#there's no flourish there's no grandiosity | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mmogurl · 2 months ago

Text

In The Shadow of Dragons Chapter 1: Requited Passions

18+ | 7.2k | Daemon Targaryen X Female OC | possessive, protective, objectifying, simping, raunchy Daemon | Uncle / niece incest, Smut, Dragons, Political Intrigue, Plotting, Murder, lots of old timey concepts that don't make a lot of sense today, but are still kind of hot/fun.

The second born daughter of King Viserys Targaryen, Ryna, is nine and ten years old and still unwed. Despite being surrounded by suitors, she has yet to find a man who captures her interest, and bristles at the pressure to select a husband. But a chance encounter with her enigmatic uncle, Daemon, promises to disrupt all her assumptions and to set her on a path she could never have anticipated. (Loosely set in episode 6, but Laena has already died a year prior)

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 | CH 5 | CH 6 | CH 7 | CH 8 | CH 9 Also on AO3

The Great Hall was bristling with celebration held in honor of Viserys’ latest grandson, Joffrey Velaryon. The massive chamber was alight with dancing shadows, decorated grandiosely with Targaryen tapestries hung where all could witness to demonstrate wealth and power. Long tables filled with the most toothsome of fine delicacies lined both sides of the throne room. Perhaps Father was trying to distract the noble assembly with pomp, away from the very obvious fact that Rhaenyra’s children were all bastards.

Numerous guests filed in with their entourages in tow, announced by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Criston Cole. Ryna grimaced at who he declared next.

“House Lannister with their lord, Jason Lannister, Lord Paramount of the West, and Master of Casterly Rock,” Cole’s voice was stout enough, but had nowhere near the authority his predecessor, Lord Harrold Westerling had in his day.

The Lannister strode at the head of his retinue, like a preening peacock adorned in so much crimson and gold that one might think he were royalty and not the hosting family.

Ryna sat sandwiched between her good-brother Laenor Velaryon and Lyonel Strong, a position that made her feel most irritable as she was not even allowed the courtesy of being placed next to her own kin. The Hand was pleasant enough, albeit mostly a stranger, but she had never grown close to Laenor given how much time he spent preoccupied with affairs outside of his marriage.

As always her father, Viserys, sat proudly next to Rhaenyra, his named heir and, one might wonder at times, favored daughter, despite how much he protested to the contrary.

When the Lannister party drew close to the high table, Lord Jason bowed before them with a flourish and as his party withdrew, he climbed the steps and approached the King.

“Congratulations, Your Grace,” he fawned in the manner only a Lannister could muster, a tone both disrespectful and servile at the same time. “Healthy babes are a worthy cause for celebration. Where is the strapping lad? I had hoped to pay my respects.”

Rhaenyra piped up this time, looking exhausted and not fully recovered from child bearing even though it had been days since Joffrey’s birth. Ryna supposed the wee babe had been keeping her awake more often than not.

“Prince Joffrey is resting. He would not tolerate staying up any longer. You know how babes are, always sleeping,” she replied, playing into Jason’s feigned deference.

It was then that the Lannister shot a glance down the table at Ryna. She tried to smile just politely enough so as not to encourage more attentions from the man, but it was without success.

“Your Grace…” he started off in that same falsely sycophantic tenor. “Has the Princess given any more thought to the courtship I proposed?”

Father looked down the table at her, leaning forward slightly so that he might see the expression on her face. Ryna’s eyes were pleading ‘No’ while trying to remain civil in the lord’s presence. Viserys’ features hardened with annoyance and he rested back into his chair.

“The Princess should be happy to consider your attentions. After all she is but ten and nine summers and still not wed,” his voice was stony and strict, markedly cross with her for shirking her duties even longer than Rhaenyra had.

Jason Lannister ruffled his feathers as he voiced appreciation to her father and stepped down the length of the table until he came to stand before her. Ryna had to choke back a smirk when the thought occurred to her that the Lannister’s sigil should be a primping cock instead of a lion, for Jason had more in common with a fowl than the fearsome and proud predator.

“Princess, I trust you will save me a dance?” he squawked and it took all she had to keep from rolling her eyes.

“I shall try, Lord Jason,” she answered with a prim smile through grit teeth. “But, I have not been feeling well. It might be something I ate.”

Father shot her an irate look and Ryna had no doubt that if they had been seated next to each other, that she would have felt his palpable frustration.

“The Princess is in good health,” Viserys said, with a snide smile. “Expect her company once the revelry starts.”

With a pompous smirk, Jason Lannister excused himself and made his way down the steps and back to the banquet. Ryna heaved a sigh, finding it difficult to hide her true feelings on this subject, despite years of learning to comport herself in the presence of refined company.

Viserys was still glaring at her, and she reckoned he might be wrathful enough to cause a row amongst guests and their kin alike.

“Ryna, draw near,” he called out and she rose from her seat and came to where he sat.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the birth of my grandchild, but unofficially, I had hoped you’d make use of the congregation of eligible lords and find a husband once and for all. Enough of this procrastination. Find a man worthy or I shall make the choice for you.” His voice was low so that the company in attendance of the great feast could not hear them.

“You would wed me to a Lannister?” she practically spat. “Just to fill the coffers with his dowry?!”

“Watch your tone with me, girl. You have heard me and I will not suffer your insolence any longer. Leave me so I might enjoy the festivities.” Viserys turned his head back to the next guests approaching the King’s table. He was done with her, his decision final.

Ryna could not help but to stomp swiftly away with a childish petulance that did not become a lady. Leaving her family behind, she slipped into the shadows of the great pillars that lined the throne room and made her way down a short corridor until she was outside in the crisp night air.

She let out a troubled sigh, wishing now that she had brought a goblet of wine with her. Ryna walked to the edge of the stone parapet and looked down at the splendor of King’s Landing in fall of the leaf. The color marking the trees was apparent even at nightfall and the sea was glittering in the moonlight just past the city’s edge. The sight made her feel both reverence and panic in equal measure, with a mounting desire to climb atop her dragon and take flight away.

Why should a princess of Valyrian blood be constrained to laws of man when she had the power to tame a dragon? She should be free to do as she longed to - to wed whom she desired, and not be forced to play along to such formal vulgarities, duty or not.

Ryna was so deep in thought that the nearby sound of a clearing throat startled her back to awareness. She turned sharply and could just barely make out the figure of a man leaning against the massive stone bricks of the castle wall behind her. Then her eyes caught the blinding billow of moonlit tresses and she knew it must be her uncle, Daemon, for no other Targaryen males yet had his height.

Daemon had returned from exile a year ago to attend to the funeral of his wife, Laena Velaryon, who had died in childbirth. Although to be more technically accurate, her dragon Vhagar had incinerated her once the baby would not come out. The end result was the same; Daemon widowed once again.

She had been closer with her uncle in the past, back before Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor, but her uncle had made himself scarce as of late. He spent much of his time away from King’s Landing, presumably finishing up his business in Pentos or simply behaving restlessly as Daemon was wont to do. Often she had observed his comings and goings from a distance by the sight and screech of Caraxes in the sky outside her window.

Daemon stepped forth from the shadows and approached her, yet halted at a pace’s length, his eyes roving up and down her form in keen appraisal.

He leaned in closely, his eyes of violet hooded as he whispered in a velvety, ardent tone, “My you’ve grown, niece.” His closeness and the heat of his gaze caused her cheeks to flush, and she could not help but feel a flutter in her chest.

For a moment, Ryna just stood there incredulously, unable to think of how to respond. He had never shown any interest in her before, no matter how much she had desired it. Daemon had only ever had eyes for Rhaenyra it seemed, and Ryna had always remained a child in his eyes. She had honestly forgotten those long lost unrequited desires until his simple greeting brought them all rushing back like a wave breaking hard as the tide comes in.

“Uncle,” she acknowledged him, yet scarce a word could she find in answer to his bold suggestion.

“Such beauty should never be sullied with a frown,” he continued, his demeanor charming without effort as he brushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Tell Uncle what is troubling you.”

His inquiry proved to be somewhat of a balm to her tensions, providing a welcome transition into a topic she could put words to.

“Father has given me ultimatum to choose a husband lest he choose one for me,” she pouted, her lips pursing and her eyes sullen.

“Surely it cannot be so grim, sweetling,” he reassured her smoothly and she now saw he was holding a silver chalice adorned with the the three-headed dragon, likely filled with wine. “I imagine you’d have your pick of many fine and wealthy lords.”

“I’m afraid the selection is quite lacking,” Ryna scoffed gently, feeling a fondness stir as she recalled the old pet name he’d given her in many years past. It had been some time since she had heard him utter the word, but the fact that it sounded so well when spoken by him did not escape her notice.

Daemon quickly turned her around by the shoulder, then with a firm yet gentle hand placed against the small of her back, he led her towards the balustrade. His hand remained steadfast even as they halted, and Ryna shivered involuntarily at the feel of his fingers tracing the fabric of her gown with a tender and possessive touch.

“Let me guess,” he relished with sardonic glee. “Some old and fat oaf of a lord… No doubt a widower with a dozen children?”

“That and much worse,” she scowled thinking of all of the potential suitors that had approached her father for her hand. “A Lannister so full of himself that is makes my skin crawl to think of his paws upon me.”

An easy laugh escaped Daemon’s mouth and she thought with a wry smile that many must share her disgust for the lions.

“Ah, Lannisters. What a bunch of cunts,” he chuckled condescendingly, stealing a wanton glance down her bodice. “And the rest? Are there none suitable, niece?”

Ryna pondered the question, but could not think of a single man that had caught her attention. Except for Daemon of course, but that had never been a real option, especially after his transgressions with Rhaenyra some years back. Father had tried to keep it secret, but she’d crept into the throne room upon hearing his furious yelling and had heard the entire ordeal take place between the brothers.

Even still, she could not imagine marrying anyone of plain blood. In fact, it repulsed her to think that Father would ever marry a Hightower without an ounce of Valyrian heritage. And even though her brothers were technically half Targaryen, they were both young, and while Aemond seemed sweet, Aegon was a reprehensible human being.

The answer it seemed was simple after all. “No,” she replied curtly with a rueful sigh. “There are none who please me… But, I fear Father will not be thwarted this time. He will not permit me to celebrate my twentieth nameday without a husband.”

She glanced over at her uncle and took in the almost ethereal way his pale skin glowed in the moonlight. He hadn’t changed at all, like an ageless god from the legends she’d so loved as a girl. His hair swayed against his shoulder in the slight breeze as he took a sip from his cup.

“Ah yes, sweetling, It would seem your father has you in quite the bind,” he said matching her somber tone. “No doubt he believes that time is running short. That you must fulfill your duty to the family and start producing heirs before you get much older.”

“He has been patient with me. Rhaenyra shirked her duty at first, but still acquiesced to marry at seven and ten years, but I… Well, they will be calling me an old maid soon.” She hung her head down, feeling ashamed for the way she’d behaved towards her father. He had meant well for her after all, and Ryna had done nothing but rebuke him as reward for years of lax freedom.

Daemon removed his hand from her back, sliding it gently up her arm until it came to rest below her chin. He tipped her jaw up to meet his face and she was met with a kind smile.

“Do not ever lower your head, sweetling. You are a dragon,” he said warmly, letting go so that he could sit against the stone wall beneath the balustrade. “Now, perhaps we can solve this little problem.. What would make a suitor worthy of your hand in marriage?”

She felt a hot wave of embarrassment rise within her, for she knew well the answer that rested upon her tongue, yet dared not speak the words aloud. Surely, Father would never let her have him even if she begged on her knees. Even so, Ryna didn’t see the point in lying completely. She would be honest about the qualities she sought in a partner, even if not being direct about the person whom she had in mind.

“It is important to me that my offspring remain pure. I do not wish to mix with those who are laden to the ground. That doesn’t leave me with many options,” she spoke softly, her head tilting up towards her uncle as she finished.

There was an intrigued sparkle in Daemon’s eyes as he comprehended her words and a smile wove its way across his face. “A dragon’s clutch should remain undiluted and pure, I agree. The blood of Old Valyria is powerful and should be preserved.” He hummed in approval as he wrapped his free hand around her waist and pulled her a touch closer. She gasped softly, unaccustomed to being so close to him.

“Tell me, little dragon. Have you never considered your uncle as a match before?” Daemon’s words cut like his sword, Dark Sister, through the cool night air.

Ryna’s lips parted as if to speak, unsure of how to proceed. He had taken the bait she’d unintentionally laid out and given he suggested it himself, the prince must be partial to the idea. But, Daemon was an enigma and she found it difficult to gage his intentions at all times.

“I have,” she said concisely. “It is the only obvious choice when it comes to such aims, but… It is… complicated.”

She saw his eyes flare, brow rising in challenge as he gripped more tightly around her waist. He placed his chalice down on the stone and drew her even closer to him. His knee wedged between her skirts to rest between her legs and her breast was now pressing indecently against his chest. It was not a position she was familiar to enduring. Ryna knew she should pull away, but Daemon had lulled her into compliance like a Dragonkeeper.

“Oh? And why is it so complicated, sweetling?” he asked with a smug grin and mock concern as he looked down at her.

Her uncle’s words snapped her out of it. How could he feign ignorance to the current situation?

“After your,” she began but found her mouth grow exceptionally dry after only two words. She turned her head to the side and brought her hand to her lips, clearing her throat before she continued. “After your exploits with Rhaenyra, Uncle… I doubt Father would consider letting us wed.”

Daemon’s gaze darkened with the mention of Rhaenyra. “Ah yes, that little indiscretion.” He said with an air of indifference that turned into an irritated smirk. “What do you know of it?”

“I overheard the two of you in the Great Hall that day. Father’s booming voice drew me in and then I stayed once I saw you lying on the floor with guards on either side. I was worried for you, but then I heard Father’s words. That you had taken Rhaenyra’s purity in some brothel… And you did not deny it.” The memory was not a fond one for Ryna. She could remember the inebriated state he’d been in as he asked her father for Rhaenyra’s hand in marriage as a result of their transgression.

“No, I did not deny it. And I did not confirm it either,” his voice was harder than usual, sterner as though upset by her knowledge of what transpired that day. “In all truth, I didn’t do much. I merely took her to a decent establishment to show her the reality of life outside the castle.”

“If you did not sully her virture, then why would you not refute such slanderous claims made against you, Uncle? Why accept exile for it… Again?” she asked furrowing her eyebrows, her hands with a mind of their own coming to rest on his shoulders.

He chuffed like a dragon, the only aspect missing was perhaps smoke escaping from his nostrils. “Why would I deny it? What would be the point?” his words were gruff. “What could I have said to convince your father that Rhaenyra was still untouched? Was I supposed to prostrate myself before him as a loyal dog to prove it?”

“You were already at his feet. Why not tell him the truth? Unless you hoped only to make him believe you besmirched her honor, just so you might wed her and recover your claim to the throne,” there was a certain amount of hurt in her voice as well as misgiving.

Ryna had never spoken to her uncle in this manner, or anyone so far her elder for that matter. But, part of her felt scorned, wronged for how much stock he had placed in Rhaenyra instead of her. She had to know what his true motivations had been and what he was capable of carrying out in order to get what he desired.

“You are treading on thin ice, little girl,” he voiced dangerously as his grip on her hips tightened. “How dare you make me out to be some incorrigible fiend. If anyone has been wronged in this whole… ordeal it has been me.”

His knee shifted a bit higher between her legs as he pulled her hips forward onto his lap, his thigh pressed firmly against her center. She whined faintly with the force of it, even through the layers of her skirts it made her core throb with unknown want.

“Iksos bona skoros ao pendagon hen issa?” he resumed in a more measured tone, his voice lower now. Is that what you think of me?- “That I only wanted Rhaenyra for the throne?”

His hands slid up her back, pulling her flush against him. Ryna’s lips pressed against the leather of his collar as he whispered in her ear, “Or do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

Was she so transparent? The very thought of him reading her so accurately made her feel about as obvious as the sun is bright. Despite Daemon’s embarrassing insinuation, it was impossible to think whilst being held in such close proximity to him. She attempted to regain her composure, but his hot breath against her ear and the way he dug into her heat with his knee was driving her mad.

“And what if I was?” she finally blurted out. “You never once glanced my way, not like you did her. I do not wish to be second best even to my own husband.” Ryna tried to make distance, attempting to push away from his chest.

Daemon wouldn’t allow it. His grip was strong and possessive, making it clear that he was not willing to let her go just yet.

“Who said you would be second best?” his words spilled out gravely, sweet, yet viscous as they fell from his lips. “Have you so easily forgotten how I used to dote on you? How I called you my little sweetling? Do you not remember how I would let you ride with me on Caraxes before you claimed your own beast?”

Ryna was taken aback by his perception of the past, not realizing that her uncle had remembered her so fondly. Perhaps she had spent too much time dwelling on inconsequential matters. She peered up at Daemon as he held her forearms tightly in front of his chest. The matter of Rhaenyra was still of some concern, but clearly she was mistaken about a great deal.

“Yes, Uncle, I do recall. And that is what made my envy all the more dire when you attempted to pursue my sister, barely noticing me as I tried to bid you welcome home. I felt you had forsaken me in favor of her.” She didn’t feel obligated to mention how desperately lonely she had felt when he was sent away once again, nor the deep sense of heartache she had experienced upon hearing about his wedding to Laena.

Dameon’s grip on her lessened and the softness now present in his features made her feel a little more relaxed. His hands caressed up her back once more as he sat down on the stone parapet and brought her fully onto his lap. Ryna’s dress protested, the skirts fighting as he pulled her knees forward to straddle him. It was an obscene, intimate position for a young maiden, but she couldn’t help be reminded of better times when she found great comfort in that same lap.

“Your envy?” he mused almost sympathetically. “Have you been pining away for me all of this time, sweetling?”

“No,” she answered abruptly, feeling the hot sting of mortification as he continued to reveal the inner yearnings of her heart.

He let out a deep, hearty chuckle as he brought a hand to her face. Long fingers traced the outline of her cheek before wrapping around her chin. She had forgotten the contentment of his affections even though the way she recieved them had been altered now that she was grown.

“No?” he echoed with mock disbelief.” He gently gripped her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look at only him as he spoke harshly. “Do not attempt to deceive me, niece. You could never tell-tale when you were young, and you still lack the talent.”

Daemon’s hand released her chin, sliding it down to rest against the base of her throat. “You forget I can see right through you… I know what you’re really thinking.”

“What am I thinking then?” Her voice was not haughty, but tinged with awe as his rakish wiles seduced her into calm once more.

“You’re thinking…” he paused, bringing his hand to brush a strand of hair from her face before caressing her cheek. “You’re thinking that you would welcome my touch further. You’d welcome my affections. My attention.”

His hand slipped further down, sliding along the neckline of her bodice he drew a finger against the top of her breast. “You’d welcome more than that. You want so much more than that. No matter how you pretend otherwise.”

Ryna’s breath stuttered out disjointedly, her chest heaving not just from his capricious words, but the unfamiliar touch of his hand at the swell of her breast. It was not at all unpleasant, but it was unseemly. The sounds of the banquet carried on from inside, but nobody had disturbed their solitude yet. She would venture an allowance, just this once.

“And what do you want, Uncle?” Ryna gazed at him, entranced at being the object of his focus after having been starved of it for so long.

As Daemon looked into her eyes, his expression darkened with what appeared to be lust and longing. His palm lowered over the curve of her breast, cupping her soft mound gently as he leaned his forehead against hers. A low whimper struck against Ryna’s closed mouth as his fingers grazed lightly down her bust, traveling over her ribcage and then rounding to her hips.

“Nyke jaelagon ao, jorrāelagon mēre,” he purred deeply. I want you, dear one- His lips brushed against hers as though trying to lure them open. “I’ve always wanted you, but thought it too wicked, even for the likes of me, to tarnish you with my degeneracy.”

