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pseudowho · 10 months ago

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Fire and Iron

Forced to stay the night with Nanami Kento, the town's blacksmith, after tending to his wounds, you find yourself smouldering in his irresistible flame.

Warnings: 18+, fluff and smut, loss of virginity

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Your boots cracked through the ice-topped slurry puddles scattering the mud path in the village. The shawl bundled over your shoulders was not enough, and the biting cold wind whipped your cloak back, stripping its usefulness off your shivering shoulders.

Townsfolk waved to you, nodding, smiling; greetings for a familiar face, many of them grateful for your travels to their icy town over the years, lacking even a basic healer of their own, let alone one so talented.

Passing by the blacksmith's hut on your way, you paused out the front, feeling the heat bellowing forth like dragon's breath. You tipped your head back, the smell of ash and steel filling your nose. As you paused, moments after, so did the clang of hammer on anvil.

You opened your eyes, stinging in the brutal cold and smoke. You, once more, like a hundred times before, had caught the eye of the blacksmith. He, whose name you did not know. He, who looked but never touched. He, to whom you had passed so many thousands of hours of your life, and his life to you, through gaze alone.

Stood proud at the anvil, shadowing the forge like the door to hell behind him, his broad shoulders wore only an open-chested white linen shirt, and a thick brown leather apron. With his ashy blond hair, and the lines of his face filled with soot, he was ageless and unknowable. He looked to you, his sharp face quiet and impassive; expression always somewhere between fury and tranquility.

Your lips parted once, as if to speak, and it jumped the blacksmith to life. With a barely perceptible nod, and a grunt, he swung his hammer back, brought down in beautiful accuracy, shaping smouldering steel. The clang rung through you, your chest jolting with a short gasp, and you collected yourself, stepping onwards. You were sure you could feel his cool gaze through the back of your head.

Another patient; another healed. Another grateful family; another life prolonged. The days were short now, and as you stepped out of the house of rough-hewn wood and stone, the forest pines were bathed in dying light, netting the low winter sun above the horizon. It was a punishing journey home, on foot, and the horses were long since put to bed.

The blacksmith's hut held its own sunset, the forge open but unattended. You heard stamps, heavy feet and cursing. You paused in the burst of warmth, illuminated, listening. Curiosity carried your feet into the hut, the heavy wet hem of your skirts collecting ashes, absorbing the blacksmith's domain.

"Are you...are you alright?" You called, uncertain, "Sir?" The footsteps, the swearing, had stopped. You stepped further in, feeling the forge belch at you, almost excruciatingly hot now.

"Get away from there!" The bark, deep and commanding, made you squeak and stumble. Darting through the side door, the blacksmith looped one thick arm round your waist before you fell towards the forge, effortlessly lifting you round, his back to the furnace, his face in shadow.

He was close; close enough that you could smell the soft sweat, the tang of fire and metal. He hissed as your hands dropped to his forearm, and you felt a cold dripping cloth draped over it.

"Do you often wander into places uninvited?" He snipped at you. You recognised the cadence in his low voice-- pain.

"I-- ...you're hurt," you insisted, voice barely above a whisper. Looking up, your eyes tried to gauge his unreadable face in the gloom. You felt him huff, warm air across your cheeks. His arm loosened, releasing you. As he stepped back, turning away to close the forge, you saw the blacksmith's mountainous shoulders tense, twitching.

"It's nothing," he retaliated, brisk. You stepped forwards again, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. At first, he flinched, then begrudgingly allowed you to turn him, and lift the damp rag covering his forearm. A thick welting burn, running the length of his forearm, lay weeping and angry on his skin, already nicked with so many little scars. You heard his teeth grit as the air hit his wound.

"Nothing," you scoffed, "this needs dressing. Let me help you." You felt him flinch beneath your hands, hesitant. He felt his skin prickle under yours, finding such curious pleasure in your touch alongside his pain. Your beseeching eyes took him the rest of the way, and he found himself accepting you.

"I...not here," the blacksmith toned, his eyes flitting to the town around him, "if they believe me injured, I'll lose business." You nodded, rummaging in your overburdened satchel, until he took you gently by the hand.

"My home," he began, hesitant, your hand so soft and small in his broad calloused palm, "you'll...you are welcome. It is clean. Quiet. I...I will not harm you. I promise."

Aware of his size and strength, aware of the air of mystery surrounding him amongst the townsfolk, the blacksmith was quick to reassure you. Your eyes softened, and his thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles at your words, electricity crackling up your arm.

"I know you won't," you assured. The briefest smile graced his severe face when you offered your name. You felt it warm you from the belly downwards. As he pulled encouragingly on your fingers, leaving the forge to die naturally with the approaching nightfall, you were led through the back of the hut, seeing a newly revealed sprawling cabin of wood and stone, at the edge of the forest. You felt the first kiss of snow upon your cheek.

"Nanami Kento," the blacksmith replied, welcoming you over the threshold. You smiled up at him, taking in his home; barely lit, at first, until he struck a lantern to life. You placed your bag upon a table, rummaging for salves as Kento began to build the fire, skilled and efficient.

You basked in the homely room; autumnal tapestries lining the walls, skin rugs on the floor and furs on the chairs, hanging herbs above a countertop, circled with hung skillets and pans. You relaxed easily into the sincerity of Kento's welcome. A frigid wind slapped the windows, rattling the door.

Before long, an enormous cast iron pot boiled with water, and you knelt before Kento, appraising his wound in the orange glow. Cleaning your hands, wetting a rag with clean water, you moved to clean the ash from his arm before pausing.

"This will hurt," you apologised, looking up to him. Kento's heart stuttered; how many hours had he spent, imagining those sweet eyes, those gentle fingers? Too long. Too many words unspoken over too many years. He was not used to such tenderness.

"I am used to pain," he hushed, smooth and barely audible above the crackle of flame, "my job has certain...hazards, after all." You hummed, swiping the cloth gently, removing dirt and debris.

"Still," you hummed, "I don't like to hurt a friend." Kento chuckled, and you felt yourself blush from hairline to toes at the rich mirth of it.

"We are...friends, are we?" His voice was low and conspiratorial, and you felt it stir a hunger deep within you. You smiled back, mulish as you dabbed salve onto his burn. His knees were parted, with you knelt between them, and your elbows rested on the thick muscle of his thighs. You felt safe, warm, held.

"All those years, passing back and forth," you sighed, teasing, "and not one hello? Just lots of nods," your stomach swooped as Kento laughed again, "and our friendship is just that. An accumulation of nods."

"Would we have stopped at 'hello'?" Kento retaliated. He caught the brief pause in your bandaging, before you continued. You spoke, uncertain again.

"Well," you hummed, testing the water, "offer me one now...and we shall see where it goes." Looking up, you gasped to find your face just inches from Kento's. He smiled at you, his eyes flicking briefly to your lips and back up again.

"Hello," he whispered, quiet and mischievous, "and thank you."

Your breath fluttered out; Kento could feel it against his lips, beckoning him.

"I...it's getting late," you started, and Kento blinked out of his reverie, glancing to the inky black outside his windows, "I should go."

Kento grasped your fingers once more, rising with you as he stood, your shawl shushing against his chest, barely covered by his soft linen shirt. Kento hummed, sounding grave, stepping to the other side of the room.

"It is night," he said, hands cupped around his eyes as he squinted out of the windows, "and the woods are barely safe in the day. I...I cannot allow you to travel. Alone, in the snow. You must stay."

His tone broached no argument, yet still you tried, packing your bag, your cheeks aflame.

"I...it isn't..." you stuttered, and Kento turned to you, chin inclined to the floor, one fine eyebrow raised. You took a deep breath, certain that if you didn't leave now, you may fall too deeply into Kento's insistent heat. Yet...you knew he was right. The path was treacherous. The snow would take you before the dawn.

"Would you like a bath?" Kento offered, turned away to save you your blushes; a gentleman.

"I-- please don't go to any trouble--" Kento swiftly ignored you, beginning to grasp the enormous iron pot, lifting it with stunning ease. His voice didn't even hitch.

"It's no trouble. I bathe every night. You can go before me." Kento carried the pan, stepping behind a folding wooden screen, and you followed him as if to argue, watching him begin to fill an enormous copper bathtub. Your hands shook as you began to remove your shawl, still blushing, so briefly overwhelmed before squashing it down.

