a position that gave you any relief, though nothing you had tried worked thus far. At least Finnick was here, despite the annoyance you had at the entire situation, you were thankful he was home early.

“Hot water, and a cup of tea.” Finnick said, returning a few minutes later holding a steaming mug and a small towel.

“Finn.” You felt tears well up in your eyes. “Sorry. I’m not upset, and sorry for being a dick, thank you.” You smiled, as he passed you the cup, you inhaled it and the smile grew.

Chamomile, a luxury to get when you were outside The Capitol. It was your favourite tea, always had been, and he  managed to snag a few boxes of it when he could. He always thought of you like that, whenever he could get you something he would. 

He sat beside you, gently pressing a kiss into your shoulder and you exhaled deeply at the simple, yet comforting gesture. Having his presence was already a comfort.

“What do you need from me?” He asked, pressing his chin to where he laid the kiss. “You know I’ll do anything for you.”

“Kill me?” You questioned, a teasing tone lacing your words. You sipped the tea he had brought you and felt the warmth take over your body. 

“Well … not that.” He snorted into your shoulder, his hands moving to gently massage your sides. 

“Thank you for the tea, and the hot water. Hold me, massage my back … work your usual magic Odair, because when I tell you I’ve been so unpleasant these last two days … I’m not lying.” You huffed.

“You’re not always unpleasant?” He teased, moving the massage to your shoulders.

You could feel the deep knots slowly being undone, and you let out a sigh of relief, you hadn’t realized the tension had been that bad.

“I will kick you off this bed.” You warned, shooting him a glare.

“Then who would take such good care of you?” Finnick smiled, continuing to work his magic. “No one can live up to this.” He laughed, a small sound coming from the bass of his throat. 

You loved his laugh.

“Hush, let me relax.” You closed your eyes, and focused on his soft humming,

Days like these had always been so miserable, you had gotten so used to riding it out alone, but now you had Finnick. He would always take care of you, and you would in turn, take care of him. There would never be one without the other, not anymore.

“I love you.” You said, simply, leaning into him.

“I love you too.” He said back, holding you closer.

[yan-heta]

YANDERE 2P ENGLAND ALPHABET (OLD)

★ NOTE ;;

— I may or may not rewrite this. This is old writing from my main blog, so expect a change of writing styles if someone were to ever request for me to rewrite this.

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Oliver is a sucker for affection. By far, one of the clingiest of the 2p's. Love always gave him mixed feelings. He does not understand how people are able to love, but he would support them! Yet, how could one love? It's sometimes disgusting, absolutely nauseating; people getting too romantic, too sappy, too... revolting. As he met you, though, he starts to feel emotions stirring, bubbling like a brew. Oh, how treacherous! Now he felt as if all his thoughts were blinded by his delusion of love. Why must he feel his skin melting? His tooth aching by how sweet you feel? A fool for sweets, he wants more, to choke and rot by how tempting your lips are, how tempting to feel your hair by his hands. He just wants to feel every part of you, treat you like his God, and him, your worshipper.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

He was already messy before meeting you, now he wants to give gifts from the blood he had shed. Giving your lover something you value is something of courting, right? Then you must love his special cupcakes made of love! By love, he means physically and emotionally; he means a human heart is a product of his solution. He won't tell you how he made it, but he loves when your eyes sparked interest in his creations. It made a sick grin plaster his face, masked by good. Perish the thought of how what you ate was your best friend, he'll be there for you instead, ready to comfort you when you come crying into his pastry shop, blubbering about how you miss them, how they all of a sudden disappeared. But cupid's arrow has him swerving in joy; you depend on him! Of course sacrificing your friend was worth it!

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

No mocking! He's ecstatic, filled to the brim with overwhelming madness mixed with elation. "Oh, poppet! I waited so long for this to happen! I love you! Love-love-love you!" He would chirp, sounding like an overjoyed child. His distorted sense of affection made him rush over you, who was chained to a bedpost, and embrace you into his warmth. How he misses you after waiting one day just to find the perfect time to abduct you. He'll be none the crueler to you. Of course, his God would have the best treatment, the best of everything, so he would try to be perfect for you.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

His lack of personal space made him quite needy for every bit of your time. Unlike 2p France, your space would be invaded by him. In his eyes, it's solely meant to be like it, where two lovers are always together, acting romantic, and sappy, albeit before meeting you, he was repulsed by the idea. Love truly does change someone. Before abducting you, he would always be in his bed, biting his fingers while fantasizing about you, how nice it would be to feel your skin. He'd manifest that now he was with you, and you need not have to even do any self-care when he was controlling your life, while constantly praising you.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Each bit of his heart is yours! Coming home after meetings, he would rant to you about his life, reveal himself, might I add, even expose his criminal records, and even the fact that he is a country, immortal, too. The shock on you after the confrontation would have him giggling for the rest of his day while happily cuddling you. He'll even show you his freckles, which he'd been hiding for long, if you'd like. Every night, he would tell of stories in his past, of how he had past lovers, and how they never seemed to please him, how they make him disgusted at their behavior, yet as he met you, he said; it was the first time he felt butterflies, the first time his knees felt weak, the first time his heart beating so fast, it felt like it would jump off.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

