#who shall not be named on my blog | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gojorgeous · 10 months ago

Text

"sure thing"

pairing: target!gojo x assassin!fem!reader summary: you've been hired to kill the satoru gojo. how will you pull it off... and what will you do when he figures it out? content: MDNI (18+ only), nsfw, darkish content (all is well in the end), no established relationship, assassins/organized crime, blackmail, mention of a “suicide mission”, attempted murder (uhhhh), hidden identity, intended use of sex as a means to an end, mating press, unprotected sex, p->v, creampie, oral (fem!receiving), praise, pet names (gorgeous/sweetheart/baby), slight aftercare. a/n: me 🤝 describing gojo as having dimples welcome to my second 1k followers event fic! At this rate tho i’m going to hit 2k before i finish the 1k event LMAO. not that i'm complaining hehe. thank you for being patient and for all the support on my recent works! i really appreciate every ask, comment, follow, reblog, everything. they mean the world to me. check out the rest of my 1k event here. enjoy and remember that ALL AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED! creds: twitter template by @cafekitsune wc: 7.8k

“Who?!”

No fucking way. There’s no way he just said what you think he said.

“You heard me,” he scowls. He glares at you from across the desk. His seat is one of those cushy little office chairs, of course. Yours is plastic– cold and hard.

“Are you fucking insane?” you hiss. There’s no other explanation for what he’s asking you to do. He’s lost his fucking mind.

“We have a client willing to pay big money for this. Big money for just an attempt,” he answers.

You laugh, but there’s absolutely nothing funny about this conversation. “Oh, I’m sure you do. Probably because he’s practically invincible. I’ll never even lay a hand on him.”

Your “boss”, for lack of a better term, only scowls harder, the wrinkles forming near his eyes etching deeper in his skin. “Well, you’d best find a way to make it work. You’re taking this job. That’s final.” You scoff. Maybe you should recommend he see someone… “No. There’s no way. I’m not doing this.” You stand, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “Get someone else to go on your suicide mission.” You take a couple strides toward the door before two very large men move to block your path.

“Not so fast,” your boss calls. You pause, eyeing up your competition. You could definitely take them if you needed to. You sense only a very faint amount of cursed energy coming from each of them– not even enough to make you blink– but something in your boss’s tone makes you turn back.

“Yes?” You cross your arms over your chest, fingering a blade hidden in your breast pocket.

He fiddles around in his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and lighting up right there in his office. You don’t try to hide the way your nose scrunches up. “You want to do this job.”

Your eyes narrow. Something tells you you’re not going to like what comes next. “And why’s that?”

He takes a long puff, letting the smoke flowing out of his lungs with a slow exhale. “Because otherwise that little brother of yours is gonna be…” he pauses to give you a smile that makes your stomach churn. “Hmm… a lot smaller, shall we say? Maybe in several limb sized pieces?”

You think your heart stops. Time halts as ice runs through your veins. Nobody knows about your brother. At least, they didn’t.

Your boss’s smile grows even wider. In all your time as an assassin, you’ve never wanted to kill someone more. But you know you can’t. Just an attempt on his life will end your brother’s.

“Don’t worry. He’s all tucked away and safe at home where you left him.” Just a tiny piece of your heart thaws with relief. “But try to run with him, or run yourself, and he won’t be safe much longer.” Your pulse pounds so viciously you’re sure everyone can hear. A bead of sweat rolls down your neck. “Now, will you accept the assignment?”

Your jaw clenches. He got you. In all these years of working for him you’ve been careful, meticulous about hiding every piece of your personal life to avoid situations just like this. But he still got you. He got you.

“Yes,” you breathe. You have no choice. You will either kill Satoru Gojo or you will die trying.

“Good,” is all he says, and then you’re being escorted out of the office wondering where the hell you went wrong.

It’s been three weeks since that fateful meeting with your boss. True to his word, your brother has remained unharmed, but you see his lackeys lurking around every corner. Neither you nor your brother are truly safe and you never will be again unless you can pull this off and then put together some plan to escape your boss’s clutches.

You’ll fail. You know you will. The thought eats you up inside with every waking moment.

You’ve done your best to learn every possible piece of information about Satoru Gojo in the past two weeks. You know you can’t tail him closely– he’d pick up on your cursed energy and notice your incessant presence, so you’ve had to study from a distance with only minimal moments of proximity. You know where he works, who he works with, what restaurants, bars, and clubs he frequents and what days of the week he tends to visit. You know what his order is at his favorite ramen restaurant, where he lives, what time he wakes up. Hell, you know what fucking brand of dish soap he uses. He lives a surprisingly… predictable lifestyle. He makes no attempt to switch up his schedule or cover his tracks. In any other situation he’d be every assassin’s dream, but this is Satoru Gojo and Satoru Gojo doesn’t need to worry about assassins– assassins need to worry about him.

It took you the first week to come up with a plan. You had no clue how you were going to get close to him, much less kill him, and his infinity technique was going to prove particularly problematic. How were you supposed to kill him when you couldn’t even touch him? You had to get him in a situation in which he would willingly let his guard down for you.

You’d been on the subway when it hit you. Sex. You’d get him to have sex with you. If you could get him to take you home, he’d have to turn infinity off for at least a short time. That would be your time to strike.

You’d spent the next two weeks primping yourself. You’d bought the most expensive dress you’d ever owned, got a mani-pedi, whitened your teeth, and spent a small fortune on makeup. Considering your circumstances, you thought your plan was quite a good one. You knew when he’d go out to the bar with his friends, which bar he’d go to, how long he’d stay, how he’d get a taxi home. You also knew when you’d arrive, how long you’d stay, and how you’d get a taxi with him– everything planned perfectly to best catch his attention. But for all your planning, there was still one thing you didn’t know. What kind of woman did Satoru Gojo go for? Someone submissive? Teasing? Aggressive? Playful? In all your time tracking him you’d never seen him take somebody home. It struck you as… odd. He was Satoru Gojo, renowned for his power, wealth, and good looks– surely he had women falling at his feet. Maybe he was just a little more… selective. If that was the case you’d have to be even quicker on your feet when you finally met him. And that time is now.

You’re in your bathroom, checking your makeup one last time before heading out the door. Your brother sleeps soundly in the room down the hall, safe for the time being. You’ve contacted a friend, one who is at least willing to try to get him out if– when– you fail. You doubt it will be enough.

You make your way to his room. A quick peek inside reveals he’s snuggled up with a plushie elephant that he carries around like they’re attached at the hip. You creep inside, a sad smile on your lips. This may very well be the last time you see him. You brush a stray lock of hair from his eyes and press a kiss to the crown of his head. With one last whispered ‘I love you’, you’re out the door. If you linger, you won’t be able to go– and you have to. For him.

The streets of Tokyo are cold tonight, like the weather knows what you’re about to attempt, like it’s preparing for death, for failure. For your failure.

The club you arrive at is upscale, and one where you’ve already tipped off the bouncer to let you bypass the line. You hear a few groans from the people behind you as you saunter straight inside.

You’re conscious of every little move from the second you step inside. At any moment, he could see you and it could make or break your entire plan.

You press your shoulders back. You have a plan– stick to it.

You make your way over to the bar, weaving your way between groups of people who are somewhere between giggling a little too loudly and tripping over their own feet.

You find a free space at the bar and lean up onto your elbows, your eyes screening the bartenders. You smile when you see a familiar face.

“Hey, Dean,” you call.

He turns and the sight of his friendly green eyes sets you a little more at ease.

“Oh, shit. Hey!” He slings a towel over his shoulder and comes to stand across from you. “You’re back,” he says. You nod and smile softly. Ever since you’d determined this would be the place you’d been coming periodically, chatting up the bartenders. The last thing you needed was to stand around in a corner alone with seemingly no friends. That wouldn’t attract anyone, much less Satoru Gojo.

Out of all the bartenders, Dean was your favorite– and you’d been oh so happy to learn that his schedule put him on every Friday night.

“Yeah. Long day at work.”

A smile pulls at his lips, but there’s a hint of sympathy in his eyes. “The usual, then?”

You nod solemnly. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

You watch him prepare the drink for you, feeling a little bad that it’s all a lie. There’s no bad day at work, you didn’t just happen to come in here one day and strike up a conversation with him. All of this is premeditated, planned, and it feels… lonely. It feels lonely to know that on what is probably your last night on earth you are surrounded by people who only think they know you.

“So, anything new happening?” Dean drops your drink in front of you and you have a feeling it’s filled with a little more vodka than he’s supposed to put in there.

Your eyes shift around the bar as subtly as you can manage. As much as you want to seem like you fit in, you also need to find Gojo. It’s a fine balance.

You shrug. “Yeah, I guess I just feel like a lot of things are going to be changing for me pretty soon.”

His brows pull together and the look he gives you is one of genuine interest and concern. It makes your heart wrench. “How so?”

You swallow. “Dunno. Just… everything.”

There’s a moment of silence and then the tapping of a finger on your glass. “Damn, girl. Drink up. You need it.”

You can’t help but smile. You have a feeling that Dean would have been a good friend of yours in another life.

You take his advice, though, and bring your drink to your lips and force a smile. You can’t be moping– not tonight.

The next twenty minutes are spent with Dean. Even when he’s making other drinks he’s still chatting with you, still being a good… friend. You dread leaving your little haven at the bar. The time is coming when you’ll have to seek out your target.

You’re shocked when it’s the other way around.

“Hey, gorgeous.” There’s a light brush on your shoulder and you turn. It takes all you have to keep your features schooled and calm. Satoru fucking Gojo just tapped your shoulder.

Nothing prepared you for how handsome he is up close. All those days of research, of tracking and tailing– none of it does the real thing justice. Even with those stupid sunglasses inside… he’s fucking beautiful. “I’ll pay for all of your drinks tonight if you let me skip this hideous line,” he whines.

You give yourself no more than a second to recover. You school your features into a smirk. You glance at Dean with an ‘is this okay?’ look. He just smiles and shrugs.

You turn back to Gojo, bracing yourself this time for the beauty you’re about to face. You meet his gaze and know you could get lost in it. “Be my guest.”

His smile nearly blinds you and his dimples nearly make you pass out. Still, you keep your cool.

“Yesssss!” He looks like a puppy just offered a bone.

He spills his drink order to Dean and it’s far more than could possibly be just for him. He’s here with his friends, then. Probably the blonde man who always looks too tired to be here and the girl with the brown hair who always seems like she’s just along for the ride.

You bite your lip to hide a laugh when he orders himself two strawberry daiquiris. Somehow you still catch his attention.

“What?” he pouts. You can’t help but feel a small stirring of surprise in your gut. He’s far more… relaxed than you’d expected him to be. He’s almost… childish?

You press your lips together and shake your head. You’ve reached the point where your research can’t take you any further. From this point on, it’s up to you to discover what Satoru Gojo likes in a woman.

You debate how to answer. Play coy? Tease him? Stay silent? Any option could be as correct as the next. You didn’t know where to start… so maybe you’d just start by being yourself.

“Just, um… not the order I was expecting,” you laugh. It’s halfway genuine. With the way he’s acting, it’s hard to remember that he’s the most powerful man alive.

His pout only intensifies. “Well, what’s your order?”

His question is answered when Dean sets another cosmopolitan in front of you. You laugh. “Never said I was judging, just that it wasn’t what I expected.”

Another smile tugs at his lips and something stirs in your gut that you try your very hardest to ignore. This was a job. There was no room for actually enjoying it. This man was probably going to kill you later, in a matter of hours.

There’s a beat of silence, and then a slight shift in his demeanor. He leans closer and you see a twitch of his lips. Your heart jumps.

“You’re a sorcerer,” he says.

You hold back an exhale of relief. You thought he might be onto you. If he is, he’s choosing not to reveal it yet.

You nod and take what you hope is a casual sip of your drink. “And you’re Satoru Gojo.”

A brow arches high enough for you to see it over his sunglasses. “You know who I am?”

You force a chuckle, smirking despite the pounding of your heart. “Who doesn’t?”

You’d decided long ago to tell him that you knew exactly who he was. It would seem more suspicious for a fellow sorcerer to have no idea what the Satoru Gojo looked like.

He flashes you a smile full of white and stupidly fucking perfect teeth. “That’s true, heh.” You press your lips together to avoid a smile. Not too humble, then…

“So, what’s your technique”

You shoot him a glance that questions his sanity. Asking a sorcerer what their technique is… is personal. It’s not information you give out to a rando at the bar– even if it is Satoru Gojo.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You take another sip of your drink, trying your hardest to remain somewhere on the border or interested and casual.

“Bet I could find out.”

That makes you turn fully, angling your body toward his. “Oh yeah? You challenging me to a fight?” You smirk and shake your head. “I’ll pass.”

He pouts again, but you see a hint of a smile peeking through. “Aw, come on. That’s no fun…”

You chuckle and take another sip of your drink. You’re not sure you’re sipping just for appearances anymore. You think you probably just need a little liquid courage to see this thing through. “Sorry. I value my life.”

You watch as he slides his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, just enough for you to get a glimpse of what’s behind. You nearly choke again and this time you don’t manage to hide your nervous swallow when he smirks.

“You’re so sure you’d lose?” His voice is teasing now and you hate that it’s actually having an effect on you. Job, job, job, just a job…

You clear your throat. “I like to think I’m not stupid enough to think that I could win.”

His eyes are blue– so fucking blue– and you feel like he’s seeing straight into your soul. Can he see? Can he see your filthy intentions? Your plotting? The rottenness of what you’re going to do? “What if I promise to take it real easy on you?”

Your drink is forgotten now. You’re lost in what he’s saying– in him. “No thanks.” Your voice is growing lower and you feel like there’s some magnet forcing you to lean into him, to seek his warmth.

“So you like it rough, then.” The trance is broken and your blood runs hot. Holy shit. This man is flirting with you and you hardly even had to try. He's trying to take you home. Little does he know, you’re a sure thing.

You watch as he throws back the rest of his strawberry daiquiri with a pleased “ahhh” at the end. When he turns back to you his eyes have a certain spark in them that makes your thighs press together. “You wanna dance with me?”

Fuck. This is going too well to be real. But you’re not about to pass up a good deal.

“What about your friends?” you ask and eye the several untouched drinks still left on the bar. It’s risky– giving him an out, but you can’t seem too eager.

He follows your gaze only to bounce his eyes straight back to you. “I’m sure they’ll get a look at ya and understand.”

The smirk he’s giving you is making electricity shoot straight between your legs. Damn. You really wish you didn’t have to kill him– or at least try to.

When he extends his hand you only hesitate for a second. Your heart leaps when you feel his skin on yours, knowing he’s let infinity down. He pulls you onto the dancefloor and it’s not long before he’s running his hands all over you– groping your ass, pinching your thighs, nipping at your neck. Pretty soon the dancefloor evolves to a dark corner of the club with his lips on yours and goddamn he’s a good kisser. You’ve got your fingers in his hair and his hand way too close to your boobs when he whispers those fateful words– “let’s get out of here.”

You can only hide your swallow and nod before he’s pulling you through the crowd, leaving the club behind. He hauls you both into the backseat of a taxi and the door’s barely closed before he’s all over you again. You think you hear the taxi driver mutter something about ‘staining the seats’ but you’re too far gone to give a shit.

Fuck, he feels good. He’s kisses you like he’s starved and your lips are the fountain of fucking life, like he’s never felt something so good and now he can’t get enough. And, god, he’s handsy. You’re forever grateful to your past self for discreetly hiding your blade in your bra– he would have felt a holster on your thigh at least ten times over by now.

He groans when you arrive at what you know is his apartment building, though you don’t let on that you recognize the place in the slightest. The look on his face makes you think he’s feeling actual physical pain at the prospect of having to peel away from you for even a second. Nonetheless, he tosses a wad of cash at the taxi driver and pulls you straight inside.

He can’t even wait for the elevator to come, groping your waist right there in the lobby and then when the elevator finally does come, shoving you up against the metal wall a licking stripe across your collarbone.

You can’t deny how nice it feels to be so desperately… wanted. Never once has a man made you feel this way– so consumed by him, him, him. Once again you curse the universe that you’re here with a mission other than getting laid.

You find yourself giggling when he pulls you out of the elevator and presses his palm to a fucking scanner to get into his apartment. You try to pull yourself together, but when he laughs with you, you can’t help but melt into him a little more.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind you, he’s got you up against another wall with your legs wrapped around his waist and his face buried in your neck. His sunglasses are long gone and you pull at his shirt, popping the buttons straight off the fabric until you slide the shirt down his shoulders and onto the floor.

“That was Versace,” he whines.

You plaster your lips to his. “I don’t care.” All he does is chuckle.

“So gorgeous…” he breathes and your head slumps back against the wall, giving him better access to the soft skin of your neck. Any minute now. Any minute he’s going to start stripping your clothes off and you’re going to have to let this charade crumble. You don’t want to. He’s practically worshiping you. It’s perfect, it’s amazing, and you don’t want it to end.

His fingers dig into the flesh of your ass and suddenly you’re moving again– moving, moving, moving until your back is bouncing against the softness of a mattress and you’re fucking giggling again like a lovesick idiot. Maybe you’d had a few too many sips of those cosmopolitans.

He’s smiling as he crawls over you and the sight makes your heart flutter with both lust and terror. Lust because he’s so fucking beautiful and terror because you know that any moment now you’re going to attempt to end that beauty forever.

A lump forms in your throat and you try unsuccessfully to swallow it. You have to do this, have to try. There’s no other way, no other option. Not for you.

Your thoughts must not have been as perfectly concealed as you’d thought because he quirks a brow. “Something goin’ on up here?” His lips slide across your temple in a touch that feels far too tender for a hookup. “Don’t worry, baby. It’ll fit.” He snickers at his own joke before burying himself in your neck. His hand slides down your side, pressing you up into him until you can feel every curve and cut of his muscles.

You bite your lip. You’ve already slipped enough for him to notice your nerves– you can’t let it happen again. You have to do it soon. Now. As soon as you see an opportunity you have to strike. You have to.

You arch up into him, scratching your fingers down his back, trying to seem as invested in the moment as you can. He gets greedier, leaving open-mouthed kiss down your neck, across your collarbone. You nearly freeze up when he kisses low into the valley of your breasts– as low as your dress allows. Then he moves over your clothes, kissing down your stomach as his hands rub your thighs.

Now. Now, while he’s not looking.

You slide a hand into his hair and another up to your chest, trying to play it off like you’re touching yourself. You sneak your fingers into your bra, feeling the cool metal of your blade glide across your thumb. Now.

You fist your fingers in his hair, holding his head down as best you can while you arc the blade toward his neck. Just one good hit, please…

You think you’re going to strike true– you’re so close– and then a firm hand wraps around your wrist, stalling your attack just as it was about to land.

Fuck.

He doesn’t look up right away, but you hear him sigh, feel his hot breath fanning over your thighs and stomach. When he finally does look up it’s with the eyes of a teacher who’s disappointed his student didn’t do their homework.

“Come on now, baby. I was really hoping you’d forget about all this and we could just have a good night together…” He’s pouting, whining, like a child who’s been told he can’t have dessert before dinner. Your shock stills you long enough that he easily maneuvers the blade from your hand, throwing it with a thwack into the wall to his right. It lands perfectly.

This is it. You’re going to die now. But not without a fight.

You spring up from the bed, kicking him a couple times in the process. You’ve missed your only chance. Now, if there’s even the slightest chance of escape, you have to take it.

You bare feet hit the carpet. No time to find your shoes. You dart for the door and hear him groan behind you. For a second you think you might actually make it, but you should know better.

He appears in front of you, straight out of fucking thin air, and his pout has transformed into something a little more sinister. “Come on, gorgeous. Let’s talk it out, yeah?”

You take a shaky step back, but you know it’s no use. He’s got you. It’s over.

You swallow and lift your chin– you at least want to die with a little dignity. “Just make it quick. Please.”

He sighs again and slides his hands in his fucking pockets, like this is just a stroll down the street. He stalks toward you, forcing you back until you’re pressed up against another wall. This motherfucker really likes walls.

His pout shifts to a smirk that borders far too closely on a grin. “Oh, no. I’ve always had a thing for taking it slow.”

You nearly snort. He certainly hadn’t had a thing for taking it slow just a minute ago. His arms cage you and your world grows infinitely smaller until it’s just him and those blue-ass eyes staring you down. Some distant part of you thinks you might not mind if it’s the last thing you ever see.

“Damn, I really thought you might give it up and just let me fuck you,” his pout returns. “So disappointing…” he sighs.

Your lips part. “You knew?”

That lights his face up like a Christmas tree. “Sensed you tailing me these past few weeks. Started on theeeee– 21st, no?”

Fuck. You’d been so careful. You’d only tailed him in public spaces, where your energy would be more diluted by the crowds. You’d stayed far enough away that he should only have caught mere glimpses of you, even suppressed your energy. He should not have been able to sense you. But he was Satoru Gojo– things people were not supposed to be able to do came easily to him.