Kento glanced up at you, pausing as he poured hot water, "This will take me some time," he said, apologetic, "please make yourself comfortable. I'll call for you."

You nodded, clearing your throat, hands twisting in your removed shawl. Kento chastised himself for admiring the soft curve of your breasts into your waist, the hidden delight of the swelling of your hips beneath your heavy skirts. He did not see how the steam rose fast, dampening his white shirt, how you could see all the way to his navel as he leaned over the bath. Neither of you knew how the other stirred within.

As you walked the length of the room, your fingertips brushing tapestries and grazing over warm furs, your curiosity drew you to a wide, flat trinket box, inlaid with mother of pearl, the colours an aurora in the rolling firelight. You stroked the box just once, before lifting the lid.

Your eyes crinkled immediately with joy at the treasures within; the box was full of lovingly crafted necklaces of gold, silver, pearl and gem, the chains finer and softer than any you had ever seen. You did not feel Kento approach as you admired them.

"I'd like for you to choose one," he offered, sincere, as you spun to face him. He raised his hands placatingly, a smile at the edge of his mouth, "not in lieu of payment, of course. A gift, I...made them with no real aim as to who should receive them."

"You made these?" You gaped, unable to fathom how such enormous hands crafted such intricate delights, "Kento, I-- they're beautiful, I couldn't possibly..."

If Kento had held any reservation, after hearing his name tumble from your lips, he was filled with the burning certainty that the jewellery should be for you, and you alone. His hand closed over yours as you moved to shut the box.

"Please," he breathed, so close, "choose one, or I shall give you them all." Swallowing, your hand hovered over a fine chain of silver and emerald, your fingertips brushing the gem. Kento hummed his approval, before picking it up, his calloused fingers all softness and grace.

"My favourite, too," he rumbled, brushing your hair off the nape of your neck as he clipped the necklace into place. You shivered at the feeling of his fingers on your neck, and almost ran as he whispered beside your ear, "Your bath is ready."

Stripping behind the wooden screen, hearing Kento amble around the room beyond, you sighed as the hot water enveloped you. Washing yourself with a soft sponge, cleaning off the grime of the day, your hand wandered absentmindedly downwards, fingertips grazing through your folds, naturally moving to relieve yourself of the building tension--

"I've left you a shirt." Your hand darted upwards with a guilty splash, Kento's voice only meters away behind the screen.

"Thank-- thank you," you squeaked, blushing, before climbing out, so naked apart from your exquisite new necklace. Drying on a soft towel, your hand hesitated over the shirt draped over the screen, before pulling it on over damp skin. It reached down your thighs, but left little else to the imagination.

Kento remained outwardly stoic, unreadable, averting his gaze as you crept out, arms holding yourself and squashing your breasts together, the colour of your nipples as faint as a ghost under the white linen shirt. He cleared his throat, coughing lightly before skirting past to the bath. You felt heat creep up your neck at the gossamer hush of his clothes hitting the floor, the shifting water as he stepped in, the way he sighed in relief, almost as if--

"I shall sleep in the chair tonight," Kento said, slow and considered, "and you shall have my bed." You felt indignation roll within you.

"Don't be ridiculous," you scolded, "you're injured, and this is your home--"

'-- and you are my guest," he grumbled.

"I won't allow it," you insisted, almost forgetting yourself as you approached the wooden screen, "I'll put some furs on the floor and--"

"You believe I would let you sleep on the floor?" He growled, furious at your suggestion, "I should rather you have me share the bed with you over that--"

"Fine. Then we shall share the bed. And there will be no more argument." You clapped a hand over your mouth as the words tumbled forth, unbidden. Mortified by your own suggestion, you removed your hand to speak again.

Kento stepped round from behind the screen, his towel draped lazily round his waist. You gaped up at him, stunned. He was...younger than you thought, his blond hair now soft and floppy, the ash removed from the lines in his face, taking ten years off him. You faced him, his towering form, the practiced rolls, peaks and planes of muscle belonging to a working man, his forearms so thick--

"Then...we should get to bed," Kento insisted, stepping past you, through a doorway to his bedroom, where you heard him rummaging for clothes, "it is late and I am up with the lark."

You hesitated where you stood, feeling your heartbeat between your legs, desperately curious, but paralysed.

"I don't bite," Kento called out, and you gulped down the sounds of soft fabric dropping over his body, still crippled with indecision and embracing yourself as he stepped out to put out the fire. You were lost momentarily in darkness before he stepped to you, the lantern between you, a beacon in the dark. You felt his hand close around your fingers again. You heard him whisper.

"It will become cold quickly, now the fire has died. Come. Stay warm."

You allowed yourself to be led to Kento's bedroom, hypnotised by the small swinging lantern. Kento led your hand downwards, placing it to the edge of the bed for you to feel your way, your fingers gliding through soft fur and cool sheets. With shaking hands, you crawled across to the head of the bed. Kento waited for you, flipping down the sheets, flipping them back up to your chin as you both slipped between them.

You heard nil but your own heartbeat. Kento faced you, the torch light embering behind him leaving him only just visible as your eyes adjusted to the light. The sheets had not yet warmed from your bodies, and you shivered. You felt Kento shift beside you.

"You...are cold," he stated as if in question. You remained quiet, gripping your hands to your chest lest they reach out for him.

"I'm...I'll warm up. Soon," you reassured yourself as much as him. You heard one doubtful grunt from him. Five minutes passed, and still, Kento felt you shiver against the sheets. Pulling a fur up to your chins, he felt prickles up his legs as one of your feet reached hesitantly out to touch him. He felt rather than heard you sigh.

"So warm," you whispered, your little voice soft with comfort in the dark. Kento's breath caught in his chest, feeling his cock twitch inside his soft trousers.

"Do you...need me?" He offered. He felt your other foot reach out in answer, cold toes wiggling against the downy hair on his leg. He felt a dangerous, needy arousal thread through him.

Reaching out his uninjured arm, he hooked it round your waist, chuckling as you squeaked when he pressed against you. You hummed in pleasure at the heat rolling off him, basking in his warmth, forgetting your awkwardness for a moment. Kento and you lay intertwined like that, with you softening like butter in his arms.

After a few minutes, you shifted against him, about to drift off to sleep. Kento must have been near sleep as well, groaning into your hair as you shifted, reflexively clinging you closer to him. Your bottom, completely bare with his shirt shifted up your body, pressed back to his groin. His clothed cock was hard and barely restrained in his loose trousers, and pressed between your thighs.

You felt a jolt run through you, feeling a warm trickle of arousal, so alien to you, seep out between your thighs. Kento almost saw stars as it dampened the trousers over his cockhead, and he frowned, his forehead pressed to your shoulder blade in apology and embarrassment.

"I-- I'm sorry, I--...it's been so long...since I've felt a woman-- shit, I'm--" Kento rested his nose against your neck, unable to stop himself from ghosting his lips there. You dropped your head back to him, and he growled in appreciation, nuzzling your neck, feeling your thighs clamp around the tip of his cock, your arousal seeping through his trousers and mixing with his own.

"I've never--" you whispered, blushing furiously, drunk on the feeling of his body against yours, feeling so curiously empty and aching to be filled. Kento understood immediately, and moved to pull back.

"No!" You squeaked, holding onto his arm, pushing yourself back to chase him along the bed, "Please, I-- I want--...you. I want you." Your words sat heavy in the air. Kento shifted behind you, at war with himself.

"You don't know what you're asking," he growled, fighting against you to remove his arm, "I am no boy."

"And I'm no girl, nor stupid," you reassured, "I'm not ignorant."

In an instant, Kento moved above you, on all fours, his arms caging you in, corseting you to his bed. He stared down at you, enormous chest heaving, eyes roving down your body, quickly intoxicated by your peaked nipples, beneath his shirt, the hem of it barely covering your sex, still feeling your arousal dampening his cock.

He leaned down, nestling his mouth against your neck again, tongue flicking out, tasting you. He felt you still under his lips, just a little mouse, in the jaws of a bear.

"And yet, all that knowledge is just academic, until you're crying out that my cock is too big for you," he growled, warning you away, barely able to stop himself. He felt you squirm beneath him, his head swimming with you. He was lost, then, to your tiny whisper in the gloom.

"Show me-- please." Kento shuddered, a drop of pre-cum seeping out of his cock, soaking through his trousers and your-- his-- shirt, to dampen your belly. You shivered, desperate to know Kento biblically, desperate for this fabled ecstasy.