"Awww, darling!" He does not mind it, in fact, he sometimes convinces you to do so! It proves he needs to be better for you, and he'd take that criticism, no worries! All he sees it as exposure from the true you, it's like telling him he needs to change and he would do so cheekily for you to like him back. Once you show less of a fight, would he feel content with himself acting "perfect" and unflawed just for you. Just make sure you would not have that colorful language! Swearing hits a nerve and he'd cry, globs of tears falling off his freckled face as he holds his, begging to not say those words. Once you do, though, it would crack more cries, he would physically hurt himself once you start swearing up and down.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

The only game in his eyes are the games he plays with his victims once they try as much to make you fall for them. For you, though, it is not a game. Maybe the process of making you fall for him is like a dating simulator, but you escaping? He'll be in denial, a constant state of self questioning once you escape. Why do you not love him? After he has you in his grasp again, he would not even let you go, crying on your chest, continuously asking "why". He's weak when it comes to you, so he would seek you reciprocating his hugs, seek your warmth and snuggle while also shedding tears.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

When he accidentally showed you his slaughterous way of preparing his pastries. His eyes held such cruel euphoria, one you have never seen before, as he butchered the poor souls into bite-able bits. He told you you weren't going to end up as food. No! But these pesky mortals would. Yet, as much of a nuisance they may be, he'd only pick the best flesh to feed you, to impress you. After all, if it makes your tummy full, it fills his heart with pleasure, aware that what he served you, pleased you. Ensuing peace after tears stained your cheeks, Oliver would kiss it away and read you bedtime stories as a way to distract you from those memories. It's your first time seeing such grotesque actions, of course he would reassure you that it would never happen again. That was a mistake on his part.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

Just for a smile on your face, to enjoy his crafts, and maybe even help him with his pastry shop! He does not mind either way, as long as you submit to him, and let him praise you willingly! He vowed to love you with every single bit of his immortal love, once you say "I love you" back, he would be overridden with every feeling of glee, jumping up and down in every step as if he has been gifted with great news, which basically is for him. But he knows he has to accomplish it! Like his bakery, it gained popularity through hard earned work, his pastries taking sweat and blood (literally and figuratively) to perfection. Same with you! He needs to please you.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Indeed he does, and it happens every day, even after you were kidnapped. You show the slightest bit of interest that is not him, and he would be by your side, hands encasing your body, as he begs you to focus on him with an evident pout on his face. He'll even whine and cry dramatically if it means he would be your center of attention. Show interest in another man, and he may seem as if he is unbothered, but the pink swirls in his eyes means he's planning someone's death today. After they leave you two alone, he would be pleading. It's not your fault, but why? If he changes, would you love him? Oh, he guarantees he would.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Not afraid to have PDA. Every time, he is attached by your hip, a hand on a part of your body. He loves to cuddle, too, especially if he is the little spoon once you are willing. Adores sleeping with his neck buried in your face, as he could smell your scent, the shampoo he showered you with, prominent. He could get overboard and smooch your face many times, along with squeezing your body too much. At times, he loves to hold your body and trace every part with his fingers as he whispers what he loves about it. No part of you would be left insulted, instead it is praised.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

His offer of a pastry dish for free is his way. Anyone who is unaware of what he bakes always goes for more than seconds. They'd die to be in your place. Of course, when you offer to pay, he would shake his head and refuse. He says it's a treat for you as he appreciates you being a customer of his dainty place. Maybe even use your offer to pay to divert it into something like him saying he just wants to talk to you or so.  And why would you turn down the owner of the bakery who's so cheery and positive, who seems to hold no malice?

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Albeit seeming to act welcoming to everyone, he often tends to be less cruel, his colors more true and less forced. His smile holds genuine intent from seeing you. You're offered better privilege from him in his bakery, offered a better place to sit in, and his touches seem to last more on you. He also seems to be more lively, yet down-to-earth, as he has you. Almost as if he's living somewhat normal, somewhat alright- like a teenage boy who's in the process of falling in love, not some lunatic who chops people for fun.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Slaps on the wrist, interrogation, and him scolding you like a mother would do their daughter. He'll be pouty, but he tells you not to do "it" again because it may seriously harm you, and no one wants that. If you go too far, and he breaks down, then he'll maybe isolate you for some time with him. That is, you two are already isolated, but more likely you're stuck in the bedroom often.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

Privacy. He'll sleep with you, take baths with you, have you attached to him most of the time. He knows you may be wary of him, but again, he means nothing bad! Just taking care of you, after all. He wants to know your every secret, so before he even abducts you, he has personal information on you. Now that he has you, he wants to hear you personally say your experience to him. That's what lovers do, they spend time together reliving memories, telling stories, yes?