But you have one thing on him.

“The 18th,” you whisper. “Started on the 18th.”

There’s a beat of silence and then his smile is growing wider, wider, wider, until it’s practically blinding you. “Well, shit,” he laughs. “You’re pretty good.”

You let a tiny smile slip through your terror. “I try.”

His eyes travel up and down your body, his pout slipping away to a frown. “What to do with you… hmm…” You lift your chin, taking shallow little breaths through your nose. You’re looking death in the face, but you’d never thought it would be so beautiful. He sighs. “I guess I could let you go.”

You freeze. He notices.

He quirks a brow, another smirk sliding across his lips. “What? Didn’t think that was an option?” You stay silent. No way he’ll let you go. It’s a bluff. A cruel trick. “It’s not like you could try again, gorgeous. I know your energy now and what you look like. Sorry, but your chance is gone.” That was fine by you. Your breaths come a little heavier, hope pulsing in your veins. “But–” shit. “Letting you go is so… boring. Especially after where we left off, yeah?”

Your jaw drops. “You cannot seriously be suggesting that we–”

He cuts you off with a kiss, one that makes your toes curl in the carpet and your stomach clench in anticipation.

“Oh, yes I am,” he chuckles. You feel his hand sliding down your hip, cool and calculating. “I know you weren’t faking the whole thing, gorgeous. Nobody makes out like that when they’re faking it.” You feel your cheeks heat. “And nobody gets this wet-” his fingers snake beneath your skirt, pressing to the wet patch on your panties. “When they’re faking it.” You gasp and reach out, hands clasping onto his shoulders for support. He only chuckles. “No worries, gorgeous. No need for any more faking tonight. I’ll make sure it’s all real.”

Somehow you’ve got your legs wrapped around his waist again and you’re headed to the bedroom– again. It’s like a replay– a redo.

“Let’s keep it less killy this time, yeah?”

Your back hits the mattress, your body bouncing lightly on its softness before he’s crawling after you. It’s simultaneously the best and worst deja vu you’ve ever experienced.

His hands slide down your body again, fingertips hooking beneath the hem of your skirt and shimmying it up your thighs until your panties are on full display.

“Shit,” you breathe. He’s moving so fast, like he’s desperate to go further, to get his greedy hands all over your bare skin.

You can’t say you blame him. You feel the same.

His thumbs hook under the fabric of your panties and you know it’s over for you. You can feel his warm breath skating across your thighs, feel the calluses on his hands scraping against your skin. You reach a hand down, tangling it in his hair, and you nearly faint when he smirks and looks up at you with those blue fucking eyes.

“I think I’ve seen this film before, sweetheart.” He tilts his head, resting his cheek on the plush of your thigh. “No more knives hiding anywhere, yeah?”

You clench your jaw, trying to control your pounding heart. You can’t believe you’re doing this. Why are you doing this? You wish you had a better answer than he’s beautiful and sexy and just a glance at him makes you want to rip his clothes off and climb him like a tree.

“Silent, hm? Guess I’ll just have to check myself…”

He’s pressing up the hem up your skirt, more, more, more, until he’s pulling your dress straight up over your arms and running his hands down your bare sides.

“None there…” His fingers cup your breast and you gasp, unable to contain your shock and the jolt that just rushed through you. He traces the outline of your bra. “You had the last one in here, no?” Your chest heaves under his touch, pressing the flesh of your breast up into his fingers. He smirks. “Best check again.” You feel an arm slide beneath you back and then your bra loosens before it’s completely gone.

There’s a beat of silence, of admiration. He gazes down on you and you see his snark falter for just a moment, replaced by a sparkle in his eyes. It makes your skin heat. His fingers brush the swell of your breasts, thumb trailing down over a nipple. You arch and gasp again.

“Fuck. Quit teasing so much.”

He chuckles and the sound washes over you until it settles in your bones. “Sush. I’m not done checking for weapons yet.”

You scowl but before you can even move to open your mouth he’s sliding your panties down your legs, hooking them around your ankles and tossing them somewhere on the floor.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips and you watch him settle himself down between your thighs, eyes never once leaving your center. “Don’t see any knives here, either, but maybe I should double-check…” he breathes.

He hooks your legs over his shoulders and you shudder, your breaths shaky. Fuck. You were supposed to kill him tonight but if he keeps going like this you’ll be the one deceased.

He meets your eyes when he takes the first long lick along your folds. You swear he’s smirking.

Your head rolls back and a pathetic sounding groan slips past your lips. You hadn’t realized how much he’d worked you up. Just the slightest touch feels like heaven.

His tongue nudges at your clits and your legs clench, tightening around his head. He laughs into your cunt and his warm breath skates up and over your tummy. Your fingernails scrape his scalp.

“I think you like this, gorgeous.”

Each word sends little puffs of air against your folds. It’s driving you crazy. You stare down at him, letting a smirk pull at your lips. Your eyes dart over his mouth, wet with your slick, and you don’t fail to notice the way he’s struggling to hold your gaze, eyes flickering back down to your cunt every second. Your smirk grows. “I think you’re liking this, too.”

He licks another stripe, from you pulsing hole to your throbbing clit, and this time he’s the one groaning. “Damn right I am.”

He eats you out like he kisses you– like a starved man, like he’ll die if he stops for just one second, like he can’t live without your juices on his tongue.

You whine and bury both hands in his hair, tugging desperately when his lips wrap around you clit and suck. It’s so much, too much, and yet it’s just right.

Your hips buck and squirm, but he’s got his fingers pressed deep into your flesh, holding you down to take whatever he gives. You think you see heaven when he slides two fingers into your walls, curling them into that gummy spot that has an unbearable heat building deep inside you.

“S-Satoru-” you stutter and you hear him moan and mutter into your cunt like he’s unwilling to leave it for even a second.

“Fuck, yes. Say my name, sweetheart.” Who are you to deny him? You whisper, whine, and whimper his name with every thrust of his fingers, every lick of his tongue. It’s delicious. Every so often he swaps his mouth and hand, thrusting his tongue as deep inside you as he can while his fingers rub dangerous little circles on your clit. Whenever things get a little too filthy he laps his tongue across your entire cunt and along your inner thighs, cleaning up every stray drop. You don’t know how much longer you can last under such a complete and total assault.

“S-Satoru, ‘m gonna-” He licks a thick stripe through your folds that makes your sentence end in a whine, his lips settling to suckle on your clit again.

God, it’s messy. It’s fucking disgusting. His whole chin is covered in spit and slick– and you love it. “Cum for me, baby,” he breathes.

You don’t need to hear much more. You let the heat inside you release with a whine, thighs trembling on his shoulders. Your walls pulse and throb around his fingers, sucking him in and never wanting him to leave. His tongue continues to rub lazy circles around your clit, working you through your high and making it last so long you think you might pass out.

Warmth spreads from the top of your head to the tips of your toes and your muscles tense and clench with each pulsing throb. You swear to god you see fucking stars.

It seems to go on forever, leaving you limp and shaking when the last waves finally slip away.

He presses a final kiss to your clit, one that makes your hips jolt from the overstimulation before he’s lifting himself up. “Wow. That looked like a big one,” he chuckles. He runs a soothing hand along your thigh and you don’t even have the energy to give him some sort of snarky reply. There’s hardly even a pause before something shifts in his eyes. “Let’s see if we can get one that’s even bigger, yeah?”

Before you can even process what he’s said you feel strong hands slide under your thighs, pressing them tightly to your chest as he settles himself close to you

You grasp at the sheets, hearing the clinking of a belt buckle and then the familiar pitch of a zipper being undone.

“Fuck,” you mutter. He’s big. Long and pretty and with a perfectly flushed tip. Your eyes are rolling back just thinking about having him inside you.

A strong hand smooths along your thighs, folding you in a way that feels more vulnerable and exposing than anything you’ve ever done before. He pauses for a beat, just staring down at you silently.

“Gorgeous,” he finally mutters, and something in your heart squeezes. His hand grips your hip firmly, holding you in place and you gasp when you feel him prodding at your entrance. It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic. Big bad assassin turned simpering little bitch over some good Gojo dick.

“Just relaxxxxx, baby.” His hand rubs soothing little circles into your side and it’s so divinely distracting that it catches you by surprise when he starts pushing into you. You gasp and he only chuckles. Asshole.

He’s big– really big – and the stretch is somehow both painful and perfect. You groan into the air, struggling to take him. Every inch feels like it must be the last, but then there’s more. Your walls clench around him on instinct, trying to force him out.

“Fuck, baby. What did I say about relaxing?” You hiss when his hand skates down your tummy to rub messy circles on your clit. The relief is instant and you moan when you feel him slide in a little further. “There we go. Good girl.”

He continues feeding his dick into you, inch by inch, until his hips finally press to yours and you think you can feel him in your fucking throat. You hear him exhale, like it’s a relief to finally be fully inside you, like he’s been waiting for ages.

You expect him to not hold back, to let himself go and pound into you relentlessly, but he doesn’t. He only leans down closer to you, settling in when he starts a pace of slow, sensual thrusts. His brows pinch, his eyes hardened in concentration.

“Ah, fuck. You’re so tight.”

You want to shoot something back at him, but you’re hardly remembering to breathe with how deep he’s sliding into you. Instead, you just end up holding him tighter, your eyes fluttering shut.

Lips dust across your cheeks, just below your lashes. “Keep your eyes open, gorgeous. Wanna see you.”

You blink, thinking that it’s a notion that feels a little too intimate for a hookup. Regardless, you do as he wants, opening your eyes and holding his gaze.

A smile splits his lips and he presses his forehead to yours, picking up the pace of his thrusts. It’s not long before the sound of skin on skin fills the room and you’re both panting. His breath skates across your skin, hot and heavy, hitching with the groans and whines that spill from his chest. You can’t help but pull him closer, raking your nails down his back hard enough to leave marks. The action makes him emit a noise you can only describe as a desperate whimper. “Fuck, baby. Yes.”

His lips press to yours in a kiss that’s all desperation and teeth and tongue. You kiss him back with equal intensity, your body rocking with each heavy thrust. He’s pounding into you now, frantic for more, more, more of you. You want him to take it, take all of you.

A familiar heat pinches in your stomach and you know it won’t be long before he’s pushing you to another release. His dick drags in and out of you, prodding at the gummy spot inside you with every thrust and brushing so deliciously against your cervix that you can’t stop the moans spilling from your lips. It has you seeing stars again, has you clawing at him and panting into his mouth.

“Satoru… harder,” you breathe. You need more– more of everything, of him.

He groans. “You got it, gorgeous.”

His hips slam into you and it’s so perfect that you can’t help but whimper beneath him. It only gets worse when you feel his fingers on your clit again, hand pressed between your bodies. “Cum on my dick, baby.” Your eyes roll back, that coil inside you rolling tighter. You feel his muscles tensing and shaking above you and you know he’s close, too. “Where do you want it?” he asks, and from the pinched look on his face you can tell exactly where he wants it. You know you’re an idiot for feeling the same.

“Inside,” you breathe. He groans so loudly it rattles in your ears.

“That’s my girl,” he says, but it’s nearly a whisper with how strained it is. His hand continues at your clit, rubbing perfect little circles that make your legs tremble where they’re pressed against your chest. Your jaw hangs open, but you don’t dare close your eyes. Satoru is still holding your gaze intently, desperately, like he needs to see you. The thought throws you over the edge.

You cry his name, clawing at his shoulder and shaking like a leaf as you feel yourself gush and pulse all over his dick. For the second time that evening you feel the heat inside you swell and burst, washing through you in waves that nearly consume you whole. It’s a struggle to hold his eyes, to not let them roll back into your skull and give into the pure ecstasy of your high– especially when he’s cumming, too. You can hear him moaning in your ear, feel him twitching inside you, feel his hot cum coating your walls and there’s just so fucking much of it. You swear he cums for a minute straight before he slumps down onto you, burying his face in your neck as you pant.

You’re shaking and so is he, breaths heaving in and out. Reality slowly starts to seep back in, even with his dick still softening inside you and his cum leaking down your thighs.

You tried to kill him. You failed. You had sex. Now what? Would he really let you go like he’d said he would? You wanted to believe it, but life hadn’t taught you to be that trusting. You should move, untangle yourself from him and escape before he has time to change his mind.

“You assassins are always thinking so hard,” He mumbles into the curve of your neck. “Maybe you should try to relax for once.”

You swallow when you feel him pressing his lips to your throat, trailing up to your jaw. It’s… tender, gentle, and it feels so nice. You can’t help the way you melt into the touch a bit. You feel him smile into your skin. “There we go.”

His hand settles on your waist, rubbing soothing little circles that send a jolt of urgency up your spine. No. You’re enjoying this– being close to him, laying here with him, breathing him in. That’s not what this is supposed to be.

You tense again, shifting to get away from him, but he only sighs and presses his weight onto you.

“Come on, gorgeous. No need to leave so soon. Just stay for a bit, yeah?” He nibbles at your jaw, but it doesn’t work this time. You have to go. You’ve failed your mission. You don’t know what that means for your brother. You’d never thought this would have an ending besides your death.

“I have to go,” you mutter, pushing at his chest.

He chuckles, but you don’t miss the strain and… hurt? “Got something more important than trying to kill me?”

You clench your teeth, trying once again to shove him away. “Yes, actually.”

He finally pulls back to meet your gaze, brows slightly pinched. “Like what?”

You push in earnest now, anger and panic rising in your gut. You have to go, have to check on your brother, have to figure out what you’re going to do. “That’s really none of your business,” you seethe.

You go for another shove, but strong hands clasp around your wrists, pinning them to the bed. His expression has gone flat now, serious. “Actually, I think it’s completely my business. You going to report your failure? Should I expect another assassin soon?”

You scowl, tugging at his grasp and trying to free yourself. “Yeah, probably. He’s an insufferable idiot. I told him it wouldn’t work and it didn’t, but I don’t doubt he’ll send another.”

His face cracks, his brows pulling together again. “If you knew it wouldn’t work then why’d you take the job?”

You struggle again, less angry and more desperate now. “Because he’s got my fucking brother at gunpoint and I’ve got to figure out how the fuck I’m going to save him!” you shout.

There’s silence for a long moment– a long, uncomfortable beat of it– and then his expression softens into something… tender. It sends a chill up your spine. Satoru Gojo was never supposed to be tender with you, and that’s all he’s been.

“I’ll save him,” he says. Your heart jumps and his grip on your wrists loosens, allowing you to slip free.

“What?” you breathe. He sits back, allowing you to prop yourself up into a slightly less vulnerable position.

He exhales slowly, but you don’t miss the way his hand settles on your bare thigh, a comforting weight. “I’ll save your brother and then I’ll take care of your boss.” A smirk creeps across his lips. “What? Don’t think I can do it?”

You stare blankly, lips parted. There’s no doubt he can do it, but that’s not the question swirling in your mind.

“Why would you help me?” You’d tried to kill the man. You couldn’t make heads or tails of a reason why he’d go out of his way to help you.

He chuckles. “Well, in case you didn’t know, I’m a hero of sorts.” You have to fight not to roll your eyes. “And… there’s something I want from you.”

There it is– the catch. He wants something. You have no idea what you could possibly have to give him, but you’re willing for it to be just about anything. You narrow your eyes. “What?”

He grins, but you can see the glint of mischief in his gaze. His hand slides further up your thigh, up your side, over your shoulder, until it rests at the nape of your neck and his face is only inches from your own. “What’s your number, gorgeous?”

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lizzyiii · 3 months ago

Text

His Lady Love (7)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

taglist | to be added to the tag list just add your username to this DOC

word count | 6,1k words

summary | you leave for the reach, angsty love confession, false rumors travel to king's landing.

tags | (MDNI), SMUT, unprotected sex (this is asoiaf so all sex is unprotected), p in v, death, heavy angst/NO COMFORT, vampire powers, heavy miscommunication

note | I'd be really interested in knowing if you guys made a name for the reader, in my head her name is Krystyna Mikaelson (yes, I googled norse names and chose my fav) So did anyone else read George R.R Martin's blog??? Anyway, I'm just here for Ewan, Olivia and Phia tbh. I was thinking that reader could be a witch. Like I know witches can't be vampires, but Siphoners can. Like just imagine her father was from a Gemini coven, and she doesn't know she has magic and since she's an original, she's her own power source, hence first heretic.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

You had woven yourself into a web of deception, and now, the strands began to unravel. The Hand’s summons rang ominously in your ears, commanding you to escort Prince Jaehaerys to your so-called "home" in the Reach. Yet, the truth was far less straightforward; your true home lay not within the verdant fields of the Reach, nor did it belong to this mortal realm at all.

Time pressed against you—tonight, you would depart from Kings Landing. What could you possibly say to the watchful White Cloaks accompanying you? The question gnawed at you, demanding a rapid strategy as you struggled to quell your rising panic.

For the moment, the Hand had instructed you to gather only your essentials. As the hour of the wolf approached, you prepared to meet the call at the courtyard and bid a bittersweet farewell.

Your hands moved with urgency, tossing your cherished Mikaelson amulet into a trunk, alongside an array of simple dresses that would serve you for the arduous journey ahead. But amidst the flurry of preparation, the creaking of your chamber doors momentarily pierced through your focus. The air thickened with the unmistakable scent that sent a thrill down your spine, a presence you knew too well.

Stubbornly, you continued to pack, resolutely ignoring his entrance. You were a fool playing a game rigged against you—fostering feelings for a prince destined for a mortal being. Unlike your sister Rebekah, who pinned her affections upon every charming face, you fought against the tide of your own heart. Yet, in the shadows of your denial, an undeniable pull towards Aemond Targaryen had ensnared you, leaving you trapped in a whirlwind of desire and longing.

“I knew something would eventually go awry,” he murmured from the shadows, his tone laden with the weight of foresight.

You stubbornly continued to gather your belongings, your hands trembling ever so slightly. “I know not of what you speak,” you replied, defiance lacing your words like poison.

The atmosphere shifted as Aemond crossed the threshold, his presence a storm—intangible yet fierce. You felt the warmth radiating off him, enveloping you as he positioned himself behind you, the scent of dragonfire and leather filling your senses. “Whenever I find a fleeting moment of happiness, it is whisked away quicker than it appeared. The day I claimed Vhagar, and now, as I stand here with you,” his voice wavered, betraying an edge of vulnerability.

You clenched your jaw, a frown creasing your delicate features as an unbidden ache tightened around your heart. “I do not know how long I shall be gone,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Strong hands found your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his chest, a silent promise wrapped around you as he whispered, “It matters not; I shall await your return, no matter how long it may take.”

With a pained sigh, you turned to confront him, your eyes glistening with unspoken sorrow. “You shouldn't.”

Aemond's brow furrowed, confusion etched across his handsome face as he tightened his grip, unwilling to let you slip away. “Why would you utter such foolishness?”

Your insides twisted as you longed to lay bare the truth that lay heavy on your heart. A truth about your eternal curse—a vampire destined to walk the earth forever, but never to grow old alongside him, to bear him no heirs. Instead, you shook your head, you voice trembling as you whispered, “A prince cannot wed a bastard.”

His brow knitted deeper in perplexity. “What do you mean?”

“I am not my father's daughter,” you confessed, the words tasted bitter as they left your lips. “And that alone should be reason enough for you to forsake any thought of marrying me.”

The admission struck you like a blade, a noose tightening around your spirit. Aemond’s disdain for bastards echoed hauntingly in your mind—his vitriol directed at those he deemed unworthy. If claiming your own truth was the only path to forging a distance between the two of you, then so be it. You would bear the burden of his scorn, if it meant sparing him from the shadows that clung to your existence.

In a flicker of desperation, you realized the power you held—the gift of compulsion. You could erase every whispered promise and shared secret, rendering him a stranger to your existence. Yet, the thought pierced your heart like a dagger; to be forgotten was a torment worse than heartbreak. Aemond’s scorn would be a balm compared to losing him entirely, for you would rather endure his hatred than vanish from his memory.

Closing your eyes, you braced yourself for the inevitable scorn, the revulsion you feared would pour forth from his lips. Instead, you felt his hands, warm and tender, gripping your face with an intensity that stole your breath. “Look at me,” he urged, his voice a gentle command.

With reluctance, you opened her eyes, meeting his piercing violet gaze that seemed to see through to your very essence. "I do not care," he declared, as though his unwavering love could alone mend the fractures within your heart.

A tidal wave of anger surged through you—not directed at him, but ignited by the very depth of his relentless love. With a swift motion, you pushed him away, desperation fueling your words as they spilled forth like a torrent. “You should care! You must understand, Aemond— I am not good for you, and I am certainly not worthy of your love.”

Aemond’s frustration prickled in the air as he gestured animatedly, his brows knitting together as if you had unleashed a storm within him. “And who are you to declare yourself unworthy? Do you think Aegon worthy of the Iron Throne?”