Kento raised his mouth from your neck, reading your eyes, seeing such certainty in them. Tangling his fingers with yours beneath the sheets, he pressed the length of his body down against you as he kissed you, his other hand framing your jaw, gently encouraging it open to slide his tongue against yours. Your soft little moan was like music to his ears.

Kissing you deeply, learning your voice and your mouth, letting you learn the peaks and planes of his body with your free hand, Kento kept your other hand plaited with his own, fearful of leaving you to take this journey alone.

He felt himself shudder with the unbridled privilege of being able to worship you, jealously grateful that you had not been left to some boy. He was overwhelmed by the need to set your standards high at the first hurdle.

"Let me taste you," he murmured into your mouth, and you hesitated, unsure of what he meant. Swiping his thumb across your palm, Kento's mouth ventured downwards, sucking the skin of your neck, nipping before soothing the skin with his tongue, feeling you become pliable, supple as water. His fingers danced over the laces holding your shirt together, giving you opportunity to stop him, before untying them, freeing your breasts.

Laying his tongue flat over one nipple, Kento allowed it to curve to the shape of you, to know you, before drawing it into his mouth, sucking on your nipple while his hand toyed with and kneaded the other. He revelled in your whines, a high, keening mewl as you arched off the bed into his mouth. You felt his licks and sucks, curiously, between your legs, and you could not help but buck up against him.

Kento grunted at the feeling of your pussy pressing against his thigh, and moved one hand down to hold your hips still.

"Slow down-- let me show you," he ordered, gentle in his insistence. You trembled under his fingertips, your hips settling back to the bed. He rumbled his approval, rolling your nipple under his tongue again until you sighed, breathy and ecstatic, "Good girl."

In reward, his mouth continued to trail downwards, and your eyes fluttered closed, one hand coming to rest on the back of his head, your fingernails scratching through his damp hair. Kento shivered at the sensation, feeling his cock leap against his thigh.

When his mouth reached your mound, you squeaked out in alarm, flipping the blankets down to see Kento, illuminated in the orange light.

"What are you-- your mouth, Kento--" Kento's eyes crinkled up at you, and two arms came to loop round the top of your thighs, pulling you down the bed towards him, your shirt being rucked up against the drag of the mattress to completely expose your glistening pussy to him.

Maintaining eye contact with you, you trembled with anticipation as Kento poked his tongue out into a point, first grazing your folds, before stroking from side to side to ease in between them. The sound that broke out from you as his tongue stroked over your clit, hot and wet, was one Kento masturbated to for years to come.

You felt as though you had been lifted from earth and dropped amongst the clouds as he licked at you, sucking, stroking, tasting, the pleasure so otherworldly compared to what your own hand could achieve, that you felt yourself being rushed towards your peak at speed.

Twisting and squirming against his mouth, you reflexively tried to pull your pussy away from Kento's attentions. His arms tightened around the tops of your thighs, growling into you, pulling you back as you tried to scoot away. Your hand tugged at his hair as you arched, whimpering, coated in a fine sweat. As Kento groaned into your cunt, you watched his hips roll and hump against the bed, the sight alone enough to send your orgasm crashing through you, and you worshipped his name in a long, keening cry.

Kento let his laps and sucks become softer, languid, letting you float through the haze of your pleasure. Nuzzling at you, tasting you as you trailed lazy blissful fingers through his hair, Kento planted soft kisses to your inner thigh.

Moving back up, stroking his nose against your neck, Kento felt your hand move down his shoulders and back, before coming round to ghost over the front of his trousers. Kento shuddered, kneeling above you to remove his shirt, skin prickling with the need to feel yours against his own.

Gazing down at you, his eyes like whiskey in the flickering light, he grazed a palm from in between your breasts, down to the hem of your shirt, pulling it up over your head in one swift tug, exposing you completely to him.

Your hand still trailed over his groin as he knelt, and you were captivated, obsessed with the shape, weight and length of his cock in your hands, blissfully unaware of what you were doing to him. As you grasped the lace at the front of his trousers, undoing it, and squeezing the head of his cock between your fingers, Kento moaned, ragged, leaning one hand sideways to support himself.

"Fuck-- I haven't-- not for so long," he moaned, low and husky, feeling your inexperienced fingers explore his cock and balls in a way that felt almost abusively naive. As your thumb glided beneath his foreskin, collecting the wetness of his pre-cum, exploring his slit, Kento hissed, panting and grabbing your hand.

You broke out of your reverie, blushing with mortification, tears pricking in your eyes as you began to apologise. Kento interrupted, shushing you, one hand still gripping your fingers around his cock, the other coming up to cup your face, his thumb swiping across your cheek.

"Not you," he huffed, stroking your cheek, smiling down at you with fevered eyes, "me, it's-- I-- I'll cum in your hand if you carry on." Your eyes glimmered, hungry to see how he looked as you pleasured him, and you moved yourself, leaning close, squeezing him again beneath his own hand, and he cried out in pleasure. You felt another drip of his arousal across your fingers, and you gulped, your tongue darting out across your lips.

As you lowered yourself to his lap, Kento's eyebrows raised in shock, and desperate awe, as you licked the weeping cockhead sticking out from your joined enclosed hands.

A low rumble ebbed through Kento, his eyes suddenly dark and hungry as he looked down at you, wordlessly using your hand inside his own, to pump the length of his cock. Feeling the intoxicating glide of soft skin over woody hardness, you let him use your hand to masturbate himself as you took the head of his cock into your mouth, licking, tasting the musty pre-cum there.

Every instinct screamed at Kento to chase his orgasm, to press your head further down his cock so he could use your little hand to jack off into your mouth, and he felt overwhelmed by the innocent licks and sucks you gave him, eyes cast upwards to see what effect they had on him. Kento moaned desperately, twisting on his haunches, fingers in turn tangling into your hair and coming away, clenching and unclenching at speed.

He felt the approaching rush of divine ecstasy, thrumming up his back in waves, his balls tightening up against the base of his cock--

Snapping, Kento pulled your hand and mouth off him, heaving you up the bed and back onto the pillows, before pinning you down with his body, panting into your neck, trying not to spill his seed over your belly. You were thrilled, ecstatic with Kento's pleasure, eager to see more of it.

You crept your hips up to his, trying to ease his cock into you. Kento huffed, his hand shooting down to press your hips down again.

"--going to kill me-- I swear-- no idea...you have no idea what you're doing to me--" Kento panted, quaking above you, one forearm planted above your head. As his peak ebbed away, Kento plaited his hand with your own again, above your head. He felt his cockhead resting against the smooth resistance of your entrance, and he suddenly felt so responsible for you.

"I don't want to hurt you," he huffed, aware he was bigger than average, but knowing from the fevered look in your eyes that he could not dissuade you-- not that he wanted to, at this point, his cock throbbing with urgent need.

"Please," you begged, "please." You felt Kento's hips press forwards into your soaking wet heat, feeling a slight sting as it met resistance. Kento rested his nose to yours, his eyes still feverish, his body still smelling of iron and ash and smoke.

"On one condition," he pressed, authoritative as his cockhead pressed deeper against your stinging resistance, breaking past thin membrane, gripping your thigh up to his hip as you trembled, biting your lip, tears in your eyes as you nodded-- anything, you thought, anything.

"Marry me," he whispered against your lips, and you squeaked as you felt a twang of pain, his cock suddenly nestled deeply inside you. Kento rocked his hips gently, shushing you, soothing you, his thumb stroking your palm. Not moving, just holding you as you adjusted to feeling so full, Kento waited for an answer.

"Y--yes...yes," you mewled, and Kento growled his approval against your neck, slowly pulling out of you before rutting back into your wet, tender pussy again, so intimate and deep that you cried out for him.

Kento rolled his hips, like a boat on the waves, whispering into you, certain he wouldn't last long; "First-- I'll cum inside you-- then I'll treat you like a queen...haaah...for the rest of my days."

You clung to Kento, lost in the ecstasy of him plowing into you, delighted by his rumbling groans in your ears, blissfully proud of being able to make such an unflappable man fall apart inside you. When his grip on your hip faltered, his shaking hand dropping to stroke quick little circles around your clit, Kento growled and bit into your neck to feel you rock your hips upwards to meet his own.