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

Depends. He'll be patient, but he'll also beg for you to love him already. For you to love him, it's a dream, his one main goal. So while it seems he would be patient, if you are on a streak of disinterest, then he'll slowly show you signs of impatience, either it'd be by whining more and getting more cuddly with you. Sometimes, he slips small signs of how he's waiting for you to submit.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

No. He can't move on, he'll never move on. He'll even die, too! He's too emotionally dependent on you! How could he let go, he can't replace you, his life-source! He'll be drained of happiness, like he sees no value in life. He'll even let himself rot, he doesn't care. Nights of sorrowful yearning would turn into him planning to get you back, by magic. He's tempered with it all of the time. Oh, he'll get you back!

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

He'll feel guilty if you're a bit homesick, but he feels like this is the best for you. He'll try to make your shared house feel more of yours, if it gives you a certain nostalgia. But once you settle in with him, then he'll let you go outside and be more independent, as long as you ask for permission, then it'd be no bother.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc.)?

Curiosity. He's never felt the feeling before, so of course, he would be curious on why you, of all people, make him feel giddy. But he accepts it. He'll observe you for a bit behind his counter while making pastries, let Flying Chocolate Bunny spy on you, and Ms. Fairy to stalk you home. They'd always tease him about his obvious fascination, but could he help it?

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

He'll do the same, too. It genuinely hurts him seeing you hurt. After all, who would want to see their lover cry? Mentally break? He loves you, would hold you once you cry, and let you cry as he does so, too. It's as if it's only the two of you, and it is. No isolating yourself, darling, he'll help you, you don't have to struggle yourself from even standing up. It really hurts him, but you have him, even if he might be the sole reason you are hurting yourself.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

He's both delusional and self-aware. It fluctuates between days and his moods. He loves you, and he knows that kidnapping you is wrong, but it's right for you! It makes him wary of what you do, and so he could keep track of you without you leaving his bakery every so often, but at the same time, he knows why you feel insecure under his gaze. But he promises he means no bad! Sometimes, he manipulates you into thinking he is perfect, sometimes he breaks down for no reason. He has this idealization of what love truly is, similar to 1p France, where he must not force it, but at the same time, he fails to do so.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

His people-pleasing type of behavior towards you. He's always ready to be at your command at times, so once you know how to manipulate him, then you could use him. But, even as he is easy to use at your disposal does not mean he is unaware of manipulation, as he is one himself. Yet, he'll still let you do anything to him, at the end, he will be sobbing once he realizes you still do not love him. Why are you torturing him like he's just some toy? He's trying! Just for you! "Oh, poppet, darling! Please! Please don't leave me! I'll do anything for you, just don't leave! Please!" You can't even comprehend what he says as he hiccups, choking in guilt and shame.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

Oh, never! He'd rather die, than see you break, lose yourself. The best he could do is spike your drink with a love potion, but that's the last thing he'd do once he's between a fine line of breaking. It'd be easier to break him, than for him to taint your skin with a knife. Punishments are usually slaps on the wrists, or small threats of losing your privilege to easting more of his dishes. If he ever goes too far, though, he'll apologize every day, begging for your trust, pleading that he'll change, he'll never harm you again.

Xanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

Very much. He'll be doing every order of yours, except escaping. Want someone to die? You have the right person to ask! New clothes? "Oh, my sweets, give me the details and I'll make sure you have it!" For him, people-pleasing helps with you liking him, and every step of the way is something he would endure to steal your heart. He adores you, worships you. You're insecure? He'll make sure to utter every praise in the book, comfort you. Avoid mirrors? Darling, he knows what it feels like to feel repulsive to your body. No worries, he won't force you to be uncomfortable! Anything for his beloved poppet.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

Love is a process for him to undergo for about a long time, but he's under your spell after observing you in his pastry shop every day you visit. You're so cute, everything about you makes him captivated. At first, he thought it was attraction, fascination on his part, but the more you do anything, the more he falls behind the counter. He offers you his desserts for free before abducting you, giddy heart beating whenever you take a bite and compliment his cooking. Anything you do, really, makes him entranced. It takes long before he finds out it is love, he asked 2p France about it, too! And even the Frenchman guaranteed it was love, and he was certain, utterly certain, you are his soulmate after time of being in denial.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

Oh no! He's delusional, he feels love must be slow, and sweet. You'll fall by nature, for him! Your eyes should not drift to other people, that's not how soulmates work! Albeit the fact that he has kidnapped you, fed you one of your kind, forced his affections, does not mean he would be doing something so sickening towards you! No, he would not even dare choke you, or litter your skin with scars. Your tears are not worth losing yourself, as that would make the man live with shame. You're his one true lover, his soul's only connection. If he broke you, he'll break himself, too.