You let out a derisive scoff, the incredulity igniting your tone. "Comparing me to Aegon? That is a completely different situation," you stressed, your words punctuated with defiance.

"I cannot fathom your urge to push me away," Aemond's voice rose, desperation lacing his every syllable. The calm mask he wore shattered, revealing the turmoil beneath. “Is it because you do not love me?”

The weight of his question struck you like a lightning bolt. You could feel the tears welling, and you felt the weight of your own heart as it threatened to overflow. Unconsciously, you yelled, “Of course I love you, Aemond! How could I not," The urgency in your voice rose, a plea wrapped in desperation. “But what you fail to grasp is—”

“You love me," All traces of anger evaporated from his expression; instead, a spark of something else ignited in his eyes as he latched onto your statement.

You faltered, momentarily confused. “What?”

“You love me,” he echoed, his voice rising with fervor, amplifying the truth hanging in the air like a spell.

With a scoff, you shook her head, trying to dismiss the revelation. “That is not the point of the matter, Aemond—”

“It is indeed the point,” he countered, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming as he reached out, cradling your face in his hands. “Because you love me, and I love you.”

A weary sigh escaped your lips, the weight of his insistence pressing down on you. “Aemond, you’re not hearing me.”

“I am,” he replied earnestly, his thumbs brushing softly against your cheek, “I hear you, and yet your heart speaks a truth that cannot be silenced: you love me.”

And as Aemond leaned closer, that fierce violet eye consuming your own, your defenses began to crumble. His lips brushed against yours, igniting a spark that uncoiled like wildfire within you. Resistance became a ghost, fading in the heat of your shared breath as your mouths melded together. Aemond's tongue slid past your lips, a tantalizing invasion, and you found herself yielding to the irresistible pull of desire, your essences intertwining in a dance as ancient as the realms you inhabited.

With each caress from his skilled hands, the world around you faded into oblivion, thoughts dispersing like ash in the wind. You clutched at his neck, your fingers tangling in his silver locks as you deepened your kiss, hungry for more. Aemond's grip roamed boldly across your form, igniting a fire beneath your skin that made your pulse quicken—a symphony of passion building between the two of you. You could feel the unmistakable hardness of his desire pressing against you, stirring a yearning that enveloped you.

As the kiss broke, your breaths mingled, thick with anticipation. Aemond trailed hot kisses along the delicate curve of your neck, his lips sending tremors through your body. A gasp escaped your lips as he scooped you up with effortless strength, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your body fitting perfectly against his as he pressed you closer. Your bodies met, his erection unmistakable even through the barriers of your clothing, igniting a primal need that demanded resolution.

He carried you to the nearest table, as he laid you down, the cool surface contrasted with the heat emanating from your bodies. Aemond’s fingers deftly hiked up the hem of your dress, each inch sending electric thrills along your spine, leaving your breathless.

"Do you want this?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper yet filled with a primal urgency that stirred something deep within you, all of your hesitation gone.

With languid desire pooling in between your legs, you yielded, your desperation spilling over into your voice as you breathed, "Take me now, Aemond. I wish to feel you in me, even after I've departed."

His response to your words was immediate and animalistic, a predatory instinct awakened. A growl rumbled deep in his chest, words lost to the fervor that gripped him. Like a tempest unleashed, he tore away the delicate fabric that separated the two of you, casting it aside with a fervent urgency. His fingers deftly unfastened the laces of his trousers, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet room.

In an instant, he pulled you closer, your bodies colliding with an electric urgency. The tip of his cock grazed your slick heat, a tantalizing tease that sent ripples of desire coursing through your veins. With each passing moment, your body ached for him, the need swelling within you like a tide crashing against the shore.

“Please,” you breathed, your tone rich with longing, “I cannot wait any longer.”

Before you could utter another plea, Aemond surged forward, his curved tip breaking through the barrier of your softness. Moments stretched into eternity as he filled you, a divine sensation that stole your breath. It felt like fire and ice intertwined, the ecstasy consuming you both.

As you joined together, he leaned over you, your faces mere breaths apart. His lips found yours, capturing the essence of your fervent connection in a searing kiss that tasted of bloodlust and boundless craving.

You were not a creature of restraint, especially not in the heat of the moment. With a sly, vixen-like grace, you entwined her legs around Aemond's waist, ensnaring him effortlessly. The force of your pull sent him slamming into you, your bodies colliding with a fervor that made the very air sizzle with electric desire. Aemond groaned, a primal growl escaping his lips as he felt the intoxicating warmth envelop him completely; he was ensnared by you as if caught in a hunter's trap.

Your soft moans echoed like a siren's song, urging Aemond on as your lips trailed kisses down the cool expanse of his alabaster skin. Each kiss was deliberate; it was a tantalizing dance between temptation and control. Your fangs tingled with the hunger for his fiery dragon blood, simmering ever closer to the surface, but for now, you quelled that urge with sheer willpower.

Yet Aemond, with his predatory instincts ignited, began to thrust into you with a relentless rhythm, your flesh meeting with a damp slap that resonated through the great hall like a heartbeat as Aemond thrust himself into your cunt over and over. The air thickened with the sweet scent of lust, pleasure, and something darker that lingered in the wake of your intensity.

“When will you truly understand?” Aemond rasped, his breath quickening as he plunged into you with fervor. The rhythmic, wet sounds reverberated softly in the room, his hand finding its way to your most sensitive spot, teasing your clit with skilled flicks. “You were made for me, just as I was for you.”

Pleasure surged through your veins, overwhelming your senses as you murmured, “I love you.”

With deliberate movements, Aemond traced slow, firm circles on your pearl, lowering his body closer to yours as he whispered against your lips, “I love you.”

A soft whine escaped your lips as your body tightened around him, waves of ecstasy crashing over you in a blinding storm of sensation. Aemond was drawn to your peak, his own release spiraling just behind yours. He let out a deep groan, his essence spilling inside you as he collapsed against you, panting, entirely lost in the moment.

You felt Aemond's warm breath against your skin as he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Nuhon,” he murmured, his words carrying an electricity that entwined your very essence with his. (Mine)

For a fleeting moment, you tightened your grip on him, reluctant to sever the bond that pulsed between you. Yet, time was against you, and Aemond slowly withdrew himself, his gaze piercing into yours, leaving an ache in the space inside you. A soft gasp escaped your lips; the void he left behind felt cavernous, devoid of his heat, as you only felt emptiness.

Silently, you watched as he regained his composure, the delicate dance of his fingers deftly lacing his trousers. As he turned, casting his attentive eye around the chamber, he picked up a handkerchief with a gentle touch.

What followed was an act more intimate than what the two of you had just done—the careful way he wiped away the remnants of your shared passion felt surreal. Aemond's hands were gentle, almost reverent, as he smoothed your skirts back into place, making you feel cherished in a way that transcended the physical.

His hands found their home on your waist, solid yet gentle, your fingers instinctively wrapping around his shoulders. With a graceful lift, he eased you from the tabletop, setting you down on the cold stone floor. His gaze shifted downwards, landing on your stomach, and a wave of panic surged through you, yet you instinctively placed your hand over your stomach, wishing to shield it from his penetrating stare.

“You must drink moon tea before you depart,” he murmured, his voice laced with a trace of regret, as though he carried the weight of unspoken truths.

A harsh swallow caught in your throat. It was an empty act for you to do, as your womb lay barren, yet the implications of his words hung heavy in the air. You turned your gaze away from him, a flicker of vulnerability dancing across your features, and nodded nonetheless.

His hand, warm and reassuring, cupped your cheek, gently guiding your eyes back to his. "I shall fetch some for you. Wait here, I will return shortly."

Silently, you nodded, feeling the electrifying brush of his lips against yours in a fleeting kiss, a soft collision of breath that sent shivers through your being. It was a moment suspended in time, brief yet profound, leaving you yearning for more. But before you could fully savor it, he withdrew, leaving your chambers cloaked in the bittersweet essence of his absence.

You busied yourself, gathering the few belongings you possessed, when Aemond returned with striking swiftness. A sense of discomfort washed over you as you drank the vile tea, acutely aware of his watchful eye.

After a brief silence, you dared to glance up at him, a question dancing on your lips. "Do you intend to escort me to the courtyard?"

His gaze remained piercing, an unwavering ember in the flickering light. "Indeed," he replied with a hum that resonated between you.

A sigh escaped you as you reached for your trunk of belongings, but before you could grasp it, Aemond’s hand was there, lifting it away with a possessive ease. A small spark of frustration flickered within you, yet words eluded your lips as you and he made your way through the dim hallways toward the courtyard.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and palpable, each lost in private thoughts as you pushed open the grand doors leading into the courtyard. A sea of anxious faces greeted you, their attention fixed squarely on your arrival.

Shame washed over you as you realized you were the last to come forth, and with Aemond at your side, the scrutiny felt even more intensified. Yet, this was a moment that demanded courage. You squared your shoulders and set your gaze ahead, making your way toward Helaena.

Her eyes danced with sorrow as she stepped forward, cradling her sleeping son, and placing him tenderly into your arms. You held him protectively, your voice dropping to a fervent whisper. “I promise I shall protect him with my life.”

Helaena's expression softened, her hand gently caressing the boy’s delicate face before nodding in earnest agreement. As you turned, your gaze met Aegon’s, his watchful eyes drilling into you, fixated on the sleeping prince nestled securely in your embrace.

With a steadying breath, you made your way toward the carriage, but a hand on your shoulder halted your steps. You turned to find Alicent, her eyes reflecting a sadness that tugged at your heart. She offered you a tight smile, squeezing your shoulder in a gesture of support. “You’re performing a great service for the crown,” she said, her voice filled with sincerity. You could only nod in acknowledgment as she added softly, “Promise me you’ll look after yourself.”

“Of course, My Queen,” you murmured, tightening your hold on Jaehaerys, his warmth a comforting presence against your chest.

Her smile deepened, and she said, "I will pray for the safety of both you and Jaehaerys."

“Thank you, Queen Mother,” your heart swelled at her words, while you whispered the word 'mother' as if it was sacred.

As you stepped into the carriage, you turned once more, your gaze locking with Aemond’s, unspoken words hung heavy in the air between you. Just then, a white cloak swept to close the door, sealing you and the sleeping prince in an intimate cocoon of silence.

When Jaehaerys stirred awake, panic etched across his delicate features, his bright violet eyes wide with confusion, had required an abundance of soft whispers and lots of patience from you. With tenderness, you had reassured him, carefully explaining the necessity of his departure, a necessary measure for his safety.

“What of Jaehaera?” he inquired, his voice laced with anxiety as he searched your face for answers.

A frown tugged at your lips as you deliberated, knowing the harsh truth—that his life must take precedence, for he was the heir. Instead, you offered a gentle smile, fabricating a reassuring lie. “She is being taken somewhere else, my Prince.”

“And Shrykos?” the small prince pressed, his tiny hands fiddling with one of the lemon cakes hastily packed in by the Queen Dowager.

You gazed down at Jaehaerys, who nestled against your side, “Shrykos and Morghul will remain safe within the Dragonpit,” you whispered softly.

A deep sigh escaped him, a pout forming on his lips as he burrowed deeper into your embrace. “I've never been away from Mama or Jaehaera before..." he murmured, his small frame trembling with a mix of fear and longing.

Wrapping an arm around him, you tightened your hold, "Fear not, my prince. I will keep you safe. And soon, you will be reunited with them," you murmured.

You were suffocating in boredom. Two endless days cooped inside this rickety carriage left you feeling more drained than when you began. The road to Highgarden loomed ahead, a serpentine path promising nearly a month's worth of dreary travel. Restlessness gnawed at you, a specter whispering in your ear, as you devised a plan.

Murdering the three White Cloaks tasked with your escort was an appealing thought. Yes, it would be regrettable, but the crude vulgarities spilling from their lips, laced with the foulest lechery as they leered at you, twisted the notion into something almost justifiable.

Once the deed was done, once the lifeblood of those pompous guards stained the earth beneath you, you would take Jaehaerys and make your way back to King's Landing. You would craft a tale of treachery—how you were ambushed by Rhaenyra's sympathizers, forcing you to retreat and return.

As Jaehaerys slept peacefully beside you, his form curled like a contented cat, you decided now was the best time to act. With delicate care, you shifted him onto his back, ensuring he remained undisturbed. You then directed your attention to the partition that separated your lavish prison from the brutish guards beyond.

With a purposeful knock, you roused their attention, your senses heightened, attuned to the disgruntled murmurs that reached your ears as the carriage shuddered to a halt. The door swung open abruptly, revealing Ser Loren, his face taut with irritation, the kind one might expect of a man dragged from the warmth of the sun into the chill of night.

“What,” he snapped, brows furrowing with annoyance, the tone of a man used to being in command.

In response, you offered him an enchanting smile, sweet as nectar dripping from a ripe fruit, and raised a hand to cup his cheek. The confusion flitted across his features, but your grip was steadfast as you redirected his gaze to meet yours.

“Ser Loren,” you murmured, the subtle power of your compulsion thrumming through you like a siren's song. “I need you to slay your fellow guards for me.”

His eyes widened, the flicker of uncertainty sparking a thrill within you. Yet, you tightened your hold, your voice dropping to a velvety whisper as you compelled him anew. “Do not utter a word,” you commanded softly. “You will carry out my will without hesitation, and when that is done…you shall take your own life.”

“Now go,” you urged, the finality of your words binding him as surely as any ancient spell.

As he departed, you closed the door with a soft click and settled back beside the peacefully slumbering Jaehaerys, the anticipation coursing through you like a potent elixir. Through your enhanced hearing, you could make out Ser Loren’s hesitant movements as he drew his sword. The air was thick with tension as you tuned into the muffled voices of his comrades, their puzzled murmurs a prelude to chaos.

Then came the dreadful sound of steel meeting flesh, followed by the piercing screams of two men, echoing in stark contrast to the quiet of your carriage. The ritual continued—a whimper preceding yet another stinging strike of blade on flesh—until an oppressive silence fell, wrapping around you like a shroud.

Rising to your feet, you opened the door and stepped out into the chaos. The sight that met your eyes was macabre: the fallen guards lay sprawled upon the ground, their once-pristine white cloaks now marred with blood, a stark contrast to the pale of their skin. Only the soft whicker of the horses broke the stillness.

With a satisfied hum, you turned your attention back to the carriage, intent on retrieving Jaehaerys. By horseback, you would make your way back to King’s Landing. Slipping back inside, you knelt beside the sleeping prince, your heart sinking as you perceived an ominous shift in Jaehaerys.

Gently placing your hand against his brow, a frown twisted your features upon feeling his rising temperature. Panic bubbled within you as realization struck: the boy was burning with fever, likely the consequence of his first venture beyond the castle walls. His frail immune system was struggling against the onslaught of illness. Children, as you knew all too well, were vulnerable, and fevers could turn grave in the blink of an eye.

Time was of the essence; you needed to find safety for him, a sanctuary where he could heal swiftly.

With care, you gathered him into your arms, cocooning him in a soft blanket to protect his fragile form. Then, you climbed onto a horse with him nestled closely against you. Urging the steed forward, you set your sights on the nearest village, aware that King’s Landing would have to wait—your priority was the precious life cradled in your embrace.

What you were blissfully unaware of was how swiftly whispers of three slain white cloaks would flutter to the ear of King's Landing. Such is the nature of tidings that venture too far from their origin—truth, like shadows, warps in the light of rumor.

What reached the capital painted a grim picture: three white cloaks brutally cut down, their carriage reduced to cinders, with the lady and the prince within consumed by flames. Perhaps there lay some truth to this tale; after you'd fled with Prince Jaehaerys, desperate commoners stumbled upon your carriage, and in their frenzy, laid it to waste.

And so, that account flew to King's Landing with the swiftness of a raven on the wing.

"He's dead," Aegon breathed, his voice thick with disbelief, as he struggled to absorb the weight of the news. "He's dead!"

In a fit of rage, Aegon hurled a glass goblet against the stone wall, shattering it into a thousand shards, his fury echoing within the council chamber. "I’ll kill them all!"

He pounded the table with sufficient force that the goblets rattled, while the rest of the council sat in stunned silence, their eyes upon him. "This is war! I declare war! I declare war!" His voice rose, raw and strident.

With cheeks flushed and a face streaked with remnants of tears, Aegon turned to his Grandsire, his expression a tempest of anger and anguish. "This is your doing! All of this is your fault!"

Alicent, glancing nervously between her father and her son, sought to defuse the tension crackling in the air. "He did not kill Jaehaerys, Aegon," she insisted softly, her voice trembling with urgency.

"No! He merely sent him forth to meet his doom!" Aegon shouted, his despair morphing into a howling tempest.

Otto's gaze remained steady but weary as he leaned back in his seat, allowing a heavy sigh to escape him. "It was a miscalculation on my part."

"A miscalculation that cost my son's life!" Aegon's anguished cry reverberated through the chamber.

"And yet, no one was privy to Jaehaerys’ departure, which suggests treachery lies among us," Lord Larys Strong observed softly, his voice laced with a chilling certainty.

Aegon turned his gaze to the council, suspicion etching lines on his youthful face. "Then it could very well be any one of you!" He thrust a finger towards the council members, prowling behind the table as a predator.

“While Lord Larys raises a point of merit,” Otto continued, as Aegon sank heavily into the head chair, the weight of his grief palpable as tears fell freely down his cheeks, “Jaehaerys will do more for us now than a thousand knights in battle. You will have your war, Your Grace. But if you wait a short time, you may yet double your strength.”

"Mother," Aegon whispered, his voice a fragile wisp swirling in the air, laden with unshed sorrow and searching for comfort.

Alicent stepped closer, her hand settling gently on her son’s shoulder. "The Hand sets on a difficult path, my darling, but it, it might be the right one."

Otto, with an air of finality, declared, "Let us continue with the funeral procession for Jaehaerys. He shall be honored with a grand casket, and riding behind it, the Queen, and with her, the Queen Dowager."

Alicent shook her head in disagreement. "No, I no longer wish for it to become some grand spectacle."

“The realm must see the sorrow of the crown,” Otto asserted, his tone brooking no argument, “a sorrow best expressed through its most gentle souls.”

Casting one last mournful glance at her son, Alicent firmed her resolve. “I think you’ll all agree the king himself must be spared.”

“No. No. It cannot be true,” Helaena whispered, her voice barely above a breath, as she shook her head in disbelief. Alicent stepped forward, the weight of the grim tidings looming over her like a storm cloud, heavy with sorrow.

“The carriage… it was consumed by flames,” Alicent spoke, her voice trembling with the pain of the knowledge she bore.

Helaena’s denial tightened its grip on her heart; she paced restlessly, the fabric of her gown whispering against the stone floor. “She promised me,” Memories of warm embraces and gentle reassurances echoed in her mind, each one a testament to the promise that now lay shattered, “She swore she would protect him.”

“Helaena—” Alicent's hand reached out, a mother’s instinct to comfort surging forth.

Yet Helaena recoiled from the touch, wrestling her emotions. “They are alive, I can feel it,” she insisted, the desperation in her voice soaring.

“There were no survivors,” Alicent replied, her tone heavy with the weight of acceptance, an acceptance that felt like betrayal.

Helaena’s eyes glistened with tears as she twisted her fingers together, seeking solace in their familiar dance. Alicent took a deep breath, gathering herself before adding, “The funeral for Jaehaerys will go on as planned, and… we’ve been asked to ride on a wagon throughout the city.”

With a swift turn, Helaena faced away from her mother, leaning against a sturdy timber beam that framed her bed. “I don’t want to,” she murmured, her voice defiant yet frayed.

Alicent’s expression twisted with empathy; she understood her daughter’s pain all too well. “Neither do I,” she admitted, her heart heavy with the weight of duty. “But when a thing like this happens… a blow to the king is a blow to the realm. When the people share our grief, they draw closer to us.”

“I don’t want them closer,” Helaena shot back, “I don't know them.”

“Sometimes, we have to pretend,” Alicent whispered.

Defiance shattered, the tears Helaena had valiantly held at bay now cascaded down her cheeks. The truth settled in her chest like a stone. “Why?” she questioned, her voice choked with pain.

Alicent stepped closer, “We are representatives of the throne. We have a duty,” she reaffirmed.

Helaena offered no reply, her silence a testament to her grief. Instead, she turned away, allowing her tears to flow freely as she braced herself to mourn not only the loss of her son but the fading light of her dearest friend.

You were dead.

Those haunting words echoed relentlessly in Aemond's mind, a cruel mantra he could not shake off. You were gone, and he would never again behold your celestial beauty, nor bask in the warmth of your radiant smile. The soft comfort of your embrace, which had always been his sanctuary, was lost to him forever. You were gone, and with that, the future he had imagined—a life entwined with yours, filled with laughter, children, and the tender joys of family—vanished into the ether.