The sting almost completely eased, you felt quick pangs of pleasure, rising with every beat of your fast little heart, completely carried along by the eroticism of Kento's frantic groans and mumbles into your ear.

"My love I-- you feel so good...so good...god, I need to cum, need you to cum I-- aahhhh, fuck--" Kento felt your pussy clench around him, and he came inside you as you drank down his moans, fascinated by how they matched up with the bounding twitch of his cock, how his hips juddered into you involuntarily, how his face contorted, jaw clenched, somewhere between rage and serenity.

You were famished, starved of him, immediately desperate for more, and you felt him crumple into you, caging you in, shoulders heaving and spent. Kento chuckled as you peppered him with kisses, gripping your thighs round him and rolling him over so you lay above him, straddling him as his cock softened within you.

With his chin on his chest to look down to you, and a lazy lopsided smile across his face, Kento played idly with your hair, stroking your nose, your cheeks. He proudly fingered the beautiful necklace, resting against your breasts, squashed and plush against him.

"You meant it?" He asked, eager, concerned.

You hummed in delight, pressing a tender kiss to his chest as you nodded; "You had me at 'hello'."

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Would the anon who requested Blacksmith!Kento PLEASE STAND UP so I can credit you for breaking my brain.

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jezebelblues · 19 days ago

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in body and blood | h.s

pt. i, pt. ii

summary: over a century adrift in darkness, he found his sun—not in the dawn, but in the quiet fire of her love, a light fierce enough to bind even eternity.

cw: fem!reader, blood+blood drinking (bro is literally a vampire there's going to be blood) 1700s!harry, mentions of death

word count: approx 7.3k

I yall this excruciatingly long so i just figured it was better to split this into four parts. it starts off kinda slow i knowwww but i feel like it fits his character. anyway I hope u will like. mwah :* also YES his heart beats idk i took creative liberty in assuming the blood he drinks would give him some sort of circulation and YES i drew inspo from tvd i like their vamp lore the most ok bye

Fourth of November, 1701

The English flag thrashed wildly in the biting wind, its edges snapping above the clank of chains and the groan of wood as boats were fastened to the harbor. Hooves clattered against the cobblestone, mingling with the grumble of cart wheels as townsfolk hurried homeward, eager to escape the deepening chill of evening.

Winter crept in with an ill-fated air, a shadow over the town. The fishermen’s hauls dwindled to nearly nothing, their nets coming up bare. Squash and pumpkins, once abundant, softened and rotted on their vines before they could be harvested. Livestock, struck by a strange sickness, perished too soon, their spoiled meat no longer fit to eat. Lately the townsfolk scraped by on what little they could hunt—rabbits, mostly—a meager fare that barely stretched to sustain a family for more than a few days.

YN stood at the end of the dock, the sea’s bitter wind pulling at her hair. A basket woven by her mother dangled from her arm, half-covered by a cloth beneath which a few herbs and stunted vegetables peeked through. She waited for Niall, a fisherman she’d known since childhood, to come ashore. His face was grim, his knuckles pale as he secured his boat. “Any luck?” She asked over the wind, though she already knew the answer.

His mouth twisted into a scowl as he wiped his hands on his trousers and approached her. “Lucks got nothin’ to do with it. s’the new king, swear it. God turned his back on us ‘cause of him.”

She winced and swatted his arm lightly as they started toward the stone walls encircling the town. “Don’t say such things, not out loud.” She kept her voice low, though she too had her doubts about the new ruler. “Best not to tempt fate with those words.”

He rolled his eyes and took the basket from her arm, letting it hang from his own so she could tuck her hands into her sleeves. “You agree with such things. S’pose God does as well from the lack of bloody fish.”

They passed under the worn stone archway marking the entrance to town, their footsteps echoing against the ancient stones. Dover was nestled between the English Channel and rolling green hills, hemmed in by rocky shores and the stark rise of the cliffs, standing watch like grim sentinels over the troubled little town.

As YN and Niall made their way up the winding path from the square, the quiet crept in around them, settling like a thin mist. The evening was thick and gray, heavy clouds stretching over Dover and flattening the light into a cool, uneasy dusk.

Each face they passed, they recognized. it was impossible not to, in a town so small. There was old mrs. Harris, hunched beneath a weathered shawl, who gave them a knowing nod as they went by, as if she alone were privy to the day’s secrets. And mr. James, pulling his cart toward home, who offered a quick tip of his hat, but avoided meeting their eyes too long, as if a weight hung over all of them that no one cared to mention.

Niall, walking beside her, held his silence longer than usual, and there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when he finally turned her way. “You’re still makin’ that stew, yeah?” He hummed, nodding toward the basket swinging lightly in his hand. His tone was casual, almost lazy, yet she sensed something else beneath it, like he was testing the waters of a conversation he couldn’t quite bring himself to start.

“Mum has already started it,” YN replied, keeping her voice as light as his. “Cabbage, onion, bit of thyme. barely a stew, more a broth.” She cast a sideways glance his way, catching the faintest hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.

“No doubt you’ll have your sister servin’ it, then?” He asked, as though it were an afterthought. “I hear she has a way of makin’ anything taste finer.”

YN’s lips twitched, a hint of humor flickering in her eyes. She knew well enough where this was going, but she didn’t indulge him outright. “Oh, she has her charms, but she’s picky ‘bout who gets to see ‘em.”

He laughed quietly, a low sound that seemed to carry on the breeze, soft and uncertain. “She's got the whole town near dreamin’ of her, from what I hear. never seen her eye stray toward anyone, though.”

YN glanced away, her gaze drifting over the clustered rooftops, the narrow chimneys stretching into the dimming sky like spindly fingers. “You’d need more than a bowl of stew to catch her fancy, Niall. You’d best hope for a rich merchant or a duke comin’ ashore.”

His chuckle died off, and for a few quiet moments, they simply walked, the soft scuff of their shoes blending with the distant murmur of the sea. Yet something hung between them, unspoken, like the faintest shadow shifting at the edges of their conversation.

It was Niall who broke the silence, his voice lower this time, his words careful. “Have you heard the talk? About the old watchtower?”

YN’s gaze drifted to the far side of town, where the dense stretch of forest gave way to a steep rise, the silhouette of the abandoned tower just barely visible through the trees. “Folk say all sorts of things,” She muttered, almost to herself. “Been empty as long as I can remember.”

Niall’s eyes narrowed as he looked out toward the darkening line of trees, his jaw set. “Empty, maybe, but someone’s taken to hauntin’ it now. The lads swear they’ve seen a figure up there at night, just a shadow movin’ about, like he’s watchin’ the town from that high window.”

She felt a faint chill that wasn’t from the cold, and she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “They say a lot of things,” she repeated, her tone steady but soft. “Could be nothin’ but the wind playin’ with shadows.”

He tilted his head, the edge of a smirk softening his face. “Aye, that’s what I'd think, too. But seems each person’s got a different tale to tell. Some say he’s a protector, sent to keep us safe.” He shrugged, his gaze still fixed on the distant woods. “Others say it’s somethin’ darker—maybe one of the king’s men, sent to spy on anyone who dares breathe a word against him.”

YN’s lips parted, but she hesitated, the words hanging unspoken as her gaze lingered on the watchtower. Her grandmother had told her stories of that tower once, years ago, when she was still young enough to believe in the old tales without question. But she’d since brushed them off as the ramblings of an old woman long passed. Now, though, the stories flickered back to her, sharp and vivid as they’d once been.

“I heard some folk say it’s not a man at all,” She murmured, so quietly that her voice nearly vanished into the chill air. “Gran said it’s a spirit—a demon.” she let out a breathy laugh, sending a glance his way. “You believe my ol’gran true?”

Niall made a sound, halfway between a scoff and a chuckle, though he didn’t argue with her. “You don’t seem the sort to believe in demons,YN.”

She didn’t answer him, and for a moment, they stood in the gathering dusk, looking out toward the distant, looming shape of the tower, as if something there had caught them both in its thrall. A strange, unsettling weight hung in the air, pressing down around them, and neither seemed willing to break it.

The faint toll of the chapel bell echoed across the town, marking the evening hour. The sound seemed hollow, almost mournful, as it resonated through the narrow streets, slipping into every crack and crevice, lingering like a warning in the growing dark.

