#this elegant folly

[witchpassing]

THIS ELEGANT FOLLY

an epistolary narrative by @empress-em-kaldwin and yours truly. white, as is traditional, moves first.

chapter index

1. d4, Nf6 2. c4, e6 3. Nf3, b6 4. g3, Bb7 5. Bg2, ...

[droughtofapathy]

Follies curtain call, June 20th, 2024.

[redhairclara]

Gladys Loftus photographed by White Studios, 1925. From my collection.

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (the feast)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: to let go

- Next part: home

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis

The Great Hall of the Red Keep had been transformed into a display of Lannister grandeur. Crimson and gold banners hung from the high ceilings, the sigil of the roaring lion emblazoned on every surface. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, spiced wine, and elaborate confections, their decadent aroma filling the air. Nobles from across the realm were gathered, their chatter and laughter echoing off the stone walls.

At the center of it all was the high table, where you sat beside Jaime, your expression a careful mask of indifference. You were dressed in a gown of deep blue, the Stark direwolf embroidered subtly on the sleeves as a quiet rebellion against the overwhelming Lannister colors that dominated the room.

Jaime sat close to you, his golden hand resting on the table as he sipped from a goblet of wine. His armor was gone, replaced by formal attire that, despite its elegance, seemed to sit awkwardly on him. He was watching you, his gaze keen, noting every flicker of movement, every subtle glance you cast toward the exit.

"You’re looking for a way out," Jaime murmured, his voice low enough not to carry beyond the two of you.

You turned your head slightly, fixing him with a glare. “And if I am?”

He smirked faintly, leaning in just enough for his words to reach you. “It’s better this than being Roose Bolton’s bride, don’t you think?”

You scoffed, your lips curling into a bitter smile. “You think you’ve saved me? Traded one prison for another, and I’m supposed to be grateful?”

Jaime tilted his head, his smirk faltering slightly. “I didn’t say that. But if you’re going to be chained, better it be to someone who doesn’t flay their enemies for sport.”

“Comforting,” you said dryly, turning your attention back to your untouched goblet.

As the evening progressed, Tywin presided over the feast with his usual cold precision, ensuring everything proceeded as planned. Servants moved efficiently, refilling goblets and replacing platters, while the musicians played a lively tune in the background.

Cersei’s absence was conspicuous, her seat at the high table left empty. Jaime had expected it—after their last argument, he doubted she would deign to attend. Still, her absence was a small relief, sparing him her glares and barbed comments for the night.

Jaime’s gaze drifted back to you, noting the way you picked at your food, your posture tense despite the façade of calm you projected. He wanted to say something, anything, to ease the weight he could see pressing down on you. But every time he opened his mouth, the words seemed to die before they could form.

Finally, as the evening wound down and the laughter in the hall grew louder with drink, Jaime reached out. Slowly, he placed his left hand over yours, his touch warm and tentative.

You froze, your gaze snapping to him. The softness in his expression caught you off guard, and for a moment, you weren’t sure how to react.

“This doesn’t have to be a war,” Jaime said quietly, his tone earnest. “It can be… something better.”

You pulled your hand back, your voice cutting as you replied. “Better? For who? You?”

“For both of us,” he said firmly.

You shook your head, standing abruptly. The movement drew the attention of a few nearby nobles, their whispers quickly rising.

Jaime stood as well, his expression tightening. “Y/N—”

“I’m done here,” you said sharply, your voice low but firm. “Enjoy the rest of your celebration, Jaime.”

Without another word, you turned and strode from the table, your steps brisk as you made your way toward the exit. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment before the hum of conversation resumed, though Jaime could feel the weight of curious eyes on him.

Tywin’s gaze bore into him from the far end of the table, a silent command to maintain control. But Jaime barely registered it, his thoughts consumed by the look in your eyes—the anger, the pain, and something else he couldn’t quite name.

He sighed, sinking back into his chair as the feast continued around him, the noise and laughter a hollow backdrop to the storm raging in his mind.

The air around Jaime felt heavy as he sat at the high table, his goblet untouched and his appetite long gone. The laughter and chatter of the guests seemed distant, almost muted, as his gaze lingered on the space where you had been sitting. He ran his thumb absentmindedly along the edge of the golden hand resting on the table, his thoughts too tangled to focus.

The sound of measured footsteps approaching drew his attention. Jaime didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Tywin’s presence was as commanding as ever, and when he stopped beside Jaime’s chair, the tension in the air became almost palpable.

“Stand up,” Tywin said curtly, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable edge.

Jaime sighed, pushing his chair back and rising to face his father. Tywin’s expression was cold, his piercing gaze fixed on Jaime with unyielding intensity.

“What was that?” Tywin demanded, his tone cold and clipped. “Allowing her to walk out of the feast like that? Do you understand the optics of what you’ve just allowed to happen?”

Jaime met his father’s gaze, his jaw tightening. “She’s not a prisoner, Father. If she doesn’t want to stay, I’m not going to force her.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his disappointment evident. “You’re a fool if you think this is about what she wants. This isn’t a courtship, Jaime. This is politics. Every move you make reflects on this family. And tonight, you’ve made us look weak.”

Jaime bristled, his voice dropping to match Tywin’s. “So I’m supposed to drag her back to the table, make her sit and smile for the sake of appearances? She’s not a puppet, Tywin.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his tone growing colder. “She’s a Stark, Jaime. A piece on the board, just as you are. And if you’re too blinded by your sentiment to understand that, then perhaps I’ve overestimated you.”

Jaime clenched his fist as he struggled to maintain his composure. “I’m doing the best I can with this… arrangement. But you can’t expect her to play along willingly. I’ve taken everything from her.”

“Then give her something in return,” Tywin said sharply. “Make her believe this union can work. Because if you don’t, she’ll be a liability, and I won’t tolerate that.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Tywin’s tone shifted, taking on a faint note of triumph. “Fortunately, your blunders haven’t completely undone my work.”

Jaime frowned, his brow furrowing. “What are you talking about?”

Tywin’s gaze remained steady, his expression calm and calculated. “I’ve struck another deal with Roose Bolton. Despite your... interference, he remains a valuable ally. He has agreed to proceed with the marriage to the Freys and will continue to serve as future Warden of the North, provided certain concessions are met.”

Jaime’s stomach churned at the mention of Roose Bolton. The man’s name alone was enough to send a shiver down his spine, and the idea of Tywin dealing with him after all that had happened left a sour taste in his mouth.

“And what concessions did you promise him?” Jaime asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

Tywin raised an eyebrow, his tone measured. “That is my concern, not yours. Your only task is to ensure that your marriage proceeds without further incident.”

Jaime’s frown deepened, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “You’ve already given Bolton too much power. Do you even care what he did to the Starks?”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, his voice turning icy. “What I care about is ensuring the stability of the realm. The Starks are losing the war, Jaime. And in war, the losers do not dictate terms.”

Jaime stared at his father, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. “And what about her? What about Y/N? Do you care about what she’s lost? Or is she just another pawn to be sacrificed for your plans?”

Tywin’s expression remained cold, his voice steady. “She’s a Stark. She understands duty, even if she doesn’t accept it yet. In time, she will come to see that this marriage is what’s best for her house and for the realm.”

Jaime shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You’ve never cared about people, have you? Just names, banners, and alliances. That’s all we are to you.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You are a Lannister, Jaime. And you will do your duty like you promised to me, whether you like it or not. I suggest you remember that before you make another mistake.”

With that, Tywin turned and walked away, his red cloak trailing behind him. Jaime watched him go, his chest tight with frustration and a gnawing sense of helplessness.

He turned back to the table, his thoughts swirling. The weight of his father’s expectations pressed down on him, but it was the thought of you—angry, defiant, and alone in a room somewhere in the Red Keep—that stayed with him.

Jaime sighed, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t know how to fix this, but he knew one thing: he couldn’t let Tywin’s schemes destroy what little hope either of you had left.

Jaime remained at the high table long after Tywin had left, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. The clamor of the feast around him felt distant, muted by his frustration and the weight of Tywin’s words that are a constant reminder of the man he was supposed to be now—the dutiful heir, the husband-to-be.

As he stared into his untouched goblet, Bronn approached, a confident swagger in his step. The sellsword dropped into the empty chair beside Jaime, his goblet sloshing with wine as he plopped it down on the table.

“You look like a man who’s either had too much to drink or not nearly enough,” Bronn remarked, leaning back in his chair with an easy grin.

Jaime sighed, glancing at him. “What do you want, Bronn?”

“To see how the happy groom is doing,” Bronn said, his tone dripping with mock cheer. “You know, I’ve seen more smiles at a hanging than I’ve seen from you tonight.”

Jaime smirked faintly, though there was no real amusement in it. “That obvious, is it?”

“About as subtle as a bear in a ballroom,” Bronn replied, taking a swig of his wine. “So, what’s got you sulking, Kingslayer? Daddy giving you a hard time about your Stark bride?”

Jaime’s expression darkened, and Bronn raised an eyebrow. “Ah,” he said knowingly. “It’s the girl, isn’t it?”

“She hates me,” Jaime admitted, his voice quieter now. “And I can’t blame her. If I were in her position, I’d hate me too.”

Bronn snorted, shaking his head. “Well, that’s your problem right there. You’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself. Hate or no hate, she’s your bride-to-be, isn’t she? So, do something about it.”

Jaime gave him a skeptical look. “And what would you suggest, Bronn? Charm her with my golden hand? Pretend none of this is happening and hope she magically decides to like me?”

Bronn laughed, leaning forward and slapping the table with his palm. “No, you idiot. You’ve got to show her you’re not just some lion licking his wounds. You’ve got to make her see you’re worth her time.”

“And how do I do that?” Jaime asked, his tone edging on sarcasm. “Recite poetry? Shower her with gifts? She’s not the type to be wooed with trinkets.”

Bronn grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “You’re right. She’s not. Stark women are tougher than that. What you need to do is prove yourself. Show her you’re not just Tywin’s lapdog or Cersei’s shadow.”

Jaime frowned, his good hand tapping absently against the table. “And how do you suggest I prove myself, exactly?”

“Start small,” Bronn said with a shrug. “Pay attention to what she cares about. Listen to her, even when she’s snapping at you. And for the gods’ sake, stop trying to make her like you all at once. You’re a knight, Jaime—treat this like a battle. Pick your moments, and strike when the time’s right.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “That’s your advice? Treat courting her like a battle?”

Bronn smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Worked for me plenty of times. Women like a man who knows what he’s doing, even if they don’t admit it. Besides, you’ve already got her attention—you’re just too busy moping to use it.”

Jaime sighed, rubbing his temple with his good hand. “It’s not that simple, Bronn. She’s not just some tavern girl I can charm with a smile and a bit of silver. She’s…” He trailed off, struggling to find the words.

“Different?” Bronn offered, his grin widening. “Special?”

Jaime shot him a glare, but Bronn only laughed. “Relax, Kingslayer. I’m just saying, if she’s worth all this trouble—and it looks like she is—you’ve got to step up your game. Be the man you want her to see, not the one Tywin keeps trying to make you into.”

For a moment, Jaime didn’t respond, his gaze distant as he considered Bronn’s words. Finally, he nodded, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re surprisingly insightful for a man who spends most of his time drinking and killing.”

Bronn raised his goblet in a mock toast. “It’s a talent. Now, go on and stop brooding. You’ve got a Stark to win over.”

Jaime chuckled softly, shaking his head as he stood. “Thanks, Bronn. I’ll see what I can do.”

Bronn grinned, tipping his goblet toward Jaime. “That’s the spirit. And if all else fails, just remember—nothing wrong with a little persistence.”

Jaime rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the faint smile that lingered as he left the table. As much as he hated to admit it, Bronn had a point. If he wanted to bridge the chasm between him and you, he couldn’t wait for things to fix themselves.

It was time to act.

The corridors of the Red Keep were quiet, save for the faint murmur of distant voices and the soft echo of your footsteps on the stone floor. The feast had felt suffocating, the weight of your impending betrothal pressing down on you with every forced smile and whispered comment. You had needed air, space to think, and so you had left, wandering the labyrinthine halls of the castle.

As you rounded a corner, you nearly collided with Brienne, who stood with her new squire, Podrick Payne. Podrick scrambled to bow, his nervous energy palpable as he straightened his posture, looking to Brienne for guidance.

“Lady Y/N,” Brienne said, inclining her head respectfully. Her blue eyes softened slightly when she saw your face. “Are you well?”

You hesitated, glancing at Podrick before nodding faintly. “As well as one can be in my position.”

Brienne’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, then shifted to Podrick. “Go on ahead, Podrick. I’ll find you shortly.”

Podrick hesitated, glancing between you and Brienne, before nodding. “Yes, Ser,” he said, bowing again before scurrying off down the hall.

Once he was out of earshot, you turned to Brienne, your voice quieter now. “Have you heard anything? About Sansa? Or Arya?”

Brienne’s expression grew somber, and she shook her head. “No word of Sansa since she disappeared after the… after the wedding. The same for Arya, nothing yet has reached my ears.”

You sighed, the weight of their absence pressing heavily on your chest. “I can’t stop thinking about them. Sansa, alone out there somewhere, and Arya…” You trailed off, your voice breaking slightly. “I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

Brienne’s eyes softened further, and she placed a reassuring hand on your arm. “They are strong, both of them. More than people give them credit for. And I will not stop searching for them.”

“I know,” you said, your voice trembling. “But it doesn’t make this any easier.”

Brienne hesitated, her hand dropping back to her side. “You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?”

You frowned, confused. “Him?”

“Jaime,” Brienne said simply.

The name hung between you like a weight, and you looked away, your jaw tightening. “What about him?”

Brienne glanced down the hall, ensuring no one was listening, before stepping closer. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” she said quietly. “Even back in your brother’s camp, when I was trying to sneak him out on your mother's orders. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

You stared at her, disbelief flickering across your face. “He’s a Lannister, Brienne. A Kingslayer. You can’t expect me to believe there’s anything genuine in that.”

Brienne met your gaze steadily, her voice firm. “Jaime is many things, but he’s not a liar when it comes to matters of the heart. We both have seen him at his worst, and also at his best. Whatever his faults, his feelings for you… they’re not false.”

You crossed your arms, shaking your head. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t matter. I can’t do this. I can’t marry him, Brienne. Not after everything.”

Brienne’s expression softened, and she placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’ve survived worse than this, my lady. I know it feels impossible now, but you’re stronger than you realize. And if anyone can match Jaime Lannister’s fire, it’s you.”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t want to match his fire. I want to be free of all of this. Of him, of the Lannisters, of this cursed city.”

Brienne’s grip on your shoulder tightened slightly, her voice steady. “Freedom will come. But until then, you have to endure. For your family. For Sansa and Arya.”

The mention of your sisters sent a fresh wave of determination through you, though it was laced with bitterness. “For them,” you repeated quietly.

Brienne nodded, stepping back. “And for yourself. You’ve already endured so much. What’s a Lannister wedding compared to that?”

You smirked faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “A fate worse than death, perhaps.”

Brienne chuckled softly, the rare sound surprising you. “Perhaps. But you’ll survive it. Of that, I have no doubt.”