He knew he should have fought against the tides of fate, should have raised his voice and insisted on accompanying you to The Reach. But in that fateful moment, he had faltered, and now the price was your death.

The one soul who had loved him unconditionally—perhaps the only soul that ever had.

In the throes of despair, he had ravaged his own chambers in a storm of sorrow, crashing furniture and shattering glass. Yet, even amidst the chaos, he found no solace. Driven by a desperation he could hardly understand, he stumbled to your chambers, longing to find you smiling, blissfully unaware of his turmoil.

But the truth awaited him there, stark and unforgiving: your room stood as a mausoleum, empty and frigid, a world devoid of the warmth you once brought. A wretched reminder lingered in the air, a bittersweet trace of your scent that was now inseparable from his suffering.

And so, in his agony, he lay upon your bed, a canvas of despair draped in the remnants of your essence. He curled around your pillow, desperately inhaling the lingering fragrance of you, each breath a silent prayer for your return as tears slipped from his eyes, tracing paths down his cheeks.

There was a desperate thought that flirted with the edges of his grief—perhaps he should end it all, surrender to the oblivion that beckoned. In that darkness, he imagined a reunion with you, a sweet escape from the relentless pain of war and dread. Yet even in his muddled sorrow, a flicker of sanity held him back, urging him to cling to the slivers of his own existence, the remnants of a life that felt achingly incomplete without you.

Even if he were to shatter this fragile existence, he knew deep down that he would not be reunited with you; heaven would welcome your pure soul, while he would drown in the torment of hell's grasp.

Shame twisted in his gut as he found himself in the Blue Pearl, entwined with a woman who was not you. The very same woman who had robbed him of his innocence so many years ago, the one who had snuffed out the last vestiges of his untainted childhood.

"The love of my life is dead," Aemond murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper against Madam Sylvi's soft, perfumed skin. He was acutely aware of the hollowness inside him, a well from which no more tears could flow.

"You are still young, my prince. There will be many more to come," Sylvi cooed, her voice a melodic attempt to soothe his anguish. But her words only ignited a flicker of anger within him. How could she presume to understand? How could she speak of future loves when in his heart, there was only room for you?

"The last time I laid eyes on her, she told me she loved me," he said, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could summon forth that cherished moment. "I was the happiest I had ever been. And yet, how swiftly that joy was cruelly ripped away."

"Daemon sent them to kill me," he continued, his tone darkening with the weight of truth. "I was out."

"You were here," Sylvi stated.

"In truth, I am proud… that he considers me such a foe," Aemond confessed, a grim satisfaction threading through his grief. "And that he seeks to murder me in my bed—he fears me. His actions have borne my lady love’s tragic end, and he will answer for it."

"As well he should," Sylvi replied, her gaze intense. "The boy is grown into a man." She leaned closer, her lips hovering tantalizingly close to his.

"Mm. No. Not here," Aemond said with a frown, his body recoiling from her advances. Disgust flooded through him as he shifted away from her, seeking refuge on her thighs, though his thoughts were elsewhere. The brothel faded into the background as memories of you flooded his mind—your laughter, your warmth, the connection that ignited his very soul.

(I love making these vids)

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#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #house of the dragon #aemond x you #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #hotd #hotd fanfic #mikaelson #vampire!reader #the originals #ewan mitchell

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novaursa · 3 months ago

Note

okk hear me out!

gwayne x daemon daughter // kink repro

We all remember the tournament in s1, just imagine viserys decide that his niece (who is younger than nyra maybe 16) should marry sir gwayne to make more strength between their houses.

time pass they fell in love in oldtown and they raided Daeron as their own. They all come back when Luke was name heir of drifmark (during the audience). Daemon is furious to see her with gwayne.

But their chamber is right next to daemon and nyra, and at night gwayne is way more than ready to make understand that she is his 😏🔥

In Defiance of the Dragon

- Summary: When your uncle, King Viserys, promised your hand to Gwayne, your father was least pleased about it.

- Paring: targ!reader/Gwayne Hightower

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs

The air in the tournament grounds is drenched with the scent of crushed flowers and churned earth, the banners of noble houses fluttering like the wings of restless dragons. The sun casts a golden shine over the scene, making the polished armor of the knights gleam like fire. You stand at the edge of the royal pavilion, a place of honor, though it feels more like a cage at this moment. Your heart pounds in your chest as the king—your uncle, Viserys—raises his hand to command silence.

The crowd hushes, anticipation hanging in the air. You can feel the weight of a thousand eyes upon you, but none as heavy as the gaze of Ser Gwayne Hightower. His presence is unmistakable even among the throng of knights, his armor adorned with the sigil of his house, the beacon of the Hightower shining bright against the steel. Your breath catches as you meet his gaze, a fleeting moment that seems to stretch into eternity. There is something in his eyes—an unspoken promise, a plea for understanding.

Viserys’ voice booms across the grounds, his words carrying the weight of royal decree. "Today, before the tilts commence, let it be known that my beloved niece, the daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen, shall be wed to Ser Gwayne Hightower. This union shall strengthen the bond between our noble houses, binding the blood of Old Valyria to the steadfast walls of Oldtown."

A murmur ripples through the crowd. Otto Hightower, standing beside the king, allows himself a thin, satisfied smile. The whisper of steel, the low hum of murmurs, and the occasional startled cry from the gathered lords and ladies mingle with the pounding in your ears. Beside you, Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Alicent Hightower exchange a glance, though their expressions reveal little. You know Rhaenyra's thoughts well enough; her small hand squeezes yours briefly, a silent assurance.

Your eyes dart to the stands where your father, Prince Daemon, lounges. His posture is deceptively relaxed, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drum against the arm of his seat. His eyes—those unmistakable violet eyes—burn with an intensity that sets your nerves on edge. When he rises from his seat, you feel a tremor of fear run through you, though you fight to keep your face composed.

Daemon’s voice, sharp and cutting, pierces the air. "I would face Ser Gwayne in the first tilt. Let us see if this union has the favor of the gods."

The crowd roars in approval, eager for the bloodshed and spectacle that is sure to follow. Gwayne’s gaze shifts, now locked onto Daemon’s. You see the flicker of concern in his eyes, quickly masked by the steel of resolve. He inclines his head, accepting the challenge with a courtly grace that belies the danger he now faces.

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The fear gnaws at you, a beast with claws that rake against your insides. You force yourself to remain still, even as every instinct screams at you to intervene, to do something—anything—to protect Gwayne from your father’s wrath.

Alicent notices your distress, her voice a gentle whisper in your ear. "Do not fear, my lady. Ser Gwayne is a skilled knight. He will honor you in this contest."

Her words are meant to comfort, but they do little to soothe the storm raging within you. Your eyes dart between the two men who now occupy your every thought—the father who has always shielded you with his fierce love, and the knight who has stolen your heart with his quiet strength. What would your father say if he knew how often Gwayne had filled your thoughts, how often you had dreamed of a future together, away from the politics and dangers of the court?

As the knights prepare for the tilt, you can barely breathe. The cheers of the crowd fade into a dull roar in your ears, and all you can focus on is the two figures facing each other across the field. Daemon’s black armor, dark as night and adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, stands in stark contrast to Gwayne’s silvered plate. The dragon against the tower—a battle that feels all too symbolic.

Rhaenyra leans in close, her voice urgent and low. "You know your father, sister. He won’t hold back. You must steel yourself."

"I know," you whisper, though your voice trembles with the effort of holding back the fear that threatens to overwhelm you. You cannot let anyone see how deeply this affects you—not Rhaenyra, not Alicent, and certainly not your father.

The trumpets blare, signaling the beginning of the tilt. The horses rear, their hooves pounding the earth as Daemon and Gwayne charge at each other. Time slows to a crawl, and you can only watch, helpless, as the gap between them closes.

The impact is thunderous, the sound of steel against steel ringing out across the field. The force of the blow unseats Gwayne, and he crashes to the ground in a heap of armor and dust. Your heart lurches in your chest, and you rise to your feet, barely aware of the gasps and cries around you.

"Gwayne!" you hear yourself cry out, the name escaping your lips before you can stop it.

The crowd is on its feet, roaring with excitement, but all you can see is Gwayne, motionless on the ground. The world blurs as tears well in your eyes, but you blink them away, refusing to show any weakness.

Daemon circles back, his expression inscrutable behind his helm, but you can feel his eyes on you. This was no accident; he wanted to make a point, to remind everyone that no one—Hightower or otherwise—would take what belonged to a dragon without consequence.

But then, Gwayne stirs. He rises slowly, his movements pained but determined. Relief floods through you, but it is quickly replaced by a renewed sense of dread. Daemon is not done—not yet.

Before you can react, Gwayne is back on his feet, his eyes locked onto Daemon's. The defiance in his stance is clear—he will not yield, not even to a prince of the blood. You feel a swell of pride for him, despite the fear gnawing at your insides.

Daemon, sensing the mood of the crowd shifting, raises his lance once more, ready for another pass. But this time, something in Gwayne’s demeanor gives you hope. His gaze flickers to you for the briefest of moments, and you see the silent vow in his eyes—a promise to fight for you, no matter the odds.

The horses charge again, and this time, Gwayne meets Daemon’s strike with a fierce determination. The impact is brutal, but Gwayne holds his ground, refusing to be unseated. The crowd roars its approval, the tension in the air is felt.

When the dust settles, both knights remain in their saddles, battered but unbroken. It is Daemon who finally raises his hand, signaling the end of the tilt. There is no victor, no vanquished—only two men who have tested each other’s mettle and found themselves equally matched.

The relief that washes over you is overwhelming, and you sink back into your seat, your hands trembling in your lap. You dare a glance at Gwayne, who inclines his head to you with a slight, weary smile. It is a small gesture, but it fills your heart with warmth.

As Daemon dismounts, he casts a long, lingering look in your direction. There is something unspoken in his gaze, a challenge, perhaps—or a warning. But for now, you do not care. You have seen Gwayne survive your father’s wrath, and that is enough for you.

For the first time since this day began, you allow yourself a small, secret smile. The road ahead may be fraught with danger and intrigue, but you will face it with the courage of a dragon—and with Gwayne by your side.

You stand at the window of the Hightower, looking out over the sprawling city of Oldtown, where the cobbled streets wind like serpents beneath the autumn sun. The air is cool, tinged with the salt of the Whispering Sound, carrying with it the scent of the sea that you’ve come to know so well. The bells from the Starry Sept toll the hour, their sound reverberating through the stone walls of your home.

Your home. It’s a thought that still brings a small smile to your lips, even after all these years. The Hightower is vast, imposing, and ancient, its walls steeped in the history of Oldtown and the Hightowers themselves. Yet within these walls, you have found something unexpected—peace, and more than that, love.

Gwayne is beside you, his hand resting on the small of your back, a comforting weight. His touch is gentle, yet there’s a strength in it that you’ve come to depend on. He’s watching you with that soft expression that always melts the last of your worries away, the lines of his face relaxed, his grey eyes bright with the warmth of the afternoon light.

“He’s arrived,” Gwayne says, his voice low and calm, a grounding presence. You turn your head slightly to meet his gaze, the unspoken question in your eyes.

“Prince Daeron,” he clarifies, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Alicent’s letter arrived this morning, and they’ll be here within the hour.”

You nod, the familiar flutter of anticipation and duty stirring in your chest. Prince Daeron, the youngest son of Queen Alicent, sent to Oldtown to be raised and educated under the care of your husband’s family. It’s a great honor, of course, but more than that, it feels like a trust, a bond that ties your houses closer together.

Gwayne’s hand moves from your back to your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. “He’s young, but from what we’ve heard, he’s bright and eager to learn. He’ll thrive here, I’m sure of it.”

You smile at his optimism, leaning into him slightly. “We’ll make sure of it,” you reply, your voice carrying the quiet determination that has grown within you over the years. Oldtown has become a sanctuary of sorts, a place where you and Gwayne have built a life together, despite the stormy beginnings of your union.

You can still remember the day of the tourney, the way your heart had pounded with fear as your father had chosen Gwayne as his opponent. The memory lingers like a shadow, but it’s one you’ve learned to live with, just as you’ve learned to live with the man who became your husband.

Gwayne, sensing the shift in your mood, squeezes your hand gently. “He’ll have the best tutors, the finest training. And he’ll have us.”

“Yes,” you agree, turning your gaze back to the city below. “He’ll have us.”

The grand hall of the Hightower is filled with the warmth of a roaring fire, the stone hearth dominating the room. The thick tapestries that line the walls soften the sound of footsteps on the stone floor, and the smell of spiced wine and roasted meat fills the air.

Daeron is smaller than you expected, a boy of perhaps seven years, with a mop of silver hair that falls into his eyes. Those eyes, so much like his mother’s, are wide with curiosity and just a hint of nervousness as he stands before you and Gwayne.

“Welcome to Oldtown, Prince Daeron,” Gwayne says, his voice kind but formal, as befits the occasion. He kneels slightly, bringing himself closer to the boy’s level, a gesture of respect and warmth that seems to put Daeron at ease.

The boy glances up at you, his lips parting in a small, shy smile. “Thank you, Ser Gwayne,” he replies, his voice small but clear. Then, turning to you, he adds, “My lady.”

You kneel beside Gwayne, reaching out to take Daeron’s hand in yours. His fingers are cold, and you can feel the slight tremor in them. “You’ll be safe here, Prince Daeron,” you assure him softly. “This is your home now.”

Daeron looks up at you, his young face a mix of emotions—fear, uncertainty, but also trust. It’s a look that tugs at your heart, and you find yourself wanting to protect this boy, to give him the guidance and care that only family can provide.

“We’ll take good care of you,” you promise, your voice gentle but firm. “Just as we would our own.”

The boy nods, and you can see the tension in his small shoulders begin to ease. He looks around the hall, taking in the grandeur of the Hightower, the vastness of the space that is now his home. There’s still fear in his eyes, but there’s also a glimmer of something else—hope.

Gwayne rises to his feet, offering his hand to you. “Come,” he says to Daeron, “let’s show you the rest of the Hightower. There’s much to see, and I believe the maester has prepared something special for your arrival.”

Daeron hesitates for just a moment before he takes Gwayne’s offered hand, his small fingers gripping tightly as though seeking reassurance. You stand beside them, a silent guardian of this new bond that is being forged.

As you walk through the halls, Gwayne points out various tapestries, statues, and paintings, telling stories of the history of the Hightowers and Oldtown. Daeron listens intently, his earlier nervousness slowly melting away under the gentle guidance of your husband.

When you reach the maester’s chambers, you’re greeted by the sight of a table laden with books, scrolls, and an array of strange instruments that immediately capture Daeron’s interest. The maester, a kindly old man with a beard as white as snow, greets Daeron with a deep bow.

“Prince Daeron,” the maester says warmly, “I’ve prepared a special lesson for you, one that I think you’ll find quite interesting.”

Daeron’s eyes light up with curiosity, and for the first time since his arrival, you see a genuine smile on his face. He looks up at you and Gwayne, his eyes shining with excitement. “Thank you,” he says, his voice more confident now.

Gwayne squeezes your hand, and you can’t help but return the smile. This, you realize, is what it means to be a family—not just by blood, but by the bonds you choose to create. In this moment, with the warmth of the fire and the promise of a new beginning, you feel something settle in your heart, a sense of fulfillment that you hadn’t known you were missing.

As Daeron sits down with the maester, already engrossed in the lesson that has been prepared for him, you and Gwayne share a look, a silent understanding passing between you.

And in this moment, as you both watch Daeron eagerly absorb the knowledge being offered to him, you know that you wouldn’t have your life being lived in any other way.

The halls of the Red Keep are as imposing as ever as you and Gwayne make your way through the corridors. It's been years since you last walked these halls, and yet they feel as familiar as ever—haunted by memories both bitter and sweet.

Gwayne’s hand rests on your elbow, guiding you through the maze of the castle with practiced ease. He’s dressed in the colors of his house, the green and silver of the Hightowers, his expression calm and composed as always. But you know him well enough to sense the tension beneath the surface, the way his gaze sharpens when he hears a distant sound, always vigilant, always protective.

You both turn a corner and nearly collide with a small entourage, led by none other than Rhaenyra herself. She’s flanked by her husband—your father, Daemon—and their children, their steps purposeful, their expressions tense. Rhaenyra’s silver hair gleams under the flickering torchlight, her violet eyes widening slightly in surprise as she sees you.

“Rhaenyra,” you greet her, your voice soft but steady, betraying none of the uncertainty you feel. So much has changed, yet seeing her here, a part of you yearns for the easy camaraderie you once shared as children.

“Cousin,” Rhaenyra replies, her voice warm despite the strain visible on her face. She glances at Gwayne and then back at you, her gaze searching, perhaps for some sign of how the years have treated you. “It’s been too long.”

“Far too long,” you agree, your eyes flicking to Daemon, who stands slightly behind Rhaenyra, his gaze locked on Gwayne. There’s a tension in his stance, a stiffness that wasn’t there before, and you know immediately that your father is displeased.

Daemon’s eyes are dark, and though he remains silent, the disapproval is clear. His gaze travels from Gwayne to you, then back again, lingering on the clasped hands between you and your husband. A muscle ticks in his jaw, and for a moment, the air seems to thicken with unspoken words and unresolved history.

“You’re back in the capital for the petitions, I presume?” Rhaenyra asks, breaking the silence, her tone carefully neutral. The mention of the petitions brings you back to the grim reality of why you’re all here—the matter of Driftmark, and the question of succession that has thrown the court into turmoil.

“Yes,” Gwayne answers before you can, his voice firm. “We came as soon as we heard.” He glances at Daemon, his expression respectful but guarded. “It seems the crown’s decision is in favor of your son.”

Rhaenyra’s face softens at the mention of Lucerys, but before she can respond, a voice from behind her interrupts. It’s Jacaerys, his young face set in determination. “The matter should have never been in question. Luke is the rightful heir to Driftmark.”

You see the fire in his eyes, the same fire that once burned in Rhaenyra at that age. It’s both heartening and concerning, especially now, in these treacherous waters.

“That he is,” you say gently, offering a smile to Jacaerys. “And it’s clear to anyone with eyes that he’ll make a fine lord.”

Before Jacaerys can respond, Daemon steps forward, his presence commanding attention. His eyes are locked onto yours now, and there’s a storm brewing behind them, a mix of emotions you can’t fully decipher. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, carrying the weight of a warning.

“You’ve found happiness in Oldtown, I see.” The words are directed at you, but his gaze shifts to Gwayne as he says it, his tone laced with something darker. “Though I wonder if the cost was worth it.”

You feel Gwayne’s hand tighten around yours, a subtle gesture of support. “Happiness is not something to be questioned, Father,” you reply calmly, meeting Daemon’s gaze without flinching. “Nor is the loyalty I hold to both my families.”

Daemon’s lips twitch, almost as if he’s about to say something more, but Rhaenyra places a gentle hand on his arm, silently urging him to hold his tongue. There’s a brief moment where it seems he might ignore her, but then he lets out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

“We’re here to support our family,” Gwayne adds, his voice measured, addressing Daemon directly now. “In whatever way is needed.”

Daemon studies Gwayne for a long moment, the silence between them stretching thin. Finally, he gives a curt nod, though the hardness in his gaze doesn’t entirely soften. “As you should,” he says, the words clipped, before turning back to Rhaenyra.

“Come, we have business with the king,” he says to her, his voice brooking no argument.

Rhaenyra hesitates, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer. “We’ll speak later,” she promises, offering a small, genuine smile before following after Daemon, their children trailing behind her.

As they walk away, the tension slowly dissipates, leaving you standing beside Gwayne in the dimly lit corridor. You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, leaning slightly into your husband’s side. Gwayne wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer, his warmth a comfort against the chill that lingers in the air.

“That went… better than I expected,” Gwayne murmurs, a touch of wry humor in his voice, though you can hear the relief beneath it.

“He’s never going to fully approve,” you say quietly, your eyes fixed on the spot where your father had stood. “But he’ll have to accept it.”

Gwayne turns to you, his expression softening as he looks down into your eyes. “I don’t need his approval,” he says, his voice firm. “I have you, and that’s all that matters.”

You smile at that, a genuine smile that reaches your eyes, banishing the last of the unease. “And I have you,” you reply, your voice filled with the love and certainty that have grown between you over the years.

The heavy oak door of your chambers shuts behind you, a soft thud echoing through the room. The warmth of the fire flickers across the stone walls that dance in tandem with your heightened pulse. Gwayne stands before you, his emerald eyes sharp and intense, still simmering with the tension of your earlier encounter in the halls. He says nothing as he approaches, but the way his hand reaches for your waist and pulls you flush against him speaks volumes.

You’ve grown accustomed to the feel of him—the strength in his embrace, the heat of his breath against your skin—but tonight there is something different, something more urgent. The lingering traces of your father’s displeasure hang between you, and you know, without words, that it fuels Gwayne’s every movement.