[boneblushed]

But on a Wednesday, in a cafe

muggle!au, James x fem!reader, I’m going through a really tough break up right now so writing this = therapy

I’ve been spending the last eight months / Thinking all love ever does / Is break, and burn, and end

Perhaps you should be used to it by now, this never-ending chasm of pain that begins and ends at the base of your ribcage.

It’s a deep, aching hurt, the kind that promises to linger until you’re forced to surrender. A draught of cool air pulls through your chest, alerting you to the tired heart squeezed within it. Every time you think about him—about the life you shared—it breaks and splinters, rocketing another of its shards into the surrounding structures. A dreadful pang.

Who knew love could hurt this much?

It’s taken a while for your heart to look the way it does. A few weeks ago, it was held within your shaking palms, wrung through with desperation as you begged him to return. Here… take it, please? It belongs to you… it’ll always be yours.

Prior to that, when the aching wounds were still fresh, you wove bandages from hopeful ignorance, fastened them with blind faith. No, love couldn’t possibly be as fickle as he was making it out to be; you couldn’t let yourself believe it was, you’d simply have to bide your time until he came to his senses.

Until he told you how wrong he was, how much he didn’t mean any of it. Of course I didn’t fall out of love with you, of course that can’t just happen; I love you, I’m sorry, forgive me?

And pathetic as your broken heart is, you would be ready to do so, no matter the stakes.

It makes you stomach roil as you think back on it now — the power he had over you, how callously he wielded it every time you spoke. Has. Present tense. The fissure deepens.

It’s terrifying, how quickly your world can shrink into nothingness. Once upon a time, you’d considered him your soul-mate—your person—and now it’s as though the pair of you are strangers, even less than.

It’s true what they say, indifference pierces deeper than hatred. After all that you’ve been through with him, all that you’ve shared, how are you supposed to simply move on and find love elsewhere?

The cobblestone path you walk along is well versed with your rumination. A quilt of autumn foliage crunches underfoot, a petrichor rich scent present in the air. Every shop window you pass boasts Thanksgiving deals that you ‘just don’t want to miss!’; it’s nauseating as much as it is heart-breaking, having to do the holidays without him for the first time in six years.

It’s probably pity more than it is fate that leads you to the new cafe in Godric’s Hollow — you’ve shed far too many tears for the Universe to bear, plagued with motion sickness from how quickly your sadness turns yearning again.

You miss him. It’s right there in your eyes, how much you miss him. James’ on barista duty whilst his colleague Remus mans the register; the latter may discern the melancholy in your features, but it’s James who recognises the exact significance of it.

He’s been through it before, you see, with Lily Evans. His gaze softens, dappled brown eyes falling over you in paces, and he wracks his brains for things he’d have wanted when he was going through the worst of it.

Except, the one thing he wanted no one could realistically give him — Lily. Who’s your mystery boy? Is it truly as over as your eyes say it is?

“Uh, hey,” you greet. Your voice doesn’t crack as much as it’s barely loud enough to register.

“Hey,” Remus responds, sending you a small smile. Playing it cool whilst his knee nudges James’ under the counter. “What can I get for you?”

“Just an iced latte please,” you answer. “With oat milk, if you have it.”

Remus punches in your order as you reach for your wallet. The cappuccino James’ making overflows.

“Shit!” He curses, jerking back his hand hastily, the skin scalded. Droplets of burnt coffee fly onto the machine as he shakes them off.

You startle, turning to look at him. “You alright?”

“Coffee’s on us,” James replies, reaching over Remus to cancel the order. His peripheral vision catches the incredulous look he sends him, but he thinks it a disservice to look away from you in this moment. The melancholy in your eyes ebbs a little. James’ heart soars.

“Really?” You ask, your voice a little louder now.

“Oh yeah,” James responds, faux-serious. “You’re our fiftieth customer today.”

“You’re lying,” you say, a flicker of a smile on your face.

James shrugs, grinning handsomely. “D’you want the free coffee or not, oat milk?”

You raise your eyebrows in response, pretending to zip your lips and throw away the key. James nods approvingly.

He discards the dregs of the cappuccino he was making, starting anew with his gaze flitting over to you intermittently. You watch the trees sway through the high windows to the left of you as you wait, your hands clasped in front of you, one wrist held in a palm. He knows, as he watches you, that you have to go feel all of the pain to see a way out of it.