For the first time that evening, you felt a faint flicker of reassurance. Brienne’s unwavering strength was a balm, even if it couldn’t entirely ease the turmoil in your heart.

“Thank you, Brienne,” you said quietly.

She nodded, her expression calm but resolute. “Always, my lady.”

With that, she stepped away, disappearing down the hall in the direction Podrick had gone. You stood there for a moment longer, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you.

You would endure. For your sisters, for your family, and for yourself. But as you turned back toward your chambers, the thought of Jaime’s lingering gaze gnawed at the edges of your resolve, refusing to be ignored.

The feast carried on with its usual pomp and excess, though Jaime’s mind was elsewhere. The hall was alive with the hum of conversation, the clinking of goblets, and the occasional burst of laughter, but to Jaime, it all felt distant, muted. His gaze lingered for a moment on the empty seat where you had been, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to look away.

At Tywin’s end of the high table, a cluster of lords approached, their polished armor and fine cloaks reflecting the candlelight. Each man carried a goblet in one hand and a polite smile on their face as they greeted the head of House Lannister.

“Lord Tywin,” one of them began, his voice dripping with practiced cordiality. “Congratulations on this most auspicious union. Another match between Stark and a Lannister—who would have thought such a thing possible?”

Tywin inclined his head slightly, his expression composed. “The match serves the realm. Unity between our houses ensures stability in these uncertain times.”

The lord nodded, his smile widening. “Indeed, my lord. A brilliant stroke of strategy. The North is a prize worth any cost.”

Jaime bristled slightly at the casual reference to you as a "prize" but said nothing, forcing himself to sip his wine and keep his expression neutral.

Another lord, older and broader of frame, stepped forward, his tone more jovial. “And let us not forget the groom himself! Ser Jaime, you must be pleased. Lady Y/N is as fierce as she is lovely—quite the match for the Kingslayer, wouldn’t you say?”

Jaime’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose that depends on how you define ‘pleased.’”

The older lord chuckled, clapping Jaime on the shoulder with a force that made his golden hand shift slightly. “A man with a sense of humor. You’ll need it, my friend, if what they say about Stark women is true.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to Jaime, his expression unreadable but clearly urging restraint. Jaime straightened slightly, his smirk fading into a more measured expression.

“Stark women are known for their loyalty and strength,” Jaime said evenly. “Qualities I can certainly appreciate.”

The older lord seemed satisfied with that answer, nodding before turning his attention back to Tywin. “Well, my lord, you’ve certainly outdone yourself with this match. I daresay the realm will be talking about it for years to come.”

Tywin’s expression remained impassive, though he offered a faint nod. “The Lannisters have always understood the importance of alliances. This is no exception.”

As the lords moved on, offering similar congratulations and well-wishes, Jaime leaned toward his father, his voice low enough not to carry beyond the table. “Do you think anyone here actually cares about this union beyond what it can gain them?”

Tywin turned to Jaime, his gaze cold and calculating. “It doesn’t matter what they care about. What matters is what they see. A Stark and a Lannister united under one banner sends a message to every corner of the realm. Especially after Lady Sansa disappeared and Tyrion sits in the dungeons. They may whisper and scheme, but they will also remember who holds the North and the Westerlands in their grasp.”

Jaime frowned, his hand tapping absently against his goblet. “And what about her? Do you think she’ll ever see it that way?”

Tywin’s expression didn’t waver. “That’s not your concern. Your concern is ensuring that she fulfills her role, just as you must fulfill yours. She will adapt, as all women in her position do.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, his thoughts flashing to you storming out of the feast, the fire in your eyes as vivid in his memory as it had been in the moment. “She’s not like most women, Father. She won’t adapt just because you expect her to.”

“Then make her,” Tywin said curtly, his tone brooking no argument. “She’s your responsibility now, Jaime. Whatever it takes to ensure her loyalty, you will do it. I will not have this alliance jeopardized because you lack the resolve to handle her.”

Jaime’s frown deepened, but he said nothing, lifting his goblet to his lips to mask his frustration.

As the lords continued to offer their congratulations, Tywin rose from his seat, the room falling silent as he addressed the hall. “My lords and ladies,” he began, his voice carrying easily over the gathered crowd. “Tonight, we celebrate a union that will strengthen the realm and ensure peace in these uncertain times. Let us raise our goblets to Ser Jaime Lannister and Lady Y/N Stark.”

The hall erupted in cheers and applause, goblets raised high as the guests toasted to the match. Jaime forced a smile, nodding politely as the eyes of the room turned toward him.

But as he looked out over the sea of faces, his thoughts drifted back to you—your defiance, your anger, and the walls you had built so carefully around yourself. Jaime wondered if he would ever be able to break through them, or if you would forever remain a Stark in chains.

He raised his goblet, the weight of the golden hand making the gesture feel heavier than it should have been. “To alliances,” he murmured under his breath, the words carrying more bitterness than hope.

The corridors of the Red Keep were quieter now, the echoes of the feast fading as the night deepened. Jaime walked with purpose, his golden hand occasionally brushing against the hilt of his sword, a faint rhythm to his steps. The memory of your abrupt departure from the feast lingered in his mind, the defiance in your eyes a stark contrast to the polite masks worn by the other nobles.

When he reached your chambers, the two guards stationed outside shifted uncomfortably at his approach, exchanging wary glances. Jaime’s reputation had always preceded him, but now, as Tywin’s heir, his presence carried an even greater weight.

“You can leave,” Jaime said curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The guards hesitated before bowing and stepping aside, their boots echoing softly against the stone as they retreated. Jaime knocked lightly before opening the door without waiting for a response.

The room was dimly lit, a single candle on the desk casting a warm glow. You were seated by the window, your back to him, staring out over the city. The pale moonlight framed your silhouette, and for a moment, Jaime hesitated, struck by the quiet strength in your posture.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to come storming in here,” you said without turning, your tone sharp but weary.

Jaime smirked faintly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Storming? Hardly. I thought I’d try a more subtle approach for once.”

You turned then, your gaze cold as you studied him. “And to what do I owe this… visit? Come to scold me for embarrassing the great Tywin Lannister?”

“Not quite,” Jaime said, leaning casually against the wall. “Though he wasn’t thrilled, I’ll admit. But no, I came for a different reason.”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “And what reason is that?”

“Margaery,” Jaime said simply, watching your reaction closely. “She asked about you after you left. Wanted to know where you’d gone and why you weren’t enjoying the feast.”

You frowned, your arms crossing over your chest. “And what did you tell her?”

“The truth,” Jaime replied. “That you needed some air. Though I imagine she saw through that.”

You shook your head, turning back to the window. “I don’t care what Margaery Tyrell thinks. She’s as much a pawn in this game as I am.”

Jaime stepped closer, his voice softening. “She seemed genuinely concerned. Or at least, as genuine as a Tyrell can be.”

You let out a bitter laugh, your fingers gripping the windowsill. “Concerned for her own plans, maybe. She’s already making moves to secure her place beside Tommen. I doubt she spares a thought for anyone but herself.”

“Perhaps,” Jaime conceded. “But she’s not wrong to notice your absence. It raised questions, Y/N. Questions neither of us need right now.”

You turned to face him again, your eyes narrowing. “If you came here to lecture me about duty and appearances, save your breath. I’ve heard it all before—from your father, from my own father. I won’t pretend to care about a feast when the people I love are scattered, imprisoned, or dead.”

Jaime flinched slightly at your words, but he held your gaze. “I didn’t come to lecture you,” he said quietly. “I came because… I don’t know. I thought you might want someone to talk to.”

You blinked, clearly taken aback by his admission. For a moment, the tension between you eased, though it didn’t entirely disappear.

“Talk?” you repeated, your tone softer but still guarded. “What could we possibly have to talk about?”

“Anything,” Jaime said with a faint shrug. “The weather. How terrible the wine was tonight. Or how much you hate me. Take your pick.”

Despite yourself, a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” Jaime said with a faint smirk. “But insufferable or not, I’m here. And I’m not leaving until you’ve at least considered the possibility that this—us—doesn’t have to be as unbearable as you think.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your expression unreadable. “You’re a fool if you think you can convince me of that, Jaime.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “But I’ve been called worse.”

The silence between you stretched, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Finally, you turned back to the window, your tone quieter but no less firm.

“Goodnight, Jaime,” you said, your back to him once more.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, though you couldn’t see it. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he said, his voice lingering in the quiet.

Jaime turned and left the room, the door clicking softly behind him. 

[bethanydelleman]

Reminder that Jane Austen's heroines, like all real human women, are occasionally downright mean in their private thoughts. And that's normal.

Elizabeth Bennet (of Anne de Bourgh, a woman she has never met): “I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. “She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will make him a very proper wife.”

Anne Elliot (on why she's better than Henrietta and Louisa): Anne always contemplated them as some of the happiest creatures of her acquaintance; but still, saved as we all are, by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing for the possibility of exchange, she would not have given up her own more elegant and cultivated mind for all their enjoyments...

Elinor Dashwood (on women she has known for one evening): This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them better.

(Elizabeth's statement is technically out loud, but she says it as an aside and Maria Lucas doesn't respond, indicating that either she didn't hear or was too confused to reply)

[chaotic-fandom-writer]

Alastor x PregnantReader (Hazbin Hotel)

Warnings: Cursing, adult themes, pregnancy

Summary

(Y/N) is pregnant with her husband Alastor's child, but lately she's been feeling pretty insecure about her body, and Alastor doesn't like that.

--

You stand in your mirror, staring at your big, round belly. It was beautiful that you could make a whole life, and you loved that about yourself, but lately it was getting harder.

You went out the other night and overheard some strangers, who probably didn't even know you were pregnant, commenting on your body.

It just made you feel icky. If people already think that way about me now, what will they say once I'm not pregnant anymore, and I have a postpartum body?

Suddenly, you hear your bedroom door open, and your husband, Alastor walks in.

"Hello, darling!" He walks up to you, giving you a kiss on the cheek.

"How are you today?" You look away, pulling your shirt back over your stomach and moving away from the mirror. You felt embarassed. "I'm okay."

Alastor's head cocks to the side. "Well, you certainly don't appear to be okay. What's going on, my dear?"

He sits on the bed, gesturing for you to sit next to him. You sigh, sitting and turning you head away. "I've just been feeling a little.. insecure, I guess."

"Insecure?"

You sigh again. "The other day when I went out, I overheard some people talking about me." You see Alastor's gaze darken. "What do yu mean?"

"They were commenting on my body, saying some nasty things about how I look overweight and stuff. I don't know, it's probably silly, I guess it just bothered me."

Suddenly, Alastor stands in front of you, grabbing your chin forcefully.

"My darling, you are the most beautiful specimen to ever grace the entirety of Hell. You are a goddess - you're creating an entire life form. And that's not something just anyone can do with the amount of grace you carry yourself with."

You blush, and try to turn away out of embarassment, but he holds you firm, yanking you to your feet instead.

He snakes an arm around your waist, and with a snap of his fingers, elegant, smooth jazz begins to play throughout the room.

He guides you around the room in a ballroom waltz, gazing into your eyes. "You are the most stunning creature to ever appear before me."

"Your beauty reminds me of one of my favorite operas.. La Traviata."

He lowers you into a graceful dip, quoting the opera to you, a romantic lust clouding his eyes.

"Amor e palpito dell univero intero.."

(Love is a heartbeat throughout the univese..)

"..misterioso, altero, croce e delizia al cor."

(..mysterious, altering, the torment and delight of my heart.)

"..Amore! Follie! Gioir!"

(Love! Madness! Euophira!)

As Alastor sings the opera to you, he twirls you in a delicate dance. You stop, putting your hand to his face.

"Alastor, that was beautiful."

"No dear, you're beautiful." He sweeps you up in a dramatic, passionate kiss. "And if I ever catch the people speaking badly about you.."

His eyes go dark. "Let's just say, they'll have to be the next guests on my radio broadcast."

You giggle. "Thank you, honey. I love you so much."

He smiles, rubbing your tummy lovingly, and kissing your forehead.

"I love you too, darling."

--

Don't forget, I'm always accepting requests!

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Joan Bennett (Man Hunt, Scarlet Street, The Woman in the Window)—Joan Bennett has everything you could ever want in a hot vintage dame of the big screen, She has gorgeous big green eyes that are so expressive both when they're filled with tears or with scorn or lust. Despite being a whole five foot barely anything she brings a presence that makes her feel larger than life. Never letting any scene partner take away from her and she was up against some heavy hitters like Spencer Tracey, James Mason, Michael Redgrave, and Edward G Robinson just to name a few.. She went from being an adorable blonde to a deadly and sexy brunette. She's THE femme fatale to end femme fatale and I will not take any criticism. Her voice is distinct, her look her own, and not even her shitty husband shooting her agent in the dick stopped her; finding success in theatre and hit TV show Dark Shadows. (Screw Hollywood for being sexist but shout out to Humphrey Bogart for insisting she stay in 'We're No Angels') She should've been nominated for an Oscar for Scarlet Street. She made Fritz Lang relevant again with her amazing performances. She made noir NOIR, her influence can be over stated. She's beautiful as hell, she was a genuinely kind person despite all nonsense she was put through and though she didn't think much of the films she was in she was doing it for the LOVE of film making. I just have lots of feelings about her. She's a blorbo.

Lucille Ball (Beauty for the Asking, Two Smart People, Go Chase Yourself)— important propaganda: lucille ball in ziegfeld follies bedecked in pink feathers and cracking a whip at a horde of catgirls [video below the cut]

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut]

Joan Bennett:

She was THE leading woman in TWO famous “the woman in xyz location” films which is very funny. Fritz Lang loved her and he was correct (as always). Slayed on Dark Shadows and in Suspiria. Slayed as a blonde. Slayed as a brunette. So pretty. Excellent voice. Big sad eyes. Talent. Elegance. She’s every woman.

The epitome of a femme fatale, just look at her

Blonde, brunette, this woman can do it all

Lucille Ball:

THE girlboss of all time

Before she was a prolific producer or television actress Lucy was a Hollywood starlet. Check her out with her blonde hair before she always had an updo.

A powerhouse of comedy!!! Funny people are hotter, I don't make the rules

[witchpassing]

3. ... b6

Bear with it. Losing you will only worsen Her Majesty’s nerves. She does care, you know.  - Mal

December 12 

I have been reading my diary - the old entries, from before my illness worsened and I fell out of the habit. I don’t remember writing these things. Not a word of them. They aren’t 

No. Let me begin again; I do remember. I remember all the things that aren’t written down - the colour of the sky at Father’s funeral, the noise it made when I fell off my horse and broke my shin. But it’s wrong, somehow; why didn’t I write these things down? They glare in my memory like stars. Talk of some boy I deigned to dance with, no mention of the way his sister looked at us, a dead bird upon my windowsill in January that I neglected to record, why didn’t I care?

Still in foul temper. Unkind to Jeanne, again; she was on the verge of tears. I think I liked that. 