The path wound through the clustered homes of their town, each one narrow and stacked close beside the other, the rooftops tilting like old friends leaning together to brace against the coming winter. Flickers of candlelight peeked through small, thick-paned windows, casting brief glows over doorsteps worn smooth by years of footsteps. Voices drifted out faintly as neighbors settled in for the night, the low buzz of comfort after a long day’s labor.

As they neared her door, YN glanced sideways at Niall, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Well, no use lettin’ the stew go to waste with just me. You might as well come in and help make somethin’ decent out of it. And,” she added, with a playful glint, “my sister will be there, too. Might be the only chance you get to impress her.”

Niall feigned indifference, though she caught the hint of a flush in his cheeks beneath the dimming light. “Well, if it’s to spare you from that sorry excuse of a stew, I s’pose I could lend a hand,” he said with mock reluctance, yet his steps quickened as they approached the small wooden door.

Inside, the house was simple and small, with a low ceiling that sloped slightly, forcing even YN to duck beneath the beams as she led him in. A narrow hearth crackled with a weak but steady fire, casting warm shadows across the modest room, which served as both kitchen and living space. The scent of herbs, drying in bunches along the walls, mingled with the faint tang of smoke from the hearth. A single table stood in the center, its edges worn smooth, surrounded by a handful of mismatched stools and chairs, each one slightly wobbly but bearing the marks of care and countless meals.

“Is that you, YN?” Her mother’s voice came from the corner, where she was bent over a pot, stirring with steady, practiced hands. She looked up with a gentle smile, her face flushed from the warmth of the fire. “And Niall too! Just in time. I was about to send Arthur to fetch you, but he’s off fiddlin’ with somethin’ in the corner.”

Ten-year-old Arthur looked up at the mention of his name, a wide grin splitting his face when he spotted the blonde. “Niall!” He called, scrambling to his feet and darting over, a wooden sword in hand. “You’ll stay for supper, won’t you?”

He placed the basket next to the older woman before he tousled the boy’s hair, giving a wink to YN. “That depends—will your sister cook, or will your ma have mercy on me?”

YN rolled her eyes as her mother chuckled, stirring the stew with a knowing look. “I'll make sure to keep it fit for eatin’. Now, why don’t you both make yourselves useful and set the table?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Niall replied with a quick bow, flashing his best charming smile, though his eyes lingered on the slender figure by the fire.

YN’s older sister, Ella, sat with her needlework in hand, her fingers nimble as she embroidered a delicate pattern into the edge of a linen cloth. She looked up as Niall approached, offering him a nod and a faint, polite smile, though a flicker of amusement danced in her eyes.

“Ella,” Niall greeted, taking the opportunity to lean a bit too casually against the edge of the table. “Now there’s a sight finer than any supper, if I may say.”

“Oh, you may say.” Ella sighed, her tone as mild as her smile. “But sayin’ doesn’t make it so, does it?” Her eyes sparkled with a touch of mischief, and she kept her gaze on her stitching as if he hadn’t said a word.

YN snorted, reaching past Niall to set the bowls on the table. “She’ll need more than empty flattery to be wooed, Niall. You’ll be talkin’ all night before she so much as bats an eye.”

“Empty flattery?” he echoed, feigning shock as he helped with the cups, placing them with exaggerated care. “This is pure honesty, YN. Your sister’s a vision, though I'm not sure she sees it herself.”

Ella finally looked up, one eyebrow arched. “Perhaps that’s ‘cause it’s hard to see with all the bluster in here. Is it flattery or just another of your tales, Ni?”

Arthur laughed as he climbed onto his chair, his wooden sword clattering to the floor. “Tell a tale, Niall!” He urged, his eyes bright.

He obliged with a grand sweep of his arm. “Ah, tales are easy to tell when the company’s fine.” His gaze drifted meaningfully to Ella, who only smirked, clearly unbothered.

“Enough of your foolishness, Horan.” YN’s mother cut in, though her tone was warm as she dished the stew into the bowls. “There'll be time for tales when your stomach’s full. Now, all of you—sit, before this stew turns cold.”

They settled around the table, the simple meal set before them steaming in the flickering firelight. YN ladled out servings, keeping her own expression solemn as she dished out the rather grayish stew. Niall took a tentative sip, raising his brows in mock surprise.

“Well, I'll be,” he declared, setting his bowl down as if astonished. “Tastes just like stew!”

YN kicked him under the table, rolling her eyes. “Don’t sound so shocked, else we’ll make you eat the scraps.”

Ella, watching them from across the table, hid a smile behind her hand. “It's better than you deserve,” she teased, offering Niall a faintly teasing look that sent Arthur into a fit of giggles.

As they settled into their meal, the conversation turned to the familiar rhythms of the day—the fish hauls, the scarcities at the market, the latest mischief Arthur had managed, and the townsfolk they’d seen along the way. Laughter bubbled up around the table, filling the small room with warmth as the stew slowly disappeared, their bowls clinking softly with each spoonful.

It wasn't until they’d nearly finished eating that YN’s mother’s voice turned low, a faint shadow crossing her face as she glanced at arthur. “Arthur,” she said gently, “I don't want to hear any more of you playin’ outside the town walls.”

The boy frowned, his spoon paused halfway to his mouth. “But ma, I’m careful,” he protested, glancing between her and YN as if hoping for support.

“She's right,” Ella added, her voice calm but firm. “The woods aren’t safe, especially with winter comin’ on.”

He looked to Niall, his face a mask of confusion and a bit of defiance. “Niall plays near the woods, don’t you?”

He shifted in his seat, his smile fading just slightly as he glanced at YN. “Aye, lad, but it’s different. I'm older, and I keep my wits about me. Besides,” he added lightly, though his voice held a trace of something darker, “there’s been talk of someone wanderin’ near the old watchtower.”

YN’s mother sighed, folding her hands on the table. “Too much talk.” She said quietly, her gaze drifting toward the narrow window. “I don’t care if s’only lore, you’ll be safe rather than sorry.”

A hush fell over the table, and Arthur's wide eyes darted from face to face. “Who is it, then?” He whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “A man?”

Ella reached over to ruffle his hair, her voice soft. “No one knows. could be a man, could be no more than shadows. But some say it’s best not to linger too close to it, just in case.”

Niall, watching Arthur's reaction, leaned in with a grin. “There now, it’s probably nothin’ more than a lonely ol’ fox. But best stick close to home, eh? Can’t have you disappearin’ on us.”

YN tried to keep her voice light as she chimed in, though she felt the faintest prickling unease beneath the laughter. “You heard him, Arthur. best keep to the town, else you might end up a story yourself.”

The boy’s eyes grew even wider, and he gulped, glancing nervously toward the window as if expecting to see the mysterious figure standing just beyond. He fidgeted, his hand reaching instinctively for his wooden sword on the floor beside him.

With a faint, tired sigh, YN’s mother rose and began clearing the table, signaling the end of the meal. The warm glow of the evening seemed to have dimmed, and even Niall’s usual cheer was muted as he helped gather the bowls, his gaze drifting back to the light flickering along the walls.

Outside, the wind picked up, brushing against the windows and rattling the latch ever so slightly, a whisper against the warmth of the firelight. The small house was silent for a long moment, each of them lost in thought, each glancing occasionally toward the dark window where the night gathered, close and watchful.

Morning seeped slowly into Dover, pale and cool, bringing with it the damp scent of the sea and the faint call of gulls overhead. YN was awake early, as was her habit, slipping quietly out of bed while the house still lingered in the soft dimness of dawn. The fire in the hearth had died to embers, and a chill clung to the air, but she moved quickly, tucking a shawl around her shoulders as she crossed the small room.

Arthur, already up and dressed, was tugging at the latch on the back door, eager to start his morning chores. He looked back when he heard her steps, his face lighting up with a grin. “Thought you’d sleep through it, lazybones.” He teased, though his eyes sparkled with mischief.

She snorted softly, pinching his cheek as she passed him. “Cheeky lad,” she muttered. “Come on, then. Let's get to it.”

They stepped out into the brisk morning, their breath puffing in the cold, and began making their way down the narrow stone path that wound through the small patch of yard behind their home. Frost clung to the grass, glinting in the pale light, and the chickens shuffled restlessly in their pen as Arthur went to check on them.

“Careful now.”

He bent down next to them to scatter their feed. The hens fluffed their feathers, clucking contentedly as they pecked at the ground, and Arthur kept one eye on the rooster, who strutted about with his chest puffed, keeping watch over his domain.