His hands slid around to the small of her back, pulling her closer with a satisfied grunt. “But, now that I know you’ve been hungering for me, sweetling, I’m beginning to think… that you’ve always been mine. That I’ve wasted so much time hiding from the truth.”

She could feel the heat of his breath upon her face, coaxing her so enticingly into his thrall. Her lips parted to release a quiet breath, but before the air had fully escaped her mouth, Daemon sealed them with a kiss. Even though she had never kissed a man, she was consumed by his fiery passion. She closed her eyes, her fingers wrapping around his back as she whispered hushed, sultry mewls against his lips.

His tongue swept her lower lip, teasing at her mouth until she yielded to him and allowed entrance. The kiss was urgent and demanding, filled with untold desire she’d only read about in old tales of Valyrian mythology. One of Daemon’s hands roamed to the exposed skin at her right knee, bunching the fabric up higher and groaning as his fingers felt the bare skin of her thighs. His lips tasted of Westerosi strongwine and spices, his tongue plundering her mouth as though it were an indulgent ambrosia all its own.

“I should stop before I go too far, sweetling,” he groaned, tearing his mouth away as he regarded her. “I don’t want to ruin you out here in the open… Or at least I do not wish to get caught doing so.” A wicked smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, but the yearning was still present in his eyes.

Ryna fussed at the loss of his sweet kiss, an aching throb now coursing throughout her entire core. Lost in the affections she’d always wanted, she could not possibly think to stop now.

“No, please,” she pleaded without meaning to. The words were barely a soft gasp against his neck as her lips found the pulse of his throat and pressed a gentle kiss to it.

Daemon chuckled at her protestations, leaning his forehead against hers again. It was a simple gesture he had always used in the past to ease her distress, although there was an entirely new meaning to it now, it still made her feel at peace in much the same way.

“What will people say if they see us?” he whispered with feigned anxiety, his hot breath skimming against her dampened lips. “A wicked prince spoiling a young innocent maiden with his turpitude. What sort of debauchery is this?”

Her uncle’s words were laced with a sense of mockery, but she knew he spoke true. She sighed and kissed him once more, making sure to keep it brief lest she become unable to refrain from continuing. Ryna slipped off his lap, feeling her senses slowly return to her. She glanced at the glowing light coming from the hall and exhaled with relief when there was nobody present to see their misconduct.

She smoothed her skirts so that they were not so unkempt and tucked away any loose strands of hair back against her scalp. Daemon took his time in rising from his seat on the parapet, adjusting the front of his trousers slightly as he did so.

“You should return to the party,” his voice was rough with lust and did not sound pleased by the prospect. “At least for now we should keep up appearances. For now…”

“And what of our earlier conversation?” she asked almost demurely, with a submissive tone she was not frequently used to employing. “What of Father’s ultimatum?”

Daemon took a few steps forward, crowding into her as he rested his hands firmly at her waist. “I won’t suffer any suitor but myself to claim you,” he hissed possessively. “Especially not some timid lordling whose ineptitude would bring your heart naught but bitterness, my sweetling.”

Ryna couldn’t help but smile with the ornery way he insisted no other man should wed her, but it would still be difficult to convince Father to allow it.

“How shall we persuade my father that you are worthy than, Uncle?” she peered up at him, her fingers gently clutching the sleeves of his doublet.

“Worthy,” Daemon said with a scoff. “I have the blood of Old Valyria. I am the Prince of the City. I am a dragon, little niece.” He let his hands slide around to her back, gripping her hips greedily. With a swift tug, he yanked her flush against his chest and whispered quietly in her ear. “Name another who is more worthy?”

Gods, he was too good at this. With barely his low trill in her ear, Ryna’s knees felt weak.

“I do not question your value, Daemon. There is no better match in my eyes,” she placed her small hands on his chest and pushed him back so she might look upon him face to face. “But I fear Father will think the worst of your intentions.”

He let out a gruff chuckle at that, a knowing smile spreading wickedly as he tilted his head. “Intentions?” he mused with thick sarcasm. “Yes, how horrible it would be to bed, wed, and impregnate his sweet innocent darling daughter. I’m sure the thought of the latter will be a dagger to his heart.”

“I am speaking in all earnestness, Uncle,” she ruffled, her lower lip pouting out at his jest. “He will think you wish to claim the throne by way of wedding me.”

Daemon chuffed, clearly amused by her petulant scolding. “So, my brother thinks me a scheming opportunist, does he?” With a shrug he dismissed the notion, yet added, “Well, he isn’t wrong.”

A wolfish smirk pulled at his lips as he leaned his head down to her ear once more. “Although, if the throne comes to me as a result of seeding your belly with my babe, my sweet niece, then I certainly won’t complain.”

“You are awful…” she scoffed with disbelief, making space between them again. “How can you not take this seriously? I don’t want you to be sent away again. You know you should renounce any claim to the throne.” Her pale lilac eyes grew wide, peering at him with thinly veiled worry and beginning to gleam as tears threatened to come.

He clenched his jaw at the mention of relinquishing the Iron Throne. “Daor. Nyke jāhor daor,” he growled. No. I will not.- “Do not ask me to lie down like a whipped dog. And do not bring tears to your eyes in an attempt to soften me.” Daemon’s eyes remained cold as they narrowed at her, the fondness all but gone from his voice as he continued.

“I have spent my entire life living to the expectations of others. I will follow the path I know I am destined for.” He gripped her chin roughly, forcing her to look up at him and meet his gaze. “I will claim what is mine by right, and you will be a part of it whether you wish it or not, little niece.”

Ryna attempted to speak, but he stopped her by placing a single finger over her lips.

“You have made it clear that you are mine. You will do as I say. You will wed me and stand at my side when I ascend to the throne. Those are the only outcomes I will accept,” he ordered sternly. “And to ensure it, I will have to use any means necessary. If that includes ruining your innocence to ensure you do not wed another… So be it.”

There was a palpable tension in the air between them. She wished to have the sweet man she had shared her first kiss with back and not the tyrant that stood before her. But, Ryna understood his ambitions, just as everyone in their family did. She knew she had touched upon a sensitive subject, perhaps too insistently, and now regretted digging into a wound that ran exceptionally deep.

Most distressing of all, was that she believed his purpose to be true, even though the thought of what lengths he might have to go to achieve it sometimes haunted her. Now, he might not even trust that she had any faith in him or his calling at all.

“I am grieved,” she replied with a quiet whisper. “I did not mean to say that you should not seek the throne, Uncle, but use it as pretense so that Father lets his guard down. He knows you want it and he does not wish you to have it.”

The truth of it was that between Rhaenyra’s bastards and the Hightower half-blood mongrels, the pairing she’d make together with Daemon would have the strongest claim to the throne. If something were to happen to Rhaenyra, the throne would pass to Ryna, but the realm was still not wont to have even a Targaryen Queen rule over it. If she wed Daemon though, then there would be no question of a higher authority. She had no desire to rule and would pass it to her uncle gladly.

His grip on her chin faltered, the anger leaving his voice and replaced by a tired sigh. “My sweetling, you know not how difficult it has been for me to restrain myself for all these years. You have grown more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.” He spoke low and deliberate as he gently brushed along the line of her jaw. “It was a challenge unto itself, not to ravish you the moment you became a woman, but I was certain your father would geld me for it.”

She could not help but laugh at his admission, although Father had certainly not opted to castrate her uncle for his supposed transgression with Rhaenyra.

“You laugh but only I know how it felt to resist you day after day, year after year,” he growled, voice husky with need. “I was tempted on so many occassions to claim you as my own, to steal you away to Dragonstone and keep you there.”

He leaned closer, burying his nose in her platinum tresses and inhaling deeply of her scent. “And now you’ve left yourself vulnerable, sweetling. Now that I know you want me as much as I desire you… There is nothing that can keep me away.”

“Not even the King,” he added with a huff, his lips moving to trail the smooth skin along her neckline.

She was not sure how to reply to such conviction, especially when it concerned her father. Ryna did not wish ill of him, but then she was sure Daemon would not hurt his own brother. Well, mostly certain at least.

Daemon must have sensed her hesitation, for he murmured softly against her temple. “Let me handle your father, my sweet little niece… Just focus on being my good girl, alright?” His grip was firm, but tender on her shoulders as he pushed himself away from her. “Now, you must head back, before anyone comes. I wouldn’t be surprised if Viserys hasn’t had the servants upturning the keep for you by now,” he chuckled wryly and pressed a kiss against her forehead before disengaging from her completely.

As he released her, Ryna suddenly felt an unbearable emptiness. His lips left her skin feeling warm and wanting more, but he was already taking steps away from her, retrieving his chalice from the surface of the parapet. The tone of his voice told her he would brook no disagreement in this and she knew it would be for the best that she return.

“Return to the celebration, sweetling,” he said with his back to her as he looked out over the city. “And do not worry your pretty little mind of all this. I will take care of your father. You have my word.”

Ryna had so wished to ask him if he would dance with her this evening, but soon realized something as she turned and headed back inside. That once they were wed there would be a week-long celebration and she would have as many chances to dance with her uncle as she liked.

She paused for a moment as she stood in the flickering shadows of the hallway that led back to the Great Hall. Ryna had seen it clear as day when she was only but ten and two years old. She did not understand what it meant, but had spent weeks combing the library for information trying to understand it with no answers to be found.

She’d had a strange daydream or perhaps a vision. In it, Ryna had seen a beautiful young woman with flowing silver-gold hair standing beside her uncle Daemon as he sat upon the Iron Throne.

It had befuddled her for years until finally she began to mature, her skinny, tomboyish body blossoming outwards like the petals of a flower. And, one day she looked in her hand mirror and realized that the woman she’d seen, was none other than herself.

It did naught but break her heart when she then found out that his affections, nay his ambitions, laid with Rhaenyra. And, she’d forced herself to tuck that long lost song of what might come to pass away, when she heard Laena gave birth to twins. Ryna locked it all tightly, somewhere she might never think of it again.

And yet now, it might all be coming to pass regardless. She didn’t know whether she should be excited or aghast at what might happen in the coming months.

She stepped into the Great Hall and was pleased to see that most every guest had imbibed much of her father’s generosity since her departure. Nobody seemed to take notice of her as she walked through the crowd aside from Ser Criston Cole who eyed her wearily. She cared little for the man, thinking him a miscreant since observing him beat a man to death at Rhaenyra’s wedding. Ryna wondered how it was he still held such an esteemed post regardless.

Heading right up to the King’s table, she was not surprised to see that most everyone had abandoned her father as they always tended to do once a banquet got underway. He sat alone in his chair without a soul to even pour his wine. Ryna lamented how lonely he appeared. The most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms and here he sat deep in his drink and completely alone.

Father’s eyes brightened as he saw her, a slur in his voice, “Daughter! I was wondering where you ran off to. Come and pour your father another.”

“Do you think it wise, Father?” she asked with a playful tone, knowing he would not be denied despite her pestering.

“Your King demands it, girl,” he jested with a smile and she obediently filled his cup.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she apologized, her voice demure and meek in an attempt to show him the deference he deserved, not just as her King, but as her forebear.

He waved a hand, scoffing as though it mattered not. “I should bid you apology, my child. For suggesting you dance with that Lannister fellow. He is truly insufferable.” Father’s eyes grew wide with joy as he let out a boisterous laugh and she could not help but join in the royal ribbing of Jason Lannister.

“But you still must choose a husband, Ryna,” he said somberly, the mirth still poking at the edge of his words.

“I know,” she replied with a smile, trying to show her appreciation for the years of independence he’d allowed her. “I will perform my duty for you and the realm, Father.”

“That’s my good girl. Disobedience never suited you,” he took a long swig from his ornate chalice. “Besides, I have all that I can handle of that with Rhaenyra,” he quipped with a chuckle and quick raise of his brow. “Now leave me, child. I have wont to pass swiftly from drink to slumber tonight.”

“Good evening, Father,” she bowed her head to him slightly and turned to give him the space he desired.

She glanced around the hall looking for a certain blond uncle, but did not catch sight of him. Perhaps he was being cautious by not being seen together with her in front of the masses gathered for the celebration. It was an intelligent idea that she thought she would abide by as well for now. After all, she’d had enough excitement for one night.

Ryna nodded at several lords and ladies she know of, but barely knew as she retired from the banquet hall. The path to her chambers was quiet and uneventful and after minimal effort undressing, she soon found herself comfortably lying in her bed, ensconced in plush blankets.

Thoughts swirled of the moments she’d shared with Daemon on the balcony. Ryna could still taste him upon her lips and feel his hands upon her body. As though attempting to reprise the memory, she ran her fingers gently over her breast in much the same way he had. It was too much to bear. She clenched her thighs together and turned harshly on her side with a squeal of flustered arousal.

She tried to clear her mind of lustful thoughts and peered out the window at the high moon. Would Daemon be able to convince Father that he would be a worthy suitor? Truly there was no better man in terms of Valyrian descent, but her father had been so angry with her uncle, so many times over the years. She worried he might not be able to let it go.

Given all that had occurred and the pressing marital matters at hand, she’d thought it might be difficult to sleep, but surprisingly it found her quickly.

Notes: This was the longest chapter I have ever written! I could not stop - a woman possessed!

So, I know this is not entirely necessary, but I thought I would write up a little post-chapter introduction to explain some of the setting I’ve chosen for this story.. And why I decided to make these choices.

I wanted the OC to be young, but not too young as it wouldn’t make sense that she would remain unmarried if allowed to get too old. I also did not want such a huge gap of time to pass after Rhaenyra and Laenor’s wedding. Ten years is such a huge amount of time, and I wanted the OC to have been within a comparable age to Rhaenyra when she last sees Daemon.

Now, with that in mind, the timeline of the show is also very confusing when you compare it against the timelines on the wiki, which is based on lore. There is an understanding of an approximate amount of time that has gone by on the show, but even when using those estimations, the years don’t come close to the dates on the wiki. I know I shouldn’t focus on such trivial matters, but it did in fact bother me while planning my own outline. I decided that I would base it more loosely off the official lore dates of events and ages of characters, and not the show's. This is something you may or may not notice, but it is worth mentioning. Any changes made are not necessarily for lack of being informed about it, they are just conscious changes.

One glaring issue is the birth of Rhaenyra’s first three children.. All of which are born in pretty quick succession, 115 AC, 116, AC and then 117 AC. That means that technically, this fic should be starting in 117 AC.. Only 4 years after the events of Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor (114AC). And Baela and Rhaena were born in 116 AC, which certainly causes some difficulty in lining these dates up with the show. Laena dies in 120 AC and yet her children look much older than 4 and the same can be said for Rhaenyra’s as well.

So, I’ve decided after much deliberation, that Joffrey’s birth will take place in 119AC instead of 117AC, meaning that instead of 10 years, only about 5 years have passed since the wedding. And Laena’s death will be moved to 118AC, 2 years earlier than in the lore, and much earlier in the show. I think if you add the time skips together.. That the (10 years later) jump that occurs ends up being about 126AC which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, except for the fact that they’re likely trying to line things up for the Dance of the Dragons, but the timing still feels off.

I also wanted to say that I had several starting points in mind for this story, but this was the one I just happened to like the most in terms of the timeline and how close it is to Viserys’ death and all the major events that take place afterwards! So please enjoy, and I do hope I can capture the tone and feel of the show and characters without stepping on my own feet too much. I have never attempted to write a story in this time period or style, so I guess we’ll see how it goes. Expect some growing pains until I’m more practiced and do not judge me too harshly.

Another thing worth mentioning is that I wrote the first chapter in a rather obsessive flurry that lasted most of one day and all of a night. Suffice it to say, it slipped my mind to add in the High Valyrian, given how much I had my hands full with grasping a more Shakespearean take on English. I will likely add placeholder Valyrian in, so that it does not hold me up too much as I write. When finished, I’ll take the time to research how to make it more accurate. So don’t worry too much if you do happen to know High Valyrian and find any glaring errors.

But! Please DO tell me what you thought! Also.. Yes, there will be a lot more. This is planned to be a rather big story... Read Chapter 2 here.

183 notes · View notes

carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 1 year ago

Text

Steddie Upside-down AU Part 24

Part 1 Part 23

Will stays on the periphery of the shopping trip, trailing behind Nancy and Jonathan as they drag bear traps, nails, and ammo up to the counter. He imagines the Demogorgon writhing, both feet stuck in the traps, imagines its head blown clean off by Lonnie’s gun, imagines driving a nail straight into its heart like it's a vampire.

He never thought violence could make him feel like this – vindicated. Victorious. Whenever Mike and Dustin snuck horror movies from Family Video, Will always had to turn away from the gore. Even when the person deserved it. Even when it was against a monster.

But the Demogorgon had stolen him, had stolen Eddie, still has Steve in its grasp and he wants it to pay.

The clerk gives them all a suspicious look, Will most of all, before asking, “what’s all this for then?”

Nancy and Jonathan trade looks, like Will isn’t behind them at all, before Nancy replies, “monster hunting.”

Apparently satisfied, the clerk shrugs and tells them the total. It’s more than they usually pay at the grocery store for a whole week’s worth of food. He sees Jonathan cringe, even as he forks it over.

They carry their purchases away, Nancy handing Will the box of nails. He clutches them to his chest as they make their way to where Jonathan’s car is in the parking lot.

“You know, last week, I was shopping for a top I thought Steve might like. It took me and Barb all weekend,” Nancy says, carefully placing the bear traps into the trunk. Will didn’t realize Nancy and Steve were boyfriend and girlfriend, didn’t realize they knew each other at all, past the way everyone in small towns sort of knows of everyone else. “It seemed like life or death, you know? And now–”

“You’re shopping for bear traps with Jonathan Byers,” Jonathan says. He says his own name like it’s a joke. Will doesn’t like it.

“Yeah,” she says, laughing a little as Jonathan haphazardly throws the ammo on top of the rest of their purchases before slamming the trunk closed. “And I don’t know if I even want him to like me like that anymore.”

Will can’t imagine having someone like Steve – nice, cool, an action hero – and not wanting to be liked.

“We got into this fight the night he disappeared,” Nancy continues, laugh coming out sharp and wet this time, all the humor sucked straight out. “And I was so mad, but now I just hope he’s alive.”

Jonathan turns away from Nancy, looks directly at Will, says, “yeah,” with a fervor that makes his cheeks warm.

“He’s alive,” Will says.

No one asks why he’s so sure. Will’s glad. He couldn’t explain it if he tried. Just knows somewhere deep inside that Steve is alive. He’s waiting for them to save him this time.

Barbara’s car is in the driveway when they get home. She’s dawdling on the porch with Eddie and an older man that must be his Uncle Wayne.

Eddie looks both more at ease with his Uncle by his side, and more keyed up than Will’s ever seen him. He’s twitching in his toes, like he’s waiting to take flight; gravity barely keeping him on the surface of the earth.

He settles when Will gets out of the backseat. He feels it like a tug – the need to get back to Eddie’s side is almost an itch on his bones. Eddie meets him halfway, pulling Will beneath the wing of his arm and pulling him in.

Will’s breath comes easier than they had since they separated, like two pieces snapping back into their rightful place.

“Who’s this?” the older man asks gruffly, still standing on the front porch.

Will’s heartbeat stutters at the stern expression, but Eddie just beams, skipping up to him and flourishing his hand grandiosity between the both of them. “Uncle Wayne, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Will Byers. He kicks ass,” he says. “Will, this is my Uncle Wayne. He’s nice, I promise.”

Wayne looks him up and down, eyebrows furrowed before easing, the corners of his mouth ticking up in what must be a smile. “And your other two friends?” he asks.

Eddie points with his free arm. “That Big Byers, Will’s brother,” he says, talking over Jonathan’s quiet, “it’s Jonathan. He points at Nancy, and with much less enthusiasm, finishes, “And that’s Nancy Wheeler.”