God, I

{n - Final paragraph blotted to unintelligibility.}

By Christ and all his devils, what have you enmeshed me in? No, I cannot treat her, Simon! I can barely read Kelvin-Voight’s notes, that ancient incubus-! I don’t know what he’s done, I don’t know how to fix it, and most of all I don’t like the way that thing-from-the-flask you’ve concocted together looks at me! Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t get on the next boat to Pureshka - one good reason! One, you reeking red-billed bird of letters!  🝁

{n - Entry undated.}

Stop reading my diary, Major-General.

chapter index

[artfennec]

good job fixing your shrimp posture girlie 👍✨

OH MY GOD

HER POSTURE IS FIXED???????

[miabbh]

Undocked ⚓🦇

vampire ship captain!Baekhyun x reader

Synopsis: With the madness that the passage of time brings to his kind, he is forced to save you from what he himself did to you, when you were trying to run away from your state of life just much as he was.

Genre: fluff, semi-explicit, tiny bit of angst, mentions of blood | around 8,5k words

There are only two circumstances in which there is nothing left to do: when you die, and when you lose hope. Even so, for the ultimate end, these two must coexist.

He still carried hope; you, life.

With age, for those of his kind, wisdom was joined by madness and lack of control, intertwined with growing folly and perdition. The omen of the end was revealed as an irresistible temptation: a visceral desire to reintegrate with those from whom they had once been estranged, in the illusory hope of recovering their lost humanity. But this closeness only awakened the dark nature that dwelled underneath, summoning the beast that hungrily waited to break free. When the mask fell, horror and carnage were unleashed and the inevitable followed.

Baekhyun recognised the signs well, spectral melodies that echoed with the arrival of each new moon, as familiar as they were terrifying. What had begun as a mournful whisper, steeped in nostalgia, now explodes into ferocious cries from the depths of his diaphragm, rising up his throat to become inhuman screams, reverberating like echoes in chambers of cold stone.

The sea has become his only bastion since it started to become a threat to stay on land for long periods of time. If it hadn't been for Chanyeol, these last three months on land would have had much more to embitter his conscience than the resentment that he might not survive until the end of the decade.

The ships he commanded became progressively smaller, safer, as safe as it was to have a vampire who couldn't control his instincts confined to a vessel with a hundred or two of humans. Small ships with two hundred filthy rich humans, with addictions corrupting their souls and bodies—they weren't exactly the most desirable, not even for when the most savage being revealed itself.

Grateful for his survival instincts, Baekhyun clung to what still made him feel useful and happy—the helms of the small cruise ships on which he shared command with Chanyeol.

He didn't even have a safe harbour now, except for the two of them.

Still, he smiles, with a smile that defies the very essence of what flowed through him, overflowing with an unsuspected tenderness, so authentic that it seems to question the nature of the blood that courses through his unholy veins.

And then, you.

For the first time in decades, his smile found a more sub-lime purpose.

He sensed your presence even before his eyes reached you, as if the sweetness you radiated was an invisible enchantment, crossing the ballroom with a subtlety that stood out amid the decadence of perfumes and muffled voices. For a moment, Baekhyun let himself be carried away, his attention lost, disconnected from the insipid conversation between the officials and the cruise company representatives. Moved by an almost spectral impulse, he looked for you and saw you coming through the varnished wooden door, trying to tidy up your hair that had come loose from the simple but elegant updo, possibly because of the wind outside.

He followed your every hesitant step with fascination, until you settled by the window, away from the crowd.

He saw you for the first time at check-in, when your fragrance was mixed with a touch of apprehension, as you carried a suitcase in one hand and a camera in the other, walking down the corridor towards the cabins.

There was something hypnotic about the way you captured the world around you: the empty corridor, the plaster mouldings on the walls, the minimalist ornaments and, finally, the number on your door—64. Or the fact that you found interest in the simplest detail of the signature on the ship's map.

A faint smile had appeared on his lips as he watched you from a distance, like a figure lost in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs.

There was an unusual magnetism about you, a presence that seemed to belong to another era, and he felt drawn to your existence. Yet you remained motionless, your countenance serenely composed, concealing the turmoil that was agitating your spirit.

Now, seeing you come in late for dinner, occupying a solitary table, aroused in him a restlessness that bordered on despair. The desire to get up and walk over to you resounded like an inexorable call, but he held back. Chanyeol mentioned his name, and Baekhyun, momentarily pulled out of the spell that was enveloping him, once again concealed the intensity of his interest with the dexterity of an actor.

The wind blew so hard the moment you stepped out on deck that it almost ripped out the clip holding your hair in a semi-formal updo. Since you checked in mid-afternoon, you had been contemplating whether to stay in your cabin all night or attend the welcoming dinner offered by the cruise company. And now, on the verge of descending the stairs to the harbour, you were rethinking your choice.

The dinner was taking place in a small ballroom, just above the harbour where the cruise ship was docked. From the movement around you, it seemed that all the other passengers were already there when you finally grabbed hold of the metal railing of the staircase that connected the ship to the harbour. At least it didn't sway in the wind!

It's not that you're a fan of these occasions—exquisite dinners, without knowing anyone, without a clear purpose—and it wasn't with that in mind that you joined this mini holiday on the Atlantic. But the movement of the waves, which you weren't used to, made you uneasy. If the boat capsizes because of the wind, or water gets into the cabins, or the lights go out because of the afterlife, you didn't want to be the only one left on board because you were embarrassed to sit alone at dinner.

A lot had driven you to that moment, despite your tendency to be anxious at the thought of getting on a boat on the high seas without knowing how to swim.

There wasn't much to look forward to in your daily life; everything and nothing happened at the same time. You rushed to stay in the same place, in a tedious and exhausting limbo, where you didn't even know who you were anymore.

That wasn't the work perspective you had when you did your master's in photography. Your job in a photography agency was well paid, your nine and a half hours three out of five days a week of work were almost forgotten when the end of the month arrived and you managed to pay all the bills and enjoy a bit of pampering for your collection of photographic equipment. However, you soon saw your landscapes and city moments captured on camera turn into all the same photographs of individuals with their arms crossed with more or less similar promises, against a monochrome background and perfectly controlled lighting.

Your dream, tucked away in a corner of the living room and in a few drawers and cupboards, only saw the light of day on some Sundays. Just like your creativity.

After seven years at the same pace, you felt betrayed. Betrayed by yourself. You didn't have the time, despite the material you'd invested so much in; you didn't have the energy, despite the will and encouragement of those who loved you. Carrying a camera in your hands had gone from a comfort to a burden on your heart.

The passion slowly faded without you realizing it.

Until 18 months ago, when exhaustion overtook the usual tiredness, and getting home consisted of taking a quick shower, leaning against the kitchen worktop while Alejandro handled the pots and pans with your dinner, and barely remembering to eat it to wake up in bed the next day with the alarm clock ringing.

Alejandro was an attentive and caring and funny boyfriend. You met while fighting over the last almond cookies from the bakery in your street.

It started with a small, deadly hatred for each other, always with a view to getting to the stand first. It was a bit ridiculous, when you thought about it outside of moments of competitive adrenaline, but you only had to watch him round the corner on his noisy motorbike to not-so-discreetly chain his way to the bakery door.

Everything changed the day they both arrived at the bakery at the same time, exhausted from racing each other. You laughed together for the first time, your faces flushed from running, and he offered you the last almond cookie. From that moment on, something unfolded naturally. Before long, he was in your life in a solid and stable way. Competition gave way to quiet complicity, and his presence became comforting.

With him, there was a sense of solid partnership that emerged in the simplest moments: a silly joke at the end of the day, the care taken to put a blanket over you when you fell asleep on the sofa, or the way he looked at you, as if every beat of his heart was thanks to your presence.

In the last six months, however, it was only through the selfie with him that you had as your lockscreen that you saw him. Work days went by in a flash, and you only remembered to go home after the usual stress of fighting for a parking slot in front of your building. Everything else was a mixture of yawns, a heavy body and your mind thinking about what you had to do the next day.

Your end came after almost four years. He was understanding, but offered a lot of resistance. Maybe that's what you deserved... how could you love someone if you didn't even love yourself? If you weren't even fighting for what you wanted?

You were so, so close to giving up—to giving up on the life you had. But then you allowed yourself to take a risk. The final straw came the day you broke your camera lens at one of your work meetings. To help it, your car wouldn't start when it was time to leave; you had to park almost on the other side of the block when you arrived at an empty, dark home.

It was enough!

The letter of resignation appeared on your computer in minutes, as if your fingers knew better than your mind what you wanted to say.

Sending it took a little longer, you were given two hours—shower and a not very successful attempt at cooking—to send the email.

And send it you did.

A week was enough to realise that you had been impulsive. But a part of your mind wouldn't allow you to feel guilty; that's what you wanted deep down, wasn't it?

The walls of an empty flat, the work folders on your computer, the photos on your camera memory card didn't really allow you to rest.

You had no tears left to cry-not even for yourself, nor for the film playing in the background on TV, full of inspiring phrases about resilience and courage.

When the ad break came, you almost laughed at the irony: an advert for a cruise line that promised the perfect escape from a monotonous life.

"I'm spending a week on a cruise across the Atlantic. I promise I'll keep you updated, but please don't call me." is what you said to your parents and friends after booking a cabin on the company's website, extending the conversation a little further with rearrangements about the upcoming festivities.

A small cruise with only 170 people in total, in search of a little peace from the hustle and bustle of the city and something beautiful to photograph, that would touch your soul, that would make you feel connected to your dream again.

What a good synopsis for what you hoped would be a good restart to your life, rather than a stray from the end.

To begin with, however, you decided to leave the camera, your only constant companion, in the cabin.

Today, it was just you.

A crew member guarding the entrance, with a watchful eye, was waiting at the bottom of the stairs and asked:

"Are you going to dinner, miss?" You nodded. You nodded. "That car can take you there."

The black car with the company logo was parked a few metres away. You walked down the remaining steps, a sudden relief in your chest as you felt you were on solid ground, the wind no longer so strong.

"Yes, please."

He signalled, and the car lights came on before the driver got out of his seat and opened the back door for you.

The car door closed beside you with a soft click, muffling the sound of the wind whipping through the harbour. You watched the small, illuminated ballroom approach, feeling a mixture of hesitation and discomfort.

You looked around, searching for some familiar sign, but you knew you were alone.

As you entered the lounge, the soft lights and the hushed murmur of conversation created a cosy atmosphere. You looked for a discreet table, away from the centre of attention. You found one, by the window, overlooking the harbour, now shrouded in darkness were it not for the ship's outside lights. You sat there, watching the lounge. Your gaze passed over the unfamiliar faces, the elegantly decorated tables, feeling like an outsider among everyone.

As you settled in, you let your gaze wander around the room. The unfamiliar faces mingled in conversations and laughter that echoed in the background. You had met some of the crew during check-in, but you only recognised the second captain, Chanyeol, sitting at a table in the centre with a few other crew members. He was smiling in the same way as when you first saw him: a smile almost too sweet for his height and build.

You took a deep breath, looking at the table in front of you and wondering how long you would have to stand there before it was acceptable to return to the cabin. Perhaps you could order something light to eat and escape before the end...

While you were analysing your surroundings, one of the waitresses approached you.

"Can I get you something, miss?"

"Something light, please." you said in an almost inaudible tone, forcing a polite smile. You didn't have much of an appetite.

She nodded and, a few minutes later, brought you some soup and an omelette with roast vegetables. You nodded your thanks and started eating.

A woman at the next table laughed at something, and you looked up. You should have sat back to them. Or sideways, at least... Suddenly, that familiar feeling of strangeness when eating returned, and you had to put down your spoon and drink some of the cool water, opting to attack the omelette for the time being.

You ate in silence, as quickly as possible without seeming rushed. You could already feel the relief creeping in, about to escape, when the lights in the lounge subtly changed and soft music began to play. The first chords of a waltz-like melody filled the room, and you were overcome with a mixture of curiosity and delight.

A small dance floor opened up in the centre, and couples began to join in slowly, lulled by the music.

You didn't realise that this was what they meant when they said "𝐃𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧�� 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬".

The beauty of the dance and the human warmth that radiated from the moment touched you in a way you hadn't expected. You automatically grabbed your phone to capture some images. You wished you'd brought the camera when the photo didn't quite live up to expectations.

Possibly the few hundred photos you had taken of your own volition and pleasure only existed because of Alejandro. He didn't like being "immortalised in bytes" and had already made that clear several times, but you still allowed him to sneak into one or the other. His serene smile, dark skin and black hair added an intimate and real touch to the photographs. It was a piece of your story, too.

If he was here, maybe you could 'live the moment and save it on your minds' on the dance floor too.

You didn't let the memory get to you. Or you tried to. A heavy sigh demanded to be released.

You looked around. You hadn't realised how interesting the space was: a mix of an older architectural style, probably over two hundred years old, from the windows and columns and chandeliers, with the flooring you see everywhere these days and the round, simple tables of this century.

It was a beautiful location for wedding photos. With the right decoration, some flowers, a happy couple and family and friends genuinely celebrating. Maybe you could get a few shots of the sun harbouring through those huge windows. Just the silhouette and the sky painted orange and pink...

You were back in your element, observing and freezing moments. The smile grew on your lips unintentionally, imagining the possibilities that space had to offer.

You turned to photograph the chandelier when someone approached your table. A man with a gentle smile on his lips stopped next to you. You didn't recognise him immediately, but there was something about the way he looked at you, with a quiet curiosity, that disarmed you.

You pressed your phone against the chest.

"May I have the honour of this dance?" he asked, his voice low and calm, but full of a kind of magnetism.

He was tall, with brown hair and a deep, sweet gaze to match his smile, which became a little smaller as his cheeks rose. The dark blue tone of the knitted sweater suited his features so well, as did the gold pendant he wore around his neck.

The women at the next table watched him with intent, a hint of envy in their wrinkled noses or in the nerve of their eyebrows. He, however, didn't seem to notice.

Surprised, you looked at him. Why you?

There was a calmness about him that drew you in, as if he were in no hurry, as if he had all the time in the world to wait for you.

You hunched your shoulders, as if that could hide you.

"I... I'm not very good at dancing any more…" you said with a small, nervous smile.

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes shining with lightness.

"I promise I won't trip you up.”

And 'no' was no longer an answer to that inviting slender hand.

"Well, then..." the cellphone was left on the table when you placed your hand in his, a little hesitant. But he remained still, holding your hand with a gentleness that gave you confidence.

When you reached the dance floor, the lights seemed to soften even more and the music enveloped you in a slow and enchanting rhythm. You smiled nervously when your free hand rested on his broad shoulder, the other subtly rolling into his until they fit together.

A soft touch of a waltz enveloped you. The first steps were tentative, but he guided you confidently, and as the dance progressed, you began to lose yourself in the moment. Your movements became fluid.

The room glowed with twinkling lights, and the warmth of the crowd became a distant backdrop.

It wasn't difficult. You had danced before, yes. Several times, with more or less public, when the simplicity of teenage life gave you time to experiment and dedicate some time a week to activities that were a rewarding indulgence.

The firm touch of his hand that held yours high, the light pressure of his fingers on your back brought back that feeling of going back in time. And suddenly it seemed like everything had a solution.