“Look at him,” he whispered, stifling a laugh as he threw a handful of seed. “Thinks he’s king of all creation, that one.”

She grinned, crouching beside him. “Well, he’s a rooster. not much else to do but look important, is there?”

The boy giggled, tossing a bit of feed toward the rooster, who eyed him warily before puffing up even further. YN kept watch as he finished the feeding, carefully securing the pen’s latch when he was done.

They moved on to check the small patch of herbs and vegetables that clung to life in the early cold, though the frost had already done its damage. The leaves hung limp and dark, and YN frowned, brushing a thin layer of frost from a withered cabbage leaf.

“S’not lookin’ good, is it?” Arthur said, his voice dropping to a murmur as he followed her gaze.

“No,” she replied softly, her fingers brushing over the leaves. “But we’ll manage. Always do.”

He gave her a solemn nod, but she could see the worry in his eyes, the way he seemed to glance toward the woods, as if he might glimpse the shadowed figure their mother had warned him about the night before. She reached over and squeezed his shoulder, offering a smile.

“No need for lookin’ so glum, Arthur,” she said, keeping her tone light. “We've plenty to keep us busy, and I'll wager you’ll see that rooster crowned king before anything happens to us.”

He managed a faint smile, his spirits lifting just enough to reassure her. They finished up quickly, making their way back inside, where the warmth of the house greeted them. YN set about preparing a quick meal for Arthur and her mother, who was just beginning to stir, her tired eyes softening at the sight of her children.

Once breakfast was sorted, YN returned to her small room to ready herself for the day. She tugged off her worn nightdress, slipping into the fresh linen undergarments she’d set aside, and carefully pulled on a plain woolen dress that hung neatly from a peg beside her bed. It was a simple dress, but a neat one, its modest collar and long sleeves making it suitable for the chilly weather. she straightened the fabric, adjusting the waist so that it lay just right, and wrapped her shawl back over her shoulders, pinning it at the front with an old, weathered brooch that had once belonged to her grandmother.

She caught her reflection in the small, scratched mirror by the window—a young woman with steady eyes and a hint of determination in her gaze, her hair braided behind her, a few strands slipping free to frame her face. After a moment, she tucked a few stray wisps behind her ear and gave herself a brisk nod, turning to head out.

The streets were beginning to stir as she made her way down to the docks, the early morning light casting a soft, muted glow over the cobblestone. A few shopkeepers were already sweeping their doorsteps, preparing for the day’s trade, and a handful of townsfolk passed by, nodding their greetings as she walked.

When she reached the docks, she found Niall already there, standing by his boat, his hands working quickly to secure the ropes. His coat hung loose over his shoulders, and his hair was tousled from the morning breeze, but there was a contented look in his eyes as he glanced up and saw her approach.

“Well, if it isn’t the queen of the cabbage patch,” he greeted her, a grin breaking across his face. “Come to see if I've hauled in a king’s feast for ye?”

YN rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she stopped a few feet away from him. “I wouldn't go that far. but I'll settle for a decent fish, if you’ve managed one.”

He laughed, giving the rope a final tug before stepping back, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Oh, a decent fish, she says. Well, lucky for you, I've got just that.” He reached into a small wooden crate and held up a plump haddock, its scales glinting in the early light. “Not a king’s ransom, but it’ll do for stew, won’t it?”

She eyed the fish, unable to suppress a smile. “Aye, it’ll do. Might even save us from havin’ to wrangle another cabbage.”

Niall chuckled, tucking the fish back into the crate. “Couldn’t have that, now, could we? I’m doin’ my part to keep your cookin’ passable.”

“Passable?” She laughed, nudging him lightly as she stepped up beside him to peer into the crate. “You’re just glad to have an excuse to come round, steal our bread, and charm my sister.”

He gave her a mock-offended look, though his eyes glinted with humor. “Now, that’s hurtful, YN. I'm here for the food and the fine company, naturally. If your sister happens to be nearby, well, that’s not my fault, is it?”

She rolled her eyes, unable to help the small laugh that escaped. “Poor Ella’ll need more than a fish to be impressed. Best not get your hopes up too high.”

“Aye, she’s a hard one to please,” he admitted, a faint, wistful smile crossing his face. “But I'll manage somehow. or at least, I'll keep tryin’.”

They both fell silent, their gazes drifting out over the water, where a thin mist clung to the surface, casting an eerie calm over the harbor. The other boats rocked gently in the quiet, and the gulls called out above them, their cries echoing faintly across the empty stretch of sea. Together they turned back toward the town, the mist curling softly around them as they walked, side by side, in the quiet of the morning.

The midday lull brought a hush over the town, as folk took their brief respite between the day’s labors. The soft light of afternoon slipped over the rooftops, and YN found herself winding her way down one of the quieter streets toward Maura’s, a modest little cottage that doubled as the gathering place for the women in town. Here, around a crowded table of mismatched cups and chipped saucers, town gossip simmered as steadily as the tea.

Maura's door was open, the sound of voices spilling out into the cobbled lane, and YN slipped in quietly, greeting the women with a polite nod before finding a seat near the end of the table. The familiar faces of neighbors turned to greet her—Maura herself, with her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the kitchen, mrs. Harris with her ever-watchful eyes, and a handful of others who paused only long enough to give YN a quick nod before returning to the subject that had clearly held their interest long before she arrived.

“I'm tellin’ you,” mrs. Harris was saying, her voice low and edged with certainty. “There's somethin’ in that tower. maybe it’s a spy, maybe it’s worse.”

Maura scoffed, shaking her head. “If it were a spy, we’d know by now, wouldn’t we? why bother lurkin’ about if there’s nothin’ worth seein’ here?”

“There’s plenty to see, Maura,” the older woman sighed, leaning forward, her teacup nearly sloshing over the rim as she gestured toward the window. “Who’s to say he hasn’t been watchin’ us all along, takin’ note of who’s loyal to the new king and who’s not?”

Maura snorted, but one of the other women, Anna, leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. “or worse—what if it’s no man at all?” Her gaze darted to the others, her eyes wide with a kind of fearful excitement. “There are tales, you know. Of things that wander the woods. Spirits that linger in dark places, things that only come out when the days grow short.”

Mrs. Harris crossed herself, nodding solemnly. “Aye. folk say it’s a night creature—a demon, even.“

YN listened quietly, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup, but she held back a smile. as the women exchanged anxious looks, she leaned back, sipping her tea, the warmth of it calming her nerves. To her, the stories felt like little more than old wives’ tales—a way for folk to pass the time when the days grew cold and bleak. A lonely man, perhaps, who’d taken to the tower for solitude, a soul with nowhere else to go. Nothing so sinister as the women here believed.

“You've a skeptical look about you, dear” Maura said, catching her eye with a wry smile. “Don’t tell me you’d walk up to that tower yourself, would you?”

She met her gaze calmly, setting her cup down. “I'd sooner believe it’s a wanderer, Maura. Maybe one who wants peace more than anything else. Don’t see why we should fear him.”

“Peace, or no peace, he’s still up there, watchin’ us all.”

YN didn’t reply, only nodded politely as the conversation swirled on, the voices around her swelling in speculation and rumor. After a while, she quietly rose, setting her cup aside and offering Maura a grateful nod before slipping out the door and into the fresh air.

The chatter of the women faded behind her, and she took a deep breath, the cool air filling her lungs and clearing her thoughts. She knew she was unlikely to shake their unease or convince them of her view, but as she thought of the lonely figure up in the tower, something tugged at her—a kind of curiosity that gnawed gently at the back of her mind.

Without a second thought, she made her way home, moving quickly and quietly, her mind already set. She slipped through the door, pausing only to grab her small woven basket from its hook. Her mother glanced up, but YN offered her a calm smile, murmuring something vague about a quick errand before supper.

IN the small corner of their kitchen where they kept their stores, she selected a handful of berries from the last of their foraging, a few slightly bruised carrots, and a small bunch of herbs tied with a thin scrap of cloth. Modest offerings, but enough, she hoped, to serve as a token of peace, a sign that she meant no harm.

She took a deep breath and headed toward the edge of town, her footsteps light as she made her way past the familiar lanes and toward the narrow path that led up to the old watchtower.

The path leading to the watchtower was narrow, winding its way up the hillside in gentle, uneven curves. YN had walked these woods many times before, though never with the purpose she had now. Above her, the sky was beginning to darken, clouds gathering in ominous clumps, casting long shadows across the land as the sun slipped lower.