Wayne looks between all of them, his eyebrows furrowing like angry caterpillars. “Where are all of your parents?” he asks before turning to Will, “especially yours. If I’m not mistaken, they fished your body out of the water”

Will’s gut churns. He and Eddie trade wide-eyed looks. “I died?” he asks, voice trembling.

“Well, obviously not!” Eddie says, squeezing Will’s shoulder tight enough to twinge. “You’ve been with me the whole time, baby Byers.”

Wayne’s still looking at him, like he’s trying to see through his skin and analyze his skeleton for human parts. “Either way kid, where’s your Mom?” he asks. “Have y’all called Joyce?”

Will shuffles, looking over his shoulder at Jonathan. “She wasn’t here when we got in,” he says, looking down at his scuffed sneakers. “She’s been spending a lot of time with Chief Hopper. Maybe she’s with him?”

Wayne sighs. “Can I use your phone, boy?” He asks the question pointedly toward Will, so Will leads the way to the phone, everyone else trailing behind nervously.

Wayne dials out, lets it ring, before saying. “Hey, Flo, It’s Wayne.” He hums in response to whatever she says, the way adults always do, before continuing. “Right as rain, but I need you to radio the Chief for me.” Will can barely make out Florence’s muffled voice, but the words are lost to the phone line. “He’ll want to hear this. Trust me.”

Wayne does that same barely upturned smile. It wrinkles his eyes up, though. Like it’s a real one even if it’s small. “Thanks, Flo. Tell him to meet me at the Byers house.”

He hangs up the phone on Florence’s muffled response.

Wayne looks around, as if only just taking in the wreck of the house, eyebrows ticked up, scrunching up his forehead. He doesn’t say anything, though. Just asks, “this house got any coffee in it?”

Jonathan goes to make a pot, and they all settle back around the table, waiting for the Chief to burst down the door. It doesn’t take long.

The door slams open, hard enough that Will thinks it might leave a hole in the plaster. “Wayne?” he calls.

“In here!” Wayne calls back, sipping his coffee calmly like the Chief of Police isn’t yelling his name.

The Chief strides into the room like he has a right to it. His eyes settle on Wayne first, looking pissed off, before his eyes flick around the table, from Barb, to Nancy, to Jonathan, to Eddie, and finally, landing on Will and staying.

He goes pale, like Will’s a ghost someone invited for morning coffee. He shrinks into his seat, as Hopper yells, “Joyce?”

Then his Mom is there. She looks tired. Her hair is mussed, clothes wrinkly, bags under her eyes. Eyes that immediately settle on Will. She stops breathing, goes still as a corpse before bolting to his side.

She pulls him from his chair with enough force that they both go tumbling to the laminate. “Baby, baby, is that really you?” she asks, crying. She’s smelling his hair like that will tell her. Like he doesn’t still smell like sweat and dirt and ash. “Oh baby, you came home.”

Will burrows into her chest, sobbing. Part of him hadn’t been able to stop hearing her yelling his name as the Demogorgon growled, had been terrified that it’d gotten her, despite what Steve had said.

“I was so worried, sweetheart,” she says, garbled enough to almost be unintelligible. “I heard those awful noises and the gunshots, and then you wouldn’t talk to me, baby.”

She clutches him impossibly tighter. Will wriggles enough to free his face so he could breathe. Jonathan is kneeling behind her, hands settled on both their shoulders, crying in a way that Will’s never seen before.

He never wants to leave this moment.

But then the Chief yells over the din, “can someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

It goes quiet except for Joyce’s crying, like no one wants to be in the man’s crosshairs. Finally, it’s Eddie who responds. “You won’t believe this, Hop.”

Will pulls out of his Mom’s arms. She keeps them latched onto his ribs, but lets him sit up on his own. He looks over at where Eddie’s still seated at the table. His jaw is firm, resolute under his Uncle’s steadying hand. The Chief is glaring down at him, nostrils flaring in his customary anger before he takes a steadying breath, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why don’t you give me a try?”

Part 25

#steddie upsidedown au #steddie fic #steddie #eddie munson #will byers #my fic

425 notes · View notes

moonchildstyles · 1 year ago

Text

retrouvailles

élan part six: y/n goes on a date, harry finds out a secret, and something shifts.

wordcount: 15.5k+

—————

"Y'think I did alright?"

(Y/N) swore her cheeks were going to ache for the rest of the day with the way her wide smile stretched over her lips.

"I think you did really well," she told him, her voice laced with warm amusement though she was far from teasing.

She was being honest, really. Hearing Harry speak in the small amount of conversational French he knew to her new nail tech as well as the receptionist of the salon she'd found today, was one of the sweetest things she'd ever seen. While his accent was improving, she cherished the flourish he still gave to his e's and the care he gave to his consonants.

"'M getting better, huh," he pressed, sounding a little too proud.

"Your accent definitely is," she mused, spotting the entrance to their building not too far ahead from where they were strolling down the pedestrian walk.

"Good," Harry responded simply, the edge of a dimple pressed into his cheek, "I've been practicing."

Somehow it was possible, but (Y/N)'s smile widened. "I've heard."

He wasn't exactly the most quiet as he recited simple words she'd taught to him after he thought she fell asleep. He preferred to sneak out onto the balcony, and practice with the light of the Tower shimmering in the distance. She liked hearing his voice like that, just a hair muffled through the door and his improper French.

It didn't take long before Harry was holding open the door for her to head inside their apartment building. No one other than the doorman was occupying the small space. (Y/N) offered a fleeting smile in his direction, her attention captured by the grandiose display on the desk counter.

In a crystalline vase, cut expertly to allow waves of rainbow light to glimmer over the warm eggshell walls, was an oversized bouquet of roses. The petals were deep spirals of velveteen red, deep dark in the center before going crimson on the edges. They had unfurled perfectly, not a single speck of discoloration or wilting. The stems were a healthy forest green, strong with clipped thorns as they held the large blooms in place. Interspersed between the roses were glossy leaves of emerald greenery and stark white puffs of baby's breath. It was full and large, stuffed and heavy with more immaculate roses than (Y/N) thought could exist in the world. How the vase wasn't toppling over from the sheer size, she wasn't sure.

They were gorgeous—pristine. (Y/N) even slowed her steps some to caress her eyes over the blooms for a moment longer.

Nonetheless, their synced steps eventually landed her at the doors of the lift. Harry, at her side with his own attention pressing forward, entered the code for the lift to take them upwards.

Just as she took her eyes away from the bouquet, the doorman suddenly shouted through the lobby in accented English, "Wait!"

(Y/N)'s steps faltered, the elevator doors having parted open. She glanced over her shoulder, feeling his shout being directed to her though she couldn't imagine why.

The doorman looked at her with wide eyes, his brows raised. "Mademoiselle?"

"Oui? Comment puis-je t'aider?" she trilled, watching as he stepped closer with her to catch up.

From the corner of her eye, Harry's security instincts kicked in, stepping closer to her as a form of barricade.

Eyeing Harry, the doorman slowed feet away, keeping that space between as (Y/N) peered around the broad of Harry's shoulder.

"Les roses," he started, gesturing towards the towering bouquet, "Elles sont pour vous, mademoiselle."

"Pour moi?" she pressed, her brows pinching.

"Pour toi. Ils vous ont été déposés il y a une heure."

"Oh," she sounded, allowing her gaze to wander back to the glamorous roses behind him, "Merci."

Taking it upon himself, Harry took the flowers from the counter, keeping himself between (Y/N) and the doorman as he moved. Offering nothing more than a quiet thank you, (Y/N) helped him into the waiting elevator, Harry having held the doors open in case he had to usher her through.

Once alone in the lift, (Y/N) couldn't help but to run a finger over the blooms. Harry watched intently, observing and cataloguing as if he had something to be suspicious over. Truthfully, she couldn't completely blame him. She couldn't think of anyone who would send flowers to this address for her, especially something this grandiose.

In the back of her mind, a niggling panic arose. This wouldn't be that admirer of hers, right?

Silence followed them into their apartment, (Y/N) speaking up as she held the door open for him to slip through with the tottering vase. "Is there a card or anything you can see?"

"Yes." Harry's voice was clipped as he answered. Nothing more was offered.

She waited for him to set the bouquet down before she searched through the stems, finding the small card amongst the greenery. The slip was heavy, made from embossed cardstock—definitely more than what a regular florist would offer.

Flicking it open, the writing inside was a shimmering black, inky and definite. The writing was elegant, scrolling and scripting, handwritten with a lilting hand.

Even before meeting you in person, I know these roses pale in comparison to your beauty. See you soon. x

Elliot

Every beautiful thing about the note was cancelled out when she read that name.

That was the man who was tasked to take her out for dinner in a few days, her father's friend.

"Oh," she sounded.

Harry was silent at her side. He must have been able to spot the details when she couldn't.

"They're so pretty," she said, folding the card away, almost pouting at the roses, "I'm sad he had to be the one to send them."

A beat passed before Harry spoke again, "I don't trust them."

Canting her head, she tried to see what he saw in the flowers. "What do you mean? They're gorgeous."

His arms coming cross around his chest, Harry stayed firm in his stance. "I don't like it. He shouldn't know your address before he's even met you. Taking the time to find a florist in Paris, finding something this extravagant, I don't know. I don't trust them."

"I mean," she started, tipping her head in the other direction, "I'm sure they're fine though, right?"

"I don't know," he answered shortly, "I'm going to have to think about it. We might have to get rid of them."

Peeking from the corner of her eye, she saw the pinched expression marring his features. He almost seemed offended to be looking at the roses.

Her features dropped some at the idea of throwing out the bouquet. "Oh. I like roses, though."

Harry's face pinched further at her words.

—————

Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, (Y/N) forced herself out of her room, letting a shiver run up her spine at the cold floor under her feet. Through her bleary gaze, the first thing she saw was the streak of red that was the bouquet of roses sitting on the kitchen counter.

It took a couple of blinks before she realized that the flowers on the counter were very much not the same as the bouquet she received yesterday.

This bundle was significantly smaller, only a dozen compared to the fifty or so blooms from the day before, only small clusters of baby's breath added in. The same vase was being utilized for this bouquet, the white ribbon that tied the stems together still included and now dipped in the water filling the vase. The red was brighter, a couple of the flowers not quite as open as the ones she'd seen before, the greens on the lighter side.

Propped against the vase was a slip of pink paper taken from a notepad (Y/N) usually wrote their grocery list on.

She didn't lift her eyes from the bouquet as she approached, the morning light seemingly making the blooms glow. Reaching for the note, her features softened, rounding and curving into a quiet smile.

Good morning. I know these roses aren't as nice as the others, but I hope you think they're just as pretty.

Harry

His letters were blocky and absolute, none of the flourish the other man had left on the note. She definitely liked these much more than the flowers she received before.

Brushing her fingers over the soft petals, she attempted to bite back the wide grin that threatened to take over her face. With the note in hand, she spun on her toes, searching for Harry as if she missed him in the space.

Spotting him through the windows of the balcony doors, she didn't waste any time before she was crossing the living room to join him in the morning air.

Knocking on the glass, she stepped onto the balcony as Harry looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup.

"Morning," he murmured, eyes glancing towards the note clutched in her hand.

"Good morning," she chirped, shifting her weight on her feet with that fluttering feeling lingering in her tummy.

"Y'alright?" he asked, noticing the way she couldn't seem to stay still.

Looking at Harry now, all she saw was the man that picked out those flowers waiting for her inside. He picked her a bouquet that was worlds better than the grandiose arrangement she saw the day before, if only because it came from him. She liked his note much better, too.

"I am," she said through her beaming smile, "Thank you for the flowers."

Harry minutely perked up though his features stayed straight-laced. The grip on his mug tightened, his eyes brightening that much. "Yeah? Y'like them?"

"I love them."

For the first time since she'd met him, (Y/N) watched as a small smile landed on Harry's lips. The glances of dimples she gained and the ghostly smiles that disappeared before she had a chance to truly take them in were all blown away with the way he allowed that small grin to mold his features. He gazed up at her with that smile on his lips for a moment before he cast his eyes out towards the Parisian cityscape. He brought his free hand up to knuckle at the tip of his nose, his smile partially hidden behind his hand.

"Good."

—————

(Y/N) read, and reread, and reread her father's coaching text at least five times before the message began to sink in.

The first couple of messages were the usual host of guidelines, imploring her to not drink, to stay on her best behavior, to act lady-like (code for: don't try to sleep with him, because she was a whore, of course), ect. She rolled her eyes at first, reading those rules like they were supposed to be pasted to the fridge for a kindergartener to follow. It wasn't until the final message came through that her attention shifted to something serious.

Dad

And, Harry is to stay back tonight. He's already a distraction to the media, and shouldn't be there when you're meant to be on a date with someone who is able to handle you just fine.

The plan all week had been for Harry to accompany her, be right at her side through the whole night no matter what. Not only because he didn't particularly trust her father's circle of friends after the 132 Gala, but also at (Y/N)'s request. That plan had been the only reason she hadn't fought tooth and nail to get out of this stupid date—the whole reason she hadn't done something equally as idiotic to get her father to cancel the plans in favor of punishing her.

Just thirty minutes ago, sitting in front of her vanity to get ready to go out with another man, Harry had been on her mind. She wondered if he would like the red lipstick she slicked over her mouth, or if he would think it was too much. She wondered if he would like the bounce of her hair or if he would think it was too big. She wondered if he would think of those roses he bought for her when he saw the red of her dress.

Now, none of that even mattered—if it had mattered at all in the first place, anyway.

Harry was going to drop her off, and leave her to her date.

The idea had (Y/N) deflating where she sat on her bed, her shoulders holding a defeated slope.

She didn't want to get up, she didn't want to face this night. Tempted, she half-typed out a text feigning food poisoning to her father, a quick fix to get out of this whole thing.

But, she knew better. Delaying this would only cause her more grief. Her father might even follow through and fly out to Paris himself to keep an eye on her.

Falling back against her mattress, bouncing against the springs without a care for her hair, she heaved a sigh. She was going to have to leave her room and paint her face with a famous smile, but afterwards, she could forget it all happened. It would be over and she could return to her Parisian bubble that consisted of pilates, nail appointments, the farmer's market, and Harry.

She just needed to get through tonight.

Steeling her resolve, (Y/N) reacted to her father's text with a thumbs up and shook him out of her head. With her heels strapped to her feet and phone thrown into the bag hanging off of her wrist, she pushed the double doors to her room open and stepped out into the living room.

Sitting on the couch, waiting with phone in hand, was Harry. He glanced at her over the top of his screen only for his scrolling to pause, eyes widening through the frame of his lashes. (Y/N) saw the trail his gaze made over her form, skipping through the curves she fit into her rose-red dress, the minute slit on the side that allowed the fabric to flare around her thighs. Her accessories came in complementing hues, pearls in her ears with glimmering gold shining against the red.

A beat passed before he seemed to become aware of himself once more, clearing his throat as he made a move to put his phone away.

"Y'look... really good," he started, his voice strained as he stood to the full of his height, his gaze dropping down to his feet, "Are y'ready to go?"

"Thank you," she answered, decidedly less chipper than she would have expected after hearing his compliment. Her father's text was taking up too much space in her head for anything sweet to slip inside. "My father texted me while I was getting ready."

"Yeah?" he asked, beginning to inch towards the door though (Y/N) lagged behind. "What'd he say?"

Following him in minute steps, (Y/N) swallowed. "Has he talked to you today?"

"No," he answered shortly, pressing open the door for her to meet him at the threshold, his gaze heavy on her as she obviously stalled. "Why?"

"He—Harry—" she struggled to find the words, hoping it didn't come out as pathetically defeated as she felt, "He said you're not allowed to come with me tonight."

Harry stopped. His steps halted, his expression going blank as he looked at her.

"What do you mean?"

"He thinks you're a distraction for the media. If you were in any more pictures with me, especially when I'm supposed to be on a date with someone else, that would only cause more drama."

Slowly, Harry closed the door to her apartment, sealing them inside for a moment longer. His hand flexed around the doorknob.

"He thinks that?" Harry pressed after a beat, his tone sharp.

(Y/N) silently nodded her head for confirmation.

It only took a moment longer of that silence before Harry was undoing the work of shutting the door. Determined as ever, he pulled it open, beckoning her to follow after him as he stepped into the hall.

"I don't care. 'M going with you." His words were absolute like cement, unwavering and unmoving. "'M not leaving you with some man who you've never met before, and couldn't even bother to call y'before tonight—yet, he got your address to send 'flowers'."

"Harry," she called, following him out into the hall, "I—We can't."

He didn't budge, standing beside the elevator, the down arrow lit up showing the lift had already been requested. "I don't care, (Y/N). 'M not leaving you alone—your dad can get fucked."

Her steps stuttered as she moved to catch up with him. Never had she heard him be so explicitly mad at her father—or explicit, at all really. No one ever really became angry at her father the way she did, let alone express it so bluntly. No one had ever seen the things that she had when it came to him.

Nonetheless, (Y/N) still couldn't let him sabotage himself.

It was just like he said earlier in the week. Her father's wrath wasn't worth wriggling out of a few hours of discomfort—for she or Harry.

"Harry, no," she tried again, staying where she was when he tried to herd her into the requested lift. The sparkling panelling in the back of the elevator acted as a mirror, showcasing her and Harry in its reflection. "I can't let you do that. You'd lose your job, then you really would have to l-leave me here."

She hadn't expected the way her tongue tripped over the word leave. She hoped Harry hadn't noticed.

Harry's jaw squeezed, a hand coming up to knuckle at the tip of his nose as his gaze fell to the floor. "'S not fair," he murmured, "I can't leave y'there."

"I can't let you do anything else, though," she reasoned with him, dropping her voice to match the volume of his own, "My father would be so angry with us. He wouldn't let you stay here with me."

While that explanation was the truth, she had a feeling Harry would never be the one that was in proper trouble with her father. It would somehow make its way around to be her fault; that she had poisoned Harry's mind. That could be the only reasoning as to why he would comply with (Y/N)'s wishes over her father's. But, he didn't need to know all of that. He just needed to stay put, that was all she asked.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze flicking up in a glance at her. "(Y/N)," he murmured, the syllables of her name cradled in his voice.

"I know, but I promise I'll be fine. And, if I'm not, I'll call you right away. After this is all over, you can take me home, and we can try to watch a Julia Child episode again." A careful smile touched at the corners of her mouth then, hoping that lighthearted act would rub off on him. "I'll try not to fall asleep this time, either."

While his mood didn't seem to be particularly lifted at her plan, it was enough to get the hinges in his jaw moving again and the stark set of his shoulders loosening. Only after a lingering pause did she hear the grumble of his voice once more.

"Okay." Picking up his chin, he matched her eye contact head-on. "You promise me you'll tell me if you're uncomfortable?"

She knew what he was asking her, the night of the Gala flashing through her head, too.

"I promise."

With a single nod of his head, he flattened his hand between her shoulder blades and herded her into the lift.

—————

Harry maneuvered the car through the now familiar streets of Paris, taking her to the expensive location her date had requested.

Elliot, she thought with an internal cringe. She was going to have to actually call him by his name, instead of referring to him as some guy.

With the Eiffel Tower glimmering only a few miles away, (Y/N) wasn't surprised to see the restaurant that had been chosen for the night. (It was a terrible tourist trap, nothing particularly special that could justify the price other than the view of the Tower from the patio). It was just the kind of expensive nonsense her father loved to partake in when he visited, the same seemed to go for his friend.

The car was still running as Harry did nothing more than step on the breaks as a means for parking. All he needed was to hear her word and they could be out of there in a split second.

"I'll be back at nine to get you. No later," he cemented, his lips a thin line as he laid his sharp gaze on the eatery.

"Yes, no later," she parroted, pitching her voice into something lighter in hopes of tricking him into a better mood the same way she'd done for herself. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay."