His face in profile, as he measured the spacing between the other dancers before making you move forward, showed serenity and fun. If he only knew what he was doing for you…

He felt your gaze on him.

"My name is Baekhyun, by the way." he said, turning to you, eyes fixed on yours.

Baekhyun.

You smiled at him and said your name.

He repeats it with a smile that you used to only see through the camera when you went out to take photos in the park. As if it were a name with immense meaning, beautiful, and because it is yours.

For a moment, everything seemed perfect.

In a sudden change of pace, in your distraction, you tripped over your own feet. A brief moment of imbalance, and before you can correct yourself, you feel yourself losing your stability, the ground slipping away from you.

That was living in the dream, wasn't it? Waking up to reality in the best part... Have you prepared yourself for the pain of falling, or waking up still at the table trying to figure out how to use a spoon without feeling embarrassed.

But instead of the impact, you felt Baekhyun reacting instantly, pulling you closer.

“Sorry." you murmured, pressed against his chest, grabbing the shoulder of his sweater when the world stopped being on pause.

A moment of silence fell over the two of you before it turned into an explosion of laughter. He laughed, and the sound of his laughter was contagious. The environment around you seemed to light up even more, and you couldn't help but smile as you felt the lightness of the situation.

“Thanks." you whispered. Baekhyun just smiled, his eyes shining with a mix of amusement and relief.

“I was the one who promised not to let you trip… I’m sorry.” he said.

“I was distracted.” you explained.

“Me too.”

The sequence returned to the beginning, the steps almost already memorized.

The melody calms down, and as the song approaches the end, you feel a slight sadness, a reluctance for the moment to end. Baekhyun pulled you a little closer, and the intensity of his gaze made you feel as if time could become infinite.

When the music finally stopped, they both walked away a little, breathing heavily and their hearts still beating quickly. He removed his hand from your back immediately, but the one holding yours remained.

"Thanks for the dance, Baekhyun.”

He smiled again, a smile that seemed to know more than it let on.

"The pleasure is mine."

As you moved away from the center, you heard Captain Chanyeol's voice approaching, along with another man. Baekhyun's hand suddenly squeezed yours.

“Good evening, miss.” he said to you, smiling. Dimples appeared on his face. “Captain, the president of the music group who will be on board.”

Your eyes widened, feeling your heart speed up.

Captain? Was Baekhyun the captain?

You felt heat rise to your face, a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. He had introduced himself in such a simple way, without any mention of his position, that you also took the liberty of treating him without apparatus.

He greeted the man, releasing your hand.

"Captain...?" you murmured, more to yourself than to him, but his gaze fell on you as soon as he let go of the man's hand.

Baekhyun allowed himself to smile, a light but controlled expression. He hadn't introduced himself properly so as not to cause you more hesitation, or shyness, and because it really wasn't important at the moment.

"Yes." he said. "But I prefer Baekhyun. Captain only during duty hours.” He winked before giving a curt nod. “And it seems that the service calls. I hope to see you soon for a second dance, though.”

Without thinking, you just nodded yes.

And with that, he smiled and followed the other two men to the back of the room, his expression slightly more serious. What would it be like to see him in uniform?

Stop, silly!

He didn't want to leave you so soon. He had fun dancing like he hadn't had fun in months. Dancing had that effect on him, especially waltzes.

Waltzes were a tradition that the company maintained to preserve the classic charm of the experience, something that looked good in slogans and advertisements, but in reality, few passengers knew how to dance like they used to. They were now just a warm-up for the following songs, later in the night, of modern beats, which pulsed in an irregular, almost disconcerting way, with chaotic and intense rhythms that seemed to tune out the rhythm of his immortal—but eternally of good taste—heart.

By that moment, he would have retreated further into a corner, trying to ignore the modern cacophony.

The conversation with the director didn't take long. Some basic questions about the presence of the musical group on board, very brief technical details and a more personal presentation about each of the artists.

Baekhyun tried to look interested, but he already knew everything he needed to about them. The rest, the logistics and security personnel took care of. Age was beginning to weigh on him as he had to deal with things he didn't need to.

Chanyeol, however, seemed to be enchanted by one of the artists. The questions came and went, more flirtatious than actually work related—in 1500 years of friendship, he had never heard Chanyeol take as much interest in the strings of a bandolin as he does now.

The imposing melody of Blue Danube woke him from his reverie. A classic that never goes out of style, even though it's not the same to listen to the recording and live. He looked back at the dance floor, looking for you.

He didn't see you anywhere. He stretched his neck, looking for you in the corners. You seemed to have a preference for them…

Contrary to your observation, you danced well, loose and fluid, responding perfectly to his movements. Your hand rested on his shoulder, light but firm, while your arm rested gently on his. You twirled with grace, following him around the track without losing your balance, and he felt every accelerated pulse of your heart against his chest. It was delicious torture.

Every dance movement, every light touch you exchanged, was an internal battle to not give in to the desire to have you closer. And even with all his experience, your presence destabilized him in a way he hadn't anticipated.

He wanted more. And he promised you that.

He felt an elbow on his ribs, and he looked to his left, Chanyeol looking at him with a knowing smile.

“Go there and ask the lonely maiden to dance.” teased Chanyeol, with a playful smile on his lips. “She's waiting for you near the bar. But if you take too long, I might invite her myself…” The sparkle in his eyes was unmistakable, always ready to instigate, test Baekhyun's limits, as only Chanyeol knew how to do.

Baekhyun gave him a warning look before slowly turning around. The thought of seeing Chanyeol spinning you around the track made him act faster than he would like to admit.

It had always been like this between the two: teasing, sarcasm, but a deep complicity that transcended any words. Chanyeol was the only person with whom Baekhyun could be himself, the only one who knew every dark detail of his existence. They shared a long history, marked by moments of mutual salvation. Chanyeol had been there on countless occasions when Baekhyun had almost succumbed to his wilder, more destructive side. Without him, Baekhyun feared that his decline would have already led to irreversible disasters.

He also knew that his friend was always attentive, especially at times like this—in a place full of people. Chanyeol made a point of keeping him grounded, especially now, when the presence of someone as… tempting as you was around.

Maybe that was the real reason behind Chanyeol's joke—to distract him, to help him maintain control over his mind. He was Baekhyun's balance, the firm rope that kept him from falling into the abyss of his own nature.

But him dancing with you? Hell no!

That would be a disaster for his heart. Chanyeol had a charm that was very difficult to resist.

“Relax.” Chanyeol added, patting him friendly on the shoulder. The two ladies in the artist group laughed. “You don't need to bite. Come on, do your part. Promised is due, and I am more one to bite than to twirl.”

Baekhyun laughed at the pun.

“You lack chivalry.” he said.

“It wasn't necessary. They were happy enough when I sat serenading them.”

Baekhyun didn't look back this time.

His eyes searched for you, and there you were, near the bar with a glass of something orange. He hesitated for a moment, watching you from a distance. There was a quiet beauty about you, a serenity that contrasted with the brightness of the party. Maybe that was what attracted him—that aura of someone who seemed to be in a world apart, immersed in something that others couldn't see.

The slow steps guided him to you. A part of Baekhyun couldn't help it: your blood called to him. He knew it smelled delicious, sweet and filled with deep emotions.

It wasn't just the physicality that attracted him—you were breathtaking, really!—but the complexity of what you felt, which made every beat of your heart an irresistible invitation. And despite the sweetness, he knew there was something bitter mixed in. Emotions like sadness, anguish, or perhaps loneliness, filtered into the blood, making it richer, more seductive.

Containing his predatory impulses, Baekhyun stopped a few steps away from you and, with a controlled smile, asked you to dance again.

“I think I owe you a dance, miss.”

Your eyes lit up with a brief hesitation just like the first time, but you accepted. When your fingers touched his hand, he felt the familiar wave of desire rise through his body, but he quickly pushed it away.

He needed to keep himself grounded.

The eyes fell on you again. He couldn't be less bothered, but you seemed to be embarrassed by the sudden attention.

“Does it bother you about the envy on their faces or the attention you attract because you are so beautiful?” he asked, eyes on yours.

The blush that passed through you through the stages did not escape his attentive gaze. He tried not to laugh, but he couldn't contain it. He moved his hand to your ribs, his fingertips now brushing the bone of your spine.

Your lack of reaction made him realize that perhaps he had gone too far. He didn't want to push you away or make you shy. He wanted to see you laugh again.

It was like your every laugh still echoed in him, awakening a primal desire to protect you and a pride that tingled in his fangs. Baekhyun forced himself to contain the impulse. He fought against thirst, against the hunger that had been growing in the last few days.

“Sorry." He murmured, with a hoarse voice and his gaze fixed on yours.

“It’s fine.” you replied, smiling. “I’m not used to so much attention, that’s all.”

He tilted his head, his smile softening his features. “Then let’s pretend no one else is here.”

For a brief moment, it seemed as if the world had truly disappeared around you.

The urge to pull you closer, to feel your warm skin beneath his lips, was almost uncontrollable. The thought of whispering your name before erasing any memory of what was about to happen tempted him terribly.

You were smiling. An infectious smile that Baekhyun couldn't help but imitate. The sound of your racing heart filled his ears, each beat more tempting than the last. It was like a mesmerizing melody, calling him closer to danger.

So tempting… but he couldn't!

The desire to get closer, to feel the heat of your skin, to taste the sweetness that emanated from you was almost unbearable. He bit his lower lip, trying to push away the images that invaded his mind.

But it took a moment. A fleeting distraction, small, but enough to break the spell that kept him contained. Suddenly, his head turned towards the bar, his heightened senses picking up something you hadn't yet noticed. A smell. An aroma that tore through his control with the ferocity of a hungry beast.

The barista, with a pained expression, threw a lemon cut in two into the trash while examining his bloody finger. The smell of blood invaded the room, subtle for anyone else, but for Baekhyun it was like a spark that ignites gunpowder.

In an instant, his heart sped up. The world around him seemed to lose focus, and his instincts took over. The scent of blood was like a drum echoing in his ears, his vision becoming blurred, and his gaze fixed on the bar. He twirled with you, but the movements were no longer smooth; his touch, once light and safe, became erratic, tense.

A familiar tremor began to be heard within him, a deep sound that vibrated through his chest, as if he were the one doing it. Then it began to climb up his throat, his mind becoming confused with how high pitched the scream promised to be, tearing through his dry, painful string.

His arm's grip on your waist loosened, and you, without the firm support of seconds before, stumbled slightly, almost falling backwards.

“Baekhyun!?” Yours echoed through the space, hitting the walls, the tables, the chairs, the chandelier, but it was still distant for him. But he couldn't ignore your soft groan of pain when you grabbed his shoulder tightly.

Quicker than awareness returning to him, Baekhyun slid his hand to your back, pulling you towards him in one swift movement. He held his breath, wide eyes still searching the ground as shock coursed through his body. He could still smell that blood—not the best, certainly, but enough to stop his hunger.

The touch of your skin, the closeness of your face, and your eyes—so alive with adrenaline, so bright under the hall light; in suffering—met his with an unexpected intensity.

You were the 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙮; and you were 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩.

The predatory instinct vanished, giving way to the pity that twisted his empty stomach.

“Hey!” He asked in the next instant, his gaze fixed on yours as you leaned on him and touched your heel. His throat burned with each word. “You got hurt…”

He watched you contort your face before smiling slightly.

“It's nothing.”

Baekhyun couldn't accept the realization. He swallowed a lot of saliva, trying to hide his fangs in his closed mouth.

No, I couldn't leave you there, injured, because of him.

“Let me help you get out of here.”

Chanyeol found you both on your way to the nearest table, his eyes worried, but Baekhyun didn't seem to notice, kneeling at your feet as he made sure of the extent of the damage caused by his own distraction.

“What happened?” he asked. “Are you okay, miss?”

Baekhyun followed the movement of your head, nodding, a slight smile on your lips. He would even believe it if he couldn't feel your heart skipping a beat every time he moved your ankle to the left.

“It was just a misstep-”

“I didn’t hold her properly.” Baekhyun said immediately, looking at Chanyeol finally.

Their eyes met, and no words were needed for them to understand each other. The smell of blood remained in the air, now mixed with a smell of alcohol and saline, but the effect was still there.

Chanyeol got a little closer, but Baekhyun felt the threat. He moved to the side, still on his knees, blocking Chanyeol with his own back.

You got hurt because of him. He was the one to take care of you, not Chanyeol.

“It’s not like I-” you start to speak, but he spoke up again.

“You did nothing wrong. You're a good dancer.” his voice was firm, holding your feet as if it was made of glass.

You swallowed hard, little tempted to counter. It was the truth, anyway.

Chanyeol took a step closer, putting a hand on Baekhyun’s shoulder. He looked up, raising an eyebrow.

“I'll get you some ice, okay?” he says, still smiling. But the squeeze on Baekhyun's shoulder just made it clear that he knew what was going on.

The pain on Baekhyun's throat wasn't there anymore. All that remained now was the constant tremor of a low, deep roar on his chest, just above the diaphragm; and the need to do something for you.

He nodded, and as Chanyeol disapeared to the other side of the room towards the bar, he looked up at you again. You looked so beautiful under all those imitations of crystal chandeliers. Pink cheeks, the strands of hair that had already been loosened by the wind even more loose from the dance movements.

How could he be distracted, when you were right in front of him? He spent the whole night admiring you. And was your blood worth so little like the one from the bartender?

He was getting mad...

Along with the realization, the damn cacaphony began. Colourful lights illuminated the room as a man on a mix table began to speak before putting on his headphones. It seemed to awaken everyone from table conversations, and some passengers even ran to the dance floor.

He sighed discreetly—he would have a huge headache due to those spotlights; then, he noticed the light scent of discomfort coming from you.

He glanced up again, catching the discomfort in your expression. You sighed, not from the regret of missing the dance floor—though he couldn’t quite imagine you there, either—but from a different kind of unease. He couldn’t help but smile, a quiet understanding passing between you.

“Not a fan of this kind of music?” he asked, the faint amusement in his tone not lost on you.

You tilted your head thoughtfully.

“It’s not that I dislike it… it’s just too much noise, too many lights. Not my thing.”

He nodded.

“Would you like to go back to the cruise? I can accompany you.”

“Oh! There’s no need!” you replied, but your voice faltered slightly, betraying you. Then, a small smile crept onto your face. “Though… maybe it wouldn’t hurt to escape this…” you said, gesturing to the vibrant chaos of the ballroom. He chuckled.

“Noise pollution?” he teased, his smile growing as you shrugged.

“You said it.” you replied, smiling shyly.

Gently, he helped you with your shoe, slipping it back onto your foot before standing and offering his hand. As he led you through the exit, he made sure to keep Chanyeol out of sight. Baekhyun didn’t want anyone pushing you away from him—not now.

The chill of the night air hit you as soon as you stepped outside, and you shivered under the brisk wind.

He looked around, looking for the car that was assigned to transport him. Two pairs of bright lights lit up, and quickly a black car stopped in front of you.