Her heart thudded in her chest, not from fear, but from a strange mixture of curiosity and anticipation. The stories she’d heard that morning lingered in her mind like faint echoes, each warning a small reminder of the mystery ahead. But she felt something else too—a quiet resolve, an odd certainty that she had to see this figure, whoever he might be, with her own eyes.

The watchtower loomed before her, its crumbling stone walls climbing into the sky, weather-worn and scarred by time. She could see now why the townsfolk feared it; it looked like a relic from another era, half-hidden by the dense growth of ivy and the creeping fog that clung to the base of its walls. It was silent here, too silent, as if even the birds dared not sing in the shadow of the old tower.

Steeling herself, she moved forward, her footsteps muffled by the damp earth. The closer she got, the more the watchtower’s age showed itself in cracked stones and vines, a darkness that seemed to pool between the stones, deepening the gray of the twilight. At the base of the tower, a narrow door sat slightly ajar, barely wide enough for her to slip through. She paused there, glancing up, feeling an odd twinge of nervousness as her gaze drifted to the upper windows, dark and empty.

Drawing a deep breath, she pushed the door open, stepping into the dim interior.

The inside of the tower was colder, the air thick and still. Faint light seeped through cracks in the walls, just enough to reveal the sparse furnishings—a wooden table, books, a chair beside the hearth, long since gone cold. Dust motes hung in the air, catching the dim light like fragments of stars, and a faint, earthy smell lingered in the space, as though the room hadn’t seen another soul in years.

Yet something else lingered too, something that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle—a sense that she wasn’t alone.

A figure stepped forward from behind a wall, emerging so quietly she almost missed it. He was tall, with dark curls that tumbled around his face, shadows clinging to his features as though he belonged to the darkness itself. His eyes met hers, a piercing green that seemed to hold an entire century’s worth of secrets, and for a brief, unsettling moment, she felt as though he could see straight through her.

“What brings you here?” His voice was low, quiet, each word clipped and precise, yet holding a softness that surprised her.

YN swallowed, her hand instinctively tightening around the basket she held. “I–I thought you might be hungry,” she stammered, offering the basket forward with a hesitant smile. “Folk talk of you up here, you know. Thought it might be nice to see if you wanted some company.”

He raised a brow, a faint trace of amusement softening his gaze. He didn’t reach for the basket, but instead continued to watch her, as though trying to make sense of why she would come here, alone, to his solitary refuge.

Didn’t seem exactly the safest thing.

“People rarely visit me,” he said finally, his voice barely more than a murmur, as though he were speaking more to himself than to her. “Especially not with offerings.”

“Well, it’s no great feast,” she laughed breathily—nervous, setting the basket down on the table. “But it’s enough for a quiet meal.”

He looked down at the basket, his expression unreadable. The shadows seemed to deepen around him, and for a brief moment, she wondered if he would turn her away. But then his gaze shifted back to her, gentle, as though something in her gesture had reached him in a way she couldn’t quite understand.

“I don’t need much,” he breathed, finally stepping closer, his movements careful, almost tentative. “But thank you.”

The silence stretched between them as Harry’s eyes lingered on her, his regard tracing every movement of her face, the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders, the way her lips pressed together as if searching for words. He could feel it—her pulse thrumming in her neck, the warmth radiating from her skin, the soft, steady rhythm of blood rushing through her veins. It was maddening. The sound alone clawed at the quiet corners of his mind, stirring that old, cursed hunger he’d worked so hard to bury.

But he couldn’t let her see that. Couldn’t let even a flicker of it touch his face.

With a composed nod, he turned his attention to the basket, using the small action to steady himself, to pull his focus away from her and fix it on the modest offering she’d brought. Herbs and roots, earthy and clean, none of it touched by blood. He forced his breath to steady, aware of her watchful eyes on him as he sorted through the items, careful to keep his hands stable.

“Are you here… often?” She asked softly, breaking the silence in a voice that felt almost hesitant, as though unsure whether it was allowed. Her gaze darted around the room, taking in the sparse surroundings, the thick shadows that crept into every corner.

Harry let his fingers linger on a sprig of thyme, keeping his voice level as he answered. “Yes,” he confided simply, his tone giving nothing away. “I find it… peaceful.”

“Peaceful,” she echoed, a faint smile touching her lips as she looked back at him. “It doesn’t frighten you, being all alone up here?”

He allowed himself the smallest of smiles—him—frightened? How sweetly ironic. “Sometimes solitude is easier than the alternative.”

She studied him, and he could feel the weight of her eyes, searching for something beneath his answer. Her heartbeat quickened just a bit, a small, steady thump that seemed to reach straight through him, its warmth coiling like a spark inside his chest. He could almost taste it—the sweet, heady pull of her pulse.

But he forced the thought down, burying it beneath years of restraint. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, redirecting the focus onto her. “And what about you?” he asked, his tone soft but steady. “Doesn’t it frighten you to come all this way, alone?”

She gave a small laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “Maybe it should. But I suppose I don’t scare easily.” She paused, her gaze slipping to the narrow window where the trees outside swayed gently in the wind. “It’s quiet here, almost like a different world. Sometimes it feels like our town is shrinking, like it’s closing in. Out here, it’s–it’s freer.”

Harry’s gaze softened, though he said nothing. There was something in her words he understood, something that echoed faintly in his own memories of why he’d chosen this place—this forgotten, lonely tower—to escape. A life he could no longer live, a curse he couldn’t risk unleashing.

She looked back at him, curiosity bright in her eyes. “People say you’ve been here a long time—I mean, they say the tower’s been abandoned forever. But you don’t seem…” She trailed off, biting her lip as though she didn’t quite know how to finish.

“Don’t seem what?” he asked, his voice low, inviting her to continue.

She waited, and he watched her carotid flicker in her throat as she searched for her words. “You don’t seem like someone who belongs in a place like this,” she murmured. “Like you’ve got more in you than—than just seclusion.”

He felt a tug deep in his chest at her words, something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time—a faint longing, a half-forgotten ache for a life he’d once dreamed of. But that life was gone. He’d buried it the night he’d been turned, when the world as he knew it had collapsed into a semblance of hell.

“It’s strange,” he replied carefully, his eyes drifting toward the flickering shadows on the wall. The hunger gnawed at him, unrelenting, every second reminding him of how close he was to her. She was standing barely a foot away, her warmth filling the small space, her heartbeat a steady, maddening drumbeat that drew him closer, closer…

He straightened slightly, pulling himself back. “Solitude,” he said quietly, almost as if reminding himself, “sometimes feels simpler.”

She nodded slowly, but her eyes stayed on him, and he could see the spark of curiosity still there, unquenched. She was brave, this girl. Far braver than most. And something about that bravery—the quiet way she stood her ground in the face of shadows and rumors, in the presence of a stranger—intrigued him. She wasn’t running away. And a part of him, despite everything, wanted her to stay.

“Thank you,” he mumbled—almost a dismissal, gesturing to the basket, his voice softened with a touch of genuine gratitude. “Not many would bring gifts to a stranger. Especially not one so isolated.”

She smiled, her cheeks flushing faintly in the dim light. “Well, maybe I’ll bring something better next time,” she replied with a small laugh. “If you’d want that.”

He paused, her words lingering in the air between them. Next time. It felt dangerous, allowing the thought of it, letting her return. But as she looked at him, her smile warm and unguarded, he found himself nodding almost without thinking.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I’d like that.”

But even as he spoke, he felt the old thirst stir beneath his words, a dark reminder that she was flesh and blood, and he was anything but.

Harry watched her retreating figure until the last of her shadow disappeared down the winding path. The silence settled thick around him once more, yet it felt different now, charged with the lingering warmth of her presence. The faint echo of her heartbeat still pulsed in his mind, like a phantom drum that refused to fade. He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, pushing down the hunger that had clawed so violently to the surface, fighting a void that had nearly overpowered him the entire time she’d stood there.

He had always been a weak man for the living.

Turning back into the tower, he closed the door and leaned against it, his hand flexing as he grappled with that old, familiar agony, the ache that thrummed through his veins whenever he was near a human. After all these years, after countless nights spent mastering his restraint, he still struggled. The curse was unrelenting—an obstinate thirst that he could never truly silence, only suppress.