With her hand on the door, (Y/N) hesitated. She didn't want to leave him now, especially not when he was so obviously on edge. She didn't know how to ease him other than promising again and again that she would get into contact if she needed him.

She just wanted him to know that she was far away from this date, too. That if it were up to her, this wouldn't be going at all, that she was miles away in their apartment.

Without overthinking it, she pushed the door open with the most prominent thought in her head slipping through her lips: "I wish I was doing this with you, tonight."

(Y/N) could feel Harry's eyes on her as she climbed out of the car, leaving before he had much of a chance to offer any response.

—————

This man—Elliot—is her father.

He is almost an exact replica of her father inside and out, this man just has a better hairline and faker teeth.

The similarities started the second it appeared he didn't know how to stop talking, going on and on about himself. He didn't know how to pair wine, despite boasting about the vineyard he supposedly owned here in the French countryside. ((Y/N) had to keep herself from wincing when he suggested starting the night off with foie gras and a deep red wine). He loved France, and wine, and charity, he'd said.

So, he was a liar, too. Just like her father.

No wonder he thought this would work out—that she would like him. Her father loved himself so much he couldn't imagine this date not being perfect with the similarities he shared with Elliot.

(Y/N) hid her frown behind her wine glass, listening as he made a fool of himself and the foundations he ran. (Supposedly, of course. With the way he spoke of them, they sounded more like cash grabs than anything real, a set of others running the operation while he was nothing more than the figurehead and beneficiary). He didn't even notice just how disconnected she was from this conversation, though she couldn't be surprised. To notice anything at all would require him to stop thinking about himself for longer than a breath.

"See! I knew you'd like that wine," Elliot boasted, looking pleased with himself as he ran a hand through his graying hair, "Your father said you were a drinker, so I had a feeling you'd enjoy this."

A part of her bubbled close to overflowing, wanting to spit at him that she actually hated the wine—it was too prickly and bitter, and overall just shit—but she tamped it down. It was enough to get her father red in the face if he found she was drinking against his rules, she didn't need to add on the fact that she blew up in this man's face over it. Nothing quite like a drunken rage to get her on the front page of a tabloid tomorrow.

Instead, she offered a sickly sweet smile after taking in a large gulp of the horrendous wine. "Yep," she falsely beamed, "That's me!"

He didn't even blink at the bitter tone to her voice, the scathing sticky sweetness that laid underneath her words.

Her savior came in the form of a scattered waiter approaching the table, his footsteps echoing a bit too loud in the otherwise empty restaurant. (Another small flex on Elliot's part—he'd bought out the entire eatery for the night, leaving them alone with nothing but the limited waitstaff and kitchen workers in the back).

Their waiter—whose name she wished she caught before Elliot had rudely cut him off in favor of ordering terrible wine—offered a painted smile, a bit too perfect to be authentic as he all but tripped over himself for a flawless service. In accented English, as her date didn't know any kind of real French, he asked, "Are you ready to order your mains this evening?"

Before (Y/N) could do anything but smile, Elliot was chomping at the bit, speaking in broken French as if to impress her.

He boasted that he would be ordering for the both of him, that he knew what she wanted. The waiter looked on with wide eyes, taking down the order in his little notepad. (Y/N) looked on unimpressed, listening as Elliot ordered himself a steak, commanding it to be cooked way too much, with a sauce that was much too rich for the white wine he was supposedly planning on pairing it with. She dreaded to hear what he thought she would like, especially with the way he flitted his dark eyes to her with bouncing brows, as if she could be anything other than enticed through this interaction.

In another move that was so terribly like her father, Elliot ordered her a chopped salad. Dressing on the side, as well.

(Y/N) had to rein herself in, keeping a bubbling peal of laughter from leaking out. If not for the fact this was really happening to her in this moment, she would have loved to hear a story like this in a comedy routine.

"That will be right up, sir. Thank you," the waiter praised, giving a small bow of his head before he turned to scurry away once more. (Y/N) envied him for his ability to eke out of the room.

Though, before he could make it too far away, (Y/N) stopped him with a gentle hand on his forearm. She extended backwards in her seat, catching his attention.

"Miss?" he murmured, "Did I miss something?"

"Oui désolé. Il n'a pas commandé correctement pour moi," she answered, noting the way his eyes widened at hearing the fluent French slip from her mouth.

Pulling out his leather notepad, he nodded his head, "Oh, mes excuses. Que puis-je mettre à la place?"

"Pas de soucis, merci," (Y/N) smiled, hoping to ease some of his nerves and make it abundantly clear that she knew she was too good for the man sitting across from her, "J'aurai le penne au salmon à la crème Parmesan, s'il te plaît."

The waiter nodded, looking a touch more comfortable as he spoke to only her, writing down the new order after putting a definitive strike through the previous. With a promise to return to check on them shortly, he disappeared into the reprieve that was the kitchen, leaving (Y/N) to suffer on her own.

"I didn't know you knew French," Elliot said from across the table, forcing her attention back to him. There was a pinch to his brow, tightening his already Botoxed features. "What did you say to him?"

"Hm? Oh," (Y/N) sounded, feigning confusion as if she had no idea what she'd just done, "I ordered for myself. I think he thought the side salad you got was for me."

Clueless to the fact that she was amusing herself at his expense, his furrow deepened. "It was for you."

"No, thank you," she said, sticky sweet and unbearably kind, "I actually really love the pasta from here. A salad isn't enough for me."

Elliot tripped his eyes down her form, glazing over the red dress she picked with Harry in mind. "You couldn't listen to me for tonight?"

"Oh," she canted her head, blinking her eyes owlishly, "I didn't know the salad meant something to you. Just a misunderstanding then, I guess."

It was eerie the way he looked exactly like her father as he took in a deep sigh, as if he had reason to be disappointed in her. Freud would be too happy seeing as how her father set her up with a man just like himself.

"It's alright, sweetie. Keep that in mind for next time, though. I've got you now—you don't need to worry about reading the menu and ordering for yourself anymore."

In an attempt to keep herself rooted to her spot and not stomping outside the door, (Y/N) tightened her grip on her wine glass. She wouldn't have been surprised if the stem broke under her palm.

"I definitely will," she laughed, feeling a hair away from delirious at this point.

Pleased with himself, Elliot sat back. "I feel like I've been talking about myself all night," he laughed, shaking his head as if his arrogance was a silly oversight, "I've been meaning to ask about something I read."

(Y/N) had to keep her eye from twitching. "Really? What was it?"

"That boy you've been pictured with," he started, his voice much too loud for the quiet space. (Y/N) had to consciously make an effort to keep her jaw from clenching as he referred to Harry as a boy. "Your dad said he was your security, but I wanted to ask about him myself."

Buying herself some time with a calculated sip of her wine, she swallowed down the acrid taste before asking, "What do you want to know?"

"Is he your boyfriend? Or whatever you kids call it now," Elliot bluntly pressed, "I read you cheated on Mr. Moore's son with him. Is there any truth to that?"

"No," was her immediate answer, "He's just my security guard."

In the back of her mind she knew those words didn't fit correctly in her mouth.

Elliot raised a challenging brow. "That's the truth?"

Forcing herself to do nothing more than grow stoic at his idiotic pressing, (Y/N) met his eyes directly without wavering. "I know the stories can be convincing, but this is what I'm telling you. It's the truth."

This was her version of biting back, dropping that tabloid bunny facade with placating smiles and the willingness to accommodate to be whatever person the one in front of her wanted. She couldn't outright slap him, so she'd have to settle for not being the naive butterfly he wanted.

Giving a slow nod, (Y/N) watched as her date ran through what she'd told him. He didn't seem to even understand that she was pushing back on him, his ego too large to see much else. "Okay," he settled, "Well, if this continues between us, I want to make it clear that I would prefer him to leave Paris."

(Y/N) sat dumbfounded for a beat.

Elliot continued on, "He's not needed if I'm here with you. I also believe he's taking advantage of his position in getting to touch and 'protect' you. You don't need him around."

Through gritted teeth, (Y/N) asked, "You think so?"

"Mhm," Elliot hummed, a bit too proud, "He's taking advantage of you as far as I can see. He takes from you since you can't overpower him—it's a hard thing to notice when you're the woman being taken, but it's obvious to others."

Swallowing, (Y/N) forced her jaw to unclench and a deep breath down her lungs.

She was livid. Truthfully, she couldn't care less what this man thought of her in any way—another way he was similar to his father—or if he chose to demean her for the rest of the night. But, when it came to Harry, the only innocent person in this whole stupid mess who'd done nothing but protect her to the best of his ability, that was where she was going to draw the line.

This night was over.

"Right," she answered stiffly, forcing her features into something kind and unwitting, "Do you mind if I run to the ladies room really quickly?"

Already pushing out her chair before he had a chance to say a word, (Y/N) only half listened when he told her to hurry back, he didn't mind waiting for her.

With her bag on her wrist and phone in hand, she typed out a message in quick strokes.

please come get me

Firing it off to Harry took all but a second, long enough for her to reach the kitchen,

While it felt impossibly rude to step inside, she had to put her plan into place before Elliot realized she hadn't headed towards the bathroom at all.

A member of the kitchen staff stopped in their tracks when they saw her, a bright streak of red in the middle of the otherwise stainless steel and clean white of the kitchen.

"Mademoiselle? Vous cherchez les toilettes?"

"Non, j'avais en fait une demande, s'il vous plaît." she started, keeping herself on the fringes of the space as to not touch something she wasn't meant to.

The staff member cast his gaze around for a moment, the rest of the kitchen slowing to a standstill when they noticed her. Only the sizzling of a pair of pans remained, the space hot from the running ovens and foaming butter.

"Comment puis-je t'aider?" he asked after a moment, no one objecting to the idea of her newly timed request.

"Y a-t-il un moyen pour que tu emmènes mes pâtes avec moi ? En plus d'ajouter pavé de saumon à la plancha pour que je le prenne également ? Je sais que c'est la dernière minute, mais j'ai changé de plan."

"To-go?" he answered in accented English.

"Oui," she cemented, time ticking the longer she had to explain herself, "Je dois aller aux toilettes, mais je peux les récupérer en sortant par l'arrière, si ça te va."

It was then that—what she assumed was—the kitchen manager spoke up, her hair tied up under a pristine white hat. "Oui. Nous pouvons préparer cela pour vous en dix minutes, mademoiselle."

"Merci," (Y/N) chirped, backing out of the kitchen before she could become any more of a distraction.

Next order of business came in the form of tracking down her waiter, who was tucked in an alcove around the bar, the single ticket for their table hanging from the processing computer. After the shock of spotting her in the backroom wore off, (Y/N) settled the tab—including the fish entree she just added—with a swipe of her father's credit card. A hefty tip was left for the staff, in hopes of making up for the absolute waste of time everyone involved had gone through for the night.

Checking the time on her phone as she scurried to the staff restroom (with permission from the waiter), (Y/N) didn't doubt that Elliot was either too absorbed in himself to notice she was still missing or he was beginning to realize she was taking too long for this to be an innocent trip to the ladies room. Nonetheless, she only had a handful of minutes left before her order would be ready, and Harry had to be on his way by now.

As if he was living inside her head, the second she closed the door behind her, a call came through her phone with Harry's contact written boldly up top.

"Hello?"

"Are you okay?" he fired off, ignoring her greeting, "Did something happen?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she eased, leaning against the bathroom door, "I'm a little annoyed and was almost bored to death, but I'm okay. I knew this was going to be a bad night, H, but it's been terrible, honestly."

"I'm outside, okay? I parked out back, but you'll see me," he rushed off, his voice a low rumble through the speaker.

(Y/N) reared back. "You're already here?"

"Yes."

A beat passed in the quiet of the bathroom. "Did you come from the apartment?"

"No." She could hear a sigh come from the other line. "I didn't go back—I stayed here."

"Oh," (Y/N) sounded, having no right to feel a small smile bloom on her features at his admission. "I'll be out in a second. I need to grab something really quick."

"Okay. I'll see you in a minute."

Hanging up first, (Y/N) doubted he would unwind until she was sitting in that car with him, away from the annoying bug that was Elliot.

Scurrying through the restaurant in hopes of staying unnoticed by her date, she thanked the kitchen staff once more for the impromptu request she made before grabbing her orders and pushing through the back entrance.

The night was dark, only bits of warm light coming from the Eiffel Tower in the distance, tourists roaming the streets with roses in the wind. Searching for Harry's car, it only took (Y/N) a couple of steps around the building to spot the black sedan with its lights on bright.

Her steps quickened, heels clacking over the concrete as she eagerly met him. The doors were unlocked and ready for her to climb in.

"Look what I got for us!" she bubbled, fitting herself in the passenger seat with the boxed meals in her lap.

With his features only lit up by the dash lights and whatever was able to seep through the tinted windows, a furrow darkened Harry's brow. His gaze lingered on her face before dropping to her lap as she buckled up.

"Is... Is that your dinner?"

"It's our dinner!" she chirped, "I got you something while I was there." Finally cataloguing what exactly she had run out with, her grin only widened. "I think they gave me his too, actually."

At that, a huff of laughter left Harry's lips, the tension in the car melting as he shifted into drive. (Y/N) watched as his features softened in the low light, dimples present and eyes softening.

"He doesn't know you left, does he?"

"Nope," she trilled, "He'll figure it out soon though, I'm sure."

Harry only laughed again, eyes trained on the road though she didn't miss the way he glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"That bad?"

"Oh, yeah," (Y/N) heaved, shaking her head. "My father is going to be so mad, but I don't even care anymore."

(Y/N) could feel her muscles unwinding the farther they made it from the restaurant, dropping her head back to lean on the stiff rest. She genuinely didn't care if her father woke her up with degrading messages or a promise to visit her penthouse. She wasn’t going to sit by while Elliot degraded Harry for the sake of looking like an alpha.

The familiar route back to the apartment whizzed outside the windows until a bright idea blinked in (Y/N)'s head.

"Wait," she chattered, sitting up straight in her spot, "Turn around. I have an idea."

—————

The Eiffel Tower shimmered in front of them, warm dinner in their laps with a sturdy bench under.

The lights of the attraction were reflected back on Harry's wondrous eyes, his food left to cool in his lap as he was too distracted with the sight in front of him. (Y/N) was the same though her gaze was on him.

"Worth it, right?"

Harry didn't hesitate to pull his eyes from the Tower, casting his gaze to her with a lingering trace over her features. He paused on her lips for a heartbeat before he matched her eyes once more, the familiar beginnings of a lopsided smile touching the corner of his mouth.

"Definitely."

—————

(Y/N) barely bat an eyelash when she saw the heavy envelope as the only piece of mail in her box. She politely thanked the doorman before taking it back up to her apartment, already dismissing its contents despite the curiosity bubbling in her fingertips. She wondered what kind of photos would be inside.

The media apparently hadn't caught a hold of any kind of story about her date. It'd been three days and there was nothing being posted online other than a random blog post claiming to have seen her dressed in red climbing into a black car. Nothing mentioned a romantic candlelit night, or a scorned billionaire cursing her name for embarrassing him. The only reason she knew her father was aware any of what transpired that night was because of a text he'd shuttled off to Harry, cementing that (Y/N) wasn't to go anywhere without him. (Quite the punishment, she'd joked).

Otherwise, there was nothing out there about the incident, nowhere for this person to collect photos and scratch out a narrative. She also would have remembered seeing someone with a heavy camera in the empty restaurant, but she couldn’t recall a single moment a lens had been pointed in her direction, including the meal she and Harry indulged in by the Tower.

Safely inside her apartment, the water running as Harry took his morning shower, (Y/N) took a risk and opened the flap to quell her curiosity. Inside glossy photos awaited.

While she never particularly enjoyed seeing photos of herself in this context, usually fluctuating between fear and indifference, she'd never been so unnerved as this moment. Given, she didn't typically open the letters sent to her, so she didn't have much to compare it to, but she had a feeling this was the worst that had even been sent her way.

Shining in the morning light, were photos of her from the moment she stepped out of her apartment to the time Harry took her home. She was a gleaming scarlet streak in every photo, some shots having been zoomed in on her body, on her legs, on her lips. This person caught her entering the restaurant, Harry conveniently cut out before the view shifted. Through the window, she had been caught with her glass of wine, blankly looking ahead at Elliot as he spoke of himself. This person had even caught her devising and executing her plan, the camera having craned and peered around every corner and every fixture to get even a small sliver of her form. This person followed her to the spot Harry picked her up, to where they sat at the Eiffel Tower with their dinner. Those shots were decidedly blurrier, taken from a larger distance, but it was still clearly the pair of them gazing at each other before gazing towards the Tower.

Harry's face had been scribbled on in one shot, the same way Marc's had been in the package previous.

She didn't dare to look at the words written on the back, already collecting what kind of narrative this person would force this time around. They seemingly were turning on Harry now, instead of just ignoring him.

Leaving that single photo where it laid, with both she and Harry gazing skyward towards the point of the Tower, (Y/N) didn't have it in her to leaf through the rest of the stack.

Suddenly, having missed the sound of the water cutting and the silence that followed, she heard Harry's bedroom door open, the swoosh of the air as he entered the common space. She scrambled to pack the photos back into the envelope, trying her best to not sprint towards her bedroom. Her hands shook as she gathered everything to her chest, the photos a messy pile she hid with her back facing the hallway Harry was emerging from.

"Morning," he greeted her, his voice that low grumble it always was in the morning.

"Good morning," she chirped out, her steps hastening that much more as she slipped inside her bedroom, the door open just a crack.

"Did y'still want to go to the farmer's market today?" Harry called, his voice carrying as she lingered in the living room.

"Sure!" she trilled, wrenching open her vanity drawer, "Or—um—I was thinking we could finally visit the Lourve today, or whatever. I'm fine with anything!"

Harry didn't respond then, (Y/N) only hearing her bubbling heartbeat pounding against her chest. Why did she think it would be easy to hide the letters under a pile of palettes?

It took a handful more seconds before she had everything safely tucked away, the drawer being pushed shut before she sat back on her heels and breathed. That was a little too close, she decided.

No more opening the letters if she could help it—especially while Harry lived with her.

Peeking out of her bedroom decidedly more relaxed than when she went in, she swept a hand through her hair. "Did you have anywhere you wanted to go, though?"

Harry stood with his back to her, his shoulders tensed and head bowed as he looked towards his feet. He didn't lift his head as she spoke, keeping her behind him.

A beat passed, still no acknowledgement.

"Harry?" she called, stepping out from her bedroom entirely.

Harry turned slowly then, revealing he was looking at a slip of paper in his hand, his brows in a furrow and lips set thin.

Sunlight coming through the windows glinted off of the glossy coating of the page in his hand. Her heart dropped.

"What is this?"

Swallowing around her tongue, she tried her best to slip into a role she hoped would fool him. "What do you mean?" she asked, voice light despite the heavy pit in her stomach.

Chancing a look at her for the first time since she left her room, Harry's eyes were sharp, a warning expression she hadn't seen since he pulled her from the pilates studio in New York.

He held the photo up for her to see, showcasing a shot of her escaping through the back of the restaurant with a giddy smile and stolen dinner.

"Who took this?"

Her facade crumbled that much, sinking and sinking like her heart in her chest.

"Um—I—I don't..."

"(Y/N)," he warned, his voice low and lethal. He wasn't Harry at the moment, this was the man tasked with her safety who'd just found a secret that changed everything.

"I don't know," she rushed out, deflating as she kept her eyes low so as to not match his own, "I don't know who took it."

"Then, why do you have it?"

"Someone sent it to me."

A tick hugged the hinge of Harry's jaw, his grip on the page tightening. "What do you mean?"

(Y/N) floundered then. Her mouth gaped with words she knew she wasn't going to say, the air sucked out of her lungs. Nothing wanted to roll off of her tongue—nothing would.

"(Y/N)," Harry sternly interrupted her swimming thoughts. His sharp tone matched his eyes.

A shallow breath prickled in her lungs.