So he keeps his mouth shut for now, and hopes this cafe will become a regular haunt.

Weeks, a month, two passes. He takes it slow. He thinks your dreadfully pretty but that’s besides the point right now; when he was grieving his relationship with Lily, all he wanted to do was mope and be left alone. No number of Sirius’ “friends” could quell that deep, overwhelming hankering in his chest.

“Hey,” you greet one day, resolute.

James raises his eyebrows at you. Remus is off sick. “Hey?”

“I’m paying today.”

James snorts, shaking his head. “No way.”

“I’m tipping heavily,” you warn.

“Wow,” James sighs sadly. “Like you would any other employee, huh? And here I thought we were friends.”

“Shut up.” You scowl. Not really; it baffles James, how your features can still look so sweet when they’re contorted all angrily. “You’re right. You don’t even need this job.”

The thing about James is, his family owns half the establishments in town square. He’s one of those enigmatic personalities that you’ve always known to rule your hometown; around when you are, dancing around the corners of your gaze, kind and ever-present but never very important. Until now.

He grins handsomely, dropping into a curtesy. He oozes fondness and it makes you forget things often. “Nepo baby at your service, sweetheart.”

“That’s what I don’t get about all this,” you say. “You don’t… why’re you wasting your time here? Is this gig just a way for you to pick up chics?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“James.”

He grins wider, raising his arms in surrender. “Full disclosure?”

You cock your head to one side, intrigued. “I’m listening.”

“Well… it actually started as a way to fill my time,” he answers, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “I went through a pretty tough break up last year, and I couldn’t bear to be sat at home hurting over the same shit over and over.

“So dad got me this gig. I didn’t even get paid in the start, honest. I barely did anything; made like, one coffee over eight hours. But I was around people, and that helped. I don’t know.”

You swallow. It sounds far too familiar to your own circumstances, and a distant ache rings through your chest — a reminder. “I know the feeling.”

“And then I met Rems, and introduced him to my mate Sirius,” he continues, raising his eyebrows. “Turns out they’re fucking mad for each other, who’d have thought it? And it just reminded me… I don’t know, that there’s still hope.”

Another pause. You know what he means, but you want him to say it anyway, for your own sake.

Your lashes flutter closed. “Hope?”

“To love again. Eventually.”

His rough timbre reverberates through your insides. You nod, slowly, and when you open your eyes, unshed tears darken your lashes. James frowns, but he doesn’t intervene. He knows this feeling; his own heart mourns its melody.

He hands you your coffee soundlessly.

“Thanks,” you says, your voice cracks.

When you turn around, you know you’ll be back tomorrow. And then the next day, a few days after.

You aren’t sure when you start believing it too. But slowly, slowly, without even knowing you are, you begin smiling more. Ruminating less. No one’s ever given you this many free coffees in the past. James’ tally surpasses your ex-boyfriend’s by week four; the small talk’s more about you than about him, and he learns your quirks with this startling sincerity that you didn’t think you’d ever experience again.

The more you see of James, the more you recognise how much love your past relationship lacked. Strangers, friends, more than. All you did was blink.

Though of course, you’d be lying if you said the melancholy didn’t wax and wane, flow through you in waves that make your entire being crash ashore.

James knows this. He still feels the odd pang of heartache at the thought of Evans.

On Christmas Eve, the air feels different. The melted snow in your hair glistens in the warm light of the cafe, and for the first time since he met you, James sees it reflected in your gaze.

“The usual?” Remus asks in lieu of greeting.

“Times two, if possible Rem,” you say. You turn to James. “Coffee?”

James startles for a moment before he regains his composure, his wide, brown eyes falling over your in paces. You’ve always been breathtakingly beautiful, but something about your features seems different now, better.

Softer. Healed.

“You’re paying though, right?” James asks, faux-serious.

“I see,” you reply, folding your arms across your chest. “As long as it’s not a date, you have no problem paying for things?”

“Shit,” James wolf-whistles approvingly, jumping over the counter so he’s standing right in front of you. You gaze tilts, messing with your centre of gravity. “This is a date, huh?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Do you want it to be?”

James raises his in tandem. “If that’d make you happy.”

A pause. “You know,” you say quietly, breaking eye contact. “After my break up, I didn’t think anything’d make me happy ever again.”

James’ features soften. He reaches forward and cups your jaw, returning your gaze to his. “And now?”

“Can’t you see it in my face, James Potter?” You smile poignantly. “Yes is the answer to your question, by the way. It’d make me very happy.”

Behind you, Remus begins to clap. James groans and drops his head to your shoulder, deftly flipping him off. “Don’t fucking start, Moons.”

“Are you kidding? Coffee’s are on me, by the way. Pads is going to fucking die when he finds out.”