A car took you to the harbour, stopping at the ship’s stairs. As you moved to step out, Baekhyun reached into the front seat and pulled out a crisp white coat and gently draped it over your shoulders. The fabric was heavier than you expected, and as you looked down, the insignias and name tag caught your eye—this wasn’t just any coat. It was his Captain's jacket.

He held back his smile when he saw you blush. You felt the warmth of his hands linger as he guided you inside, steadying you with a quiet presence that spoke louder than words. His hand settled respectfully on your back, but you could feel the subtle strength in his touch as he supported most of your weight up the stairs. Each step unhurried.

Reaching your cabin door, you fumbled with the card, eventually leaning against the frame. Baekhyun let you go.

"Thank you." you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your gaze drifted over to him, meeting his eyes. For a second, they glimmered with something he wasn't able to hide—a guarded warmth, an unspoken need.

He smiled, a gentle shrug lifting his shoulders. Words danced on his lips, wanting to spill out—a proposal, The proposal—but he held it back. He didn't want to scare you. Instead, he simply nodded.

"Anything you need, just let me know.”

You nodded.

You nodded, and he couldn't help himself but question if you could feel the quiet weight of his words.

"Okay. Thanks, really!" you replied, suddently distracted by the soft vibration of your phone.

Glancing at the screen, you caught a glimpse of a name with a heart beside it. Baekhyun’s gaze flickered to your phone too, just for a split second. You didn’t answer the message right away, though.

“Well… see you tomorrow!" you managed, forcing casualness. Baekhyun nodded, his lips curving in a faint smile, though his eyes were far away.

The door closed softly, and you were gone.

But Baekhyun stood there for a moment longer, staring at the empty space where you had been, the air still thick with your scent, your warmth. His thoughts spun, entangled with questions he couldn’t answer. Who were you? How had you managed to slip so effortlessly into his world, so precious yet so heartbreakingly alone?

He wanted to know you.

As the silence settled, a sharp, electric pang flared in his fangs, the ache tearing through his dry throat like fire.

He clenched his fists, feeling the sharp bite of his own control fraying at the edges. He knew he should leave, put as much distance between you and his growing hunger as possible. But you were close—so close he could still feel the warmth of your skin, still smell the lingering trace of your perfume. The temptation was maddening.

The shaking resumed, sounding like a small growling beast.

Inhaling deeply, he turned on his heel, willing himself to walk away before he lost control entirely.

Just as he was about to walk away, you opened the door again, your voice breaking the stillness.

“Baekhyun, your jacket!" you called, holding it in your hand.

He turned, his gaze meeting yours. Your hair had fallen loose, framing your face, and he could see the slight rise and fall of your chest, hear the quickened beat of your heart from rushing to catch him. The air thickened between you both—there was no turning back now.

His eyes softened, then darkened, as if caught in some ancient longing he didn’t quite understand. He moved forward, stopping just shy of touching you, his eyes locked on yours, his voice dropping to a murmur that wrapped around you like a whisper of velvet.

“Look at you… my sweet, sweet thing. The most precious I've seen in years, and you're alone." His voice softened, filled with a hint of reverence and an ache he couldn’t name. "How could anyone… not see you?”

Something in his words gripped you, pulling you toward him. Your heart raced faster, a warmth spreading in your chest as his eyes held you captive. The jacket slipped from your fingers, forgotten, as you reached out, your hand finding the edge of his knit sweater. You held onto it, steadying yourself, letting the warmth of him seep through the fabric. His thirst flared, sharp and relentless, yet a strange calm held him in place. For the first time in what felt like eternity, he felt�� patient.

You leaned against him yourself, your breath a bit too fast, your heart beating at the same rhythm. You touched him first, his jacket falling on the floor as you grabbed his knit sweater. He felt thirsty, but something was different. He was in no rush.

Standing on tiptoe, your injured foot hanging slightly, you leaned in, lips brushing his cheek.

"You can do it" you whispered, a mix of trust and challenge in your voice.

His eyes widened, flickering with surprise before his expression darkened, shifting into something deeper, more primal.

He hesitated. The beast protested.

"That's the moment you say my nameeeee~" you hummed, and he inhaled exasperatedly.

He cradled your neck gently, as if afraid to break you, tilting your head just so. His lips brushed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. And with one last, shuddering breath, he whispered your name as he surrendered to his hunger.

The first taste of you was pure ecstasy—a bittersweet blend that brought him to life, flooding his senses with warmth and fire.

Your essence, rich and alive, filled him with a rush of emotions he hadn’t felt in decades. He felt the years of hidden sorrow and hope, the fragile resilience woven into every drop. Your hands gripped his arms, a quiet and ecstasy gasp leaving your lips, and he drew you closer, held you tighter, as if afraid you might vanish.

He couldn't stop.

But then, something in your touch changed—a weak tug, a small gasp that sounded almost like fear. He barely registered it, lost in the intoxicating pull of you, until–

You sagged against him, all strength leaving your body.

Reality slammed into him, jolting him from his trance. He pulled back, eyes wide, his arms wrapped around your waist to keep you from collapsing.

Your skin was pale, your breathing shallow, your pulse… barely there. Horror twisted inside him as he looked at you, truly looked at you, lying limp in his arms.

The shaking in his chest stopped.

He found himself lost, savoring the taste of your blood still in his mouth.

What had he done?

He laid you gently on the bed, panic clawing at him as he stumbled back to shut the door. He returned to you, hands trembling, searching desperately for any sign of life, any flicker of warmth. But there was nothing. Only a cold, unnerving silence.

"No…" he whispered, voice breaking. This couldn’t be happening. He hadn’t meant to go this far. “No, no, no, no!”

Desperation took over, and he bit into his wrist, feeling the sharp sting as he tore the skin. Blood pooled, rich and dark, and he held it over your lips, letting three heavy drops fall, each one a plea, a promise. The thick red drops slid past your parted lips, disappearing into the silence.

He knelt beside you, breath held, his own heart pounding as he waited. The seconds stretched, each one heavier than the last. He could hear his own ragged breathing, his mind swirling with regret, dread, and a glimmer of impossible hope.

What if you never woke up? What if he had ruined everything in a single moment of weakness? He leaned over you, fingers brushing your cheek as he searched for any sign—any flicker of response.

The morning sky stretched wide and endless, a muted blue broken only by soft clouds trailing across the horizon. Baekhyun and Chanyeol stood silently at the helm, watching the port dissolve behind them as the ship drifted toward open waters. They had left the shore far enough behind that the sounds of the world had dulled to a whisper, and only the calls of the seagulls lingered, fading with every passing minute.

Down below, passengers waved handkerchiefs and hands, faces alight with excitement for the journey ahead. But Baekhyun’s gaze didn’t stray to the crowd. He was drawn to you, standing alone at the railing, a vision of life and light, your camera raised to capture the farewell. Your face was bright, the morning sun painting you in hues of gold, and you spoke softly into the lens, your voice and smile warm as you preserved the moment in time.

You were radiant, steady, and full of life—a version of you more at peace than he had ever seen.

Yet, as Baekhyun watched, he felt a weight sink into his chest. There was a part of you that now belonged to him, a quiet connection, an unbreakable thread woven between your souls.

His mark on you was invisible, but unmistakable—your skin gleamed with new vitality, your movements fluid with confidence, and there was an unmistakable calm within you.

But Baekhyun felt none of that peace. He could feel his own pulse, strained and uneasy, every muscle tense as he took in the sight of you—his heart was beating because of want he’s done to you. In giving you a part of himself, he had altered something pure and untouched within you, a gift he neither intended to give nor was proud of.

Watching you now, he knew he couldn’t undo it. You would carry that fragment of him forever, and the thought was as exhilarating as it was crushing.

Beside him, Chanyeol finally broke the silence.

He’d seen Baekhyun like this before, months ago, when the weight of his choices seemed too great for even him to bear. But the look in Baekhyun’s eyes was different now, a raw and silent longing tempered by something close to grief.

Chanyeol placed a hand on the railing, his voice soft yet steady.

“You might not like hearing this, Baekhyun… but you’re old.” he murmured, glancing at Baekhyun before looking back toward you. “And what you did…” he hesitated, his tone growing solemn “…she might get just as mad as you.”

Baekhyun’s eyes finally left you, meeting Chanyeol’s gaze with a mixture of exhaustion and determination. There was no room for denial now, no deflection or escape. The centuries he’d spent, the weight of his years, had worn on him, carved grooves into his soul that he could no longer ignore. A lifetime of restraint, of hiding his true self, had left him alone, forever a stranger on the edge of others’ lives. But now, with you, he’d crossed that line. And he couldn’t take it back.

“I’ll take care of her.” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, though resolute.

Chanyeol studied him for a long moment, a quiet understanding in his eyes.

“I hope..” he replied slowly, his words a gentle warning “...that you can take care of yourself first.”

The ship’s horn sounded, a deep, resonant call that rippled across the water, as if echoing the weight of Baekhyun’s unspoken fears.

Yet in that moment, the distance between him and the shore, between you and him, felt wider than the sea itself. He wondered if he could bear it, if he could truly hold himself together when everything he wanted was just out of reach, sailing further from him with each passing second.

As he looked back toward you, a soft breeze lifted your hair, carrying it gently over your shoulders. You lowered the camera and turned looking up to the control room, catching his gaze, your expression soft, searching, as if you too felt the silent tension between you—even though you didn't know why.

The corners of your lips lifted in a quiet smile, one filled with questions, trust, and a quiet, unspoken understanding.

Baekhyun’s heart twisted as he nodded, forcing a faint smile in return. There were so many things he wanted to say, words that sat heavy on his tongue, words of apology, of desire, of regret. But he knew they would only complicate things, only deepen the fragile bond between you.

Instead, he turned back to the helm, gripping the wheel as though it were the only thing anchoring him to the present.

He knew he would take care of you. But he also knew that in doing so, he might be forever lost.

masterlist

[neuroprincess]

Under The Skin - Rebecca Welton/Reader

Rebecca Welton/Female Reader

Summary: It's secret, away from everyone's eyes and just between them, a simple gesture that symbolically changes Y/N and Rebecca's lives.

Classification: Fluff

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, tattoos

Word count: +1000

Unrevised

Maybe it's the alcohol coursing through the veins or the gentle smile that is directed at her, but it seems so right that Y/N doesn't care about the pain and even less about tomorrow. The needle begins a little uncertainly on the skin until the woman learns to handle it with real dexterity and without trembling, both of them a little nervous. The first scratch is outlined and marked forever, halfway there. With care, Rebecca traces the half circle in the same way she saw the boys do and feels proud to see it taking shape on the forearm, small and simple, but cute and full of meaning.  

"I'm almost there, darling." she whispers and hums in anticipation, looking a little petty at how excited and proud she is.  

"It's crazy, isn't it?!" the younger stares at her, a moment of sobriety hitting for a second and the weight of the act weighing in the balance "Are we really doing this?"  

In response, Rebecca leans in and brings their lips together in a gentle kiss, taking time to leave them, there's nothing so sweet and addictive as her girlfriend. She could stay like this forever, feeling and loving her in every way, from the soft words to the burning touches.  

"God, better stop or we're not going to finish this any time soon." she laughs, reluctantly separating, and brings eyes together to analyze the next step, just one to complete "And..." turns the pen back on, drawing the last curve, this time a bit of blood comes out of the line "Done!" 

"How did it look?"  

"Beautiful, just like you, sugar." a kiss is placed on the girl's forehead and elegant hands stroke her hair "My good girl, you did great."  

Y/N sighs and smiles happily, the sparkle in the blonde's eye making the slight burning and eventual post-drinking pain worthwhile. She'd never imagined herself doing anything like that and is sure the other one hadn't either, nevertheless after two years here they are hiding in the dark at Jamie's party with the tattoo equipment borrowed, in fact temporarily stolen, exchanging secret wedding vows, marking their rings eternally under skin and exposed to the world.  

"Your turn, sweetheart."  

They change the needles and following instructions from the internet the moisturizer is applied to the arm, Y/N's fingers spreading the cream along strong and delineated muscles, memorizing again every part she knows by heart, the sensitive points she caresses in cuddles on the sofa and squeezes when they're almost reaching an apex. The couple stare at each other for a millisecond in a silent request for permission, to be sure that it's really wanted.  

"Go ahead." Welton encourages, trying to sound confident "I can handle the pain."  

"You will not regret it?" the question is fraught with concern, fear that her partner will regret the folly of a somewhat youthful nature.  

"Never, darling! Loving you is the most certain thing I have in my life." they smile complicitly and Y/N nods, continuing with the mission "We need to go to the pharmacy for ointments, which reminds me that we're also out of cotton and saline solution."  

"You're really drunk."  

"Drunk with love for you..."  

It's not exactly pain, maybe discomfort or something, but totally bearable... if it weren't for Rebecca's hidden fear of needles. She tries to disguise it by looking away, convincing herself that it's only to be surprised. Quickly and with calculated movements, a small initial in a fine line forms on the place, she still can't turn around, half paralyzed in disbelief, having her own moment of sobriety caused by shock.  

"You don't have to hide, it's okay to be afraid." the younger whispers, trying to confront her in some way, the worst part is over and the woman insists on keeping up her brave mask "Sweetheart..."  

"Is it over?"  

"Yes, it's over." she smiles and stretches up to place a kiss on the flushed cheeks "My good girl."

"Hey, that's my phrase!"  

"That doesn't mean you're not a good girl, and totally mine."  

Finally gathering courage, Rebecca looks down and almost chokes as she realizes that something really is there, engraved on her forever. The initial of Y/N's name on her and hers on Y/N. Eternally marked in a symbolic gesture, the union of their souls with homemade tattoos, sounded almost silly when the idea came up on the bar counter, but is the promise of their love for each other.  

"So we..."  

"We're married. My goodness, we're married!"   

"It's symbolic, but..." the blonde rambles, settling on the floor so that they're face to face "Soon I'm going to put a ring on your finger, give you my surname."  

"Try to imagine, Mrs. & Mrs. Welton."  

"I like the sound of that, I can't wait for this moment." 

"Me too, I'm really looking forward to it." Y/N whispers and closes the space between them with a passionate kiss, full of emotions that come through in every touch, barely able to contain the enthusiasm. She has married the person she most admires and as much as it was just between them, it's priceless, kind of magical "I love you! So much that I almost cry just thinking that we're wives now." manages to say when the air is needed. 

"I love you more! More than anything, I don't think there are enough words to describe how deeply and passionately. And I stole a champagne to celebrate."   

A bottle is taken from the handbag, chilled to the point of sweat. It's impossible not to be touched by the businesswoman's cheeky smile, who has had a lot of fun searching for the necessary items around the mansion, committing innocent little crimes for the sake of love and getting her first tattoo. All this with and for her girlfriend, engaged for half an hour and now wife.  

"We've probably got about 15 minutes before someone comes looking for us, what do you think?" Rebecca nods suggestively towards the immaculate king-size bed.  

"Oh, you want to go straight to the nuptials? Tempting."  

"No more tempting than the things I'm thinking of doing with you when we get back home, lovely wife."  