She'd never had to speak on this before. There was only one other time she had gained the courage to confront the fact that someone was stalking her, sending photos and letters and expressing devout affection and depraved ideals about her. There was only once she had voiced these fears before, and it had been shot down immediately by her father. She was told to let it go and be grateful; she was meant to be happy that she had a fan, someone to admire her.

She didn't want to be called crazy again.

Because she wasn't, right? This was something anyone would be scared over, right?

Taking her shaky hands into a bundle at her middle, (Y/N) tried to find the words.

"I don't know who sent it to me, but it came with a letter and other pictures."

Harry stowed over her words for a lingering moment, (Y/N)'s shuttered gaze keeping her from gauging his reaction. For the first time ever, she didn't want to know what he was thinking.

"Someone sent you pictures of you we don't remember being taken, and a letter," he reiterated, his voice a deadpan rumble as the story came together.

She'd never heard these events spaced in someone else's voice.

"Yes." When he didn't immediately say anything (Y/N) felt her blood pressure spike. "Harry," she tried, his name heavy on her tongue, "I-I wanted to tell you, I promise. I was going to, but my father—he... I thought you wouldn't..."

Harry paced the room silently. He took his time before settling heavily on the middle cushion of the couch, the discreet photo of her being clutched in his grip.

"Tell me now, then," he commanded, gaze fixed on the photograph, "I don't care what your dad said or what you thought before, this is something I need to know about."

Her fingers were a fiddling mess as she stood still in the middle of the room. "I don't know where to start," she whispered.

Fracturing his line of sight from the picture, Harry cast his gaze out the windows, taking in the skyline they'd called home for the better part of two months. His free hand landed heavily in his hair, nails grazing his scalp.

"Start wherever—anywhere. I don't care, I jus' need to know."

(Y/N) sucked in a shaky breath. She'd never felt so lost before.

How was she supposed to wrap up years worth of ominous letters and unwanted photographs? How was she supposed to put it all in a story that didn't require them sitting here for hours and for (Y/N) to dissolve into tears more than a handful of times?

"Is this the first one you've gotten?" Harry pressed, taking her silence for the need of guidance.

"No."

A heavy sigh lifted his shoulders. He finally craned his neck back to the living room with her, though he picked only a spot in the room to focus on. He didn't dare catch her eye, yet.

"When did they start?"

Prattling around the timeline, (Y/N) tucked her bottom lip between her teeth. "A couple of years ago, I think?"

Though his features stayed completely stoic, she knew there was something in her answer that had his shoulders tensing and nose flaring.

"This person has been taking photos of you and sending them for two years?"

"Kind of," (Y/N) reasoned, deigning herself to sink into one of the arm chairs beside the couch, her back stiff despite the inviting cushions, "I think sometimes they take pictures they find online since a lot of them match up, but sometimes it's like this one. I used to think they were selling stories and pictures to publications and posting them, but some of the stuff they sent started getting really weird a year ago." She took in a breath, thinking about the one piece of information that she hadn't the courage to read since the first time. "They send letters, too. About me."

"Do you have them? The letters."

"Only the couple that have been sent here."

Harry's voice was low, seething, as he spoke, "Let me see them."

Hesitating where she sat, (Y/N) stayed stiff in her position. She didn't want to grab the letters, honestly. She didn't want anyone to see them if she didn't even have the courage to fold them open.

A niggling thought in the back of her head had her staying put: What if she was overreacting? What if Harry read these letters and saw what her father saw? That she was nothing but a paranoid, ungrateful girl. She wasn't sure if she could survive something like that.

"(Y/N)," Harry started, his voice bringing her back to the surface of her swimming thoughts, "I'm asking as someone who's supposed to keep you safe. Please let me see these things."

Her voice was quiet as she agreed with an okay. Her footsteps were the only thing that could be heard as she padded over the floor, going to her bedroom with the burning drawer being her destination. Rifling through the pile of palettes and trio envelopes hiding underneath. She collected them as if they were burning, her fingers gingerly grasping them.

She blindly handed over the envelopes, sinking back into her seat as she felt her heart in her throat. As much as she didn't want to watch, she couldn't tear her eyes off of Harry as he paged through the photos. She barely registered the slideshow of photos as he leafed through them, already having seen the blurry shots and odd angles, the lengths this person went to just to capture a sliver of her body.

"Have you read the letters before?" Harry asked, his voice low and calculating.

"I did once," she explained, "But, after that, I never did again."

Harry didn't waste a moment before he pulled out the letters, the blurry photographs now nothing more than a kaleidoscope of her face across the coffee table. She made a point to shift her eyes to him then, unwilling to really see the breadth of this person's admiration for her.

(Y/N) looked on as he reached for the most recent letter first, his gaze quickly scanning over the page before he forced himself to grab for this next. The whole time, she watched as Harry reacted to whatever was typed on the page, the way his muscles bunched and his features flattened into something severe and angular. The way he pinched the paper became more aggressive, something tight flexing into his fingers.

She chewed on her bottom lip, her curiosity peaking. "Wh-What do they say?"

It took a moment before he tore his glazed eyes from the page, flicking to meet hers through the fan of his lashes. "Do you really want to know?"

Weighing her options, (Y/N) wasn't sure, really. "Maybe?"

Harry shook his head, folding up the page before dropping it atop the others. "They... pay attention to you a lot. There's a version of you they like, and really care about. It's all they talk about."

"What do you mean?" She worried her fingers in her lap, the edges of her acrylics being worn dull.

Swallowing, Harry tried to keep a straight face as he looked over the evidence sitting in front of him.

"They really like you, and have decided they know who you are because of that," he tipped his head, taking in a sigh with his hands clenching and unclenching. "They're... This person isn’t right, (Y/N)."

Her heart sunk at his words. The rising sun outside lighting the city while she felt the darkest she had in a long time.

"It's that bad?"

He didn't offer an answer, the pages in front of him now feeling like poison permeating through the room.

The silence that sat between them felt like a third roommate, heavy and unforgiving.

"Harry?" (Y/N) murmured, quiet compared to the silence, "What do we do?"

A heavy hand was passed through Harry's curls, nails catching his scalp with his fingers messing the swirls. "I don't—," he breathed, shaking his head, "Fuck—I don't know."

(Y/N) finally saw something cracking in him—that stoic facade that veiled whatever was bubbling on the inside beginning to slip. The uncomfortable feeling of having no definite way to get out of this situation rained down on him. She saw the way he peered out the windows of the apartment as if he would catch someone right then. She wouldn't put it past him to scour the whole place, hoping to ferret out anyone who could have slipped under their noses for so long.

"Fuck," Harry murmured under his breath, the curse heavy on his tongue. His knee began to bounce where he sat.

Swallowing around her dry throat, she didn't know what to say, what to tell him. While there was a part of her that felt vindicated knowing that he wouldn't react like this over nothing. This threat was real and not just something she made up in her head and used as a reason to be dramatic.

The other part of her felt guilt over keeping this secret from him. He wouldn't have been blindsided if she had just followed her gut and told him from day one everything that was going on behind closed doors. Maybe he wouldn't have taken the job then (the idea stabbed at the soft parts of (Y/N)'s heart), but he wouldn't have been struggling as he was now.

"Harry, I—I didn't mean to, I'm sorry," she tried, unsure of what she was saying or feeling but wanting to give him something.

He waved her off, shaking his head with his unfocused gaze on the floor. "Why didn’t your dad want me to know?"

"He said it was a waste of your time to worry about it," she explained, feeling embarrassed despite the fact she had nothing to do with her father's decisions, "W-When I told him about it, he said I needed to be grateful, that I needed to be happy that someone admired me enough to follow me and everything. He told me I needed fans like that since I wasn't very popular anyway."

(Y/N) couldn't look away as Harry curled in on himself the longer she spoke. The knuckles of his clenched hands were a burning white, his shoulders heavy and broad.

"I fucking hate your dad," he mumbled after a beat, his voice a seething breath, "So much."

She looked at him with wide eyes for a moment. Then, she couldn't help the huff of laughter that pushed between her lips.

She'd never heard anyone say that before—at least anyone that wasn't herself. It was relieving in a delirious kind of way.

Because she fucking hated him, too.

Harry looked up at her, something quizzical in his gaze.

"Sorry, sorry," she got out in-between giggles, "I've just never heard anyone say that before about him—usually I'm the only one that sees him this way. It's—I don't know why I'm laughing, but."

There was no room to continue with the way laughter began to pour out of her, eyes tearing at the feeling in her chest. The feeling that there was more than just herself on her side.

A lopsided smile worked its way onto his lips as he watched her. "I've seen enough to know I hate him, don't worry." He shook his head, dimples thumbed into his cheeks. "I only keep this job for you."

Despite the delirium fueled amusement coating the room, (Y/N) almost melted at the genuine way he spoke to her—spoke about her. He meant what he was telling her, without a doubt.

"I really didn't mean to keep this from you," she told him once she settled down, a deep breathing inflating her lungs, "Before everything, I thought you were on his side, so I didn't want to waste our time. I don't think my father even wanted you to really be my security guard at first, so."

"That's why y'said what y'said the first time I went to your place," Harry pieced together, gaze warm on her skin. When she only nodded her head, his gaze dropped down the column of her throat. "At first, I can't lie, I believed the things he told me and what I'd read about you," he acted ashamed to admit as much, "But, that was because I didn't know you. It didn't take very long to realize that you are very different from what everyone said.

"I hope you know that. If more people took the time to know you and used more than a fraction of their brain" he continued, conviction running under his words, "no one would believe those stories. The people who do know you, know that you're worth more than any of it."

Maybe now wasn't the time, with a coffee table full of deranged letters and creepy photos of herself, but (Y/N) couldn't help the flutter of her heart in her chest. Harry, even if he was giving her a hard truth, was never anything less than genuine. He believed every word he was saying to her, and that made her want to believe it, too.

"Thank you," she smiled at him, the curl of her lips small and shy.

Harry allowed his gaze to linger on her for a few moments more before he must have remembered the gravity of the situation as she did. He forced his eyes to land back on the matter at hand: the letters and photos dedicated to her.

"'M going to take care of this, okay?" he murmured, all amusement draining from his tone, "'M going to do everything I can to figure this out and make this person stop, (Y/N). 'M going to keep y'safe."

"I know you will," she answered in a heartbeat. There was no question in her mind about his ambition.

(Y/N) allowed her gaze to wash over him as he focused on the photographs. She doubted Harry knew, but he was becoming her safe place. She trusted him more than she trusted almost anyone—more than Francesca even. A pressure in her chest developed the longer she sat with the realization.

"Harry?"

"Hm?"

Suddenly her posture was stiff once more, bottom lip chewed swollen between her teeth. "Could—Or, I guess, would you mind—Can I hug you?"

The mossy green of Harry's eyes, flecks of sunflower yellow, blinked up at her. She saw every minute expression on his features before they softened and curved into a gentle smile.

"C'mere," he told her, leaning back against the cushion with his arms open.

It was on instinct the way she moved, bundling herself into his arms with her legs curled up underneath herself. She was a ball against Harry's chest, his arms a forgiving loop around her body. His palms spanned the planes of her back, one between her shoulder blade and the other lower as he warmed her skin through the sleep shirt she was still wearing. With her head tucked into his neck, she felt him relax around her with his nose grazing the top of her head.

She felt safe in his arms—forgiven, and trusted. He believed her more than anyone she'd ever known before.

"I've got you, okay?"

(Y/N) squeezed herself tighter to him.

—————

Taking her hand out of the UV lamp, (Y/N) settled a gentle palm on Harry's arm.

"It's okay, H," she murmured, "You can relax."

He was startled at her touch, his mechanical scanning of the nail parlour ceasing for a moment.

"Sorry?" he muttered in response.

He'd been like this every time they stepped out of the house since he was clued in on the letters and photos. At the farmer's market, he was suddenly suspicious of anyone who dared to bump into her, any vendor who haggled with her for a moment too long, anyone who so much as looked at her with interest in their gaze. He had mistaken small black bags for high quality cameras, his eye constantly peering out for a lens pointed in her direction. Her pilates class was just a level below that intensity given that she wouldn't allow him to follow her into the studio, forcing him to wait outside with bated breath for her return.

(When she had joked that she would keep an eye out for someone with a movie camera and a shirt with a photo on her face, he hadn't exactly laughed, but she thought it was funny).

It seemed the nail parlour was no different. The familiar techs and other staff who had begun greeting her after her second regular visit were now suspects in Harry's mind. No one was to grow too close to her, only her given tech when it was time for her appointment. Everyone else had to pass the wall that was her bodyguard before they had any hopes of even breathing in her direction.

"I was just saying that I'm okay, you can relax," she reiterated, squeezing his arm with her fresh set of nails glimmering in the light.

"I know," he deadpanned, going back to surveilling the scene, "'M jus' doing my job."

She tried to be gentle as she spoke to him, remembering the way she felt the first time she saw those envelopes of her photos. She had grown paranoid as well, double checking every street, every blurry face, every lingering interaction. She was nowhere near as comfortable with the information as she was now, and that paranoia was where Harry was currently living.

"If you hadn't noticed them before," she reasoned, voice forgiving as her nail tech made the final touches on the set of cherries painted on her fingertip, "I don't think that's going to change now, and that's okay."

Harry shook his head, a stray curl grazing his forehead. "I wasn't looking before. I am now." His words were definitive, the same way he spoke to her at her apartment with the photos strewn across the coffee table. "'M not going to let this keep happening, (Y/N)."

(Y/N) didn't know what to say.

It was still an odd feeling to have someone worry over her—someone who cared to the degree Harry was declaring. She didn't know what to do, how to act, under these conditions. It had always been her and her alone that carried these kinds of burdens.

Reaching under the table, Harry settled his hand on her knee, the warm skin of his palm felt through the rips in her jeans. He gave a squeeze. "Let me take care of this. I've got it."

Her nail tech tapped her hand too soon to inspect the paint before going under the light, forcing her gaze to stray from Harry's and the way his eyes glimmered over her features. Just before she looked away, she swore she saw his pupils dilate, honing in on the shape of her lips.

—————

It took close to two weeks for the photos of her on her date with Elliot to surface, the angles and shots already familiar to her eyes. They were exact matches to that of the ones that were now carefully stowed in Harry's room.

(Y/N) didn't exactly care about this specific leak, having expected it two weeks prior, anyway. Her father had to have known about all of the details of the ditch anyway, and if he hadn't said something already, he wasn't going to. She had nothing to worry about when it came to this story making its way to the press.

Except for the string of international paparazzi that now seemed to make it their mission to follow her everywhere she went.

She couldn't blame them, really. There was nothing that made ad revenue or sold magazines more than a tumultuous love life, so the hope of catching her on a date—a high profile one at that—was too enticing for many photographers to let go of. Whatever paid the bills, she guessed.

That was why she wasn't particularly surprised to look over her shoulder and see a string of loitering paparazzi waiting outside the restaurant she had Harry had escaped to for dinner. She even recognized one from back home.

She didn't try to cover her tracks too often while in Paris, just for the fact she was more unknown here than in New York, but that didn't always mean she went unnoticed. The idea of working through the small string brought her back to her drunken stumbling from the club. She hoped it wouldn't be anything like that.

(Y/N) hadn't realized how long she'd been distracted by the peering cameras until she felt Harry's hand land on her own. Whipping her head around she found he had abandoned his crostini topped with melty brie to focus his attention on her. His eye contact was unwavering.

"'S gonna okay, alright?" he soothed her, "'S only a few. Nothing we can't handle."

"I know," she answered, curling her hand under his, "I just... Now that I've actually looked at some of the pictures being sent to me, I don't like seeing so many cameras on me like this. I don't like that they're taking pictures of you, either."

Harry sat patiently listening to her, only pulling his hand away from hers to prop his chin up on a white-knuckled fist. Something always ignited in him when she mentioned the gifts from her admirer. His gaze skittered outside the eatery, silently taking in the faces of those smoking and loitering on the sidewalk.

"You think it could be any of them?"

The thought hadn't really crossed her mind. She figured it would be a good disguise, to blend in with people who would of course be carrying around cameras and would be looking for her on nights like these, but that didn't explain why she'd never seen a paparazzo-esque person trailing her when no one else was.

"I don't know," she answered honestly, a small shrug lifting her shoulders, "The picture quality is always pretty good, so I guess it could be someone like that, but I guess I always kind of figured it's easier to follow me unnoticed if they were using their phone camera."

Humming his acknowledgment, Harry didn't pull his eyes from her awaiting fans. While she didn't know everything about what his expressions meant or what was going on in his head, she recognized this moment. The gears were turning the longer he stayed quiet, a plan being laced together.

"Do y'want to see if we can go out the back?"

Considering the option for a moment, she ultimately turned it down with a shake of her head. "We'd still have to pop through the front to get to the car, anyway."

"I can go alone and bring the car around for you?" Harry offered, trying to meander a way around the inevitable.

"They know your face now, you know," she looked at him sullenly across the table. That was something she felt the most guilty over, taking away his privacy and splashing his face across the internet and whatever magazines chose to print him. While he wasn't always the target of the shots, he was a person of interest now.

A beat passed, Harry returning his eyes to her with something softening behind the moss. "You really want to go through them?"

"I don't think we have much of a choice," she laughed, the sound lacking humor.

Harry looked at her with his features melting and curving into something soft—understanding. "We'll make it out jus' fine, alright?"

The smile that tugged the corners of her lips was genuine. She didn't doubt him for a heartbeat. "I know."

—————

After settling the tab with discarded plates full of the crumbs of brie-heavy crostinis, their dinner of appetizers being left behind, (Y/N) braced herself for the trek outside.

"Ready?" Harry asked, looking to her intently as she cinched her jacket around her waist.

"I think so," she nodded. It was now or never, no point in hiding out and sipping wine until they became bored around midnight.

"I'll be with you," he murmured, just as he attached himself to her side, the waitstaff eyeing them.

(Y/N) offered a quiet smile of thanks, feeling a bit exposed knowing they were watching so intently. She couldn't blame them—they had garnered quite a bit of attention tonight, it was practically a given.

Approaching the door together, she didn't think twice before she fisted her hand in Harry's coat, ensuring he stayed close to her as she dropped her chin to face the ground. Harry took that as his cue to wrap an arm around her waist, protectively leashing her to him.

Pushing open the door with a stiff hand, Harry led them to the handful of waiting photographers. It was when she saw the pulsing lights bleaching the corners of her vision did she begin to regret her choice of putting her head down. This position could easily be spun into one of annoyance, and rudeness. That she thought she was too good to even look at these people.

"(Y/N), (Y/N)!" a pair of the photographers began to shout as they followed she and Harry toward their car.

(Y/N) kept her head down, ignoring the calls to her attention. She didn't need to give them anything, all she needed to do was follow Harry's guiding steps to get her out as safely as possible.

"Okay?" Harry murmured, bending down to press his lips to her ear, drowning out the noise of her name and shuttering of cameras. The flashes went on faster at his intimate touch though he didn't let it stop him from soothing.

Nodding her head, she could feel a small smile touch Harry's lips against her skin.

"Almost there," he informed in a gentle tone, "Jus' gotta go slow so they don't try to chase us or get too close."

"Thank you," she mumbled, fist in his coat unfurling until she pressed her palm against the line of his waist.

"I've got you," was his simple answer back.

She didn't have a moment to find comfort in Harry's words before an accented voice was shouting once more, unsatisfied with her ignorance.

"(Y/N), are you a cheater?! Does your boyfriend know you went on a date with that old man?!" the photographer provoked, spewing out any word he could think of that might draw a reaction from her.

(Truly, the one reaction he may garner is one of (Y/N) bursting into laughter after the declaration of Elliot being that old man. She couldn't have said it better herself).