His lips descend upon yours, fierce and claiming, tasting of the wine shared at the evening’s feast. You respond in kind, your hands weaving through the thick strands of his hair, pulling him closer, as though you could erase the earlier tension through sheer proximity.

His hands roam across your body with practiced familiarity, fingers curling around the ties of your gown, loosening the laces with deliberate slowness. Gwayne leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice low and rough. “I will make you scream for me tonight,” he promises, and the unspoken words hang heavy in the air—Let him hear.

Your heart flutters in response, not with fear, but with anticipation. The thought of your father just beyond the walls, likely brooding over his anger, stirs something within you. How often had Daemon whispered venom into your ear about the Hightowers, about how they were a poison slowly strangling your family? And yet here you are, wrapped in the arms of one who bears that very name, bound to him not only by vows but by something far deeper, something that even your father’s fury cannot tarnish.

Gwayne’s touch turns rougher, more insistent, and your breath catches in your throat as he lifts you with ease, laying you down onto the bed. The covers crumple beneath your weight, the mattress giving way as he settles over you, his eyes burning with a hunger that matches your own. “I want him to know,” he murmurs against your neck, his lips trailing fire down your throat, “that you belong to me.”

Your back arches involuntarily, and you bite down on your lip, the need to hold back your cries warring with the knowledge of who might hear. Gwayne’s hands grasp your hips, his grip possessive as he moves against you with a rhythm that leaves you breathless. Each movement, each deliberate thrust, is a challenge—a challenge to the walls that separate your chambers from those of your father and his wife.

The pressure builds inside you, the familiar heat coiling in your belly, and you grasp at Gwayne’s shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as you fight against the wave of pleasure threatening to drown you. His mouth hovers over yours, demanding, coaxing you to give in, to let go.

And then you remember—Daemon’s chambers are just beyond. The thought of his reaction, of his barely concealed rage at the idea of you finding joy with a Hightower, sends a thrill through you. You gasp aloud as Gwayne drives into you harder, his breath ragged in your ear, “Louder,” he commands, his voice a mix of authority and need.

You close your eyes, letting the sensation wash over you, letting the sound of his name tear from your lips, louder than before, louder than you ever have. You imagine the look on your father’s face, his fists clenched in helpless fury, and the thought sends you spiraling into a pleasure so intense it nearly blinds you.

Gwayne’s name tumbles from your lips again and again, each cry more fervent than the last, as he brings you to the edge and beyond. You feel his satisfaction in the way he groans your name in return, his hold on you unyielding, as though he could anchor himself to you through sheer force of will.

When it’s over, when the last echoes of your cries have faded into the night, you lay beside him, your body spent and trembling, but your mind still racing. Gwayne’s hand rests possessively on your hip, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of exertion. “He heard you,” he says, his voice tinged with satisfaction.

You can only nod, the thought of what tomorrow might bring swirling in your mind. But for now, there is only this—only you and Gwayne, and the knowledge that whatever storm your father’s ire might bring, you would weather it together.

In the silence that follows, you curl closer to Gwayne, your fingers tracing idle patterns across his chest. “Tomorrow…” you begin, but your voice trails off.

“Tomorrow,” Gwayne echoes, his tone firm, reassuring, “we will face whatever comes. But tonight, you are mine, and that is all that matters.”

You smile softly at his words, closing your eyes as sleep finally begins to claim you.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd gwayne #hotd x female reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #gwayne x you #gwayne x reader #gwayne x y/n #gwayne hightower #ser gwayne

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incorrectbatfam · 1 year ago

Note

Something happens and now the batkids'partner needs to babysit Damian Wayne - idk maybe Ras is in town, or the babybat is injured, whatever the motive - how Wally, Roy and Kon/Bernard take care of the situation? (This can be made separately or all of them together, this will be your choice)

(I said Kon or Bernard because this can be your choice too, but also both if you want, Tim Drake has two hands anyway)

Also I love your blog 💖💖💖💖💖

Roy: Soup's up! Where's Damian?

Wally: Um... about that.

Roy: What's it this time, assassins?

Wally: Not exactly. Long story short, he wanted to see dinosaurs so I took him to the Jurassic period but I sorta dropped him on our way back.

Roy: You WHAT?!?

Kon: Hey guys, what's going on?

Roy: Wally lost Damian in the timestream.

Bernard: That's a new one.

Kon: Do you remember where you dropped him?

Wally: Somewhere between the Cretaceous Period and Mesopotamia.

Izzy: You do realize that's a long time, right?

Roy: Who are you and when did you get here?

Izzy: Isabela Ortiz. I've been here the past ten minutes.

Everyone: ...

Izzy: I'm Duke's girlfriend, and unlike most of you I'm canon.

Roy: Whatever, can you help us?

Izzy: Nope, I just left my charger. See ya!

Kon: We're dead.

Bernard, sighing: I'll get the kiddie pool and Lazarus hose.

[meanwhile]

Damian, petting a wooly mammoth: I shall name you Father for your size. Except you're not as hairy.

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babydollmarauders · 7 months ago

Text

WHO’S AFRAID OF LITTLE OLD ME? — JACK HUGHES

jack hughes x fem!reader

summary: in which jack hughes should be afraid of what y/n can do to his reputation

notes: yeah, idk what this is either; there’s not much plot.

september 16th, 2023

deuxmoi

24,107 likes

deuxmoi pop sensation, y/n, is seen hands on with new boy toy?

if anyone has any information on who this man is, do come forward! we’d love to know who america’s queen of heartbreak anthems is with now!

view all 549 comments

user82 the hand placement?! HELLO?!

user3 oh great, new music where she makes herself some sad victim again

user55 a new love album next?! maybe?!

user09 let’s not get ahead of ourselves, it’s some low grade pap photos posted on a gossip blog. it could’ve been a first date for all we know

user45 @/user09 with the way they are in these pics? absolutely NOT a first date. y/n has famously said she doesn’t get “frisky” early on because of her ex. most definitely a bf

user92 oh her next song is gonna HIT

user06 that guy kinda looks…. where were these taken and when?

deuxmoi all the sender said was that they saw them in michigan last night! know something?

user06 hmm the tl matches! that looks like it could be @/jackhughes , a hockey player for the New Jersey Devils!

user98 OH MY GOD, YOU’RE RIGHT!

user67 those hands?! girlie better never let him go!

september 27th, 2023

y/nofficial

liked by sabrinacarpenter and 4,628,961 others

y/nofficial every dead end street led you straight to me 🤍

view all 7,923 comments

user72 SOFT LAUNCH OH MY GOD

user5 oh he’s got her using emojis?! she’s down BAD

user29 i’m so happy for her, she deserves so much love and happiness and it seems like he gives that to her 🫶

user6 MOTHER?!

user01 what poor boy did she sink her claws into this time?

user9 if you don’t like her, why are you on her post? obsessed much?

sabrinacarpenter he scored 😉

y/nofficial sab!! nah, i think i did!

user92 he better be treating her damn good! it’s what she deserves after ‘he who shall not be named’!

user76 i know who you meant but also started giggling at the idea of her writing an album about voldemort 😭

y/nofficial @/user76 gasp! don’t you know who lover is about?! the dark lord and i just couldn’t make it work :(

october 10th, 2023

jackhughes

liked by y/nofficial, nicohischier, and 815,736 others

jackhughes as a wise woman once said: “i was enchanted to meet you”

tagged y/nofficial

view all 2,865 comments

y/nofficial my sweet boy 🤍

jackhughes my pretty girl

user76 A HARD LAUNCH

user94 THEY’RE SO SICKENINGLY CUTE 😭 SHE DESERVES THIS

user36 JACK IS DATING Y/N?! OH THE SONGS THAT WILL COME OUT OF THIS

user8 he could do so much better

lhughes_06 about damn time

trevorzegras JACK WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE JOKING

user02 oh they’re so cute 🥹

dawson1417 did you just… hard launch with the biggest singer in america rn?

jackhughes y/n says “what? like it’s hard?” idk what that means

user16 can we talk about how happy she looks?! and i know her hockey loving self is giggling and kicking her feet over her landing a hockey player! too cute!!

john.marino97 if her next RED-like album is about you, i’m requesting a trade. can’t believe i’m gonna have to listen to songs about YOU

january 1st, 2024

y/nofficial

liked by jackhughes and 5,827,025 others

y/nofficial thank you 2023, you brought so much love and laughter 🤍 can’t wait to see what 2024 brings!

tagged jackhughes

view all 7,503 comments

user86 oh she’s so down bad she was taking pics of him at his game 😭

user9 one tour pic and three pics regarding to jack? she’s so in love

jackhughes here’s to another year with you, my talented girl

y/nofficial i can’t wait for another year with you, my love 🤍

user55 i can’t wait to see you in KC this year!!

user7 she’s truly living her best life and i’m obsessed!!

user21 i hope 2024 is just as good to you as 2023 was!

january 26th, 2024

deuxmoi

36,592 likes

deuxmoi fan submission: trouble in paradise?

pop sensation, y/n, and her boyfriend, hockey player Jack Hughes, were seen out by a fan last night. the fan claims that they overheard y/n consoling Jack about his recent injury that has left him unable to play. in the video (on our site), you can hear y/n telling Jack “i know not playing is hard, i know it’s sad-”. Jack is heard cutting her off and snapping “you don’t get to tell me about sad. you don’t get it, so stop acting like you do.”according to the fan, y/n left the date alone and in tears.

what do you guys think, is this couple over?

view all 1,251 comments

user29 wow what an asshole, she was just trying to be comforting

user4 wtf?

user07 yeah, can’t say i didn’t expect them to end soon enough

user99 she was trying to comfort him and he snapped at her? yeah, i’d hope they’re over

user20 she deserves better

user19 it’s just an argument, everyone is being so overdramatic

user3 do i think they’re over? no. if we know anything about y/n, it’s that she’s forgiving, sometimes to a fault.

user67 i don’t think they’re broken up but if she was leaving alone and crying, i hope they will be soon enough

user82 has anyone thought that maybe he didn’t need comforting?

user13 umm, obviously he did if he snapped at her

user98 idk about everyone else, but i do think they’re broken up if she left alone and was visibly upset

user23 oh i can’t wait to hear what she writes about him. i’ve known he seemed too good to be true

february 14th, 2024

y/nofficial

liked by oliviarodrigo and 7,431,846 others

y/nofficial happy valentines to my favorite boy 🤍

the most kind-hearted, respectful, and loving man i’ve ever had the pleasure of being able to call mine. nobody is perfect, but i think you’re pretty close to it. i’m so eternally grateful to have you in my life 🤍

tagged jackhughes

view all 278 comments

user6 oh, she’s still with him

user02 y/n, baby, please come to your senses

user14 i don’t like him at all after last month

jackhughes happy valentines, beautiful girl ❤️

user65 “nobody is perfect” oh, mother is telling us rn

comments on this post are now limited

march 23rd, 2024

deuxmoi

29,783 likes

deuxmoi looks like y/n and her hockey beau have called it quits! eagle eyed fans spotted last night that they’ve unfollowed each other on instagram and y/n deleted all photos of him.

previously, y/n ONLY followed jack, now she’s back down to 0, which fans seem to read as a finality to their relationship.

view all 1,736 comments

user95 about time! after that spat in january, i feel like everyone was waiting for this

user72 EVERYONE MOVE! EVERYONE REJOICE! MOTHER IS FREE!

user24 GOOD RIDDANCE!!

user61 can’t wait to hear who the catalyst was, him or her?

user3 obviously she’ll make herself out to be the victim

user61 @/user3 tell me you’ve never actually listened to y/n without telling me you’ve never actually listened to y/n 🙄 she doesn’t shy away from admitting if she was the one who ruined a relationship, she admits she has problems and that sometimes she gets in her own head

user8 it was obviously him after that video in january

user23 everyone is celebrating but have we stopped for a second to realize that she’s probably really heart broken right now?

user70 fr! like, she seemed so in love with him and i feel so bad for her. she seemed to love him a lot more than her exes and we all know she’s a hopeless romantic at heart, so she was probably imagining marriage and babies with him and then he showed his true colors

april 1st, 2024

y/nofficial

liked by tatemcrae and 14,698,276 others

y/nofficial there’s always a fool, but i guess all’s fair in love and poetry… new album THE TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT. out May 14 🩶

but surprise! the first and only single, Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me? comes out April 19 🩶

view all 3,279 comments

user18 MOTHER DOES NOT PLAY!!! AHHH

user63 may 14th 💀 she said “i’m not fucking around, y’all WILL know who this is about.”

user9 significance of may 14th?

user63 @/user9 it’s jack’s birthday 💀

user00 OH SHE MUST REALLY HAVE SOME SHIT TO SAY IF SHE’S ACTUALLY DROPPING A SINGLE BEFORE THE ALBUM

user78 i wonder if jack feels stupid yet

user12 new y/n album before GTA6

user93 the vibes??? mother didn’t write an album, she wrote a EULOGY

april 19th, 2024

y/nofficial

liked by john.marino97 and 9,726,820 others

y/nofficial at this hearing, i stand before my fellow members of The Tortured Poets Department with a summary of my findings.

Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me? out now.

view all 2,738 comments

user72 i’m speechless

user2 “you don’t get to tell me about sad” SHE REALLY FUCKING DID THAT

user33 I AM IN SHOCK!

user94 MOTHER CALLED HIM OUT

user78 once again i ask, @/jackhughes do you feel stupid yet?

user61 dude just got surgery and she still came for his neck 😭

user09 i mean, not like she was gonna change the release date just because of that but it’s still so 😭

user22 “the scandal was contained….. at all costs keep your good name” she really spoke on the january spat, didn’t she?

user12 “WHO’S AFRAID OF LITTLE OLD ME?”

user77 @/jackhughes you should be

john.marino97 🩶🩶

user82 oh he’s MESSY! i love it 💀

user50 tbh, i look at this single like a warning. it sounds like jack didn’t think it through before he broke her heart and didn’t think she would speak on him, but she’s warning him right now that he should be scared because she has a lot to say about him and their relationship

user31 she’s so— i love her

february 8th, 2025

y/nofficial posted on their story

february 10th, 2025

y/nofficial

liked by john.marino97 and 11,762,936 others

y/nofficial brand new, full throttle <3

view all 3,627 comments

user93 i- did she just inadvertently tell us we’ve all been wrong about who So High School is about?

user77 this is the fastest she’s ever gotten into a new relationship and you know that means she has to be in LOVE

user04 AHHHHH Y/N AND JOHN MARINO

user82 how do you know it’s him? she didn’t even tag anyone and you can’t see his face

user04 @/user82 she posted john on her story a couple days ago! they’re on vacation together while he’s on bye-week!

user23 i don’t wanna get ahead of myself but,,, they met through jack, did they not? and now they’re dating? mother is messy

user51 is it messy? yeah, maybe- but people have already looked back through old interviews of his, and she’s been his celeb crush for a WHILE now. and i mean, hey, she’s dating someone only a couple years older than her now, one can only assume he’s more mature than j*ck

user92 the way she clings onto him 🥹

user88 she deserves happiness, i really hope he gives that to her 🫶

john.marino97 i knew what i wanted and i got her ♥️

#jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes fic #jack hughes blurb #nj devils #nhl insta edit #nhl imagine #nhl fic #faithlynn’s writings <3 #faithlynn’s insta edits <3

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hongjoongspoetry · 18 days ago

Text

A Love Written in Gold

Part 1 — The Debut

🦢 Summary: Dearest gentle readers, the much-anticipated season of debutantes has finally graced us, casting a spell of delightful nerves among our young ladies poised to conquer the glittering heights of society. As is tradition, a diamond amongst them has been selected to dazzle—oh, which lucky charm shall it be this year? Amidst a flurry of introductions and grand soirèes, let it be noted that the inaugural ball shall be hosted by the illustrious His Grace, the Duke of Beaumonte. But pray tell, who are those most peculiar gentlemen drawing all eyes with their striking features? And what delightful mischief lies in wait for the debutante of the Jeong Household and her charming commoner, behind the discreetly shut doors of the music room?

🦢 Pairing(s): Proletarian!Hongjoong x Noble!Reader, Duke!Seonghwa x Noble!Reader

🦢 Genres/Tropes: Bridgerton AU, Regency era, forbidden love

🦢 Warnings/Tags: no use of (Y/N), female reader, sexism, mentioned classism, explicit language, overprotective!Yunho, wholesome family dynamics, slight angst

🦢 Wordcount: 14.7K

🦢 Author's Note: Welcome to my second series!! Whi-hoooooo! I've been wanting to write a Bridgerton AU since s3 came out and what better than to make it a Hongjoong series. It was about time I did something for my bias lmaoo. Anyway, the tags are a bit vague and I'll update them as the chapters come out, so check them out with each update. A little fun thing I did. There are a few 🎼 emojis spread through out the chapter with songs I thought were fitting to the scenes, so if you want, listen while reading :) The following songs are in order:

Young and Beautiful, Vitamin String Quartet | We Are Young, Vitamin String Quartet | Positions, Jeremy Green | Chopin: Waltz No. 19 in A minor, Op. posth.

This is all fiction and not meant to represent the idols involved in any way or form. This work is NSFW and not appropriate for minors as it contains explicit scenes. Minors and ageless blogs refrain from reading this work!!!

AO3 Masterpost Moodboard Permanent taglist

Winter prepared for its departure as spring eagerly waited by the door, a green blanket in hand and pockets full of overgrowing flowers. She was more than ready to wrap the world in a warm hug of vivid colors and greenery. Many ladies got ready for their first active participation in the social season, giving their parents, maids and butlers a handful of things to fret over. In one of the most respectable households of the ton, the Jeongs were arranging everything for their youngest to make her appearance in society as a débutante and help her search for the perfect eligible man.

“We must hurry! The carriages are outside,” Wooyoung announced and raked his hand through his combed hair, making it appear messy as if just risen out of bed.

Although being the second born of the late Viscount and Viscountess Jeong and possessing no title to his name, Wooyoung still dressed the part of an aristocrat. His double-breasted vest was a white creme color with a tad bit brighter dress shirt beneath, the light colors contrasted his dark features and he stood out as a star in a pitch black sky. A matching neck scarf rested around his neck and he occasionally tugged at it, complaining of the itchy and suffocating material that no one dared to alter, courtesy of it being his mother’s choice. His legs were tightly wrapped in a pair of black trousers, showcasing his glutes and muscles. The black tailcoat was yet to be worn, but he had no doubts it would hug his body in a delicate way to display his slim waist and make up for his lack of height.

Granted Wooyoung was not seeking a lady to wed, he would still arrive to gatherings wearing expensive pieces of clothing and jewelry and a dazzling smile that would make even the stubbornest of ladies swoon. Much as last year’s social season, Wooyoung planned on greeting the pretty debutants with a kiss to the back of their hands and — if feeling frisky — asking to sign their dance cards with a glint of mischief in his truffle colored eyes.

“Then someone should hasten our lovely sister, do you not agree, Brother?” Yunho, the current viscount and head of the household, suggested.

Unlike Wooyoung, Yunho was wearing darker schemes besides his white shirt and the pretty silver patterns on his thick vest. His tailcoat was darker than coal, but soft as feathers, made out of a velvet fabric indigent people had never set eyes on, much less dreamed of. The black scarf was neatly tucked beneath his vest and the elder showed no signs of irritation, he looked rather content and relaxed on the plush couch in the living room. Yunho’s long legs were decorated with black pants and extravagant leather boots reaching up to his knees.

The Jeong brothers did not look alike, from their varying facial characteristics to the height difference, anyone not aware of them sharing blood — they would be foolish not to know — would not believe they were nurtured by the same father and mother.

“What a splendid proposition, Brother, however, I do have to say she is far more civil in your company.”

“Stop speaking of your sister in that way,” their mother, Dowager Viscountess Ireum Lee, chastised and gently ran her palm along her beautiful pistachio green gown.

At first glance, the woman seemed to be a very serious and strict lady. Some even dared to compare her to a sly fox. Looking into her sharp and dark eyes would be the equivalent of staring into a void hole—dark, empty and cold. Her neatly braided, black hair and red-tainted lips were vivid against her bright complexion, and she was always shielded from the sun whether it was under an umbrella or a great tree. Despite her resting facade — claiming to be missing that motherly warmth newborns would yearn for — she could light up a room with her bright smile and soft-turned eyes. Her beauty was truly unmatched and no amount of makeup could make the other mamas appear nearly as pretty. It was no secret both Yunho and Wooyoung acquired their looks from her. Yunho with his cupid bow lip and Wooyoung’s wide cheekbones and sharp jaw.

“Although it is true we do not have time to idle. Let us fetch your sister.” The brothers followed their mother as ducklings padded after a hen, with haste and no further questions asked.