And that's another promise. 

taglist: @inlovewithmiddleagewomen @unexpected-character @spenc-is-bi @imaginesmultifandoms @dvrkhcld @lovelyy-moonlight @peggy082023 @willowshadenox @storiesofsvu

Join my taglist here ^^

[regretevator-confessions]

if Folly has only 1 insuly leveled against her and it's "edgy 11yo's oc", then I propose a new 1

NOT ELEGANT ENOUGH. NOT FANCY ENOUGH. WEARING THE KINDA CLOTHES I WEAR 2 BED. FUCKING HOODIE AND PAJAMA-LOOKING-ASS PANTS.

I ALWAYS EXPECTED THE DREAM PARASITE 2 B ALL ELEGANT AND BEAUTIFUL IN AN OTHER-WORLDLY TYPE OF WAY. LIKE, LONG FLOWING DRESS, ABSOLUTELY COVERED IN EYES THAT U SEE AT ALL TIMES, AND ALL FANCY AND STUFF.

BUT NO. SHE WEARS CLOTHES U WEAR 2 BED. which actually does sorta make sense- BUT LIKE IM SO DISAPPOINTED THAT SHE ISNT THE FANCIEST DRESSING NPC IN THE GAME.

.

[hollowfyshunsuikubo]

Sins of the Mad

A/N: as promised, the long waited Mayuri fic. It's shorter than the last one, but much more filthy. I might derail from my plan because I have some epic Castlevania ideas (I LOVE Issac ok). Kept this one gn so all of you can enjoy a little slice of Mayuri

Mayuri Kurotsuchi x gn!reader (side of Akon x gn!reader)

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: Heaping pile of smut, angst (if you can call it that), toxic relationship, babytrapping (kind of)

AU: None

Beta read? No

Such a pretty little thing.

You writhe so prettily beneath him, moaning “It's too much” It will never be too much. Not while he has his hands on your perfect body, his cock bullying your perfect, tight hole. He watches your back arch as you reach your peak again. He listens to your whines, and he acknowledges them.

Understanding, but only for you. Yet he doesn't stop. He slows, letting you pant and recover as he slowly thrusts into you. But when your eyes, glazed with lust, ask him a silent question before you can ever open your mouth, it begins again. After all, the night is young, and he won't stop until you struggle to move.

It's been days, after all, since he's even felt the ghost of your skin on his. He's been so, so busy… it's only natural he makes up for lost time. You're an insatiable thing.

Mayuri recalls the day he first saw you, a clear day, uninteresting. Akon mentioned something about new members of the division, but he ignored it. The lab needed to be tended to, as the rest of the fools couldn't be trusted with his newest experiment-

“L/n, this way. The Captain is fairly busy.” He turns his head at the mention of him, looking to glare at the newest fools who entered his division under false hopes.

Yet, When his gaze lands on you, it's as if he had found something. You were standing nzxt to your friend, who had called you in a whispered hiss as you marveled at the lab around you. Wide-eyed, robes perfect, hair neat… oh, it awakened something in him. Something so internally primal he was disgusted at how he likened you to a gazelle in the sights of a lion. In his minds eye, he could see you stripped down to flesh, marks left by his teeth and nails covering your skin, those pretty eyes welling with tears as he gently laid you down to wreck you for another man.

He turned away and kept walking. There was little time for lust. Especially when there were trials to run, his new experiment to document, his underlings to order, and Nemu to analyze. His daughter was next to Akon, her gaze as dead and analytical as always. He noticed her gaze fall onto you for a moment before drifting to the larger group. He grimaced, knowing he'd have to tweak Nemu’s memory when it came to his preferences. He did always like his tyrsts to be innocent and sweet, preferably virgins. It made seeing their reaction that much sweeter. But they never lasted long. Early mornings were for getting up, and for kicking out the little thing that had graced his spare bedrooms sheets for a few hours.

Once he was satisfied with his plans for the day, he entered the lab. Bothering to think about any of the new members of the division was folly, and a waste of his precious mind.

Truly, he didn't think about you until a month later, when he walked in on you on your knees before Akon.

Akon, his third seat, so missable if not for his semblance of competence. Akon, who had his hakama undone, his cock out, and a hand on the top of your head.

“That's it, doll. Breathe.” Mayuri knew Akon could be kind, but to this extent? Pathetic. The man was being too nice to you. Watching as you shyly took his cock into your mouth.

Mayuri was struck then by a thought that disgusted him.

He was jealous.

He, the most elegant and intelligent mind in the Gotei 13, jealous of a mere third seat. The captain watched intently as you struggled on such a small cock (smaller than Mayuri's, anyway), saliva forming around the corners of your mouth. What idiocy. If it were him. If he were in Akon's place. If it was he you were on your knees for, his cock would already be nestled deep in your pretty little throat. He would fuck your face full of his seed, making sure to paint your mouth white before he had you against the wall, your pretty little hole displayed for him, pulsing and eager for his attentions.

Akon tilted his head back as you began moving your head slowly. What a bore.

Once again, Mayuri turned away, quietly, so as to not disturb the filthy moment you were having. Usually he'd interrupt, make sure Akon knew his place. But it wouldn't hurt to have you with a little experience.

Oh yes. He had his sights set on you then. What a trifling whore, already consuming his patience after seeing you only twice. You must like men in power. Or, at the very least, thirst for cock like a parched man thirsts for water in the emptiness of Heuco Mundo.

The death of him was nigh, but only when he was slamming his cum into you as you screamed. Le petit mort, Oh yes. His little death, buried so sweetly inside you, you'd be able to feel him in your stomach. How much prettier you'd be, displayed in the lab as his more capable assistants took notes, Akon watching from the shadows, as Mayuri bred you into a perfect bitch. How he'd make sure none of them remembered it afterwards- except Akon.

Oh, Akon would remember. That slimy little wicked horned fool, stealing his prey from him. He would learn what it was to covet a sweet thing like you. His gentle gazelle.

The next time was the first time you officially met.

“Captain Kurotsuchi, it's a pleasure to meet you.” Oh, your brilliant smile, so bashful, so unaware he'd already made you a perfect fuck machine to pound your little hole into submission while he watched. He imagined you strapped to a special table, legs spread, eyes rolling, his newest machine wrecking you before his eyes. He would make a feast out of you, making sure to nestle himself deep just when you couldn't take it anymore. He'd be sure to fuck you so full of his seed, a gift not many had the pleasure of receiving, to the point it flowed from you as a water flows from a waterfall. He grinned.

“A pleasure indeed. You are Y/n L/n, correct?” Silky smooth, a glance at you to only lure you in. A nice patch of tall grass where the lion awaits. Akon, who was standing at a computer desk, glanced over.

Mayuri knew it was uncharacteristic of him to recall the name of someone he's never met before. The Captain saw the look of fear flash across Akon's face before the third seat returned to his duty. Bless. Mayuri watched you smile bashfully. How pretty your lips looked. If only he could get the image of them wrapped around Akon's cock out of his mind.

“Yes! That's me. I was hoping to meet you, but we were told not exepxt much.” Your voice, so sweet. How enticing it is. How exciting it was to think about hearing it squeal and moan.

“Ah, come now. I am your Captain. It is my duty to welcome all new members of my division, after all. Consider this a belated, but no less heartfelt, welcoming.”

Heartfelt. He paused in his strokes for a moment, looking down at you. Your chest was heaving, and you weakly opened your eyes. You reached up to place a hand on his cheek, your thumb stroking his cheekbone.

Heartfelt. His heart was in it now, a fools doom. How demeaning and disgraceful it felt, to be at the mercy of his heart. But oh, how he craved you. How he felt the need for your appreciation and yours alone. No more would he entertain some mewling twink or soppy deluded girl, for he had you. He gently turned his head to kiss your palm. He appreciated how you felt the need to comfort him. It seemed even his mind wasn't as disgusted towards what his heart beat for as he thought.

He broke contact with your hand and folded your knees to your chest, driving so deeply into you that it caused you to choke slightly. He resumed his loving abuse of you as he continually recalled the past, turning over every angle with precision and detail as he made rough love to your body in the present.

He recalled the first time he called you into the lab after hours, the two of you alone. Such lies he told then, such things whispered to manipulate you to his side. Thinking about them hurt. He has wounded his poor gazelle, and you would never know. He could only apologize with each slam of his hips, and each soft kiss he laid upon you after the deed was done.

You walked into the lab, adorably sleepy. His first time seeing you like that. He would learn to cherish it, but only in time.

At that moment, he felt a little annoyed. You weren't already waiting for his call? Pathetic. He felt pathetic. Countless late nights bottling his own seed each time he thought of you and brought himself to blissful completion, dying a thousand times to quell his incessant need for your sloppy tongue wrapped around his hard cock. He watched you, and you met his gaze.

“You needed me, Captain?” You asked softly, tiredly. Yes, it was late, wasn't it? Perhaps he should have let you get some sleep. Being up this late may decrease your productivity tomorrow…

“Indeed. Come here, I wish you to see something.” He dismissed the thought as he beckoned you over with a single finger. You obeyed, so obedient to his every whim. Were you the same in bed? He guided your gaze to a screen, where data inputs had been typed.

"See these? These are done poorly. For the trained eye, there is little promise. But promise nonetheless.” He watched your face. Your eyebrows creased for a moment before you found the compliment. So adorably stupid. At least you did good tables. They weren't even that bad. Nearly perfect, but he had to lie. He had to crush you, as a hunter does his prey. How could he not? Your weakest state was vulnerable.

“Ah. Thank you, Captain. I'll do my best to learn the proper way to do it.” Your voice again. Something so sweet, so innocent. Hard to think your syrup tongue ones pleasured Akon. Maybe you'd done so countless times. Maybe you'd even spread your legs for him too, taking away the sweetness that lay between that was only meant for Mayuri. So the Captain laughed.

“Nonsense, you'll learn now. I shall guide you, and you are grateful to learn.” Mayuri felt Ashisogi Jizo quiver from his small chuckle. Then he touched you first the first time, and it felt like he'd finally sunk his teeth into your smooth skin. He guided your hand to the keyboard and forcibly, but gently, made you type up a new table.For the next two hours, he would guide you. And you were grateful. At the end, the night was nearly spent through. Your gaze, still tired, but slightly brighter with adoration, looked at him. So unaware of all the lies he'd told you.

“You're doing it wrong.”

“Such a fool, to know you picked this division instead of the 11th…”

“That was worse.”

“Truly, how do you expect to gain my appreciation or my praise if you do it like that?”

Far, far too many lies. Oh how he craved the taste of your sweat and blood on his tongue. How he craved your form writhing on his marvelous contraption he'd made for you, craved for your form writhing in his sheets. He craved to see the look on Akons face as Mayuri was balls deep inside of you, pumping your hole with a generous amount of his seed.

“Thank you, sir. I am extremely grateful.” Your reply warmed his loins further. One day, he'd do it all. When his lips parted in a smile, he could tell he'd done well with the nights efforts.

“Of course you are. You need me, after all. I am your Captain, equal only to a God. You crave what I can give you.”

Your screaming in the present jolted him back to reality. He watched your hands grip the sheets as an orgasm washed over you. He felt his own approach at how tightly you clamped down on his cock. So beautiful. So primal. He was no God. He was above that. Yet none of it mattered when you were with him. His beloved. His own gorgeous thing, the only one he lets distract him from his work. The one who he lets sleep in his lap, the one he goes on walks with when he has the time. The one he loves and adores and will never let go of. The one he fancies as the other parent of Nemu, despite her having none of your DNA. Mayuri can change that. He will change that, in fact. Nemu could do with a little of your moodiness, your ability to switch from one emotion to the other. It would be better for her combat abilities, distractions and all.

There's no other reason for him to include your precious DNA into his star experiment, after all.

Except for the love he has for you.

The man grunts as he feels his balls tighten. He squeezes your thighs as he looks down at you, his golden eyes flashing in the dim light.

“Take it all and be grateful, my little cumslut.”

His voice is raspy, more desperate than normal, and incredibly strained. Your moan in response, the closest thing you can get to a yes, sir, is what sends him over the edge.

“You need me, after all.”

His first manipulation, of countless to come before he made you his, and he filled you with his seed.

He sloppily thrust into you a few more times before stopping, panting. He watched you, just watched you, as he let go of your thighs. You lowered them, your body shaking slightly. He saw the tear tracks running down your face, the saliva gathered at the corners of your mouth, and the way your lips were slightly swollen.

And yet you looked at him with such love, he was struck with a guilt that could only be born from live. Keeping his dick buried inside you, he leaned down, pressing his chest to yous, and met your lips in a kiss. He could only apologise like this. If he ever told you, you'd leave him. Mayuri couldn't have that. If you left him, he'd depend into madness fully. The loss of a ships anchor left it adrift. The loss of a lions mate sends him into a rage.

Your lips parted, his gaze boring into yours with the fury of a thousand tiny sun's over the savanna.

“You're mine. Mine alone. Understand?” Ragged and soft, that was how you left him. Heartfelt with each word, his and his alone. In this moment, there was no past with Akon, no past with his own ex-lovers, just the two of you, sweating and barely able to move, in the present.

“Yes. Yours.” Oh, your sweet, broken whisper. Your shaky hands as they cupped his face. The gentle kiss you pressed to his forehead.

He would leave you like this so you would stay. Reeling you in on a line so tight that would kill both of you if you chose to leave. His pride was staked on your love, just as much as it was staked on his unrivaled intelligence.

How he loved you, despite the guilt wrecking his unwavering heart. Silence was a virtue, and he would always be silent when it came to what he did to have you beside him.

[novaursa]

Caught by Fire (the gem)

- Summary: A story where Daemon's daughter falls from the sky. And by some strange events orchestrated by fate, Otto catches you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the princess

- Next part: the meddling

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The decision weighed heavily on Otto Hightower as he sat at his desk in the Tower of the Hand. Before him lay a small, intricately carved wooden box. Inside was a delicate hairpin, wrought of silver and adorned with a single amethyst that shimmered faintly in the firelight. It was understated yet elegant—an object that carried no overt meaning, but one he hoped would convey a sentiment he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled as he stared at the box. His better judgment screamed at him to abandon the idea. She is Daemon’s daughter, he reminded himself. A Targaryen princess. To involve yourself in any way is madness.

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about the gardens—the way your laughter had softened the sharp edges of his day, the warmth of your gaze, the ease with which you seemed to draw him out of himself. He told himself it was nothing more than an act of courtesy, a gesture of gratitude for saving him from the horse. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the whole truth.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. He straightened as his son, Gwayne, entered, his expression curious.

“Father,” Gwayne said, glancing at the box on the desk. “Burning the midnight oil again?”

“There is always work to be done,” Otto replied tersely, his tone colder than intended.

Gwayne arched an eyebrow, stepping closer. “What’s this, then?” He gestured toward the box.

Otto’s jaw tightened. “It’s nothing that concerns you.”

Gwayne’s smirk was infuriatingly familiar. “Nothing, is it? It looks like a gift.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse of the contents. “A hairpin? And a fine one at that. Who’s the lucky recipient?”

“Gwayne,” Otto said warningly, his tone low. “Leave it.”