While she detested the running rumor of the summer that she was a cheating, wicked woman, she wasn't going to let it get under her skin. She'd proven time and time again that Harry was her security official and nothing more, and there was no way this person would accept another dismissal of the theory. It was better to keep quiet and allow them to print about her deafening silence over the accusations.

"(Y/N), we want to know the truth! Did you have another affair?!" The photographer pushed after only silence was offered, his camera now being shoved into her space as he gravitated a little too close.

The rest of the string—including the familiar New York paparazzo—had seemingly taken a step back, photographing the new show that was emerging with their aggressive colleague.

Harry pressed forward, quickening their pace in hopes of breaking away from them faster. He was stopped only when the man jostled (Y/N) at his side, his camera being shoved under her face as if he could catch a shot despite her evasiveness. That had her stumbling backwards, Harry steadying her as best he could before he was stepping up.

"Give her some space, man. Back up," he sternly commanded, his arm a tightrope around her waist. Flashbulbs were going crazy over the interaction, catching (Y/N)'s blunder and the standoff that was appearing between the two men.

Seemingly disregarding Harry's warning, the paparazzo tried again, sidestepping the wall that was Harry's blocking form. Maybe, he didn't understand, (Y/N) reasoned. English wasn't always the easiest language to understand even if you could speak it, especially given Harry's accent.

"S'il vous plaît, laissez-moi un peu d'espace," she piped up, hoping the translation would blot out the grey area. Sometimes these people needed to be told before they remembered basic personal space standards and manners.

This time, when he pushed through, once again asking (Y/N) if it was true that she's slept with all of her father's friends, that it was clear there was no language barrier pushing him to be disrespectful.

They were this close to the car, just steps away from allowing (Y/N) into safety and speeding away. Of course it could never be that easy.

Harry let go of her only for him to step in front of her completely, blocking the photographer from achieving any kind of shot.

"Step back," he ordered, his voice a deep grumble as he enunciated every syllable, "Give her some space."

The way the paparazzo reacted seemed less about getting pictures of (Y/N) and more about standing up to Harry. He scrambled around, reaching his camera over the breadth of Harry's shoulders as if to prove he could get what he wanted despite any kind of intervention.

Inching slowly towards their car, Harry did his best to pave the way for (Y/N) to follow and slip away. Nothing seemed to deter the other man, however.

"Step back," Harry ordered again, placing the palm of his hand flat against the other man's chest.

While it wasn't necessarily a push, the force Harry gave behind his palm was enough to get the other man stumbling back. French profanities left the paparazzo's mouth as he tripped over his own feet.

This was Harry's opportunity as he reached around and grabbed (Y/N). She was quickly steered towards the unlocked car, Harry pushing her inside the second the door was opened wide enough to head in.

Everything moved quickly then, the other paparazzi seemingly focusing on Harry and the way he conducted himself against the other man. He rounded the front of the vehicle and threw himself inside, the flash of cameras and a distant angry voice following his moves.

Harry didn't waste a second before he peeled away from the curb, setting them away from the chaos. (Y/N) barely had the capacity to buckle herself in with shaky hands.

That was worse than she expected, honestly. Never had the Parisian photographers been so blatantly disrespectful, shoving cameras in her face and asking ridiculous questions.

This was the most physical Harry's ever been forced to be in front of her, most people heeding his size and station in favor of actually challenging him.

"Are you okay?" she asked, the world whizzing past them with Harry's foot pressed deeply against the gas pedal.

His knuckles were white around the steering wheel.

"He wasn't listening."

(Y/N) swallowed, spying the cutting angle of his jaw and the blaze in his dark eyes. Maybe she should have taken him up on his offer of bringing the car around for her. She could have avoided this whole thing if she wasn't so stubborn.

"I wasn't sure if he could understand you at first," she shakily recounted, "but I told him to back off in French, too. I don't know why he didn't listen. He didn't hurt you or anything, right?"

"'M alright," he answered, shaking his head with his lips rolling between his teeth, "I jus'... I don't like how people talk to you, (Y/N)."

He flexed his hands around the wheel, the leather squeezing under his grip. She didn't know how to soothe him, what advice she could give. "You just can't listen," she told him, sharing the only thing she'd learned on her own through the years.

A beat passed, nothing more than the feel of the tires grazing over the asphalt sounding through the cab. Harry twisted and turned, moving like an expert through the streets.

"I don't know how you do it," he told her, voice quiet and losing that edge he'd had gained outside the restaurant, "'S like there's a new lie every day—it makes me so angry. These people don't even know you and all they do is call y'names and think the worst of y'every chance they have. Why don't y'say anything?"

It wasn't accusatory the way he asked her, even if he was frustrated. He was just one of those people who couldn't imagine what it was like to allow abuse from others without biting back. She wished she could be like that.

"I guess I'm used to it," (Y/N) shrugged, feeling the backs of her eyes beginning to burn, "People have been taking pictures of me and saying things since I was in high school, so I don't think it bothers me like it's supposed to. I've learned it's a lot easier to let people think what they want because no matter what kind of apology or correction I make, it's never going to be seen or believed as much as whatever was said about me in the first place. I just have to be okay with it, and let what people say go."

By the time she finished, she felt those tears well up in her eyes, stinging and hot. Every blink she gave trying to hold them back only jostled the pool, blurring her vision.

"I don't like that you're used to this, (Y/N)," Harry answered, his voice feeling a level of mourning she understood.

A joyless smile molded her lips into something uneven. She shrugged. "Me neither, but what can you do, right?"

Tonight would spur something new in the media, photos no doubt being caught of Harry's altercation with the paparazzo and (Y/N) fully expected someone to have been able to secure a photo of her with these tears in her eyes. She could already imagine the kinds of narratives that would be built around these moments, the kind of things people would believe about them both now.

But, what could she do, right?

Silently, Harry unhooked a hand from around the steering wheel and gently laid his palm on her knee. The split in her long skirt allowed his skin to press against her own, fingers curling around the cuff of her knee in a comforting squeeze. He didn't have to say anything to let her know that he was there, he was here for her and he trusted and believed her more than anyone she'd ever met before.

He didn't have to say it for (Y/N) to know that he really did care for her, even outside of what his job called for.

Wiggling her fingers under his palm, (Y/N) hugged her hand to his. Her fingers filled in the gaps between his own, painted fingernails glinting in the city lights.

Harry held her hand the whole drive home.

—————

As expected, two days after the altercation in front of the restaurant, a fat envelope full of photos and a letter she wouldn't read, arrived at the Paris penthouse.

The media had already spread their own photos about, including shots of her tearing up on the car ride home, leaving her curious as to what the admirer was going to show her that she hadn't already seen.

It was an odd feeling to not immediately go and ferret away the letter, to hide any evidence of the fact that his life wasn't completely normal.

But, Harry needed to see this. If he was so willing to give her such trust and believe her without question, she was going to have to give him something back.

"Is that another letter?" Harry asked from where he had emerged from his bedroom, the entrance to the hallway now full of his broad shoulders and scowling face.

"Yeah," (Y/N) sighed, chest heavy.

Moving towards her, Harry asked her carefully, "Can I see it?"

She wordlessly handed it over. She didn't want to see the content anyway, especially seeing as the other was beginning to turn on Harry. She didn't want to see what kind of marking they left on the photos of him.

It was a quiet ordeal, watching Harry pluck apart the envelope and peer inside. He scanned the photographs, seemingly the most upset when he reached shots of her crying in the car beside him. It was when he reached the letter that something shifted in his demeanor.

He was always calm and collected, calculating each step and each reaction. But, she saw cracks then as he read the contents of the folded page. His cheeks were red, bottom lip cuffed between his teeth with nose flaring. He looked moments away from shredding the page apart himself.

She was sure he would have if he hadn't instead indelicately folded it before slamming it on the kitchen counter.

"We're not doing this anymore," he cemented, voice sharp and unforgiving, "You are not doing this anymore—putting up with this shit anymore."

Leaning over the pile in front of him, he dropped his head into his hands, his fingers creating angry trails in his hair.

"Harry," she started, her voice cushioning the sharp blow of his own tone, "I know it's hard, but I don't know if there's anything we can do about this. We don't know anything about who's doing this."

"I don't know what to do," he grumbled, his hands tightening against his scalp, "But, I'm not letting this person take advantage of you and say these awful things about you any more. 'S not okay."

She didn't know how to tell him that there wasn't anything that could be done to help her, honestly. That there was no way she could conceivably stop this person until they messed up and gave her some kind of information to get a restraining order filed. Until then, there wasn't anything that could stop them.

"I know it's a lot," she tried, downplaying the same thing that used to give her nightmares when it first began, "But nothing really serious has happened, yet, at least. It's just another person taking photos of me, really."

"I don't like it!" Harry suddenly burst, whipping his head up to match her eyes with his own fiery gaze, "You shouldn't have to go through this! I don't understand why everyone thinks it's okay to degrade you, and mock you, and invade your privacy all because your shitty dad lets them! I don't fucking like it, (Y/N)!"

In a final standoff with the rage bubbling inside, Harry swept his hand heavily over the counter, collecting every piece of evidence and splaying it across the floor. She was sure he wanted to do more, do anything to let off the steam billowing inside him, but there wasn't anything he could do without leaving damage on their home.

Everything stilled then, the mess on the floor and Harry's breathing heavy in his chest. (Y/N) stood in the stark calm of the kitchen, watching with wide eyes and her hands a fumbling nest. She watched as he looked down at the mess of photographs and the despicable letter that set him off.

"I don't know how to fix it." His voice was gentle like a whisper, matching the breeze that filtered through the city outside the window.

Carefully creeping over the floor, bare feet padding over the tiled kitchen, she met Harry around the cooked counter. He didn't look up at her, even when she collected him into her arms and nestled him into a hug.

"You don't have to fix it, H," she told him, mumbling against his skin as he slowly unfroze around her, "I don't know if this is something that can be fixed. It's just a part of my life at this point, and I don't want you to be upset over it."

"I want you to be safe," he told her, voice thin when he succumbed to her hold and buried his nose into her hair and wrapped his arms around her just as fiercely.

She could feel the hard planes of his chest pressed against her own soft curves, Harry fitting himself around her. Every breath he took was matched by her, his nose skimming the top of her head in a soothing pattern as if the motion were for himself only. He was furled like a tight rose, keeping a bumblebee safe from whatever was lurking outside the petals.

"With you, I am."

That had Harry pulling away from her then, his eyes matching hers with dilated pulls and a slack jaw.

"You feel safe with me?" he asked, keeping his hold on her tight so as to not let her stray too far away.

"Of course, I do," she smiled at him, her hands pressing into his back, "You're the only person that's ever actually been there for me. Like, you actually care."

While her tone was lighthearted, encouraging, Harry was erring on the serious side. He didn't match her smile, his features left in softened curves and slacked muscles.

Every detail, every expression, every fine point of her was catalogued with his eyes. (Y/N) wasn't even sure if he was really breathing as he did this, the world having stood still the longer he gazed at her.

When he finally met her eyes once more, the slightly pinch marred his brow, his eyes down turning into something gentle.

"I do care about you." He swallowed, raspberry lips wet by his tongue. "I don't know when, but I don't think anything I've been doing has been because of my job for a while now."

Heart hammering in her chest, she felt breathless looking up at him. She still saw that same beauty she spotted in her father's office all that time ago; the mole by his mouth, the sandy stubble on his cheeks, the spotting of freckles on his nose, the cut set of his jaw, the whirlwind of green in his eyes. There was something softer lingering now, something she never could have imagined landing on the face of her security guard.

She found similarities in this moment to the way he had gazed so wondrously at the Eiffel Tower glimmering at night. He looked at her like she was one of the greatest creations in the world, deserving of romance and praise and commemoration.

"Really?" she breathed.

The way he nodded at her started out small, his gaze dipping to her lips before something frantic kicked in. "Really," he asserted, his hand on her back traveling up her spine and over the base of her neck, "Can I—Can I kiss you?"

(Y/N)'s answer came in the form of her nose bumping his, mouth placed just off center, hands clutching at the soft fabric of his top. Harry seemed taken aback for a moment, stunned into stillness before he came to life under her kiss.

The hand that had been traced up her back to the base of her neck turned into a steadying hold, allowing him to support her as he towered above. She tipped her head back as he slotted his lips between her own, kissing her top lip delicately despite the ravenous way he held her. The soft sound of sighs, lips parting and meeting again, filled the room. The very tip of Harry's nose grazed the apple of her cheek as he tipped his head, deepening their kiss with a taste of his tongue over hers. If not for the fact her eyes were already closed, she could imagine the kind of blissed expression she would show off for him.

Pressing her back towards the kitchen counter, (Y/N) followed Harry's guidance, never pulling her lips away from his own. It wasn't rough the way he grabbed her, placing her on the ledge, only eager excitement flooding his movement. (Y/N) understood completely, immediately reaching for him once more after she was steadied and safe on the counter.

Her thighs parted to let him stand between, his hands pressing against the round of her hips as he took advantage of his spot. It was (Y/N)'s turn then to clasp her hands around the back of his neck, feeling the baby hairs and heat of his skin. She sighed into his kiss.

She hadn't kissed anyone sober in so long, let alone someone she deeply cared about and who she knew cared about her as well. This put everything she'd experienced to shame.

Harry put everyone else to shame.

Happiness flooded her system.

(Y/N) smiled against his lips, her hands going rogue in his hair as she slipped her fingers between the curls. Harry matched her with a clinging hold on her hips, a grin blooming on his features. He pulled away only when their mouths couldn't actually press together through the breadth of their smiles.

"Happy?" he asked her, grinning lips just a breath away from her own with his nose nudging delicate against hers.

"Uh-huh," she sighed, chancing her eyes open just a sliver, just enough to see what he looked like when he'd just been kissed by her. Her hands in his hair roamed until they settled a warm hug around his neck. "You make me so happy."

Harry drew away from her before she was enveloped in his hug once more. His face was in her neck, his arms a cushioned cage around her middle. She swore she could feel his heart beating in time with her own, both racing.

The kind of silence that only fit when you'd just been kissed in the middle of Paris descended over the flat. This silence full of mushy feelings, lip prints, and synced breathing.

"Even if I can't fix everything, 'm going to take care of you." His words melted across the column of her neck, the brush of his lips feeling more intimate than when he had helped her undress after the Gala. "I want to make you happy, sweet girl."

Her eyes fluttered closed as he tucked her chin against her shoulder, cheeks stretched wide from her grin. "I know you will."

Harry hugged her tighter.

—————

retrouvailles is an untranslatable French word that describes the feeling of re-meeting someone, the joy of seeing someone you missed even if you didn't know you missed them before

eeeeek!!!!! thank you all so much for reading this part was def fun! sorry for any mistakes and please let me know if you have anything fun to share about the story!

793 notes · View notes

max1461 · 5 days ago

Text

I guess what really bothers me about right-wing political/cultural natalism is the instrumental attitude it takes towards people, and in fact especially towards the people closest to oneself, to whom I think it is kind of most egregious to take an instrumental attitude. Like, under this attitude, a spouse (and, let's be realistic in this context, a woman) is for producing children, and children are for spreading their parents' (again, being realistic: their father's) genes, culture, ideology, whatever. It's all about instrumentalizing those who should be most precious to you, in service of, as I put it in another post, some flimsy narrative, some grand story about your ingroup that... look, I'm not opposed to having stories about your ingroup! I'm not opposed to caring about the stories you have about your ingroup. Like, that's part of human life, right, even for people who try to disavow it. But what I mean by "flimsy" is that these sorts of grandiose stories, in contrast to the reality of individual human-human bonds, to me they seem just hopeless thin. Watery. Like, what is "my ideology" or "my culture" in the face of my loved ones? It's barely anything, you know.

It's not that I don't have ideological convictions or that I don't care about culture (although, evidently, I care about it in a less ownership-centric way than a lot of people, but that's a topic for another post), but, like, the idea of putting some kind of grandiose, hollow civilizational narrative above the lived reality of my life is not very desirable to me.

Call me old fashioned, but I think the most important thing about romantic relationships is love, right, and commitment, compassion, etc., plain and simple. I think if you're marrying someone to use them as an instrument, well, if they're ok with that and on the same page as you then I have no problem with it, but I certainly don't think we should move towards this as a culture. And I think that a society in which most relationships are more instrumental than they are passionate/comfortable/emotionally fulfilling/whatever you value in a lover, well, I think that society is doing quite a bad job at something quite important.

And with children it's even more egregious, because your children certainly do not enter into their relationship with you voluntarily. I think that if you decide to have children, you have the responsibility to commit yourself quite significantly, at least for a good chunk of time, to being an instrument of their flourishing, right, to enabling their own pursuit of their own ends. Because... you chose to create a person! You didn't have to do that! I think you have quite a extensive web of responsibilities to your children and if you decide to become a parent this is something you should be really well on board with.

So, this is what really bothers me about the (seemingly) currently ascendant natalist impulse. This is why I find it so thoroughly "skeevey". It represents this instrumentalization of the very people who more than any others should be ends to you and not instruments.

57 notes · View notes

oliversrarebooks · 2 months ago

Text

The Rare Bookseller Part 67: Fitz's Last Show

Previous > Masterlist > Next

tw: mind control, kidnapping threat, abuse threat

September 1905

The old theater smelled of makeup and mothballs, sawdust and sweat, and Fitz couldn't be happier to breathe deep of it. It was the first show he'd done since getting kidnapped, being sold to Lex, and negotiating his way into his heart, so to speak. It was undeniably strange to be back here in the wings, with performers and stagehands bustling about, after all he'd been through.

The ordinary world of ordinary humans… how many of them knew about the supernatural permeating the city? Did any of them? Would they live and die not knowing that vampires were very real and very dangerous, that they could be snatched up at any moment and have their lives turned upside down forever? Would Fitz have died without this knowledge if he hadn't happened to pick Miss Lily as a volunteer that night?

Truthfully, now that he was back among humans, it almost felt as if his life among vampires was a distant dream. Almost, because Lex had promised he'd be in the audience. Because he knew that after the performance ended, he'd return to the manor and to Lex's bed, to comfort each other as they slept.

For now, he was enjoying the swish of his cape and the feeling of shuffling cards, waiting for his cue. He was following a respectably talented pair of acrobats -- a high-energy act, and that meant he should aim to keep the energy high as he launched into his own act.

Soon enough, the applause had settled, and Fitz strode onto the stage as though he were born there. "Tonight, I will present to you the most ingenious marvels of modern times," he declared in grandiose manner. "I will demonstrate to you the mysterious arts of clairvoyance and levitation passed down in my family from ancient times, power which modern science is at a loss to explain. All I ask of you is that you listen and watch carefully…"

It was nonsense patter, of course, but if he said it in a regal and convincing manner, the audience would be rapt anyway. He pulled out his deck of cards with a flourish and began to shuffle rapidly, scanning the audience for a volunteer for his first sleight-of-hand trick.

Of course, he couldn't help but notice Lex seated in the front row, looking up at him with an encouraging smile. It took all his willpower to not simply call on Lex as his assistant, but he had to be patient and enlist him for a surprise later on. Instead, he used the tried-and-true method of choosing an attractive young lady in a fetching dress to appear on stage, knowing that it would make his show that much more captivating for a good portion of the audience.

Even as he went into one of his oldest and most well-practiced card tricks, he found himself glancing over at the audience for Lex's approval. Not that he needed it -- after all, he'd already received Lex's blessing to go back on stage -- but…

Well, perhaps he did need it. The thought of Lex finding his false displays of magic embarrassing was too much to bear, especially since he knew that Lex would swallow his real criticism and damn Fitz's show with fake praise. Well, then, he'd have to execute his magic well enough to genuinely impress a vampire of legend.

Maybe someday he could work mesmerism into his act. Wouldn't Lex be surprised to find the tables turned on him! He could just picture the look on his face, even if it didn't actually work. Yes, he'd certainly have to try that.