“Is she still not ready?” Yunho asked as the trio stopped before a great white opening, both of the doors closed and some shuffling noises coming from inside the youngest's room.

“It seems so, dear.”

“We do not have time, Mama. I should call for her.” As Wooyoung advanced forward, his hand stuck out to grasp the golden knob, Yunho quickly gripped the younger’s wrist.

“Did you not say she preferred my company over yours, little Brother?”

“That was before we risked running late, now if you would.” Wooyoung ripped his hand out of the gentle hold and gave a new try of entering.

A millimeter away before Wooyoung’s gloved fingers made contact again, the doors swung open and the trio simultaneously stepped back. Multiple maids rapidly left the room and soft as a feather, the youngest and only daughter of the Jeong family came into view. You were gorgeous. The epitome of breathtaking. The white dress cascaded down your body and reached the glossy tiles of the hallway. The details of the gown were subtle. The pair of golden roses professionally woven into the puffed sleeves and across the bosom accentuated your chest. No more frilly necklines or thick dresses to cover your figure. Your exposed neck was adorned with a golden necklace, an heirloom passed down in generations, from your late grandmother to your late mama, to you and eventually to your future daughter or daughter-in-law. It was a simple piece of jewelry and resembled branches of a tree holding pearls and clear diamonds instead of leaves. The maids responsible for your hair arranged it into an updo with many pins to not accidentally stray in your gently dolled-up face. A feather headpiece drew all the attention to itself, standing tall on your crown and flapping with each little movement of yours.

“Miss Lee!” Wooyoung teasingly remarked, “You sure do make a fine debutant, little Sister.”

Matching Wooyoung’s playfulness, you pinched the material of your dress between your silky-clad hands and curtsied with a faux smile, an expression you mastered over the years for this specific event.

“Thank you, Woo.” Facing the rest of the family, you bowed again, “Mother. Yunho.”

“You look lovely, my dear.” Ireum placed her hands on your shoulders and gave them an encouraging squeeze. “Your papa and mama would have been proud of you, treasure.”

“Do you really believe that?” The insecurity in your tone did not go misheard.

“I am more than certain.” She cupped your jaw and allowed her thumb to caress the apple of your cheek.

Your real mother passed during childbirth along with your younger brother, who did not live to take his first breath outside her womb. Three summers passed until your father, the late Viscount Lee, wed another lady with the promise of taking her two sons under his care. In exchange, Ireum raised you as her own daughter, but never with the intent of erasing the trail your mother left in the short three years she shared with you. There was only so much a three-year-old could remember and if it were not for the big portrait of your late parents hanging in your room, you would have forgotten the face of your biological mother. Despite the loss of your mama, you still felt the motherly love seep through the words and touches of Ireum.

The quirk of having a small family was that all members fit into one carriage and no one was rarely ever forgotten. Except for Wooyoung, who did the unthinkable just to escape the watchful eyes of Ireum in order to have some fun. Holding the title of the household, Yunho never stepped out of line and fulfilled his duty of keeping the family in good hands. You had what would probably be the easiest task; to stand and look pretty. It sounded boring at first, but the more you did not bring attention to yourself, the easier it was to slip under the radar of the ton.

That would all change today. Whilst the people of the ton woke up hours after the sun rose, the famished side of town was on their legs since before the bright star had peeked over the horizon. For them, it was nothing more than another day of hard work and bringing food to the table. Age and gender were two words that did not mean much besides giving character to their entities. The poor were thrust into work at a very young age — something families like the Jeongs could never imagine — and brought in a handful of pennies over the course of weeks. The cycle would repeat until driven into an early grave from either lung poisoning, exhaustion or starvation. Some would say it was unfair that the sole family you were born into could determine your whole life and others would argue otherwise, claiming life was formed by sheer strategy and the use of tools that were handed to you after birth.

Mister Choi would agree despite having more leaves and sticks in his boyish pockets than coins. Raised and almost born on the floor of his father’s pub, Mister Choi spent more time inside the beer-filled room than in their own house. He was a somewhat respected man, not by means of money, but by the reputation built through his greatest treasure, his pub. It was the reason behind the Choi’s survival through generations and the next owner in line was no one else but his first and only child, San. Mister Choi would be turning in his grave had he known what his offspring planned to do with his greatest treasure.

Far away from the flower populated streets filled with luxurious carriages, men and women dressed in eye-catching costumes, and magnificent architecture, a dingy space residing in a rundown building. The name decided by the great grandfather of Mister Choi was carved into the wooden sign hanging above the entrance, albeit reformed throughout the years. The moment the key was in the palms of San, the young man decided to change the complete interior. The Crescent was the pride and glory of the Choi bloodline and looking over the semi-full boxing club, San could not have imagined a better use of the previous pub.

“I do not get how you do this, I mean, you can not even see a speck of blood on my floorboards!” San exclaimed, bruised hands resting against his bare hips.

The male who was done scrubbing the wooden floor threw the dirtied rag over his shoulder and glanced up at the owner. San was a very handsome man. Sharp eyes, full rosy lips and prominent cheekbones. The black hair was parted down the middle with a few strands escaping and falling over his forehead. His most alluring feature were the dimples appearing with his dazzling smile, an attribute people would commit treason for. That was not all. Beside his captivating face, San’s body was that of a sculpture. The thin tank top did nothing to hide his broad shoulders and strong arms, and even brought forth his slim waist. The man had muscles in all the right places, courtesy of the daily exercise in his club blessing him with very hard abdominal muscles and firm buttocks. San was a work of art and there was no doubt in mind he would fit right in with the ton, if he only discarded that kindhearted personality.

“Lukewarm water and a lot of finger strength,” replied the worker, his pale hand coming up to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

“Remind me to give you a raise. You have helped me more than anyone and to you I am forever in debt.”

“The debt was paid off the moment you allowed me a space in your home, providing food on my plate and shelter over my head. Do not fret over such minor things, San. I do see you as family after all.”

“Good, because you are the closest I have to an older brother, Hongjoong.”

The first time San saw Hongjoong, they had yet to reach the age of puberty. The elder was a scrawny child by nature and stayed that way in his twenties as well. Thinking back to the olden days, not much about his appearance had changed except for the aging and looking part of a man and not a boy. His caramel colored hair was still untamed and reached the base of his neck while the front strands were cut so as not to fall in his line of sight. Hongjoong was a man of very delicate features; a small and pointy nose, a heart-shaped mouth and feline eyes in the prettiest shade of brown San had ever bestowed.

Hongjoong would have thrived in the life of a rich man, but that loose mouth of his would certainly land him in a heap of troubles. However, it did not matter as he was born with nothing. No title that would pay off all his troubles in life, no family with a great sum of money or greater achievement to inherit. Hongjoong was a mere man with a dream that would never be fulfilled. All the obstacles thrown in his life taught him to be grateful for what he had and not long for dreams out of his reach.

“I do believe we have cleaned up nicely for my cousin’s arrival. You can take a rest and write some of your poems and stories that you oh-so-desperately hide from me.”

The exhaustion settled over Hongjoong’s shoulders and he could not have been more happy to hear the word ‘rest’ leave San’s lips. They had been cleaning since stepping foot in the boxing club and all because of San’s wish the place be tidy for his cousin’s first visit.

He let out a sound the mix of a chuckle and cough. “They are music sheets, not stories and I am merely hiding them because they are yet to be finished.”

“You are telling me you have not even finished one piece of music over the course of how many years?”

“I am a perfectionist! You of all people should know that, San-ie.”

Prepared to tease the elder a little more, San threw an arm around him and lit up the room with his dimpled smile, but was interrupted as the door creaked open. In came a man appearing younger than Hongjoong and with a bigger value than the whole club and San’s apartment combined.

Judging by the unknown male's exquisite choice of clothes, Hongjoong would guess he belonged on the opposite side of town where they dined appetizers for lunch and drank champagne instead of water. Not a speck of dirt tainted his all-white suit, in fact, the only brown smudge on his whole appearance was his neatly parted hair to show his forehead. The stoic expression on his round face sent caution heedings through Hongjoong. Fearing he was there to cause ruckus — because why else would distinguished gentlemen stop by a boxing club funded by another poor man — Hongjoong hardened his gaze and balled his hands into fists. A gesture that would have him shunned out of every place in the whole town, no matter how poor or rich he may have been. As Hongjoong moved to greet him in an unfriendly manner, San’s sudden detachment from the caramel-haired man caught him off guard, but not nearly as much as the loud and warm greeting following seconds after.

“Little Cousin!”

San moved at the speed of a racing horse and disregarded the extortionate suit as he wrapped his bare and sweaty arms around the man, using enough power to lift him off the ground and spin them around. The man looked uncomfortable, but his features were not colored with a tinge of annoyance or anger, quite the opposite. He broke out in a smile, gummy teeth on display and eyes creasing as a cute giggle filled the spunky atmosphere. The threat Hongjoong created in his mind was nothing but an exaggeration. Instead of a Grizzly Bear, the man became a teddy.

“San, release me!”

“I cannot help it, Cousin, I have not seen you in ages!”

The cousin, Hongjoong had yet to put a name to, dusted off imaginary dirt and straightened the lapels of his suit. “It has not been ages, you always exaggerate. We met at Mama's funeral last season, although I do apologize for not interacting all too much with you.”

It sounded like a foolish thing to apologize for, but who was Hongjoong to question it? He had never been to a funeral and would most likely not live to witness one either. The first one would attend, he would be lying in the casket if he was lucky enough to afford one in the first place.

“Anyhow, that is not important now. I did not travel all the way here to reminisce of my last moments with Mama. I have a proposition for you, but before that will you not introduce me to your… comrade?”

Hongjoong looked as perplexed as San’s cousin sounded. He did not expect the young man to address him anywise and certainly not with a high regard. His mouth opened and closed continuously. The silence prolonged and Hongjoong awaited harsh words and a biting remark from the gentleman at his lack of answer, but all he received was a patient stare.

“Uh, right! Right. May I introduce my one and only trustworthy friend, Hongjoong? Hongjoong, this is Lord Choi, owner of Precious, the most well known pub industry in all of Scotland and currently expanding to England.”

“Just… Hongjoong?” The man nodded and Lord Choi sighed. “Very well then. As my cousin said, I am Lord Choi, but you can address me by my given name, Jongho. I am not all that keen on formalities, especially with friends, and a friend of my cousin is a friend of mine.”

Hongjoong stared at the Lord, at his new friend, who showed off his gummy pearls as if the man had promised him a house of gold and not just progressed past the formalities five seconds into their meeting.

“Now, back to what I was saying. The proposition, Cousin. His Grace is hosting the first ball of the season and I have been given the freedom to bring whomever I want.”

“And you decided to bring your dirt poor cousin because?”

“You know I have never liked these social gatherings, I cannot deal with mamas coming up trying to wed off their daughters. Matter of fact, you are invited too, Hongjoong.”

Jongho was full of surprises, Hongjoong concluded. Dressed in a proper suit and hair tidily combed, but he still whined as if a century old child. It was uncommon—in fact, it was very rare—to see an aristocrat be kind toward people the likes of Hongjoong and San. He could not count on his hands the number of times nobility shunned him for his mere existence. To have a Lord call him his friend and invite him to the first ball of the season was bound to leave him skeptical.

Hongjoong cleared his throat and wiped his clammy hands against his ripped bottoms. “Uh, my apologies, Lord Ch– Jongho, but I cannot attend… I do not have the means to finance an exquisite suit or carriage or, well anything to be frank.”

“The same goes for me, little cousin.” San slung his arm over Hongjoong’s shoulders and connected the sides of their heads. “Besides, who will tend the boxing club?”

Jongho broke out into another grin, shoulders up to his ears and his brown eyes squinting so hard one could believe San shared the funniest joke of the epoch. “You seem to forget yourself, cousin. I, Jongho, have enough money to free up the rest of your week and restock your wardrobe for the foreseeable future. For the both of you. Go and clean up while I make some arrangements for us. It is time to pay a visit to an old friend.” He firmly grabbed both men by their shoulders and guided them further into the boxing club.

Hongjoong was never one to back down from a good time full of food, sweets and excessive beverages, not to mention pretty ladies in frilly dresses. Going under the hot stream of water and changing into a new set of somewhat clean clothes, the three men took Jongho’s carriage to the supposed old friend. The representative colors of Kilmartin, blue azure and an argent shade of white, covered the carriage in swirls. The foreign palette was bound to make them stand out from the rest, like the cart passing by drenched in complete black and minimal designs of gold added on the outline and handels.

There was always a mild curiosity among the bystanders standing on the pavement, yet the blue and white colors managed to even catch the attention of the second-born Jeong, who himself was in a carriage going in the opposite direction. The rapid flicks of his wrist slowed down as he continuously peered out the window, his attention caught by something more important than his sister’s worry over her debut. Sweat coiled beneath your armpits and chest, and the air fanned with the help of Wooyoung did nothing to cool you down.

“Are there different ranks for certain carriages?”

You snatched the fan from Wooyoung’s hands and smacked it over his head. “Is that the most crucial thing to discuss right now, Brother? I am sweating like a pig and all you ask is the value of carriages? I have not heard one, ‘How are you, Sister? Can I help you, Sister?’ from you.”

“Will you two hush? The whole ton can hear your bickering and I am certain that will not heighten your reputation amongst them. What man fancies a lady who is ill mannered and what lady seeks out an aloof gentleman?”

The two youngest of the Jeong Household erupted into another fit of whines and complaints making Yunho’s attempt at calming them down futile. As the head of the family and viscount, he could handle all the duties that came with the roles, but aiding their mother with the growth and upbringing of his siblings was a far more complex task than anything he had battled before.

“I would not be deemed ill mannered if my brother could focus on the task at hand!”

“Aloof? Aloof?! What is so aloof about wanting to expand my knowledge?!”

Yunho sighed and leaned back against the plush seat, he could not listen to another second of pointing fingers and turned to his mother for help. The Dowager Viscountess chuckled gracefully, mouth shielded by her clothed hand and lips tightly sealed but not enough to hide the delighted sound. The struggle straining his features did not go unnoticed and she decided to interfere before his rich brown strands turned gray.

“Alright children, settle down!” Ireum took the fan out of your hand and resumed Wooyoung’s previous task. “Now, Yunho does have a talent for over exaggerating, my dears, but I do not agree with his claim. None of my children are ill mannered, maybe sharp-tongued and… on occasions rowdy, but still very demure.”

“But Mama!”

“No, buts Wooyoung dear, stop arguing and let us focus on your sister’s debut into high society.”

You straightened at the attention and raised your chin to the heavens. The pride set into every atom of your body and pulled at your lips until a triumphant smile lit up your face. There was no sweet victory as the one over your brothers. Your pleased look crumbled as the trotting horses slowed down and eventually stopped the whole carriage. The moment you had been dreaming of since little legs was upon you and it was equally scary as it was exciting. Walking through the doors of the royal court and being guided into a room with a dozen other ladies waiting to present made you realize how close you were to your dream. There was no retracing your steps to the life of a little girl anymore and while it sounded great, it also filled you with melancholy. Debuting meant entering a stage in life neither of your biological parents witnessed you in and closing the door on your childhood was to leave the memories of your late papa and mama. However, your mourning did not solely contain the passing of the late Viscount and Viscountess Lee, but also of the girlhood you would not face until your own daughter was brought to the world with an ear piercing cry.

Your brothers or any other male relatives were not allowed in the waiting room and were referred to accompany the remaining guests in the main hall. The girls in your vicinity were all clad the same, some were more nervous than others, but the tension was nonetheless high in the room. The worry of their appearances did not quiet down until the first girl was announced to step out. The remaining débutantes-in-waiting stopped adjusting their gowns and feathers and focused on being calm enough to not ruin the important walk that would determine their rank and value in the market. Out of everyone there, you wished for one person to appear. Mingi, the heir to the seventh Viscount Song, whom you had known since birth more or less. It was a shame only the primary family of each débutante could attend as it would bring you immense peace to have him there. To see his towering height, bright smile, and single crooked front tooth on display and mouthing encouraging words. Mingi’s presence alone would lift the suffocating spell you were under.

🎼 The chatter of the people outside moved in waves, raising and simmering out between presentations. As with many others, your name was eventually proclaimed on the other side of the door and the last ounce of concern sketched on your features evened out into a pleased expression. Your small courtesy smile was to catch everyone’s attention while your eyes would be the gems making them swoon. The announcer’s voice increased in volume as the doors parted, allowing the spectators to drink in the next débutante.

“...Presented by her mother, the Right Honorable, the Dowager Viscountess Lee!”

You took calm and collected steps, synchronizing them with Ireum’s who was half a step behind you, looking equally as mesmerizing and captivating as the day she debuted. The trick to these things, she had told you years ago, was to keep your head straight and posture upright, showcasing importance and elegance. You had been practicing the walk for ages. The amount of trashed books and shattered teapots stretched over a hundred, but they lived to serve their purpose in the end. Hushed whispers and looks filled with curiosity followed your moving forms. You immediately found the scrutinizing gaze of the Queen, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. She was clad in the most exquisite dress you ever laid eyes upon and that spoke volumes as you had your own fair share of expensive silks tailored to fit your body like a glove. The mighty periwig adorning her small head took on the form of a rosebush and put everyone else’s to shame. It was so huge, you nearly missed the gleaming crown — delicate and small — on top, sparkling in the dim lights of the chandelier.

Somewhere in the crowd stood your brothers. Wooyoung with a proud smile and cheesing eyes while the older looked rather grim, not liking the idea of his baby sister turning into a woman. But underneath that hard exterior, warmth and happiness heaved a weight off his shoulders. A feeling akin to pride swelled in his chest just to see everyone’s surprised and amazed reactions. The Jeongs always knew how to leave an impression.

“Your sister does take after your mother, Lord Jeong.” A deep yet soft voice murmured next to him. Yunho looked away from you curtsying, the correction resting on his tongue dispersing into thin air as it landed on a familiar face.

“Your Grace, what a delightful surprise it is to meet you here.”

The Duke of Beaumonte, Seonghwa, looked as he sounded; rich and eloquent. His hair was long and black, falling as a blanket over his nape and tickling his collarbones. Most of his hair was neatly combed back, all but one piece of his fringe, which was styled to curl in front of his bare forehead. Not many gentlemen dared such a hairstyle, as the fear of appearing gruesome was more probable than winning a horse race, but Seonghwa was the exception. He did not cower for any challenge, even those involving fashion. From peculiar suits to eye-catching hairdos, he frequently introduced new styles into society and it was by virtue of his handsome features that it looked good. The long bridge of his nose, full raspberry-colored lips, prominent dark brows and a pair of mesmerizing eyes held a peculiar coldness, but in essence he carried a warmth strong enough to melt iron. The duke was a character born out of a fairy tale with the posture of a soldier and the brain of a scholar. Women dreamed of a worthy man the likes of Seonghwa and men were green with envy whenever his appearance was made.

Seonghwa chuckled, “I hope it is not that big of a surprise as I intend to find a wife this season.”

“Ah, that does explain your presence indeed and is that the reason behind hosting the first ball of the season, as well?”

Seonghwa pursed his lips, a futile attempt at covering the broad smile fighting to come forth. “You are still quick-witted, I see… Perhaps it is. A man has to assess his range of selection in some way, does he not?”

Yunho nodded, agreeing with the duke, but could not further comment on the matter as the Queen rose from her seat on the red throne, wordlessly silencing the entire hall. She stopped before you and put a finger beneath your chin, guiding you to stand straight. Ireum did not dare to move an inch from the uncomfortable crouched position and your brothers’ held their breaths as if one single intake of air would ruin the moment for you. The Queen’s icy demeanor was a stark contrast to the warmth emitting from her touch. Your heart nearly collapsed as she uttered one single word and blessed you with a tender peck to your forehead.

“Perfection.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, and your previously gracious smile fell into one of bewilderment instead. There was no higher honor than the praise of the royal house.

Viscount Jeong did not fathom how powerful of a tongue the Queen possessed. He did not manage to step foot outside the royal court without being hounded by at least a dozen eligible gentlemen, asking for a formal introduction to his sister while boasting about their gold mines in the Kingdom of Spain or studies in India. Yunho was overwhelmed and there was still a ball to attend. The interactions would not stop there, as the season had only just begun, but Yunho was already overthrown by a headache not even his finest flask of brandy could cure. As if that was not enough, another headache in disguise of his brother waltzed through the door of his study.

Wooyoung was dressed boldly that evening. The rich red of his tailored jacket was hard to stray away from and one would think he was one of the débutantes searching for a bachelor to court. It seemed to be a trademark for the Jeongs to have gold details carved into anything they touched as Wooyoung’s jacket was embroidered in that particular color. The rest of his suit was all black; slacks, dress shirt and shoes with his dark hair slicked back with stray strands falling over his forehead in a fashion-like manner. The younger was also freshly shaved and Yunho could feel the pinch of his strong cologne on the other end of the room.