But Gwayne, ever his father’s son, pressed on. “Is this for the princess, by chance? The one who fell from the sky and saved you from a horse?”

Otto groaned inwardly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Must you always pry into matters that do not concern you?”

“Must you always be so predictable?” Gwayne countered, folding his arms. “It’s obvious, Father. You’ve been distracted ever since that day. And now this?” He gestured to the box again. “It’s not like you to be sentimental.”

“This is not sentiment,” Otto snapped. “It is courtesy. The princess saved me, and I am expressing my gratitude.”

Gwayne grinned knowingly. “If you say so. But let me give you some advice—if you’re going to send her a gift, you’d best do it quickly. Before your better judgment gets the better of you.”

Otto glared at his son but said nothing as Gwayne left the room, the door closing softly behind him. Alone once more, Otto exhaled deeply, his gaze returning to the box.

He’s right, Otto thought grudgingly. The longer I hesitate, the more likely I am to abandon this folly altogether.

Summoning a servant, he handed the box over with strict instructions. “Deliver this to Princess Y/N discreetly. Do not speak of it to anyone, and do not linger.”

The servant nodded, taking the box and hurrying off. Otto sat back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest as he stared into the fire. The weight of what he had done settled over him, though whether it was guilt or anticipation, he couldn’t quite say.

You were seated in your chambers, the evening quiet save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth. A book rested on your lap, though your thoughts wandered as you gazed out the window at the city lights below. The knock on your door drew your attention, and you called for the visitor to enter.

A servant stepped in, bowing deeply before placing a small wooden box on the table before you. “A gift, Princess,” he said simply before retreating as quickly as he had come.

Curious, you set your book aside and opened the box. The hairpin inside glimmered softly, its amethyst catching the firelight. You picked it up carefully, turning it over in your hands. It was beautiful, but it was the note tucked beneath it that truly caught your attention.

“To the Princess: A token of gratitude for your quick thinking and courage. —Lord Otto Hightower.”

You stared at the note for a long moment, a faint smile tugging at your lips. Setting it aside, you held the hairpin up once more, its delicate craftsmanship evident.

“Gratitude,” you murmured to yourself, your tone laced with amusement. “How formal.”

Still, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of warmth at the gesture. You placed the hairpin on your dressing table, glancing at the note once more before returning to your chair by the fire. Your thoughts lingered on the Hand of the King—his wit, his steady demeanor, and the faint glimmers of something softer beneath the surface.

Perhaps there was more to Otto Hightower than you had first thought.

The throne room loud with activity as the court gathered for the day’s petitions and announcements. Lords and ladies moved about, their voices blending into a low hum as they jockeyed for position or exchanged whispered gossip. Otto Hightower stood at his customary place near the Iron Throne, his keen eyes scanning the crowd as he reviewed the matters at hand.

But his attention wavered when he saw you.

You entered the room with an air of quiet confidence, your silver hair gleaming in the light that streamed through the windows. You were dressed in a gown of deep indigo, its rich fabric complimenting the violet of your eyes and the amethyst hairpin nestled in your braid. His hairpin.

Otto’s breath hitched, though he quickly masked it, his expression remaining impassive. From where he stood, he couldn’t tell if your choice to wear the gift was deliberate or incidental, but the sight of it stirred something deep within him.

For a brief moment, the bustling court seemed to fade, the voices and movement around him reduced to a distant murmur. His thoughts raced, unbidden. Why did she wear it? Was it an acknowledgment of the gesture? Or mere coincidence?

Before he could ponder further, you were intercepted by Princess Rhaenyra and a group of noble ladies. Rhaenyra, ever animated and lively, looped her arm through yours and began leading you toward a quieter corner of the hall, the other ladies trailing behind.

Otto’s gaze lingered on you as you walked away, your laughter floating back across the room like a faint melody. He forced himself to look away, schooling his features into their usual mask of composure.

“I see she appreciated your gift,” a familiar voice said softly beside him.

Otto turned to find Alicent, his daughter, standing at his side. She looked every bit the queen consort, her auburn hair intricately braided, her gown adorned with subtle yet regal embellishments. Her eyes, however, were bright with curiosity.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Otto replied smoothly, though his gaze flickered back to you for the briefest of moments.

Alicent raised an eyebrow, her expression knowing. “You don’t? Because I find it curious that Princess Y/N is wearing an amethyst hairpin today. A very fine one, at that.”

Otto sighed, his hands clasping behind his back. “It was a token of gratitude. Nothing more.”

Alicent tilted her head, studying him. “Gratitude? Or something else?”

“Must you pry into matters that do not concern you?” Otto asked.

Alicent’s lips curved into a faint smile, though her eyes remained serious. “Father, I know you better than most. You wouldn’t send a gift like that without reason.”

Otto exhaled deeply, glancing down at the floor for a moment before meeting his daughter’s gaze. “You presume too much, Alicent.”

“Do I?” she said softly, stepping closer. “She’s Daemon’s daughter, Father. If this… interest of yours goes beyond propriety, it will not end well.”

Otto stiffened at her words, his jaw tightening. “There is no interest,” he said firmly. “You misunderstand the situation.”

Alicent’s gaze softened, her tone quiet but earnest. “I only wish to spare you unnecessary pain, Father. The court will seize upon any sign of weakness, and she—” Alicent hesitated, glancing toward where you stood with Rhaenyra. “She is not an easy path.”

“I am well aware of that,” Otto replied, his voice measured but cold. “And I will thank you to trust my judgment in this matter.”

Alicent sighed, her expression resigned. “As you wish. But be careful, Father. The gods play cruel games, especially when the heart is involved.”

With that, she stepped away, leaving him to his thoughts. Otto’s gaze drifted back to you once more, though he quickly chastised himself for the lapse. Alicent’s words rang in his ears, and he knew she was right. This path, whatever it was, would lead nowhere good.

And yet, as he watched you laugh with Rhaenyra, the hairpin catching the light like a beacon, he couldn’t help but wonder if the gods had already set the game in motion—and if he had any choice but to play.

The small council chamber was unusually lively that morning, the air buzzing with conversation even before King Viserys arrived. Otto Hightower was seated at his usual spot near the head of the table, a neatly organized stack of documents before him. Lords Beesbury and Tyland Lannister murmured quietly to one another, while Jasper Wylde, as always, seemed to wear an air of barely concealed amusement. Grand Maester Mellos busied himself with arranging scrolls, his quill already scratching notes.

The heavy doors swung open, and King Viserys entered, his expression harried. He carried a stack of letters in his arms, the weight of them causing him to sigh as he set them down on the table. His tunic was slightly askew, a clear sign of his growing frustration.

“Another morning of petitions,” Viserys muttered, taking his seat at the head of the table. “As if the realm’s problems aren’t enough.

Otto inclined his head, his tone measured. “What sort of petitions, Your Grace?”

Viserys glanced at the pile of letters, rubbing his temples. “For marriage alliances. They flood in by the day—every lord with a son or nephew thinks himself worthy of the princess’s hand.”

Otto’s brow furrowed slightly. “Rhaenyra?”

Viserys sighed, waving a hand dismissively. “Rhaenyra, yes. But not only her.”

The king paused, his gaze sweeping the council. “It seems my niece has become a subject of equal fascination. There are as many petitions for her hand as there are for Rhaenyra’s.”

Otto’s hand stilled over his quill, his stomach tightening at the king’s words. He glanced at the pile of letters, noting how many bore seals from prominent houses. The sheer volume of interest in your hand was… alarming.

Jasper Wylde let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. “Well, well. Two Targaryen ladies of marriageable age, both unspoken for? It’s no wonder the lords are clamoring like starved dogs.”

Viserys shot Jasper a disapproving look before turning back to the pile. “I’ve sorted through most of the petitions for Rhaenyra. But for my niece, I thought it best to consult her father first.”

At this, the council grew quiet. Even Mellos stopped his scribbling to glance at Viserys.

“And?” Otto prompted, his voice carefully neutral.

Viserys sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I went to Daemon with the matter this morning. Gave him the names, the houses, the offers.”

“And what did Prince Daemon say?” Tyland asked, his curiosity evident.

Viserys leaned back in his chair, his frustration palpable. “He rejected all of them. Every last one. Didn’t even look at the offers before saying no.”

The room fell silent for a moment before Jasper chuckled softly. “Of course he did. Daemon has always been… particular.”

“Particular,” Viserys repeated bitterly, shaking his head. “He didn’t even let me finish reading the list before declaring that none of them were ‘worthy.’”

Otto’s frown deepened. “Did he offer any reasoning, Your Grace?”

“Reasoning?” Viserys laughed humorlessly. “Daemon and reasoning rarely share the same space. He said—and I quote—‘I will not let her be auctioned off to the highest bidder like a common broodmare.’”

Jasper snorted, clearly entertained, but Otto’s mind was elsewhere. The sheer volume of petitions for your hand wasn’t just unusual—it was unprecedented. And Daemon’s outright rejection of every proposal only complicated matters further.

“This is a delicate situation, Your Grace,” Otto said carefully. “With so much interest in the princess, rejecting every suitor outright could lead to resentment among the lords. Especially those from powerful houses.”

“I know that, Otto,” Viserys replied, his tone exasperated. “But how am I supposed to handle this when her own father won’t even consider the possibilities?”

“Perhaps Daemon intends to hold out for an even grander offer,” Tyland suggested, his voice pragmatic. “Or perhaps he means to marry her to someone of his own choosing.”

“Knowing Daemon, he likely has no plan at all,” Viserys muttered. “He’s never been one to think more than a step ahead.”

Otto’s mind raced as the conversation continued. The prospect of Daemon controlling your future—and by extension, your alliances—was a troubling thought. It gave the Rogue Prince leverage he didn’t need and influence that could tip the balance of power in ways Otto couldn’t predict.

“Your Grace,” Otto said after a moment, his tone measured, “if I may suggest—perhaps a more direct approach is needed. The princess herself may have thoughts on the matter. It might be worth consulting her directly.”

Viserys frowned, clearly uncertain. “I’d rather not drag her into this if I can avoid it. She’s young, and Daemon is her father. He should be the one to decide.”

“And yet,” Otto said gently, “it is the realm that will feel the consequences of that decision. A match for the princess could stabilize alliances—or unsettle them, depending on how it is handled.”

Viserys rubbed his temples again, clearly torn. “I’ll think on it. But for now, this pile of petitions is going nowhere. I’ll leave it to gather dust, along with all the others Daemon has refused to even glance at.”

The meeting moved on, but Otto’s thoughts lingered on the matter. The sheer number of offers for your hand was not something he could ignore, nor was Daemon’s stubborn refusal to consider any of them. It was a volatile situation, and one that could shift the balance of power in ways Otto wasn’t prepared for.

And then there was the other matter—the one he couldn’t voice aloud. The quiet, insistent thought that perhaps no one was worthy of you.

Not even him.

The grand hall of the Red Keep was alight with golden chandeliers and filled with the hum of noble voices. It was a formal occasion—a feast to honor a visiting delegation from the Stormlands. Lords and ladies adorned in their finest silks mingled amidst the long tables laden with platters of roasted meats, fruits, and golden goblets of wine. Musicians played softly from the far end of the room, their melodies adding a veneer of calm to an evening thick with courtly intrigue.

Otto Hightower stood at his usual place near the dais, watching the proceedings with a practiced eye. His duties required him to observe everything—who spoke to whom, who avoided whom, and the subtle gestures that often spoke louder than words.

Tonight, however, his attention was drawn to an unexpected arrival.

Daemon Targaryen strode into the hall, his entrance as dramatic as ever. His silver hair caught the light as he made his way through the crowd, clad in a black tunic embroidered with the dragon of House Targaryen. Conversations faltered as heads turned to watch him, a ripple of tension spreading through the room.

Otto’s jaw tightened. Of course he would come. He never misses an opportunity to stir chaos.

The Rogue Prince moved with ease through the gathering, his smirk firmly in place as he nodded to some lords and ignored others entirely. But as soon as he paused near the central tables, the braver—or perhaps more foolish—lords began to swarm him like moths to a flame.

“My prince,” Lord Edric Caron began, bowing deeply. “A pleasure to see you here this evening. Might I have a word regarding… a matter of great importance?”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “A matter of great importance? How intriguing.”

Lord Caron straightened, his face flushed with excitement—or nerves. “It concerns your daughter, my prince. I—well, that is, my eldest son—”

Daemon’s smirk disappeared, replaced by a look of cool disinterest. “Your son?”

“Yes, my prince,” Lord Caron continued hastily. “He is a fine knight, well-mannered, and our house has long been loyal to the Crown. I believe a match with your daughter would—”

“Stop,” Daemon said, his tone icy.

Lord Caron blinked, confused. “My prince?”

“I said stop,” Daemon repeated, his voice louder now, cutting through the hum of the hall. Nearby conversations ceased as the crowd turned to watch. “Did you think you could approach me like a merchant hawking his wares at market?”

“I—of course not, my prince,” Caron stammered, his confidence visibly crumbling. “I only meant—”

“You meant to auction my daughter off like a trinket,” Daemon snapped, his dark violet eyes narrowing. “Understand this: my daughter is not for sale. If you value your tongue, you’ll keep her name out of your mouth.”

The room was deathly silent, the dread palpable. Lord Caron’s face had turned ashen, and he stumbled back with a muttered apology, retreating as quickly as his dignity would allow.

Undeterred—or perhaps emboldened by wine—another lord stepped forward. “Prince Daemon,” Lord Gawen Wythers began, bowing deeply. “I mean no disrespect, but surely you must see the value of forging strong alliances for your daughter. House Wythers—”

Daemon turned on him, his smirk returning, but this time it was menacing and dangerous. “House Wythers? Your lands barely scrape enough coin to keep your gates from falling apart. You think you’re worthy of her?”

Lord Wythers froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“You lot never learn, do you?” Daemon said, his voice carrying across the hall. He glanced around at the gathered lords, his expression one of utter disdain. “You come to me with your offers and your empty promises, thinking I’ll hand her over like a prize at a tourney. Let me make this clear—none of you are worthy of her.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Otto watched from his place near the dais, his face carefully blank as he observed the scene unfold. Inside, his thoughts churned. Daemon is only making this worse. Every rejection creates more resentment, more fuel for the fires of discontent.

Viserys, seated on the dais, sighed deeply and muttered to Otto, “He never changes, does he?”

“No, Your Grace,” Otto replied, his voice calm despite the storm brewing in his chest. “He remains… consistent.”

“Consistently infuriating,” Viserys muttered.

Back on the floor, Daemon’s attention shifted as he spotted you entering the hall. Your arrival drew fresh attention, your silver hair gleaming under the chandeliers as you made your way through the crowd. You wore a gown of deep red, its simple elegance a testament to your Targaryen heritage. Lords bowed as you passed, but you barely acknowledged them, your focus instead on your father.

Daemon’s expression softened slightly as you approached, though his sharp edge remained. You stopped beside him, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “Father,” you said softly, your tone laced with a quiet reproach.

“Sweetling,” Daemon said, his voice gentler now. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to enjoy the evening,” you replied, glancing at the gathered lords. “Though it seems I’ve arrived in the middle of a… conversation.”