For now, though, he had to stay focused on his sleight-of-hand, pretending to pull an endless string of scarves from the lady's ears. This trick was less about finesse and more about dramatics and timing, and he could hear the validation of laughter from the audience. Oh, how he craved that, the feeling that all eyes were on him, that he could make a crowd gasp and laugh and shout.

"And now, I'm going to need another volunteer for my big finale!" he said, making a point to swish his spangled cape as he swept his gaze over the audience. He closed his eyes and feigned deep concentration. "I'm searching for someone with the potential for magic… someone open-minded to the world of the supernatural… someone with an aura of power…"

With a dramatic flourish, he "randomly" pointed right to the place he knew Lex was sitting. Lex glanced around and mouthed "really?" as Fitz beckoned him up to the stage.

Lex shuffled his feet and fidgeted, and Fitz realized with growing delight that he was shy on the stage. It was absolutely adorable. "May I have your name, my good man?" he asked with a mischievous grin.

"Alexander," he said, the look in his eyes asking Fitz where he was going with this.

"Splendid! It's good to meet you, Alexander. Isn't he a handsome one, folks?"

Lex's expression froze in embarrassment as there were cheers of approval from the crowd. "Is he married?" yelled one young lady in a bright pink dress, to general laughter.

"I'm not married, miss, but I'm also not available," said Alexander awkwardly.

"Aw, shucks!"

Fitz couldn't be more delighted at seeing his vampire squirm. "Now then, Mr. Handsome, if you'll sit on this chair for a moment…"

He launched into more meaningless patter as he set Lex up for his levitation trick. It used a clever mechanism where the "assistant" was lifted up by a platform concealed by his clothes and the magician's careful placement. The platform was being operated by a teen-aged stagehand, and Fitz gave him a thumbs-up and a wink to signal that it was time.

Lex, for all his embarrassment, played his part very well, laying on the platform and allowing himself to be lifted, as Fitz picked up a hoop covered in ribbons and waved it around his body. The audience was eating it up, too -- it was a great crowd, easily won over, and Fitz felt as though he could burst from joy at the applause as he finished up his act.

"Wasn't he wonderful? Let's give a hand to my very handsome assistant, Alexander!" said Fitz, flinging an arm around him and encouraging the crowd's raucous response. Oh, how he had missed this, the feeling of adoration, the knowledge that he had lifted spirits.

"Is this really necessary?" Lex asked quietly.

"It's extremely necessary. You did fantastic. And --"

Heads were turning to look at someone walking up the aisle of the theater, approaching the stage. He was dressed in an old-fashioned suit, and his mannerisms were stiff and unnatural, as though he were a wind-up doll. With all eyes on him, the strange man stopped directly in front of Fitz and held up a single, flawless red rose.

"For your performance, Fitzwilliam de Hastings," said the man in a dull voice. "My master sends his regards."

All of Fitz's joy and good cheer evaporated, replaced with cold panic. He found himself frozen to the spot, as frozen as he would be if Lex's sire were here himself, unable to even speak. The thrall, seeing that Fitz was not moving to take the rose, set it down on the stage and walked away with the same unnerving gait.

"Fitz!"

Shivers racked his body. His palms and knees hurt. His vision blurred.

"Fitz!" A hand shook his shoulder. "Fitz, wake up. Please wake up."

Fitz opened his eyes, not sure when he closed them. He was curled up on the stage, and he couldn't remember why. He must have collapsed to the wood floor. His head felt dizzy.

"Here, let me help you up," said Lex, picking Fitz up in a way that looked like he was helping with support. "You have to leave the stage for the next act."

"The next act…" he said in a daze. The lights dimmed. He was backstage.

"Where's your dressing room?"

"Umm…" He couldn't think. He felt almost like he was dying. Was he dying?

"His dressing room's down that hallway, third door on the left," said a nearby helpful soul.

The next thing he knew, he was being set down in a rickety wooden chair, and Lex was looking into his face with deep concern. "Fitz. Fitz, are you with me?"

"Uh -- "

Fitz was pulled into an embrace, his face pressed against Lex's shoulder, as Lex rocked slowly and hummed. With no resistance, Fitz felt his muscles unclench as he sank into Lex's embrace, allowing himself to be soothed.

"It'll be all right, Fitz, I promise," Lex was saying. "I won't let him take you. I won't."

"Take… take me?"

"Shh, don't worry about it. Just rest for a minute. Can you rest for me?"

He could rest for Lex. He didn't have a choice, with that insistent song in his ear. It felt good to lean into it, to close his eyes and let go.

When he next awoke, he was in a carriage, laying across Lex's lap.

"Oh good, you're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Dizzy." His voice croaked, and he realized he was parched. "Thirsty."

"I'm sorry that there's no water for you here, but we'll arrive at our destination before long."

"Where are we going?" He sat up enough to look around, trying to ignore the way his head spun. "What happened to the stage? My show?"

"I'm afraid you passed out at the end of your show, but the audience loved it up until then," said Lex.

None of this made sense. There was something nagging at the back of his mind, something he needed to remember. "The rose… your sire…"

"Yes."

"Then that did happen."

"Yes. But as I said, I'm not going to let him take you."

The questions crowded Fitz's mind. "Is he trying to take me? Is that why he sent his thrall?"

"Apparently so."

"How did he even know I was performing?"

"I don't know. He has no interest in vaudeville performances and variety acts, so I thought your show would be well beneath his notice. Perhaps I should have known that nothing is truly beneath his notice."

Bile rose in Fitz's throat, and he briefly felt like he was going to pass out once more. "What are we going to do?"

"I'm going to kill him tonight," said Lex with grim determination.

"Tonight? But didn't you still have preparations to do?"

"There was a note on the rose," said Lex, pulling a small card from his pocket, which Fitz impatiently snatched from his hand.

The card was written out in impeccably perfect handwriting in dark blue ink.

Alexander,

This winter, I will be arranging one of my infrequent galas so as to appropriately remind vampire society of my presence. I will, of course, require appropriate entertainment of the highest quality. To that end, I require the return of my newest thrall so as to have sufficient time to undo his current, unacceptable training and cultivate him into something worthwhile.

While I understand this is less time than the year you were promised, my thrall's recent appearance in a vulgar, tasteless show aimed towards our inferiors forced my hand. I truly had no choice but to put an end to this farce. So as not to unnecessarily waste my time or yours, your punishment will be initiated tomorrow evening, when I arrive at your manor to reacquire my thrall.

Regards, the Maestro

"Why?" said Fitz with his hand shaking. "Why does he want me so badly? Why do this?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me!"

"It doesn't matter!" said Lex more forcefully. "I have the entirety of the vampire guild under my spell. The night is still very young. There's more than enough time to round them up and execute on my plan."

"What if it doesn't --"

"Fitz." Lex stopped his mouth with his hand. "It will work."

Fitz slowly, helplessly nodded as Lex removed his hand. "It will work," he agreed, because what choice did he have? He couldn't bear to think about what would happen if it didn't.

He'd somehow managed to put it from his mind, hadn't he, the pain and the cruelty and the terror. The hold that Lex's sire had on his mind and body, the way he casually demanded his own spawn cut out her tongue. The way he was hell-bent on destroying everything Fitz was in order to turn him into an obedient clockwork doll.

How had he forgotten so easily? It was one thing to confidently declare that he wanted to have some fun before his doom; it was another thing when the fun was over and the doom was staring him in the face.

It was out of his hands, now. All he could do was trust in Lex to protect him.

"Where are we going?" he said, glancing out the window. It was an unfamiliar part of town. "Are we headed to the vampire hunters' guild?"

"Not yet. I need to put you somewhere safe first. We're going to Lily's house."

Other plans flitted through Fitz's head. He could head to the railway station, flee on the soonest outbound train. He could go to the docks and gain passage on a ship going anywhere. He could steal a car and drive it west or south as far as he could, finding a sunny town where vampires didn't roam.

Pointless fantasies that he wouldn't pursue, because his fate was bound to Lex's now. He knew that on a deeper level than rationality. He knew that, even if he were capable of voicing the thought, the vampire would never let him go. He knew that if Lex were to let him go, he wouldn't accept it.

Lex pulled him into an embrace and cradled his head on his shoulder. "It'll be all right, Fitz. I'll finally put an end to my sire, and this time tomorrow, we'll both be free. No one will hurt you again. I'll make sure of it."

"I know, sir. Lex." he repeated numbly, the words like ash in his mouth. He wanted to believe it so badly. But even with all of the work he'd put in to gain Lex's affection… no one had ever truly protected him. Not when it was difficult, not when it really mattered. That's why he had always made sure he was able to protect himself. But there was nothing he could do against Lex's sire.

He didn't want to think about it. He couldn't bear to think about it. Instead, he grasped Lex's shirt and pulled him in for a hard kiss. It wasn't about love or passion, but a shield against the terror, a diversion before the grave. Lex returned the kiss mechanically. He seemed colder than usual.

They broke apart as the carriage came to a stop, tumbling out in front of a sensible brownstone. Lex knocked on the door, and there was no answer. "C'mon, Lil," he muttered as he knocked again and again.

Just as Lex was starting to despair, the door was opened by a plain-looking woman in a cheerful orange frock. "Oh, Lord Alexander, sir," she said. "My madam is indisposed right now. Could you come by at another time?"

"Tell her it's an emergency. It can't wait."

"Very well, sir." Nellie disappeared back into the house without closing the door, allowing Lex and Fitz to enter.

The place was filled with frippery, ornaments, and knick-knacks, frilly curtains and floral couches. Fitz didn't have much time to look around before a very annoyed Lily emerged from upstairs, dressed in a thick robe with a towel wrapped around her hair.

"What the hell is so important, Lex?"

"Our sire is coming for Fitz tomorrow."

"Oh." Her annoyance made way for recognition, and then returned. "But what do you think you're doing here, then?"

"I'm killing him. Tonight."

Lily groaned. "You can't be serious."

"I'm absolutely serious."

"I know you don't want him to have Fitz, and neither do I, but if you barge into this recklessly you're just going to get everyone --"

"It's not reckless! I have a plan, you know that. I've been working on it for months now. I have the entire vampire hunters' guild."

"That won't be enough," said Lily, shrinking in on herself.

"It will be. He's not invincible, Lil, no matter how much he likes to convince us he is. Even he can't ensorcel thirty humans at once, and a silver knife through his heart will end him the same as any fledgling. It only takes one."

"So is that what you came here for? To help you kill him?"

"No. I need you to keep Fitz safe while I do my work."

Lily glanced at Fitz, then back to Lex, with fear in her eyes. "If I do that, he'll know I knew what you were going to do."

"He won't, because I'll end him first."

"But --"

"This isn't just for Fitz, you know," he said, taking her shoulders. "This is to protect you too. I don't want you to have to live in fear of his tortures any more. You wouldn't have to cut out your tongue, or burn yourself, or let him carve upon your back, not ever again. I know I've failed before, but I can do this. I won't fail this time."

There were tears in the corners of Lily's eyes as she looked up at Lex. She spent a long time considering, then -- "Fine."

"You'll keep Fitz here?"

"I will. And I'll hope to hell that you succeed, because if you don't, you know we're all in for it."

"I know. Thank you, Lily. This means a lot to me." He pulled her up into a hug, which clearly caught her off guard her before she returned it.

As Lex let go of Lily, he took a small wad of bills from his pocket and pressed them into Fitz's hands. "Listen, Fitz. If I'm not back by sunrise, I want you to go. Take this money and go as far as you can, as fast as you can, before the next sunset. If you do that, he may not be able to find you easily."

Fitz stared down at the money, surprised that Lex would even consider an escape route. "But then how will you find me?"

"If I win, I'll find you eventually. If I lose… you won't want me to find you," he said. "It's only a precaution. Tomorrow night, we'll celebrate any way you like. And I'll take you anywhere you've always wanted to go. Where would you like to go first?"

"Well… I've always wanted to visit the Far East someday."

"Then that's what we'll do." He embraced Fitz tightly. "I love you, Fitz. No matter what happens, don't ever forget that I love you."

Fitz's breath caught. Lex had never said it outright like that. And all Fitz wanted to do was deny it, deflect it, laugh it off. Because he'd never known love as anything but a way to control people. Lex valued Fitz's blood, and the way he was able to make Lex laugh, but…

He simply couldn't make a deflection the last thing he might ever say to Lex. So instead he said, "I love you too."

And Lex kissed him fiercely, backing him up against a wall and almost knocking over a shelf of ceramics in the process. Fitz was helpless against it, drinking it in.

Lex was gone.

"You're welcome to any of the spare rooms. I board thralls here all the time. Feel free to use the kitchen and the downstairs bath, too," said Lily. "I should be returning to my bath myself. Might as well be freshly washed for this."

"Might as well," said Fitz. Perhaps he would take a bath too. It wasn't as if he would be able to get his mind off of Lex and his mission for even a moment until Lex returned.

Lily turned to go back up the stairs, and Fitz couldn't help but feel a twinge of anger. She was the one who had put him here, after all. She was the one who had stolen his previous life away, a life that was probably going to run off the rails and end badly sooner or later, but still his own. "God damn you," he said before he could think better of it.

She laughed. "What have I done to deserve that? Introduced you to the love of your life?"

"Oh, not much, just the kidnapping and enthrallment and selling me to the highest bidder. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be in fear of becoming the plaything of some ancient vampire."

"And if it weren't for you believing you could win against me in a bet…" she said. "But still, damn me if you want. I'm already damned hundreds of times over. What's a little more?"

She walked back down the stairs and looked Fitz in the eye as though she were searching for something. Fitz couldn't help but flinch away, expecting her to cast one of her spells on him again, but instead she stepped back after a moment. "I think you can survive it, you know."

"Survive what?"

"My sire. If he takes you, don't even try to fight. Don't try to resist, don't defy him. Hold on to whatever piece of yourself you can, and sleep as much as you're able."

"That's the same advice as you gave me at the auction house."

"And it's still true. I should know. I survived him. You can too."

Fitz wasn't so sure about that. He could still remember the horror of Lily leaving the room to cut out her tongue at her sire's behest. Even if he did survive in some way, would he be like her and Lex, still beholden to the Maestro's every whim whenever he so pleased?

"You don't think Lex will succeed, do you?" he asked.

Lily's eyes dropped. "Well, you know, I don't ever get what I really want in life. Do you?"

"No."

Previous > Masterlist > Next

Maybe everything will turn out fine.

Next week, Oliver visits a vampire speakeasy.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@vampiresprite @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @und3ad-mutt

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

@typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia

@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@enigmawriteswhump @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump @tippytappytyping @natthebatt @fire-bugg14

@fuckcapitalismasshole @slightlydisturbedbeans @paperprinxe @demetercabingreen-thumb @the-broken-pen

@pokemaniacgemini @jumpywhumpywriter @basica11ywhumped @anoontjecanush

#whump #whump writing #vampires #vampire whump #mind control #rare bookseller #alexander #fitz #lily

66 notes · View notes

vermilionsun · 4 months ago

Text

Ais: Viking Era (about 800–1050 CE)

Description: The Viking culture emphasizes strength, independence, exploration, and a strong warrior culture. Ais' fierce and determined personality aligns well with the Viking ethos of bravery and combat prowess. The Viking Age's focus on personal valor and leadership in battle mirrors Ais' character strengths.

Leander: Victorian England (19th Century)

Description: The Victorian era is characterized by its distinct social norms, elaborate fashion, and a fascination with the occult and the supernatural. Leander's elegant and refined demeanor, combined with his darker, more mysterious undertones, align well with the Victorian fascination with both high society and the macabre.

Mhin: Edo Period Japan (17th Century)

Description: The Edo period in Japan is marked by its isolationist policies, the rise of the samurai, and a flourishing of traditional arts and culture. Mhin’s austere, reserved, and introspective nature fits well within the context of a samurai or an artisan during this period, reflecting the values of honor, precision, and a deep connection to family and traditions.

Kuras: Renaissance Italy (15th Century)

Description: The Renaissance era marks a period of great intellectual, artistic, and cultural growth. Kuras, with his intellectual depth, curiosity, and healing abilities, mirrors the Renaissance man – a scholar, a healer, and a seeker of knowledge and beauty.

Vere: Baroque Era (1600-1750)

Description: The Baroque era is characterized by its dramatic, detailed, and grandiose art and architecture. Vere’s flamboyant and theatrical personality, combined with his enigmatic and seductive nature, aligns well with the baroque emphasis on drama, emotion, and intricate details.

Bonus: Main Character (MC): Medieval Europe (12th Century)

Description: The Medieval era is known for its knights, castles, and chivalric codes, as well as a deep-rooted connection to mythology and folklore. It was a time when many individuals embarked on pilgrimages or traveled in search of remedies. This fits the MC’s background of seeking a solution regarding their curse. The era’s deep religious undertones align well with themes of faith and redemption, healing, and personal growth, honor-driven quests, meeting with different cultures, religions, and social classes.

80 notes · View notes

cerastes · 5 months ago

Text

Friede's moveset is so inspired. It's what happens when you actually make scythes fight cool instead of just look menacing. A combination of elegant flourishes mixed with incredibly pragmatic and sensible moves, like Phase 3's reaching forward and unceremoniously pulling you towards her with the edge to transition into a lethal blackflame combo full of spins and flourishes. Two distinct command throws, one of which is a showy uppercut into slamming you down into the ground, and the other being an outright decapitation. Jumping overheads and flowing proximity-sensitive combos and extensions.

All magic works in favor of making the central point of Friede's fighting style -- her martial mastery -- more grandiose: Swings of the shorter scythe to launch area denial and stamina denial lines of ice, seeking blackflame, infusing the bigger scythe with blackflame to either power up hits or shoot it as a flamestorm at you. It's all conductive and consistent. It's incredible.

#dark souls 3 #sister friede

99 notes · View notes

hedwig221b · 9 months ago

Text

First and Last Lines

Tagged by amazing @dear-massacre 💗 thank you!

Rules: post the first and the last lines of the last 10 fics you worked on (WIPs allowed)

Predators | 74k | E | dark, bloody, desperate, obsessed

First: Have fun, Danny said. You're allowed to, it's your first time. Last: "Dinner?" he smirked.

Take Me Away From Here | 33k | E | abo, tender, protective, unfair

First: The illusion of a choice, that's all it was. Last: It was the loudest I love you. The only one Stiles needed, in the end.

Full and Void | 23k | E | dark, visceral, feral, possessive

First: "I've got you." Derek grabbed him in a tight, almost constrictive embrace, pushing Stiles' head into his neck. "It's okay, Stiles, it's-" Last: As long as they were together, the void would be full.

Torn Apart and Set Anew | 18k | M | abo, headstrong, loyal, unforseen

First: It wasn't a house, per se. Not yet. Last: "Welcome back."

Devoured | 5k | E | hot, slick, moaning, celestial

First: "It's time." Last: The rest could only watch as the deity of sex and passion ravaged his sacrifice, and seethe at the pleasure on the human's face.

Kiss It Better | 1k | T | sweet, small, anxious, reassuring

First: Eli was a smart boy. Last: Their home was filled with laughter once again. As it always should be.

Sunshine | 24k | E | lustrous, sincere, stubborn, flourishing

First: When someone looked at Derek, they saw his scowl. Last: "Yeah. The happiest of all."

Treasure | 71k | E | longing, desperate, healing, hopeful

First: The ball promised to be grandiose. Last: Stiles smiled.

Mountain to Hide Behind | 3k | T | hissing, hurtful, stubborn, forgiving

First: Stiles was going to be the best parent that ever parented. Last: "Uh-huh." Stiles bit his lip to stop the 'mad evil scientist' laugh from escaping, before clapping Cora on the shoulder. "Now, bring me the laptop, we're going to ruin your ex's life."

The Happiest of All | 32k | E | selfless, yearning, heartwrenching, possessive

First: Rapid breaths were flowing past Stiles' opened lips, an aftermath of an ecstasy hurricane. Last: "You alreado do, kitten," Derek smirked and leaned down for another kiss.