But on a Wednesday in a cafe / I watched it begin again

[jethrowest]

the closer i get is the further i feel…

- synthetic love by motionless in white

i needed to write something for these two, no matter how small or convoluted. be the change you wish to see!

pairing : homelander/victoria neuman

word count : 679

warnings : light light smut (blink and it’s gone), dominant/submissive, mostly neuman’s conflicting thoughts. 18+, mdni

writing tag

———————

“You’re distracted.”

Victoria (or maybe she was Nadia this time? She couldn’t seem to keep it straight lately) was spread like a lounging feline across the couch, blouse unbuttoned and open, completely nude from the waist down. Homelander had gone straight to work as soon as she strolled through the door, heels heard by him well before her key hit the lock. Her light floral perfume filled his senses in an almost dizzying manner, innards buzzing like a bursting beehive. He was always early. Sometimes she’d keep him waiting on purpose.

His hot mouth between her legs was normally enough to keep her from teetering off the ledge she’d managed to construct. Something cruel and unrelenting had forced itself through her brain not long after she’d realized how malleable he could truly be. She was in the business of blackmail and using others as it were. This had started out that way, with a bit of “make sure he doesn’t go full-tilt insane.” However, she wasn’t sure what she was using him for or doing here at this point. She had an idea, but feeding into it only made it fester. In any case, he’d been more than cooperative, going above and beyond as far as her personal agenda was concerned; as far as keeping him in tow, which also happened to be underneath hers- pun intended.

So, how exactly did this arrangement manage to uncover wounds she either believed she’d buried, or never knew existed? She felt nauseated entertaining the notion that she and Vought’s star-spangled, homicidal lackey had more in common than she had with anyone else in her life.

“Yeah, I’m just…” she sighed, tapping a manicured nail to her forehead. “- thinking.”

His chuckle was felt against her ignited flesh, like concentrated heat from the inside of an oven. “Wasn’t it you who said we weren’t meant to think during our little sessions?”

She scoffed in response. “A woman’s mind never rests.”

Homelander licked his chops, her taste flowing from his tongue and permeating every part of him. He could tell she wasn’t as focused as she usually was. Her chemistry was off. Plus, she had been awfully quiet, both in shudders of pleasure and instruction. They would have been close to fucking by now. Instead, he’d remained attached to her slit like bumblebee to flower. And the flower wasn’t giving him much of that nectar he needed to survive.

“Sorry.” Victoria shook her head, straightening so she was sitting as opposed to partially draped over the armrest.

He paused a moment, then took it upon himself to plop down next to her, tucking his cape off to the side. She watched him do so, wondering if she should put her slacks back on and call it a night. But she didn’t… want him to go. That was also attributing to the frenzy upstairs.

“Wanna talk about it?” His unsheathed hand squeezed her exposed thigh, and she couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. In what world would feelings enter their equation? She should be staving off his orgasm, not hollowing herself out to a greater extent. Shit, she probably shouldn’t even be doing the former.

She looked at him again, really looked at him. He presented her with a pursed smile, and she couldn’t tell if that was an attempt at sincerity or not. Perhaps he was a little offended that she found some kind of sick amusement out of his grand gesture. Both were plausible.

Blanketing her palm atop his clothed leg, Victoria leaned in, pupils roaming his semi-forced features. “Why don’t we talk about you instead?” Her fingers traipsed across his uniform, softly stroking his inner thigh. He shivered, eyes snapping shut. They fluttered half-open eventually, his expression resembling carved marble: solemn with an incomprehensible depth. “We’ll start off easy, okay? Now, where in our brief exchange did you get the idea that you were allowed on this couch next to me?” He stiffened, inhaling through his nose.

His arousal was back, and stronger than ever. So was hers.

[yourlocaltreesimp]

All Chained Up

ACU masterlist

last chapter *ੈ✩‧₊˚ next chapter

Chapter 3: Derealise your woes

TW: For description of derealisation

The following morning was skittish. And that truly was the only word to consider the fear that curled around your heart. You slept lightly and for short hours and spoke to no one as you walked. Even if anyone had decided to speak to you, you doubt you’d have even heard them anyway, your inner monologue being far too active to consider the word or people that surrounded you. The Old man -Time, as you’d come to learn- was understanding of your situation, albeit weary of you. He gave you no tasks and despite the fact he only had one eye, you could feel him watching. The others fell into their own categories of dealing with your addition to their crew, avoidance and awkward confrontation. You’re honestly not sure which you hated more. The quick glances and turned backs as if you were a curse or the untrusting talks as if you were rabid. Something waiting to break. You felt so watched and yet so ignored in a way so reminiscent of your normal life it was alarming. You were close to just collapsing on the ground as Time called the group to set up camp. You were unaccustomed to walking for such long periods of time that your shins felt brittle. But alas you walked, unwilling to make your presence more known to them as pain shot through each step. You found a suitable place to sit down where ‘coincidentally’ Time sat right behind. Watching with one cold, blue eye. You did not allow yourself to shrink as you wanted to, to curl up and cry. You focused on the fading light of the sun, the sky desaturated purples and yellows. Hills rolled on and on for as far as you could see, little houses dotted sporadically. It had a charm to it, a memory you’d be sure to revisit when this time passed.