Daemon snorted. “If you can call it that.”

You sighed, giving him a look that was both affectionate and exasperated. “You’ve made your point, Father.”

“Have I?” Daemon said, his smirk returning. He glanced around the room once more. “Let me be clear, then. My daughter’s hand is not up for discussion. If you don’t like it, feel free to leave.”

The murmurs resumed as the crowd began to disperse, the bolder lords retreating with their wounded pride. Daemon turned back to you, his expression softening further. “Come, sweetling. Let’s leave these fools to their wine.”

Otto watched as you left the hall with your father, your head held high despite the stares that followed. His gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, his thoughts troubled.

The Hand of the King’s chamber was a sanctuary of order amid the chaos of the Red Keep. The morning sun streamed through the tall windows, casting patterns on the polished wooden floor. Otto Hightower sat at his desk, quill in hand, reviewing correspondence from the Reach. The quiet crackle of the hearth was a welcome backdrop to his work, a rare moment of calm before the demands of the day fully took hold.

That calm was shattered when Lord Jasper Wylde barged in, his expression alight with mischief and what he clearly believed was brilliance.

“Otto!” Jasper called out, closing the door behind him with a flourish. “I’ve had the most extraordinary idea.”

Otto sighed deeply, setting down his quill and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Lord Wylde, must you always burst in like a storm? What is it now?”

Jasper grinned, pulling up a chair without invitation and sitting across from Otto. “I’ve been thinking—about Princess Y/N, of course.”

Otto’s expression darkened immediately, his gaze fixing on Jasper. “The princess is not a subject for idle speculation.”

“This is hardly idle, my friend,” Jasper said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “In fact, I’d say it’s a stroke of genius.”

Otto’s headache began to form before Jasper had even explained. “Spare me the dramatics and get to the point.”

Jasper’s grin widened. “The solution to all this madness—the petitions, the lords swarming Daemon like crows around a carcass—is simple. You should take her.”

Otto blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. “Take her?”

“Yes, take her!” Jasper said, as though the idea were perfectly reasonable. “Spirit her away to Oldtown. Lock her in the Hightower, safe and secure, far from the chaos of King’s Landing. No more lords pestering Daemon, no more whispers in the court, no more—”

“Enough,” Otto interrupted, his tone harsh. He stood abruptly, his hands braced on the desk as he glared down at Jasper. “Have you lost your mind?”

Jasper held up his hands defensively, though his grin remained. “It’s not as mad as it sounds.”

“It sounds like treason,” Otto snapped. “Kidnapping a Targaryen princess? Do you have any idea what Daemon would do? What Viserys would do?”

“Oh, come now,” Jasper said dismissively. “You wouldn’t be kidnapping her. You’d be… protecting her. Shielding her from the vultures circling the court.”

“And locking her in the Hightower is your idea of protection?” Otto’s voice dripped with incredulity. “Daemon would burn Oldtown to the ground.”

“Not if you framed it correctly,” Jasper argued, undeterred. “Think of it—a place of sanctuary, far from the petty politics of court. She’d be treated like a queen, given everything she could possibly want. And it would give you time.”

“Time for what?” Otto asked, his tone dangerously quiet.

“To win her over, of course,” Jasper said with a wink. “You’re clearly… interested in her. And this way, you could—”

“Enough!” Otto’s voice cut through the room like a blade once more. He straightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “This conversation ends now.”

Jasper blinked, clearly taken aback by the intensity of Otto’s reaction. “Otto, you’re overreacting.”

“I am not overreacting,” Otto said coldly. “I am saving you from your own idiocy. This idea of yours is not only reckless, it’s dangerous. The princess is not some pawn to be moved at your convenience.”

Jasper frowned, his earlier humor fading. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then you’ve chosen your words poorly,” Otto snapped. He turned away, pacing to the window as he forced himself to take a calming breath. “The princess’s future is not for us to dictate. And even if it were, such a scheme would destroy whatever fragile balance remains in the realm.”

Jasper leaned back in his chair, studying Otto with a more serious expression than usual. “You care for her, don’t you?”

Otto froze, his back to Jasper. For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “The princess deserves to make her own choices. Whatever I may feel—or not feel—is irrelevant.”

Jasper sighed, shaking his head. “You always were the cautious one. But caution won’t stop the vultures, Otto. And it won’t stop Daemon from dragging her into whatever madness he conjures next.”

Otto turned, his gaze steely. “No, but schemes like yours will only make things worse. Leave Princess Y/N out of your ambitions, Jasper. I won’t tell you again.”

Jasper held his hands up in surrender, a faint smirk returning to his lips. “Very well. But don’t say I didn’t try to help.”

With that, he rose from his chair and sauntered toward the door. “Enjoy your day, Otto. And your migraines.”

As the door closed behind him, Otto exhaled deeply, pressing his fingers to his temples. The headache Jasper had so gleefully predicted was already throbbing at the edges of his mind.

The gods must truly hate me, he thought grimly, his thoughts drifting once more to you. Or perhaps they enjoy watching me suffer.

[ani-radio]

———————————————————————————————————————

*Ditty: a short, simple song

*Echelons: a level or rank in an organization, a profession, or society

*Folly: lack of good sense; foolishness

CHAPTER 1: The Invitation

The sound of muffled laughter echoed throughout the room, filling it with a whimsy aura, though there was no one in the room to laugh. The laughter spilled from the antique radio perched on Alastor’s mantel, where the Radio Demon himself sat plush on a velvet armchair, legs crossed and a wide grin stretching across his face. The static, the eerie melody, the faint echoes of applause–it was his symphony, his empire, and tonight, it had played its greatest performance yet.

“Ah, the Morningstar himself,” Alastor mused, twirling his cane idly as he stared into the fire roaring in his hearth. “I wonder, did you enjoy the show? Or did my little *ditty strike a nerve or two?

He chuckled to himself, his laughter carrying out the same eerie and unsettling quality like his broadcasts. It was rare for Alastor to turn his attention to anyone in particular in Hell’s higher *echelons. The other Overlord were predictable, their ambitions boringly transparent. But Lucifer? Now he was an intriguing figure–a devil who ruled without ever needing to lift a finger, a King whose charisma alone commanded loyalty and fear.

Of course, Alastor didn’t fear anyone. Fear was for mortals, and he left that part of him behind long ago.

Still, the thought of Lucifer tuning in, perhaps leaning in forward ever so slightly as Alastor’s words danced through the air, was… delicious. He could almost picture it: the King of Hell’s red eyes narrowing in either amusement or irritation–either way, both reactions were fine by him.

The sharp knock at his door pulled Alastor from his musings. It wasn’t the frantic, desperate knocking of the damned, nor the timid tapping of one of his minions. No, this knock was precise, deliberate, and carried an air of authority that few dared to wield in his domain.

“Ah, a guest!” Alastor sprang to his feet, his grin widening. “How delightful!”

He strode to the door and threw it open with theatrical flair, expecting one of Lucifer’s lackeys–or an overly ambitious Overlord who thought they could best him, the Radio Demon. But what Alastor didn’t expect was the elegant figure standing on his doorstep, clad in a perfectly tailored white suit, slick knee-high heel boots, a cane with a decorative apple on top, and hair the color of the sun and soft as silk.

Lucifer Morningstar.

“Alastor,” Lucifer greeted, his voice smooth and laced with an almost imperceptible edge. “I believe we have some… unfinished business.”

For a brief moment–a flicker– Alastor’s grin faltered. But he recovered quickly, stepping aside and gesturing grandly for Lucifer to enter.

“Well, well if it isn’t his royal Highness himself!” Alastor said, his tone bright as ever. “What an honor to host you in my humble abode! Do come in and make yourself comfort- Wait.. how did you find my home, if you don’t mind me asking?” Alastor turned to Lucifer.

“I have my ways,” Lucifer twirled his cane absentmindedly as he stepped inside, his presence immediately filling the room. The air seemed to shift around him, heavy with power and purpose. He moved with the ease of someone who knew they were the most important person in the room–because, of course, he was.

“Your broadcasts,” Lucifer began, glancing around the room with a faint smirk, “are… unique, to say the least. I particularly enjoyed tonight’s installment. Was it meant for me?”

Alastor chuckled, closing the door behind him. “Oh, Your Majesty, I couldn’t possibly confirm or deny such a thing! My broadcasts are for everyone–and anyone, after all. But if you happened to find it entertaining, well, that’s just a bonus, isn’t it?”

Lucifer turned to face him fully, his red eyes gleaming. “You’re a clever one, Alastor. Audacious, even. But there’s a fine line between audacity and *folly. So tell me, which side of the line are you standing on?”

Alastor’s grin sharpened, his crimson eyes glinting of mischief. “Why, the fun side, of course! I’ve found life–and afterlife, for that matter–is far too dull without a little risk, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lucifer’s smirk deepened, and for a moment, the room was silent, save for the faint hum of static from the radio. The tension crackled like electricity, neither of them willing to back down.

Finally, Lucifer broke the silence. “I’ll admit, you’ve piqued my interest, Radio Demon. I don’t often take the time to indulge in… distractions. But you, Alastor, seem determined to capture my attention. So, consider this your invitation to do so. Show me what makes you so special.”

Alastor tilted his head, his grin practically splitting his face. “An invitation, you say? Why, Your Majesty, I’d be delighted to accept!”

Lucifer stepped closer, his presence looming yet oddly inviting. “Be careful, Alastor. I don’t give second chances. Impress me, and you may find this arrangement… rewarding. But disappoint me, and, well…” He let the sentence hang, the unspoken threat heavy in the air.

Alastor’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Oh, I do love a good challenge. I promise you, Your Majesty, you won’t be disappointed.”

Lucifer smiled–a slow, deliberate curve of his lips. “We’ll see.”

And with that, he turned and strode out the door, leaving Alastor standing in the middle of the room, the hum of the radio growing louder.

The Radio Demon chuckled to himself, the sound low and gleeful. “Oh, Lucifer,” Alastor mused, “you have no idea what you have just started.”

The Devil’s favorite tune was just about to be written, and Alastor had every intention of making it a masterpiece.

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Previous | Present | Second | Third | Fourth | Fifth | Sixth

[miffy-junot]

Junot's attempt to become a peasant in Illyria: the Icepit scandal

The following anecdote is about some events during Junot's troubled stay in Illyria, meaning that severe mental illness (and the more unpleasant symptoms of it) are discussed. Please have all due sensitivity while reading.

The sufferings of the poor Duke [of Abrantes] increased every day, his attacks became more frequent and more violent, and were caused by the slightest annoyance.

Once a nightingale singing in the bushes under his window disturbed his sleep. The next morning Junot called all the troops, and two battalions of Croats were ordered to begin a campaign against the poor nightingale who had dared to disturb his sleep.*

On another occasion, Junot imagined that he had discovered a great conspiracy hatched by all the sheep of Illyria, and he directed all the attention of the police and the severity of the laws against these harmless animals.

Then, presently, he felt a passion as sudden as it was romantic for a young Greek girl who was a member of his household. As this young girl sought to oppose the pride of her virtue to his solicitations, Junot despaired, and resolved to set fire to his palace to destroy his heart and his love in the same flames. Fortunately his project was discovered in time, and the fire he had lit was extinguished.**

Then he felt an unspeakable horror for the noise and splendors that surrounded him; he longed to flee from the festivities and the splendour of his position, for the calm of the silent and tranquil existence of a poor peasant.*** He continued to desire the life of the country, and as no one had the right to deprive him of his dignity, or to gratify his desires, he resolved, by his private authority, to break down the obstacles which hindered the caprices of his poor sick mind, and to retire from the troubles to which his position attached him.

Under the pretext of making an inspection tour through the provinces, he left Trieste. This new existence seemed for a moment to calm his agitation. He arrived almost incognito at the little town of Goritz, and asked the hotel where he had stopped to show him the most modest and least conspicuous inn in the city where honest workers were accustomed to assemble after their work. He was told that the house known by the name of Icepit was of this nature; and that the workmen were accustomed to go there after the fatigues of the day to refresh themselves with a very light beer, in a common jug. The governor of Illyria went to lodge at the Icepit. He seldom left it, either day or night, and there he took part in the innocent pleasures of a happy and contented poverty. This poor heart, once so great and so benevolent, found its last consolation, its last joy in this inn.

The last friend of the Duke of Abrantès, the Pylades of poor Orestes,**** was a madman! A poor idiot of a good family, and of such an easy character that he was allowed to go out without a supervisor; they contented themselves with laughing at his follies, which did no harm to anyone; but, in spite of his jovial humour, he was endowed with a biting wit and a witty buffoonery which spared neither rank nor elevation. The half-joking, half-sarcastic comedies of this Istrian Diogenes were soon the only ones capable of distracting the black melancholy of the wandering hero, and it was an endless pleasure for him to hear the grandeur and brilliance of a position which he had so dearly won, and yet which he had enjoyed so little, ridiculed. The idiot had a very special talent for imitation; he imitated in the most burlesque manner the pomp of the Governor and the French elegance of his officers. Whenever this happened to him, the joy and pleasure of his poor friend knew no bounds. After a scene of this nature, the Duc d'Abrantès threw himself one day into the arms of his friend, and adorned him with the insignia of the Legion of Honor, passing around his neck the grand cross of that order which he himself wore. The emperor had given Junot full powers to grant this reward, and to spread this order in the provinces of Illyria and Istria. No one had the right, therefore, to deprive the poor fool of the honors which the Governor himself had conferred on him. For weeks this unfortunate man could be seen in the streets of Goritz, adorning himself like a peacock with the grand cross of the order instituted by Napoleon, and at the same time making the most biting and sarcastic jokes about this decoration. The Duke of Abrantès frequently accompanied him in his walks, sometimes laughing aloud at the poor fool's jokes, and sometimes listening to them with the most sustained attention, as if they were oracles of a wise prophet. We could see this strange couple walking through the streets; often they sat arm in arm on a stone, making the most extravagant remarks about the passers-by, or philosophizing on the vanity of human reason, and the greatness, the smallness, and the malignity of the world, thus realizing the stirring and heartrending scenes of King Lear and his fool, which Shakespeare has described to us. After a long wait, Napoleon's message finally arrived; he deprived poor Junot of his post and his dignity, and appointed the Duke of Otranto in his place.

*according to Laure's memoirs, Junot frequently suffered insomnia in the last year of his life.

**I shouldn't have to say this, but just to make it clear: Junot did not harass this girl, what happened (as stated by other sources on the subject) was that he flirted with her and invited her to dinner but she ghosted him because she was aware of his insanity.

***Junot had grown up in a small country village, and in later life he expressed to Laure his desire to retire to the countryside with her and their children.

****In Ancient Greek tradition, the Mycenaean prince Orestes suffered insanity (mostly because of his extremely cursed family), and was cared for by his dear friend Pylades. Interestingly enough, some later Roman writers used Orestes and Pylades as an example of same-sex love, and for centuries upon centuries the pair have been a symbol of homoeroticism between two young men. (there's nothing to suggest that Junot and this Illyrian friend were anything more than friends, I just couldn't resist the urge to infodump)

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