#sterek #sterek fic #stiles x derek #sterek fanfic #eternal sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #sterek fic rec #my fics #fandom game #sterek ao3 #derek x stiles #thank you for tagging meeeee #lov ya #look at all these sentences so dramatic lmfao

105 notes · View notes

honeybeezgobzzzzz · 30 days ago

Text

𓅨 Love in the Dark: Chapter Eight

Love in the Dark: You discover an intense connection with an enigmatic dream lover, yearning for a love beyond physical appearances. As your encounters blur the lines between the waking world and the Dreaming, your grapple with the complexities of desire, friendship, and mortality. Can you truly love in the dark?

Warnings: Explicit Language, Explicit Material, Misogyny.

To Note: Morpheus/Dream x NAMEDFem!Reader.

Word Count: ~4.3k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

As you step into the upscale restaurant, your date confidently leads the way to a secluded table. He pulls out your chair with a flourish and waits for you to sit before he takes his own seat. You thank him with a polite smile, already feeling a twinge of discomfort at his overbearing behavior.

He quickly waves over a waiter and without asking for your input, begins to order for the both of you. His words tumble out in a rush, his tone confident and authoritative as he lists out dish after dish. He barely glances at you as he speaks, his attention focused solely on the waiter. You are pretty sure he ordered you a salad. Red flag right there, a big enough one for you to bail… if you aren't so damn polite.

He prattles on, each word more tedious than the last. His voice bounces off the glass of wine before him, swishing around in its crimson depths as he regales you with tales of his business conquests, his latest gym routine, his luxurious car. It's a monologue that runs like a stream, unbroken and relentless. Painfully boring.

He never asks about you. Not once. It's as if he can't see past the edge of his own self-importance to notice you're more than a prop in his one-man show.

Your salad arrives, a sparse array of leafy greens and thinly sliced cucumber, and you poke at it with a disinterested fork. Over priced and underwhelming. His steak, cooked rare, oozes blood onto the white porcelain plate.

"I hope you like your salad," he says without meeting your eyes. He's too busy cutting into his steak, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "I know all you ladies like to watch your weight." Your eye twitches.

His words continue to spill forth, an unending waterfall of self-praise and grandiose tales. He laughs at his own jokes, the sound grating on your ears. The restaurant buzzes around you, but his voice dominates, drowns out the rest.

"Did I mention my promotion?" he asks, though it's clear he doesn't expect a response. He barrels on, "Huge raise. I'm thinking about getting a second house."

Your fork pauses mid-air. A sigh slips from your lips, your patience wearing thin. Where is your dream man to rescue you?

He doesn't notice.

You take a sip of your water, the cool liquid a brief respite from his monotonous voice. He's onto his gym routine now, boasting about his deadlift record and the size of his biceps. You don’t care about the size of his biceps.

A dull headache starts to form at the base of your skull.

His phone buzzes on the table and he grabs it without hesitation, his eyes flicking away from you for the first time all night. His fingers fly over the screen as he texts someone back.

Your irritation spikes.

"I'm so sorry," he says with a quick smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Work stuff."

The apology rings hollow in your ears.

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed over your chest. Your gaze drifts away from him, takes in the romantic setting wasted on this disastrous date, the soft lighting casting a warm glow around the room, couples sharing intimate moments around you.

He's back to talking about himself again, but this time you tune him out completely. You catch snippets, something about a luxury yacht and a vacation in Europe.

"Are you listening?" he finally asks when you don't respond to something he said.

You snap back to attention and plaster on a smile that feels as fake as it probably looks. "Of course," you lie smoothly. "Please continue."

And like clockwork, he does. His narcissism is astounding, and you can't help but wonder how you ended up here, stuck on a date with a man who clearly doesn't see past his own reflection.

But you stay. You nod and smile at all the right moments, even though every word out of his mouth grates on your nerves. You endure his self-absorbed monologue, all the while plotting your escape.

Because one thing's for sure: there won't be a second date.

After a long night of pretending to be interested in a man more in love with himself than anything else, you stumble into your apartment. Kicking off your heels at the door, you make a beeline for the couch.

Your dress, tight and constricting, follows the path of your discarded shoes. In your bra and panties, you sprawl out on the couch, letting out a sigh of relief. Your body sinks into the plush cushions, relishing in the freedom from the uncomfortable formal wear.

The silence of your apartment is an ice bath to your frazzled nerves. No self-important chatter, no empty boasts, just blessed quiet.

A bottle of wine beckons from the kitchen counter. Without a second thought, you grab it and flop back onto the couch. Why bother with a glass when you needed the bottle? The cool glass feels good in your hand as you twist off the cap and take a long gulp.

The wine is sweet and tart on your tongue. It burns going down, but it's a good kind of burn. One that washes away the remnants of an atrocious date and leaves you feeling lighter. You let your head fall back against the armrest, staring up at the ceiling as you continue to drink straight from the bottle. The room spins slightly, but you welcome it. It's a pleasant change from the steady, relentless stream of narcissism you've endured tonight.

Then your eyelids grow heavy as the wine works its magic. The tension seeps out of your body, replaced by a pleasant buzz that wraps around you like a warm blanket. You're almost asleep when a soft noise startles you awake. A glance at your phone reveals several missed calls and texts from your date.

Ignoring them, you turn off your phone and toss it onto the coffee table. The last thing you need is his voice intruding on your peace. With a final swig from the bottle, you set it down on the floor and let your eyes drift shut. The room spins gently, a comforting sensation that lulls you into a peaceful slumber.

Your eyelids flutter open to reveal a sight that is both unfamiliar and mesmerizing. You are in a grand bedroom, the likes of which you've never seen in the waking world. Tall, arched windows draped with silken curtains let in moonlight that bathes the room in an ethereal glow. An opulent canopy bed with velvet sheets dominates the space, while a grand fireplace flickers with a warm, inviting light.

Glancing down, you notice your attire, a negligee that shimmers as if dusted with stars. The material is soft against your skin, light and airy, making you feel as if you're clothed in a piece of the night sky itself. You probably are.

The room whispers of old world charm and elegance. The walls are adorned with beautiful tapestries depicting scenes from fairy tales and legends. A majestic chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, its crystals casting dancing shadows around the room.

Stepping towards the window, you gaze out at the view. A sprawling castle unfolds before your eyes, surrounded by an endless sea of stars twinkling brightly against the black canvas of the night sky. It's breathtakingly beautiful, a sight straight out of your wildest dreams.

A cool breeze brushes past you, making you shiver slightly as it teases your skin through the thin fabric of your negligee. You wrap your arms around yourself for warmth, but it's not unpleasant, just another sensory reminder that this isn't your ordinary world.

You walk over to the grand mirror standing against one wall and take in your reflection. The star-dusted negligee makes you look ethereal, like a celestial being who has descended from the heavens. You reach out to touch your reflection, half expecting your hand to pass through.

But it doesn't.

The cool surface of the mirror meets your fingertips, solid and real. And though this place feels like a dream, there's an undeniable reality to it that you can't ignore. Turning away from the mirror, you make your way to the center of the room and stand numbly. You are too wrapped up in your dreams that the real world now seems so dull and unenviable. Eyes burning, your first tears almost begin to fall when your sight is taken from you with a single blink.

A sudden darkness engulfs you as strong arms wrap around your body, pulling you into a hard chest. Your breath hitches in surprise, your senses heightening as you're plunged into an abyss of sensory deprivation.

His voice is a low growl against your ear, a blend of confusion and accusation. "You sought love from another!?”

Your heart pounds in your chest, the rhythm matching the deep timbre of his voice. His hold tightens, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your negligee.

"No," you respond, the word barely a whisper as it escapes your lips. "You told me I don't belong here," you say, recalling his words from earlier. Your voice wavers slightly as you continue, "So I looked elsewhere, that's what I did."

His silence is deafening in the quiet room. You can feel his chest rise and fall against your back with each breath he takes. Does he actually need to breathe?

His hold on you softens as he digests your words. "I never intended for you to seek affection elsewhere, Kora," he murmurs into your hair. His voice carries a hint of regret, a rarity from him. "I merely meant that you should not let opportunities in the waking world pass you by because of me."

His words hang in the air between you two, his confession pulling at your heartstrings. You reach up to cover one of his hands with your own, holding it against your chest. "But it's you I want," you whisper back, your voice firm despite the uncertainty swirling within you.

There's a pause, then he moves his hand from under yours to tilt your chin up, forcing you to face him despite your lack of sight. His breath is warm against your skin as he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary.

"You have me," he assures you softly, his words echoing in the silence of the room. "And I have you."

Your breath hitches when he begins to peel away the star-dusted negligee. It's a slow process, his fingers gliding over your skin with a gentle touch that makes your shiver. The material pools at your feet, leaving you standing bare before him. His hands return to your body, tracing paths of fire on your skin as he explores every inch of you. The cool air of the room contrasts with the warmth of his touch, making you tremble under his hands.

He pulls you closer, pressing your naked body against his. You can feel the hard planes of his chest against your soft curves, his heat seeping into you and chasing away the chill. His arms wrap around you, holding you tightly against him as if he's afraid you'll slip away.

Then he's kissing you, a fierce and passionate kiss that steals your breath away. His lips move against yours with a hunger that mirrors your own, his tongue exploring your mouth with an intimacy that makes your heart race and a soft moan emerge. He devours it.

You can taste him on your tongue, a flavor that's uniquely him, intoxicating and addictive. Almost like stars. His hands roam over your body, each touch igniting a spark within you. He cradles you close, his hold firm yet gentle. Your hands grip his shoulders for support as he deepens the kiss, his tongue dancing with yours in a sensual rhythm. He tastes like everything you've ever wanted, a mix of desire and passion that leaves you craving more.

His hands wander lower, cupping your bare buttocks as he pulls you flush against him. The feel of him, hard and wanting against your belly sends a jolt of arousal coursing through your veins. You break the kiss to gasp for air, pressing your forehead against his as you try to steady your racing heart. He kisses the corner of your mouth before moving lower to nuzzle at your neck.

"You are mine," he murmurs against your skin, the words vibrating through you. His voice is low and husky, filled with a possessiveness that makes your knees weak.

"And you're mine," you whisper back, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. His body is a wall of heat against yours, keeping you tethered to this dreamlike world. The reality of the situation settles in then, you're here with him, bare and exposed in every sense of the word. And he's still wearing clothes!

"You are overdressed," You softly state, your hands running along the soft material of his coat. It feels rather soft, perhaps one day you might get to wear it. "Please fix that, I am very hungry right now and desire your cock."

He chuckles softly and the fabric disappears beneath your fingers, dissolving away as if they never existed. When you feel the warmth of his body pressing against yours, you cling to him.

"Is this better?" he asks playfully, his breath tickling your ear.

"Much," you reply, pressing your body closer to his. You can feel the hard planes of his chest against your breasts, and his cock, now freed from its confines, nudges against your belly. It's hot and hard, throbbing with desire, and you can't help but let out a low moan in anticipation.

His hands slide down your back to cup your bottom once more, tilting your pelvis up to meet his. The feel of his erection against you sends shivers of need through your body. He presses closer, grinding his hips against yours until you whimper.

Your hands wander over his chest, exploring the contours of his body with an eager curiosity. You trace the lines of the muscles you can feel, once again marveling at the feel of him beneath your fingertips. He will never cease to amaze you. His skin is smooth and warm, and you can't help but run your hands down his stomach, feeling the taut muscles there.

"You're so beautiful," you breathe, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

"You can't see me," he points out.

"No, but I can feel you," You purr, your fingers trailing down his stomach in search of your prize. You find it, fingers deftly caressed his erect cock while a smile slowly spreads upon your face.

As you sink to your knees, the only thing you can focus on is the hardness of his cock in your hand. You lean in closer, your breath creating a warm, almost electric sensation on his skin. He lets out a low groan, and it's music to your ears. With a smile, you guide his cock towards your waiting lips.

Your mouth is hungry, eager for the taste of him. You glide your tongue along the length of his shaft, savoring the salty taste of his skin. He's thick and hard in your hand, and you can't help but marvel at the feel of him. Oh he is throbbing for your touch.

You encircle the head of his cock with your lips, sucking gently at first. He lets out a deep moan, and it spurs you on. You take more of him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around his shaft as you bob your head up and down.

His hands find their way into your hair, gently guiding your movements. You pick up the pace, your lips sliding along his length with increasing urgency. The feel of him in your mouth is intoxicating, and you can't help but moan around his cock. As you continue to suck and lick, his breathing becomes ragged, and his grip on your hair tightens. You know he's close, and it only serves to excite you more. You redouble your efforts, your mouth and hand working in tandem to bring him to the edge.

With a final groan, he comes undone, his hot seed filling your mouth. You swallow greedily, savoring the taste of stars as he trembles above you. As he catches his breath, you gently release his cock from your mouth. A contented smile spreads across your face, and you lean back on your heels, your hand admiring your handiwork for your eyes. He's still hard within your grasp, a factor you expect. His stamina and no refractory period made it near impossible to truly drain the pleasure from his being.

"Come," his demand comes out feather soft, and you feel his hands gather your body from where you are kneeling in front of him. Cradled in his arms, you wait for his next move as you press your face into his shoulder. The warmth of his skin is calming against your own. He carries you somewhere in the room, the large bed most likely, and lays you down on the soft sheets.

When you feel the mattress dip next you, you are surprised that he chooses to settle next to you rather than on top of you. His reasoning is soon explained when lithe fingers spiral across your stomach and caress your chin. He turns your chin and his lips find yours. He kisses you deeply, his tongue exploring the recesses of your mouth with a passion that leaves you breathless.

His other hand roams over your body, tracing the curves of your hips and the swell of your breasts. They trickle everywhere. You arch your back, rotate yourself closer to him, desperate for the feel of his touch. Reaching out, your fingers find his hair and your stroke them through the silky strands.

As his kisses trail down your neck, you can feel your heart race faster and faster. His lips find your breast, his tongue circling your nipple before taking it between his teeth. You let out a low moan, your body arching towards his as the pleasure courses through you.

His hand slips between your legs, his fingers seeking out the warmth of your cunt. You're already wet for him, your body eager for his touch. He teases you, his fingers dancing around your clit before finally slipping inside of you.

You let out a gasp as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you, his thumb rubbing your clit in slow, sensuous circles. The feel of him inside you is intoxicating, and you grind your hips against his hand, needing more.

With each stroke, you feel yourself getting closer to the edge. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, and your body trembles with anticipation. Lips find yours again, his tongue plunging into your mouth as he thrusts his fingers deeper inside of you until you are falling apart.

Your body convulses with pleasure, waves of ecstasy crashing over you. You whimper, your voice muffled by his lips as he kisses you through your release and clenching thighs. When your tremors subside, he pulls his fingers from your body, leaving you aching for more. You moan out your displeasure and he takes your chin in hand, turning your head until you presume he is gazing into your eyes from where he lays next to you, body pressed against yours.

He traces the curves of your body with his fingers, his eyes still locked with your unseeing ones, he whispers in your ear, "You're hungry tonight, beloved."

"Ravenous," you breathe, your words soon muffled by his lush kisses. You can feel the depth of your own hunger, a longing that goes beyond the physical. His arm slips beneath your neck and he takes great delight in scraping his teeth against your neck and sucking against the spots that make you squirm.

Your fingers trickle from his hair to the nape of his neck, bunching the strands you can feel there when his tongue ticks at a place his teeth have marked and burst of pleasure erupts. Then a knee slides under your right thigh and your leg finds itself resting against his hip, his erect cock teasing your needy cunt.

"Please," You whisper in need, bucking your hips off the bed to grind your throbbing cunt against his cock. You left hand reaches for the arm supporting your neck and you cling to his wrist.

Your pleas hang heavy in the room, thick with anticipation and need. He doesn't answer verbally, instead, his hand slides down your body, fingertips tracing a path that leaves your skin tingling in its wake. When he reaches the juncture of your thighs, his fingers lightly brush against your sensitive flesh, drawing a gasp from your lips.

He positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. You feel him there, hot and hard against you, ready to plunge into the warmth of your body. But he waits, letting the anticipation build until you can't stand it any longer.

"Please," you beg again, your voice a desperate whisper. You arch your hips towards him, seeking the pleasure that only he can give. At last, he obliges. With a slow push, he enters you. The sensation is overwhelming, the feel of him stretching you wide as he sinks deeper and deeper inside of you. He fills you completely, his cock throbbing with need.

His thrusts are slow at first, a torturous pace that has you squirming beneath him. You grip his wrist tighter as he moves within you, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. As his pace quickens, so does your breathing. Then his addicting lips cover yours and his tongue competes with his cock for your attention.

His tongue is a sweet torment, dancing with yours in a rhythm that mirrors the movement of his hips. His hand on your thigh is a firm anchor, holding you steady as he rocks into you. You can feel him all around you, within you, his scent, his taste, his touch. Everything is him and it's intoxicating.

His hand leaves your thigh, gliding up the expanse of your body until it finds your breast. His touch is electric, his fingers gently kneading the soft flesh as his thumb brushes over your sensitive nipple. A soft moan slips past your lips, swallowed by his own.

He continues to move within you, his thrusts becoming more insistent. His fingers continue their gentle assault on your breast, his touch sending sparks of pleasure coursing through your body. Each stroke of his thumb over your nipple sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core, heightening the sensation of him moving inside you.

Your mind is consumed by him, the feel of his body against yours, the taste of his mouth on yours, the scent of him filling your senses. You need more, more of him, more of this intoxicating pleasure that he's giving you.

His pace quickens, his movements becoming more erratic as he chases his own release. His fingers pinch your nipple, drawing a gasp from you as a wave of pleasure washes over you. He grinds against you, hitting that sweet spot inside you that has you seeing stars behind your blind eyes.

The tension within you builds, coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust until it's unbearable. You cling to him, your fingers digging into his nape as the pleasure threatens to consume you.

And then it hits, a surge of ecstasy that crashes over you in a blinding rush. You cry out, your voice muffled by his mouth as your body convulses beneath him yet again. Your walls tighten around his cock as waves of pleasure rip through you, washing away everything else.

The waves slowly recede, leaving you breathless and sated in their wake… but still he continues to move within you. A moan slips from your lips and you twitch against his side. His thrusts slow down until they're nothing more than gentle rocks. His hand leaves your breast, coming up to cradle your face as he pulls away from your lips.

His touch is tender, soothing the heated skin where his fingers had danced. He cradles your face in his hands, fingers brushing away the stray strands of hair that stick to your sweaty forehead.

His voice, low and husky from exertion, fills the quiet room. "Are you alright?" he asks, his tone filled with concern.

You let out another soft moan, finding your voice. "I'm more than alright," you assure him. Your hand finds his where it rests against your cheek. You turn your head to press a kiss to his palm, the taste of him lingering on your lips.

He pulls out of you slowly, his absence immediately noticeable. You can't help but whimper at the loss of his cock, but he's quick to pull you into his arms. His chest is warm and solid against your back, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace.

You feel safe in his arms, cherished and loved. It's a feeling you've come to associate with him, this dream lover of yours who has captured your heart in ways you never thought possible. As he presses soft kisses along your shoulder and neck, you let out a content sigh.

You nestle closer to him, your body sated and relaxed. His fingers trace idle patterns on your chest, a simple touch that somehow feels intimate and meaningful. The steady hum of his being against your back is a soothing lullaby, lulling you towards sleep.

He murmurs something in your ear, his voice low and enchanting. You don't understand the words, but the tone of his voice, soft and affectionate, is enough to make you smile.

Date Published: 10/11/24

Last Edit: 10/11/24

Previous | Masterlist | Next

#sandman x reader #the sandman netflix #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #dream the endless x reader #lord morpheus #dream the endless #dream of the endless #morpheus #the sandman

24 notes · View notes