“Oh, Brother! I was sent to fetch you by Mama; it is time to leave yet aga– Pray do tell, why are you not dressed?”

“I have been busy discarding letters asking for formal introductions to our sister. Would you believe me if I said there have been over ten so far?”

“Well, yes? Have you seen our sister? She is the most beautiful débutante of the lot! They would be foolish not to secure a formal introduction with her, especially when the competition is tight. Each word spoken is one step closer to joining the family, Brother.”

Yunho opened another letter from the big pile on his right. “As if I would let those deuces in the vicinity of our sister. That is a very distasteful approach, I must say… Letters? What do they take me for? A man who remembers every single face I come across… Just take a look at this!”

Dear lord Jeong,

I pray this letter finds you in excellent health and high spirits.

I shall be curt and consistent in my writing. The news of Miss Lee making her debut in society has captivated all of London and I, too, find myself among the gentlemen bewitched by her beauty. Though I am not the first nor the last to seek you out in regard to Miss Lee, the urgency of my sentiments outweighs my concern for the multitude of letters that clutter your study.

It is said Miss Lee’s grace and elegance surpass the high expectations of Her Majesty. Whispers swirl the ton that Miss Lee has secured the esteemed title of the Diamond of the First Water, and I must confess, it is indeed quite fitting, rendering her all the more desirable. As you well know, Miss Lee embodies a kindness and warmth unmatched by her fellow débutantes and is a great trait for nurturing offsprings, a prospect with which I wrestle most ardently. The gentleness and affectionate nature of Miss Lee is to be guarded and protected from the vile eyes of the inappropriate gentlemen and as a frequent patron of the pugilistic club, I stand ready to defend her purity. This, I give you my word for.

Each new piece of information adds admiration to her character and one cannot help, but ponder what further attributes Miss Lee may possess. I am but an intrigued gentleman who marvels at Miss Lee’s mere existence and I harbor a desire to peruse the remaining chapters of her story.

It would be my utmost privilege to make the acquaintance of Miss Lee. Might we arrange an introduction at His Grace the Duke of Beaumonte’s ball to deliberate upon a potential courtship?

Yours truly–

The paper was torn to bits before Wooyoung could catch the name of the sender. Although he had to agree the choice of words was improbable, he could argue Yunho’s protectiveness was the main reason as to why none of the letters were approved either. Finding you a possible suitor would be harder than anticipated if Yunho did not let up on his hostility, and as your other brother, Wooyoung made it his mission to help you.

“Perhaps I could help you look through the letters after the ball, but it is best you give it a rest now and get dressed, Brother. I doubt Mama would be delighted to know her eldest is the last to be ready considering your title.”

Heeding his words, Yunho slid the rest of the envelopes over the desk and into his first drawer before disappearing into his bedroom. A similar suit jacket to Wooyoung’s hung over his wardrobe, ironed and ready to be put on along with the rest of his attire. It seemed everyone in the Jeong household was to dress in the colors of love, passion, and anger. The guests and hosts attending the balls Yunho was invited to were usually clad in mild colors and he had yet to witness someone come in a starker hue of red, green or blue. He was well aware of his mother’s schemes. You already garnered enough attention with the simple flick of the Queen’s wrist, and Ireum was a smart woman for playing further into that act. Keeping the curious flame of the ton alive by giving you the most breathtaking dresses the people were going to see. Nothing was to halt Ireum from finding her daughter a perfect suitor, with or without the viscount’s permission.

🎼 Descending down the few steps of the carriage, you held a fair amount of your gown while the other hand was clutching Wooyoung’s open palm. The Jeong family was neither early nor late, although it did not matter whichever because people sought after your arrival. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of the débutante evoking a pleased reaction from the Queen. They wanted to see for themselves if your beauty was truly unmatched.

Yunho was the first to exit the carriage followed by Ireum, Wooyoung and lastly you. After your feet met the ground again, Wooyoung delicately passed you onto Yunho. Entering high society meant replacing your simple ballerinas with low-heeled shoes, something you had yet to grow accustomed to.

“Please, do not let go of me,” you whispered and held tightly onto Yunho’s bicep.

“I do not dare dream of it, Sister. In fact, you will not leave my sight this wonderful evening at all.”

Yunho met the eyes of a dozen lust filled men, some of whom could not even keep their tongues from straying past their lips. These were supposed to be chivalrous gentlemen, he thought and scoffed. It was no doubt the red attire — besides your beauty — was making them act ungraciously. Your gown was lengthy and stuck to your waist perfectly, revealing your ample bosom and collarbones. A ruby and gold amulet was sown into the middle of the neckline and you were certain people would not be able to decide what to look at more, your cleavage or the pretty gem. You absolutely loved the color, a deep red reminding you of the stunning roses growing outside your windows or the fresh cherries that were soon in season. The rest of the fabric hung loosely around your legs, granting you the freedom to move more steadily without the fear of falling over. Your shoulders were covered and bejeweled with rosettes and pearls matching those around your neck and ears. To shield you from the summer breeze, the modiste had gifted you a knitted cardigan that you looped your arms through. Ireum insisted on doing your hair as she had done so for many years and learned to style it the way you loved it.

Crossing the short walk to the entrance of Park Manors, you were in awe at the beauty of it all. Disregarding the decorations, the inside was not much different from your own residence; spacious, tiled flooring and high ceilings, a few paintings and statues to liven up the place, even a few flower pots. But as Seonghwa was hosting the season’s opening ball, he made sure to enrich the place with the most outstanding decorations the ton would see. Big hydrangea bushes were planted by the stairs, the different shades of lavender, violet and purple continuously wrapping around the railings and leading the people through the mansion. The walls were a beautiful tapestry of cream white that gave much space to work with any colors the duke wished for, and by the look of the interior, he had chosen all the hues falling under the category purple. Following the stream of people, you and Yunho found yourself standing in the main hall, a big space leaving room for both dancing, socializing and tasting the savory pastries on the sides.

“This is wonderful,” you said under your breath and kept your eyes on the enormous chandelier suspended in the center of the ceiling. Under the lightning ornate was an orchestra stationed, already playing a pleasant melody as the guests strolled in one after another.

Yunho hummed in reply and led you to stand by one of the many windows draped over with a lilac curtain. It seemed to be the safest place for the time being, squashed between him and Ireum, whilst your other brother had already managed to snag a glass of champagne and a tart of some kind.

“I do not appreciate the staring, mother.”

“It is expected, my dear,” Ireum answered, completely overlooking Yunho’s unease. She gave your elbow a soft squeeze of comfort. “We shall let them come to you, my ruby.”

As the music took a quick turn from a mellow to a more festive tune, the gentlemen around you pursued the débutantes for a dance. You perked up at the thought of being asked to dance and could nearly not contain your excitement. A suitor of sturdy height and dark hair had kept his eye on you since your arrival and mustered up the courage to advance with the aid of a much older woman you recognized as Lady Kang. She bowed, which all three of you returned.

“Lady Kang, good evening,” Ireum greeted and smiled politely.

“Good evening, Lady Lee, Miss Lee and Lord Jeong. I believe you have not yet met my nephew, Lord Yoon. Nephew, this is Miss Lee, Lady Lee and Lord Jeong.”

“It is my pleasure.”

“Likewise,” you replied and smiled charmingly. He did not look bad, not at all. His suit was elegant too, and he had a cute pair of eyes, very warm and welcoming.

Yunho, being overly observant and on edge since stepping foot in the Park estate, acted with haste. “Lord Yoon, is it not? I believe I do find your name familiar… Ah, right! You are familiar with the fencing club, correct?”

“Very much indeed, Lord Jeong.”

“It is a shame you have not visited in quite some time… Does it perhaps have to do with your failed payment issue? Or was it for acting unruly after conceiving one too many drinks?”

Despite the festive melody surrounding the two families, the atmosphere had thickened at Yunho’s revelation. Lord Yoon was left gaping with red cheeks giving your dress a run for its money as you took a turn about the room, arm hooked with Yunho’s. Ireum was left to deal with the stunt her eldest had caused, apologizing for Yunho’s curt tongue.

“I did not realize…” You began and glanced down at the shiny floor to hide the embarrassment tinting your cheeks.

“It is not easy, dear Sister. But that is precisely why I am here… and Wooyoung too, but we shall not rely all that much on him as of now.”

Yunho steered you in the direction of Wooyoung still standing by the treats, passing all the mamas and débutantes swooning at his presence, not indulging in them for a fraction of a second. Yunho was not interested in courting a lady and would not do so in the vast future either, he had too much on his plate to seek out a perfect candidate to be his wife! You were his main priority now and God help him if you landed in the hands of someone unworthy, like Lord Yoon, for instance. Creasing and plastering on an overly wide smile, you and Yunho walked past the entrance, missing the arrival of three very handsome gentlemen who stole the attention of every lady inside, single as well as married.

Hongjoong was not used to being under the spotlight. No one would think twice to look at him, let alone whisper about his handsome looks and wish he would ask them up on a dance. Then again, this was not his setting at all. Fancy suits, pretty ladies and interiors worth a sum he did not dare to imagine. At least the music was to his taste, he thought and mentally applauded the orchestra for their skilled fingers managing to handle the instruments correctly. Of course they would, they had all the means for it. Envy climbed up his back and threatened to seep into his bones, but the firm weight of San’s hand on his shoulder brought him out of the jealous haze.

“This is…”

“I know. It is rather overwhelming,” Hongjoong admitted and nervously caressed the front of his white vest. His whole attire was brand new, a little something whisked together by the ton’s modist — a sweet and peculiar man with kind eyes and a soft spoken tone. They were lucky Jongho’s social circle was quite grand otherwise they would have never made it past the gates of Park residency, let alone see the shimmering insides of chandeliers and diamond ornaments.

“Brothers,” Jongho’s deep yet smooth voice called for their attention. How and when he managed to obtain two glasses of champagne was beyond Hongjoong, but the proletariat in disguise did not care as he grabbed the stem of the overly light champagne flute. “Let us be entitled gentlemen for the night.”

The statement was ironic, if something. Out of the three, Jongho was already a gentleman, but the aspiring musician did not correct him. If the owner of Precious wanted to play pretend, then Hongjoong was going to display the best act of his life.

He smiled, the corners of his mouth sharp and his eyes playful as he clinked the edge of his glass with the others, “Let us.”

The intrigued gazes of the remaining guests were not as overwhelming as Hongjoong first thought. After some time, he, along with the Chois, blended in with the rest of the crowd. They stood a bit from the dessert table and snickered at the aristocats under the guise of looking at the sweets. Hongjoong understood why Jongho chose to not socialize with them. Everything they did, from talking to simply existing, was pretentious.

“Do you do this often?” He eventually asked.

“Laugh at the upper class? Yes.”

“No, I meant this.” Hongjoong gestured to the ballroom. “Attend balls and other events.”

“Ah… Well, not precisely. Although I am an Earl, Hongjoong, it does not grant me invites to every social gathering. I am here merely because I am an acquaintance of the host.”

“Where is the man of the hour, anyway? Should the host, I do not know, maybe tend to his duties?”

“His Grace is full of surprises. Everything he does is unexpected. Who knows, perhaps he will not even show, but I do doubt that. It is said he is intending to marry this season.”

Another entitled prick added to Hongjoong’s never-ending list of arrogant nobles. Sipping on the bubbly champagne that left a sour taste on his tongue, he watched as a new round of waltz lured the gentlemen to the waiting ladies. Soon enough the room was in full swing and truthfully, it was making him dizzy. All the spinning and changing partners and maintaining the beat—what an exhausting activity. The people standing on the sidelines, much like Hongjoong, enjoyed the festivities of the ball and he wondered if they had nothing better to do than eat sugary treats, gossip and fantasize about romantic endeavors. Not that he could be one to complain, his free time was spent writing poems and music sheets, more precisely piano scores.

🎼 As the current round of dancing came to an end, the orchestra stopped their performance, making everyone turn their heads in confusion. Their questions were answered as a pair of white doors separated and someone of high status, Hongjoong presumed, entered through simultaneously as the violinists of the orchestra drew their bow across the strings of the instrument. He was mid-sip when the whole room erupted in gasps and murmurs of awe, startling him and having a gulp of bubbly champagne slip into the wrong pipe. Throwing a hand over his mouth to lessen the violent coughs, his eyes widened to the size of the duke’s saucers as they fell on an elegant man knocking the wind out of everyone. It did not matter how well-dressed Hongjoong was or what kind of attire the modiste brought out, no one could match up against–

“His Grace the Duke of Beaumonte!”

Hongjoong could not believe what he was seeing. The duke was simply a flower and every lady, along with their mama, were bees eagerly waiting to get a taste of his pollen. Loyal to the theme, he decided to dress in a velvet suit the color of moonvistas and wisterias. The white damask pattern on the vest was divine and matched his cravat and gloves. Every corner of the room erupted with ‘Your Grace’ as the man passed them, exchanging polite smiles, but not lingering any longer than necessary. What a presumptuous bastard, Hongjoong thought and masked his disgusted scoff with another cough.

The hundred pairs of eyes burned into the body of the duke, never letting him out of their sight, but Hongjoong could not bother to keep looking at him. The host was vexing the green monster inside of him by existing. It was incredible how the toss of a coin pre-birth could determine the outcome for the rest of one’s life. The title was passed down to the duke because of the time and place of his birth. That could have been Hongjoong, San or even Jongho had they come out of the duke’s mother instead.

“Perhaps we should greet His Grace?” San suggested and adjusted his cravat.

“You really believe that would be a wise thing to do? I mean, those hounding him are mainly ladies. What socializing topic could we have to offer him? Perhaps indulge him in your boxing club or– Oh, I know, I can share some of my work and see if he will hire me as a pianist!” The sarcasm did not go misheard and San deflated at the hostility lacing Hongjoong’s voice. The elder quickly regretted his harsh words and patted his friend on the back. “I am deeply sorry, San. That was unjust of me.”

“All is well. It was a foolish suggestion anyway.”

Before Hongjoong could reprimand him for his chastising demeanor, Jongho cleared his throat. “I could formally introduce you. I am quite close to His Grace, after all.”

“You never told me of your connections with a duke?!” San whisper-yelled into his cousin’s ear. “Now you must introduce us, see it as your payment for being dishonest.”

Sighing, Hongjoong replaced his empty glass with another full one. If he was going to turn his nobility act up a notch, he would need more alcohol in his system. Mimicking Jongho’s stance, Hongjoong and San straightened their postures and formed their expressions to make it seem as if they were of important background, all while feigning joy from attending the event. Despite being the shortest of the trio — courtesy of Hongjoong’s heeled shoes making him a few inches taller — Jongho took the lead and maneuvered through the sea of people.

“Your Grace!” He called and the swarm of ladies gathered around the duke dispersed with annoyance dragging their features.

The stoic expression of the duke lit up brighter than the chandelier above his head. “Jongho! I am delighted you could come!” The men sealed the greeting with a firm handshake, both sporting wide smiles and stars glinting in their eyes. It was one thing to drop formalities with an underdog, but to be on first name-basis with a duke was so foreign to Hongjoong’s ears.

“I hope Spain has treated you well?”

“Certainly it has. Very beautiful weather and polite people. I wish to return after the social season… Possibly with my future wife if everything goes as planned.”

“And I am sure it will. You are the Duke of Beaumonte after all, it should not be a harder task than the piles of paperwork you have worked through in your life.”

Seonghwa let out a hearty laugh. “No, it should not, but I do want a genuine lady and not someone who is after my title. Perhaps, if I am bold enough, I may even hope for a love match.”

“I would not put it past you, Park. Anything can happen while the season is still in bloom.” Jongho winked and sipped on the champagne. The clearing of San’s throat diverted the conversation to the pair standing slightly behind Jongho. “Yes, of course. Your Grace, may I introduce my cousin, San, and our very good friend, Hongjoong."

“Well, gentlemen, I hope the evening is up to your taste.”

“It very much is! I adore the theme and colors of the decorations, it is very soft and not flamboyant as most balls are,” San admitted and although he did not have anything to compare it to, he was genuine with his compliment.

“Thank you! I deemed it most fitting to decorate everything in my favorite color, as you may have noticed on my suit.”

“Yes! A very el–”

“If you will excuse me for a moment, I need to use the restroom,” Hongjoong interrupted. The duke had not done anything particular to upset him, he was simply not in the setting to discuss the elements of the interior while he would later return to his rundown bedroom in the basement of San’s boxing club.

“Of course. Take left in the hall followed by the second turn on your right, continue on the path and turn on the first left, and you shall find the restrooms. Do not worry if you get lost on your way, there are servants and guards roaming the halls so feel free to ask for directions.”

All Hongjoong heard was, ‘Do what you want as long as you do not get caught.’ With his disappearance, the duke excused himself for a moment and took a turn around the room. It was lovely seeing familiar and genuine faces, not just people showing up out of curiosity or interest for Seonghwa’s business. Jongho was one of the few nobility he could stand and actually enjoy the company of without fearing possible ulterior motives.

You bowed to your dancing partner, an Earl you could not bother to remember his righteous piece of land, and returned to the safety of Yunho.

“Did he step on your toes?”

“No, Brother.”

“Then why did you make such a horrid face mid-dance?”

You contemplated whether to share the fragment of conversation between you and Lord Emberstorm that pulled on the corners of your mouth, estimating how furious Yunho would be after hearing what distasteful words stumbled out of the Lord’s mouth. Deciding to keep it a secret for you to bear and your diary to hear, you offered a bright smile and averted the topic elsewhere.

“I am quite parched, Brother. If you will excuse me–”

An imitation of a cough halted you mid sentence, and you hastily turned around, expecting to be met with another request for a dance. What you did not expect to see was–

“Mister Song!” If it were not for the public setting, you would have your arms wrapped around the gentleman’s neck and cheek mushed against his. Instead, you settled for a simple nod of your head and a foot of space between your bodies.

“Miss Lee, what a blessing to stumble upon you here.” The underlying tone of amusement did not go unheard.

“Certainly it is, Mister Song. Have you finally come out of your cocoon to find the perfect eligible lady or are you still running from them?”

“The world would not be spinning if I was intending to marry.”

You broke out in a fit of giggles, uncaring for the weird stares and whispers set off around you. At the end of the day, everyone dear to you knew of your and Mingi’s sturdy friendship. You harbored a love that was frowned upon considering your closeness despite being of opposite genders.

There was a point in your lives where both pairs of parents considered Mingi to be a perfect suitor and you to make a wonderful wife. You were perhaps five years of age and they considered the blooming friendship to grow past the platonic stage and into something more romantic, but with your father’s passing and Yunho taking over the role as viscount, your brother abolished the arrangement. The Songs did not take kindly to that and nearly burned the bridge you and Mingi built since childhood. Yet more than a handful of years later and you were still as close as ever. Besides, Mingi was not like the other boys you knew of. He was kind and soft and genuine, despite his big build and long legs always making him the most fearsome in the room, he could never spread evil onto anybody, even if he tried to. Mingi was the purest form of life you had ever seen and you could not understand what others saw in him to picture anything, but a shield of comfort and warmth.

The idea Mingi proposed after your thirteenth birthday — that if neither of you were married after your twenty-fifth year alive, you would marry each other mainly for the purpose of survival and an easy life — was proof of his kind nature and good willed heart. Though, to say you were appalled was an understatement. You immediately declined his proposition despite him providing you with a further explanation. It was first when he revealed the secret tucked far away in his chest, hidden behind his many ribs and lungs, and locked in the depths of his pumping heart, with the thought that it shall never see daylight that you allowed him to speak. In the end, perhaps you only agreed to it because he admitted you were the only woman he could consider himself to marry. The pact was sealed with a handshake and your promise to keep secrecy until soil covered your putrefying body.

A love with Mingi was not horrifying compared to a long life with a stranger because a love with Mingi could never go beyond that of a friendship as he did not fancy women.

“Mister Song.” Yunho stepped out from his place behind you, arms behind his back and a soft smile on his cupid lips.

“Luh… Lo– Lord Je… Uhm! Lord Jeong,” Mingi stuttered out a response. All of the blood in his body gathered beneath the skin of his cheeks as if the sun kissed him in the morning and left him cursed for all of eternity. It was painful to witness, but it was even harder to watch as your brother was oblivious to the flushed mess standing before him, barely keeping his wits together.

“I admire your suit. You shine everyone else down.”

Mingi’s eyes were so devoid of expression you could see the light reflecting in them as he held Lord Jeong's gaze, then glanced down at his clothes and back up at Yunho. Could it be that the viscount was indeed attempting a most audacious flirtation?

“What?”

Yunho chuckled at his dumbfoundedness and had to cover his mouth to avoid garnering too much attention from the people around them. He and Mingi were nothing more than acquaintances tied together through you. They never had the opportunity or perhaps interest to form a friendship and it was mainly because of their different ranks in society. While Yunho became a viscount at an unimaginable young age, Mingi was still in line for the title and had no real task beside scouting his father and gathering as much information as possible. Mingi was undoubtedly still a child in Yunho’s mind and the thought was bitter on his tongue, like the coffee grounded from the beans imported from India.