“Hey Old man!” One of the others called, instinctively you looked over. Time passed you a look, not one you could particularly interpret, but one nonetheless as he went to talk to Legend. Their conversation was tense to say the least, including Time sighing with disappointment and pointing to you. Legend walked over and sat beside you, eyes trained on the horizon. You nodded your head and raised your hand and went back to looking at the world before you. “How’s the sickness treating you?” His voice sounded uninterested, but he looked at you, as if testing your answer.

“What?”

“It’s normal to get sick passing through realms. Disorienting at best and nauseating at worse” You found it in you to smile and nod. You had felt overwhelmingly nauseous when you first came, but it’d since past. “I remember I was always bad when I started” He smirks to himself before letting the silence settle.

“It’s not bad now. But it never is when you’re dreaming” You shrug but his eyes searched yours and his face paled a shade “It’s just weird. I can't grasp what’s real” He was enraptured by every syllable of your words and he nodded shakily. He remembers waking up and ripping out chunks of hair, choking on his breath after being alone- so painfully alone. He’d woken up to find Koholint was never real. And nor were the people and nor was his guide. He was alone. No soft light or softer touch to comfort him, no distorted voice reminding him to breathe, nothing. He remembers that day so clearly. “It’s just getting increasingly harder to feel as if the world around me is real” His expression was paranoid and sorrowful. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” His words are harsh as he stands. “But it’s real telling that that’s all we are. To anyone. Just some… character” That got personal awfully quickly.

“That wasn’t my intention-“

“Doesn’t change what happened, what’ll continue to happen” He rants to open air now and you find yourself catching on quickly that this man is incredibly unstable.

“I doubt they meant it so personal, Vet.”

“Oh easy for you to say Champion. You got to forget everything after you had to leave it all behind. But I didn’t get that luxury”

“It was still painful” Wild flinched and his left arm grazed the right where you could assume his scar travelled down to by the haunted look. “But it’s a part of the title. Sacrifices none of us wanted to make”

“Oh so that’s all your friends are? Sacrifices?” A silence overcame everyone. A tense, shocked silence. Legend sucks in a breath, You don’t see the way he pinched himself when he walks away.

Dinner was quiet and tense, no whispers or idle chat. Just eating. With exception to Legend who did not attend dinner. The whole affair only served to make you feel worse. You felt the bubbling nausea now, eating at you, setting each nerve alight. There was a lot of fuel to the fire, memories you regret, bruises yet to heal. The crackle and pops of the campfire in front of you were enough to keep your mind from eating through itself. The burning glow gave you something to focus on and the warmth gave you little soalice. You’re not entirely sure how long you spent inside your own mind until someone settled beside you. You glanced over to see a boy, 14 if you had to guess.

“Hey” His voice was a thankful break from the silence you’d been given. They called him Wind, perhaps it was because he too was mischievous and ever changing or met be there was more to it. If there was, you didn’t know. “The Old man said we shouldn’t talk to you. Something about spirits or whatever- I don’t care” You laughed in spite of yourself, amused by his antics. It seemed no one else was up. Well aside from the wolf. That was weird. But he was cute and didn’t bite.

“Oh? Beyond me. I didn’t think I had a soul until now” You elbowed him and you both shared a laugh.

“Don’t worry about Legend by the way, he’s just an asshole”

“I figured”

“Well not all the time, but it’s his thing.”

You laughed.

“I figured.” The night is calm between the two four of you. “I have so many questions after… that”

“Counts two of us” He admits and looks at you with a question burning in his eyes. “You don’t seem too bad” You smiled before you could stop yourself.

“Neither do you” You ruffle his hair as he tries to claw at your arm to stop you.

[germhammy]

“Dinner chat”

Yoko: so how was dinner last night? Was it worth skipping out on your girls and beef slop?

Enid: oh yes! Wednesday cooked us steaks! And bought a strawberry cake from Joan’s!

Divina: cooked steaks? The two of you are so lucky to have a balcony

Wednesday: -approaching the table- not when a certain love sick artist keeps breaking dorm rules. At least we finally got a lock installed on our window.

Enid: omg! It done? When?