The elder said nothing more. He pressed his lips into a taunting smirk, eyes relaxed and focused on Mingi despite everything moving around them in a haste enough to have their heads spinning of nausea.

Sensing the air thicken and turn warmer around the men, you gingerly moved without disturbing their quiet conversation conveyed through the windows of their souls. It was not encouraged to venture into an event without a chaperone as whispers quickly traveled around the ton, especially concerning a lady who made her debut not twenty-four hours ago. Walking with your head still on the tall pair, you did not see the figure standing in your way until a collision occurred.

“Pardon me–” The words died in your throat as icy eyes belonging to no other than the duke cut into your core. Scrambling to restore your dignity, you swallowed the thick clump of anxiety and sputtered out an apology. Meeting the duke by carelessly bumping into him on the first ball of the season was not on your agenda. Making a fool of yourself was certainly not an achievement you fought to attain either. “Your Grace, pardon me for my inattentive behavior!”

A hum, dare you say not of disgust, reached your ears. You looked up and came to view with a dazzling smile that spread an assuring warmth through your body. The fear sticking its claws into your back melted and you straightened back up again.

“It is quite alright, Miss…?”

“Ah…" You curtsied perfectly, "Miss Lee, sister of Viscount Jeong.”

It may have been the stark light of the chandelier or one of the many cherry tarts you consumed through the night, but you were certain a spark of recognition flashed across his face. You would not name it eerie, but it was on the edge of being unsettling how long he was staring at you. On cue, the orchestra played another song and people gathered in pairs to participate in the dance. Seonghwa cleared his throat and let his palm face the ceiling, steady and determined. Everyone kept their sights on the duke, and as he was standing in front of you, a promising position that could only mean one thing, it made you be in their center of attention too. A sudden dread settled in the pit of your stomach. Taking a quick glance around the room, you meet the burning glares of mamas and their daughters, as well as the disappointed looks of various gentlemen. The feeling of being perceived was uncommon and your thoughts simmered and eventually began bubbling erratically with questions of what-ifs. You were ready to take your leave, to excuse yourself and run to a place secluded from everyone and their prying eyes and judging whispers.

“Miss Lee,” Seonghwa started and brought forth a pencil from his breast pocket. You were by no means a fortune teller, but there was no doubt in your mind he was going to ask you for a dance. The question leaving his mouth seconds after made you consider opening a magic shop on the other side of London. “May I have this dance?”

If Yunho was anywhere near you and not distracted by Mingi’s cute, rambling mess, he would have pushed you straight into the duke’s arms. To your relief, Yunho was occupied with Mingi’s questions about being a viscount to even consider what his dear sister was up to. The consent was expected to roll off your tongue and disappoint the gentleman, but anger the ladies.

“You must excuse me, Your Grace! I seem to hear my brothers calling for me!”

Your legs moved faster than your sight, and you nearly bumped into an elderly couple. Flustered and sweaty, you whispered out a hasty apology and ran toward a room you deemed to have the least amount of people in it. Seonghwa managed to utter as much as a breath before you were gone, lost between the sea of people and walking in the opposite direction of your brother. While he was supposed to feel irrevocable annoyance at your dishonesty, he could not stop the amused smile from lingering on his face. You were quite a peculiar lady, he thought and exhaled a strong gust of wind. If the duke was charmed by your beauty earlier that day, he was more than intrigued now.

Running around unchaperoned on your first night as an eligible woman was not appreciated by the mamas standing uncomfortably close to their sons. Their judgmental glares stemmed from a place deep within, from a place of concern over what kind of woman their sons would take interest in. It said plenty to see you alone, neither of the Jeong brothers nor that mother of yours that married twice by your side. They do say the apple does not fall far from the tree. No one wanted to welcome a woman carrying the curse of death in her purse with open arms only to later bury their son six feet underground.

Out of respect for your family’s name and honor, but also to protect your own feelings, you stumbled up the big beautiful staircase by the entrance and turned left and right until you were alone with the walls and striking interior to keep you company. If Yunho got a whim of what you were doing, he would be beyond furious. Instead of socializing downstairs, you opted to hide out in one of the many rooms upstairs. You could already hear his patronizing voice in the back of your mind, asking you how you thought to be courted if you were out of sight for the majority of the night. Would you expect a suitor to fall through your bedroom ceiling?

🎼 Yunho’s nagging came to an end as a faint melody filled the silent hallway and sailed your thoughts elsewhere. Caught in its waves, you followed the mellifluous notes. If you were a sailor, then the player was a siren guiding you to your demise with their lulling melody. The further you walked, the louder the sound became and you recognized it as piano notes. Each press of their fingers on the keys was a chord striking along with your heart and your own fingers itched to dance along the white and black surface. The long hallway led to many different rooms, all of them shut except one with its door ajar and a string of light cutting across the tiled floor.

You moved slowly, afraid to accidentally touch the door or disturb the mystery musician, and peeked through the tight opening. Out of all the impressive things you had witnessed that evening, this room would forever be engraved in your memories. In the center of the room by the big window sat a man in front of a dark oak piano, breathing life into the silence. All you could see was his back, a suit the color of snow, and caramel hair reaching his shoulder blades. What a peculiar style for a gentleman, you thought.

Instruments were placed into every nook and cranny of the room. Guitars, violins, cellos, the pianoforte. This was everything you could ever ask for. You were not aware of His Grace‘s interest in music, perhaps your brother could formally introduce you to the duke later. Looking past the expensive equipment, you took in the room for what it was. The walls were a deep red contrasted by the champagne-carved details on the tapestry and rosewood furniture filled the room, everything from bookshelves to uncomfortable-looking desks and chairs, even a few sofas here and there. As every room of the Park manor seemed to have, even this one was lit up by a chandelier — albeit smaller than the one in the main hall — in the center, right above the pianist.

He was on the last segment of the melody and you slipped into the room quiet as a mouse stealing cheese from the pantry, but stayed close to the door where the man could not see you until he had turned around. The song was beautiful, far better than anything created by the professional orchestra downstairs. This man was a proficient player and you wondered if you too could have been this talented if your mother had not established the foolish rule in the Jeong Household.

As the man pressed his fingers on the keys and let them linger until the last notes vanished to silence, your feet got caught on the end of your dress, sending you tumbling forward. Blessed be the chair in your way as it saved you from falling in front of the pianist. The screech of its legs was so thunderous and sudden that it had the man jumping from his seat as if physically burned by the keyboard. The clash of your eyes froze you in place. Not only was his playing enchanting, but his appearance deserved a place amongst the many portraits hanging on the walls. The pianist you had yet to learn the name of was the most handsome man in all of London and you believed he even challenged the duke for his looks. The silence stretched on and your face burned hotter than the fireplace in your living room. Upholding your image, you brought forth your hand and cleared your throat just enough for you to hear.

“Eh– Excuse my intrusiveness, Mr…!”

Despite the fear swimming in his eyes and his heart thumping louder than the music downstairs, Hongjoong schooled his expression into that of a relaxed man. You did not seem to have any ill intentions in mind, but he could not take his chances. For all he knew, you could be of great relation with the duke and have him arrested for trespassing. His music playing was not meant for anyone to hear or see. He did not think anyone would be as foolish or brave as him to explore the second floor in spite of it being a restricted area for the evening. Hongjoong hid his sweaty palms in the smooth pockets of his trousers and slipped on a — hopefully — charming smile.

“You may call me Hongjoong.”

An unchaperoned lady in the presence of an eligible man in a secluded area far from the party downstairs was a risk you could pay for the rest of your life. A barque of frailty, cyprian, doxy, a light-skirt were only some of the vile words that came to life anytime Ireum stepped out of the confines of your home after the passing of your papa and you wished not to know what insults you would be addressed with. Although you did not witness it, you knew it weighed heavily on her. To hear the other mamas speak poorly of her and criticize her parenting, all for being brave enough to search for another love. It was unfair. Ireum’s past was fresh in your memory, but apparently you gave it no heed as you did not run from the man standing in front of you, his hair wild and uncommon and eyes carrying a gleam of adventure. To call a stranger by his name was no better than shaking hands with the devil and your brother would have your head for it, but what Yunho did not know could not harm him.

Pulling your lips into a polite smile, you scribbled your name on the imaginary paper and handed it back to the red figure with sharp horns and a pointy tail. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Huh–” You cleared your throat and ignored the flare of your cheeks. “Hongjoong. As I mentioned, I apologize for interrupting. You play a divine tune on the pianoforte.”

Hongjoong turned scarlet at the compliment. Praise was foreign to his ears. Yes, he was constantly showered with love and gratitude from San, but it could not be compared to hearing the words come from a pretty lady of presumed high status.

“It is alright… Thank you, Miss–”

“Miss Lee. You may perhaps have heard of me, I am the sister of Viscount Jeong.”

It was no surprise all members of the ton were the same, they bled arrogance more than anything else. How pompous of you to think he would know of your name or origin, if only you would have known how many foreign faces Hongjoong had set eyes on. His lips set into a thin line and the fear swimming in his eyes was swallowed by sheer annoyance. “I cannot say I have… To be frank, I am not from this part of the country, nor am I familiar with the duke either.”

“Oh…” You squeaked, only then realizing how improper that sounded. “Well, please, pardon me for my pretentiousness. It was quite naive of me to assume such a thing.”

In the span of less than five minutes, you managed to surprise Hongjoong three times. The simmering emotion threatening to bubble over calmed within him and he did not understand why. Perhaps it was your sincere apology or the way you cowered in on yourself, or it was simply Hongjoong’s mind taking pity on pretty, young girls. Nonetheless, he could see himself on the same podium as the gentlemen in the longhats chatting shit and sipping wine while doing nothing but sit on their rears all day. He was in the vicinity of a lady for all of five minutes and he already managed to sour the mood. Noticing you had not budged from your spot since entering the room and began fiddling with your fingers, he decided to play nice for once. Who knew, maybe it would bring him good fortune?

“Are you familiar with the pianoforte?”

“Hm?”

He jutted his thumb out over his shoulder. “The pianoforte? Do you play it?”

The smile taking over your features could be described as the sun on a winter morning doing little to warm the earth, but enough to brighten the cold season. “Not precise, but I was very keen on learning it.”

A caramel brow shot up. You were? When did you manage to find and lose the interest in learning the piano? Musicians were one of the few who kept their hobbies alive for most of their lives. Not that Hongjoong had much knowledge on the way things worked in the ton, but was it not better for a lady to have more talents for a better chance of getting married?

“And it is safe to assume the interest died… because?”

“It is quite the story.”

“I believe we have time.”

You heaved in a sigh and ran your palm along the front of your dress. “My papa had a big love for music and I, wanting to be just like him, harbored that same passion… He passed shortly after my seventh birthday and never got around to teach me…” You avoided Hongjoong’s heated gaze by bouncing your eyes all around the room. “The piano was a means for me to stay connected to him, but the melodies became unbearable for my mother. It brought her great pain just to see it in the common room every day. So… she decided to ban all and any music in the house…”

“My apologies, Miss Lee. I should not have asked–”

“It is not a difficult topic, so rest assured everything is alright. On the contrary, I am delighted you asked. I do not remember the last time I spoke of both my papa and our passion for playing.”

Overthrown by the feeling of guilt settling in the pit of his stomach, Hongjoong rounded the stool and occupied the left side, leaving a vacant spot on his right. He beckoned you over with a wave of his hand.

“You will not leave me waiting, will you now, Miss Lee?”

The teasing tilt to his voice was an enchanting spell pulling your feet further into the room that you could not disobey and it sounded louder than the slow church bells in the back of your head. The heedless caution of leaving a safe enough space between you died faster than a daylily. You had already crossed every line drawn to protect your innocence from staining and it was still clear as a day. What harm could it bring to sit by a handsome pianist? Taking the seat beside him would leave no room for defense if anyone were to catch sight of you.

Hongjoong noticed your reluctance and turned his torso facing you. “You are to do as you please, Miss Lee. I can not and do not wish to force you into anything… I do apologize if I am crossing any boundaries, it was not my intention.”

“See it as– as– as you asking me for a dance! I will even allow you to sign my dance card, if you will.”

Pushing the worry of being the main talk of the season to the back of your mind, you occupied the vacant seat and tried, with all your might, to ignore the burn of his thigh pressed against yours and the slight caress of your elbows. A heat warmer than on a summer afternoon grazed your bare arms. Picking your head up from the peculiarly interesting spot on the piano, you gazed into the wide eyes of Hongjoong that eventually creased as his lips curled cutely.

“That would be more than alright. May I?”

As his left hand reached for the pencil lying on the music stand, the other faced the high ceiling of the room. His slender fingers were far from elegant and soft, but rather rough and calloused, reminding you of the elderly men tending to your garden. Nonetheless, you let the dance card fall in his palm and watched as he in one long stroke signed the last vacant row.

“Shall we?” He played a major chord and you let a giggle slip past your lips.

You did not touch the wooden instrument or breathe during his performance. It was a melody too beautiful to do anything but bask in. You simply allowed the uplifting and bright sounds to wrap around the two of you, separating you from the party downstairs. Hongjoong was a different person while behind the piano, you noticed. He closed his eyes and relaxed, becoming one with the music. For a minute you got lost in the beauty of his passion and sensed his love for the instrument emerge from him like sunshine escaping the confines of a cloudy sky. As the last notes spilled out in the room, you quickly reverted your focus elsewhere, but unbeknownst to you, he felt your eyes on him throughout the whole song.

“If I may ask…” You broke the silence, hands intertwined and resting on your lap. “Who taught you to play the pianoforte?”

Hongjoong pressed down on a random set of keys and hummed along to the notes. “No one. I am… self-taught.”

The mystery man was leaving you shellshocked once again. The dozen pianists occupying the dance floor in the main hall were skilled players because of the money in their fathers’ pockets, but Hongjoong was not in need of a teacher.

Talent could not be forced, was what your papa used to say as you sat in his lap before the big instrument while your mama diligently fiddled with an embroidery frame on the other side of the room, her belly round and ready to welcome the growing baby any day. Your papa refused to pay for tutors. He claimed talent and passion ran in your blood and you were too good for a teacher even at the ripe age of three. The late Viscount Lee did not withhold the truth, but before your talent was given the chance to bloom it was put to rest alongside him in his coffin. However, listening and witnessing Hongjoong handle the piano with care and expertise rekindled the flame that died out years ago, and perhaps with the help of another, it could be polished and restored to what it once was.

Scooting closer to the gentleman and pushing your already accentuated chest between your arms — a manner you had witnessed Ireum do countless times while in disagreements with your father to get what she wanted — you executed the mischievous plan with gentle swats of your eyelids. “Such remarkable talent you possess, Hongjoong.”

Honey to go with his tea was not an option for Hongjoong at the breakfast table, but he imagined it to taste as sweet as you sounded. It was almost hard to swallow his thickened spit as you beamed that sugary smile of yours. The bare night sky bore witness to your intimate moment and promised no rain pour for the foreseeable future, and Hongjoong could erase the thought of handing you his suit jacket — a means of protection from the droplets threatening to melt you at contact. Forgetting himself, Hongjoong hastily averted his attention back to the big instrument and cleared his throat, but could not hinder the stutter from latching onto his words.

“Th– thank you, Miss Lee.”

Darting your tongue over your bottom lip as you contemplated your next move — a gamble that could set off Mingi’s proposition five years too early — you reached out and put your hand on his forearm closest to you. The man stiffened beneath your feathery touch and his fingers froze above the keys. This was not the outcome you expected. Hongjoong did not fall under the spell as the gentlemen did for Ireum’s vixen eyes and seductive touch, and your consciousness was halfway down the hole of regret and anxiety before you could play it off as brushing dust off his clothes. The fear of being reduced to nothing but a woman of easy virtue loomed over your head and you forced yourself to proceed with the plan.

“I must confess, a twinge of jealousy arises within me hearing you play. It would be marvelous to possess the ability to play the piano as you do…” The finishing touch was to slowly retract your hand and leave a tingling trail on the wake of his arm, and end it with a big, mournful sigh.

“If it pleases you,” he slowly started and you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. Being in that close vicinity of a man not belonging to your kin set off a wildfire spreading throughout your whole body. It did not help that Hongjoong was a very attractive gentleman who, thus far, had only shown you kindness. The layer of clothing suddenly became uncomfortable and you longed for a glass of water or a change of clothes, if not both. “...I would be delighted to demonstrate a few simple melodies.”

The act of a dejected woman disappeared and Hongjoong could bask in the light emitting from your bright smile and twinkling eyes. Perhaps it was the very reason he did not inquire about the sudden alteration in your demeanor and gave you a sincere smile of his own.

“Your kindness is most appreciated!”

The late Viscount Lee stood correct as your sponge of a brain absorbed every word Hongjoong uttered and mimicked his motions with utmost perfection. Playing the pianoforte was in your veins and it was a shame Ireum forbade it. Though if the circumstance was different, it would still not change the possibility of playing in public. If one woman did not stoop in your way, then your own female features would. A man with your talents would thrive in high society, but you would only be allowed to play in the confines of your home and even that you were not allowed. The human mind was a peculiar thing. When you finally got around your family and achieved the one thing making you happy, it was still not enough.

Hongjoong’s chuckle brought you out of your blue stupor. “You are a swift learner and possess notable talent at the pianoforte as well, Miss Lee. A most natural talent, if I may declare.”

“Thank you…”

Greed and envy hid in the cracks of your gratitude, and had you gone beneath a knife your insides would bleed a poisonous green. The three melodies he taught you were certainly not enough to quench your insatiable desire, on the contrary. Having tasted a speck of your dreams made it hard to resist the yearn for the entirety of the feast. The youngest of the Jeong Household was not usually bold, but one might attribute it to Hongjoong’s welcoming nature and dazzling smile. Had the circumstances been different, if he had turned the other cheek and ignored your stumbling presence, you would have excused yourself and returned to the safety of your brothers. But he did not. Hongjoong entertained your curiosity and pointed out a branch of excitement you had no prior knowledge of.

“Shall… “ You began quietly and cleared your throat. “Shall you be kind enough to teach me the art of playing the pianoforte?”

The grandfather clock ticking in the corner could barely be heard over your thumping heart. If you thought you crossed Hongjoong’s boundaries before, then you were certain you had done it now if the look of his wide eyes and parted lips were anything to go by.

“I do admire your eagerness to learn, Miss Lee, but it would not be an ideal situation. You are a débutante and I am but a simple gentleman. Our gatherings would certainly garner unwanted attention and be in the way of you finding a suitable husband.”

“It would not be done in public!”

Because if either of your brothers got whim of your absurd idea, you would not be allowed to leave the foyer of your house, let alone accompany him to more balls in search for a partner.

Hongjoong still showed apprehensiveness, but you knew that the one thing no man could turn down — except ladies of the evening — was money. Everyone was always eager for more gold and you prayed Hongjoong was not an exception, as he had shown to be multiple times this night.

“An– And your services would not be free of charge, of course!”

The proposition was not bad, Hongjoong thought and raked his mind weighing the benefits and disadvantages. Teaching a presumptuous lady how to play the piano equaled pockets full of money, less dirty floors to scrub and him getting to practice on a real piano every once in a while. The downside of your brothers having his head on a platter would only come true if you were caught which did not sound too bad of a gamble.

“The question remains of how we are to do this, Miss pianist?”

Too happy to care about the heat attacking your face, you held your hand out for him to shake. The warmth of his fingers burned through your glove and kissed the skin on your palm, a feeling that you soon would find reminiscing for days on end.

“Meet me by the big willow tree in Epiphany Garden two days from now and we shall further discuss our arrangement.”

With a nod of his head, the pianist waltzed straight into the agreement blinded by the shimmering coins floating before his eyes. The celebration was cut short as an eerily creak broke you apart. Both snapped your heads toward the sound only to witness one side of the double doors opened as if given a little nudge from the other side. Fear coiled around your feet and up your legs. You could not remember if you had closed the doors properly or not and your uncertainty did not calm the storm brewing in your abdomen.

“Perhaps it is merely the wind,” Hongjoong suggested feebly, his words taking on the form of a sword and sliced the snake crawling further up your waist. What possible wind he could be referring to was beyond you, but it was easier to deny reality than fall into a spiral panic. Besides, who in all of London would prefer being upstairs than enjoying the presence of the duke down below?

Time scurried on without your knowledge, yet the loud clash of the grandfather clock striking midnight was not the cause of you parting ways. The harmless scare was enough of a sign to reclaim your designated position next to Yunho and not bat an eye at Hongjoong’s figure sliding through the crowd of guests seconds after your return. The forty-eight hours of waiting began as of now and it may have been the longest forty-eight hours of your life.

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