Wednesday: this afternoon. Ms Strode found me in the library during my study hall to come to the room to be in the room with her and the maintenance guy

Enid: YES! I’m so paranoid that he’s gonna come in when we are sleeping

Divina: who? Love sick artist? Xavier?

Wednesday: who else?

Ajax and Kent approached the table

Ajax: May we join you, ladies?

Yoko: of course

Ajax: did anyone see Xavier and that electronic dog collar he’s wearing? No offense, Enid. What’s with that?

Enid: only a slight offense taken. -Enid chuckled- but it does look like one of those, doesn’t it? It was put on last night when he interrupted our dinner

Kent: everyone was snickering about it in writing class

Divina: don’t you have that class with Wednesday?

Wednesday: his presence is the only thing that keeps me sane in that class.

Kent: aww. Thanks, Wednesday. Ms Hamilton is one of those normies who think they know about outcasts but make up lore or are victims of everything cliché about outcast lore and it becomes canon

Yoko: oh! Like vampires that sparkle?

Divina: or completely romanticizing ’the embrace’ and blood lust?

Enid: Blech. This burger is a hockey puck. How does one mess up cooking a simple burger? Bet you can make me a delectable burger, Wednesday!

Xavier had walked up to the table.

Xavier: make it yourself! Forcing Wednesday to cook is so beneath her!

Everyone looked at Xavier, except Wednesday who had taken a bottle of hot sauce from her bag. She put it on her burger and took a bite.

Wednesday: ugh. Not even hot sauce can save this poor excuse for a burger. Hockey puck is a proper description. I do not think my Uncle Fester would enjoy this and he likes his steak well done.

Yoko: next girls night are you willing to make us some proper burgers, Wednesday? Enid could not say enough about your steaks

Wednesday grinned evilly.

Wednesday: under one condition. Hot sauce with fries dipping contest. See who can reach the hottest level. I will make sure there is plenty of milk and fruit. I want to try some hot sauce with pepper x.

Divina: maybe this weekend? Saturday after fencing practice? Bianca can come too?

Wednesday: Saturday I have reservations at the steakhouse. I am taking Kent and Enid.

Enid: you’re taking me to the steakhouse on Saturday? Why is Kent coming?

Wednesday: Actually I am taking Kent to the steakhouse. But I can not go without taking you. It is the result of a bet in writing class

Enid smiled.

Xavier: are you actually going to write the assignment this time, Wednesday? Or are wizards and witches too sensitive for you too?

Wednesday: I do intend to write this assignment. I know what your ‘werewolf lust’ assignment was, Xavier. And I must say I am very disgusted and truly nauseated

Xavier: that’s a good thing right?

Wednesday: no. It is not. I feel bad for Ms Hamilton’s assistant who has to read your disgusting corn.

Kent passed and note to Wednesday

Kent: bet. Xavier writes about a wizard creating a love potion for you to fall madly in love with him.

Wednesday: that is not exactly lore?

Kent: the lore of making love potions? I’ll buy you something in Uriah’s Heap if he somehow involves you?

Wednesday: deal

Yoko: do I even want to ask?

Wednesday: no.

Enid: ew. Xavier, please stop trying to woo Wednesday. She is my girlfriend.

Xavier: why are you hanging around her and her friends? Girls night? Forcing you to cook for them? That is so beneath you! You are better than that! You shouldn’t have to cook for them?

Wednesday: I enjoy cooking. It is one of many activities I enjoy doing with my father. Sure we have a cook who does most of it. But my father enjoys being in the kitchen. I do not participate in most of the girls night activities but in return for them hanging out in Enid’s side of the dorm and doing slightly more quite less ear piercing squealing activities? I provide the food/snacks.

Ajax: what do you have against cooking?

Xavier: nothing. But someone like Wednesday shouldn’t have to do it! You wouldn’t understand. Wednesday, let me treat you to a night out. Just one date. I’ll make sure its memorable and sweep you off your feet

Wednesday: are you sure that dog collar will allow you to leave campus? I am certain you do not intend to woo me with beef slop, hockey puck burgers, or boxed Mac and cheese

Xavier: I’ll ask Mr Myers for permission! Next Saturday!

Wednesday: in two weeks. This Saturday I’m taking Kent to the steakhouse, next Saturday is girls night. So you have plenty of time

Xavier: YES! -Xavier pumps his fist and scampers off-

Enid: did you just agree to a date with Xavier?

Wednesday: ugh. Yes. Kill me slowly

Divina: girls night activity? We give you the darkest creepiest make over ideas for your date?

Wednesday: -smirking- nothing too far out of my comfort zone. I don’t want to look too sexy and give him the wrong idea.

Yoko, Divina and Kent laughed.

Kent: I wish I could come to girls night. I wonder if I talked to Mr Tennant about it and Ms Strode.