Memories rose in him unbidden, dark and sharp, clawing their way out of the places he kept them buried. He could still recall the crisp air of that autumn night in 1601, back when he was alive, when he’d believed his life was bound for something beautiful. He’d been a poet then, a young man enamored with language, eager to make something of himself. He’d had dreams of attending university, of pursuing a life dedicated to literature and ideas, a life where he could spend his days wrapped in thought and art.

But all of that had been shattered in a single night. He had been walking back from a small tavern in London, tipsy and laughing, still reciting lines of poetry in his head, the night air filling him with a light, exhilarating hope. He remembered it so clearly—the dimly lit street, the damp chill creeping into his coat, the rough hand that had seized him by the throat and dragged him into an alley. He’d thought it was a robber at first, maybe a cutthroat from the docks looking for a quick coin.

But then he’d seen his attacker’s face.

The man’s eyes were inhuman, glinting with a feral hunger, and his skin was pale, almost translucent in the moonlight. Harry had fought, struggling against the impossible strength of those arms, but it had been useless. The man had pinned him down with a brutal ease, baring his teeth—a flash of something razor-sharp, malevolent—before sinking them deep into Harry’s throat. The pain had been excruciating, and then everything had gone dark, his life draining away into a cold, endless void.

He hadn’t known what had happened to him for days afterward. He’d awoken alone, hidden in the dark recesses of a forgotten basement, his body shuddering with an unholy thirst that tore through him like wildfire. The transformation had left him a half-mad, hollow shell, consumed by an insatiable need he didn’t understand. He’d stumbled through the streets, eyes wild, hunting without even knowing what he was hunting for. And when he’d finally cornered a man in the dead of night, tearing into his throat with a frenzy he could barely comprehend, he’d learned what he had become.

The first months were a blur of blood and horror, a nightmare he hadn’t known how to escape. He had been controlled by an ache, a greed—enslaved by it, a wretched creature lost to bloodlust. He’d fought it as best he could, but each time he tried to resist, the thirst only grew stronger, until he was reduced to a brutal, savage need that erased everything else.

It had been a year later, in 1602, when he encountered another vampire. His name was Thomas, a wily, unrepentant creature who fed freely and without remorse. Thomas had found Harry alone and ravenous, nearly mad from weeks of starvation in an attempt to restrain himself. He’d taken Harry under his wing, teaching him how to survive in this new, cursed life, how to hunt, how to kill cleanly. But while Harry had been grateful for the guidance, he quickly saw that Thomas reveled in the whispers of the devil, that he viewed humanity as little more than prey. He was malignant.

His own heart was too soft for such cruelty. He’d hated the feel of human flesh beneath his hands, the way his victims’ eyes widened in terror as he held them down, the way their life drained away in his grasp. He hadn’t wanted this life. But the need was too powerful, too all-consuming, and he had been too weak to fight it.

And then, in 1643, came the night that shattered him completely.

Her name had been Beatrice—a young woman from Manchester, one of the few souls who’d looked past his oddity, his quiet reserve, and seen something in him worth knowing. She’d been kind, curious, always showing up at his door with a warm smile, her laughter lighting up his otherwise bleak existence. For months, she’d been a balm to him, her presence a brief reprieve from the loneliness that gnawed at him. He’d been so careful around her, so painfully restrained, never allowing himself to get too close. But one night, after days of starvation, he had faltered. She’d come to visit him, concern etched on her face, her hand reaching out to touch his cheek.

And in that moment, he’d lost himself.

The memory of that night was burned into him like a scar, the scent of her blood, the warmth of it cascading from his lips and developing him whole— the sound of her heart slowing as he drank from her—all of it haunted him, even now, decades later. He had tried to pull away, tried to stop himself, but the hunger had overpowered him, consuming her life, taking everything she had. When he finally came to his senses, she lay cold and pale in his arms, her eyes staring up at him, empty and accusing.

After that, he’d fled, haunted by the horror of what he’d done, determined never to let it happen again. He’d hidden himself away in this tower, learning to feed from the animals that roamed the forest, forcing himself to endure the hunger rather than inflict his curse on another innocent soul. He would never again allow himself to feel that agony, that terrible loss.

And yet tonight, with her presence in his small, empty world, something had stirred in him, a strange, aching reminder of what it meant to be human, to crave connection, companionship. It was dangerous, foolish to even entertain such thoughts, yet he couldn’t deny the faint spark she had left behind.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly, steadying the wild, restless energy that surged in him. She couldn’t come back. He couldn’t risk it. He would have to find a way to make her think the tower was haunted, or evil—something to scare her off for good. Because he knew himself, knew that he was a creature of hunger, bound to a curse he couldn’t escape.

And if she returned—he wasn’t sure how long he could resist.

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #vampire!harry #vamprry #kinktober #harry styles series #harry styles fanfic #harry styles drabble #harry styles x you #niall horan

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inlovewithregencyera · 8 months ago

Text

My Fair Lady: Late Baroque Era Set

(no fancy thumbnail this time, sorry) ♫ < baroque music

Please READ ALL OF THIS before downloading. I will not answer an ask if it was answered here. Read.

This is a late 17th-century/early 18th-century Baroque Set. You will get 25 items for women, girls, and toddlers! Towards the bottom, I will give you tips to start a Baroque Era Save (people to find on gallery and men/boy attire).

I would like to thank @the-melancholy-maiden @linzlu @sychik @batsfromwesteros @vintagesimstress @cringeborg @acanthus-sims @stereo-91 and sims 2 creator maya40 for the stuff I've used to make all of this. I'm sure there are more creators but I cannot recall their names off the top of my head. DM me if you see a piece of your mesh here so I can give proper credit. I would also like to thank @belleophile for testing these items for me.

The stuff in this set can work for the late 1660s-early 1710s.

WHAT YOU GET: You will get 3 hat hairs, 1 for each age I listed above, 2 Fontanges for adults that work with the hat slider mod, 4 adult hairs, an adult baroque hair comb piece, 1 adult baroque sash accessory used for court and portraits, 1 ribbon hair piece to go with a hair, and 13 dresses (2 1670s/1660s mantuas, 1 1680s-1710s Habit used for Hunting or Riding, 1 1690s-1710s court dress used for court occasions, 1 1690s-1710s jeweled portrait dress and 1 1660s-1670s portrait dress with sash, and finally 7 1690s-1710s mantuas used for everyday, formal, and seasonal wear. I've included 1 dress for a child and 1 dress for a toddler as well).

SMALL NOTICE ABOUT THE PIECES: The hairline on the hairs will not behave correctly if you have head shape presets on the sim. I've tried fixing that but no luck. If I manage to fix it, I will update it. The Hat Hairs are found in the HAT category and are not compatible with hairs you MUST download the hair files that I'll be including with them. This being said, if you remove sim clothing while they have the hat hair on, it removes the hair override too. It's strange, but just put the hat back on and it should fix. The comb, and ribbon accessory are also found in the hat category. The Sash is found in the GLASSES category. The 1660s-1670s Mantuas are not compatible with shoes, leggings, or socks. I've removed these options in CAS tools so you shouldn't have to worry about clipping. The Barbara 1670s Dress has a sash meshed onto it, and because of this does not behave well with bigger bodies. The same applies to the Henrietta 1670s Dress, as the pearls don't behave with bigger bodies. Same with the Sarah 1670s Dress jewels. The 1690s-1710s Mantuas will have small gaps if the sim is plus-sized. I have tried to fix these issues, but no luck. The hat hair fontange looks a bit gray without reshade or a lighting mod. @northernsiberiawinds has some good lighting mods. Other than that, it's fine. Below, is how it will look white with a lighting mod.

Everything has AT LEAST 20 swatches. Some things have more. There are only a few things that don't have this many swatches.

Here are some pics up close of what you are getting.

Here are some pics/fashion plates from this era.

Did I forget the 1680s mantua..? Oh no! Luckily, I've included this surprise 1680s dress you'll be getting as well for reading all of that. So 26 items! (here you can see hat hair fontange without lighting mods installed)

BAROQUE SAVE TIPS: These dresses will work for winter, summer, and traveling wear. Just add a fichu for summer wear or a shawl. For winter wear just add some long gloves and a cape. For men's stuff from this era, @stereo-91 has recolored some acanthus outfits which can be found here. I'll show you how they look below. I also recommend going to his gallery (ROTAMETERS91) as he has AMAZING builds for this era. For a little boy, @acanthus-sims has some stuff that can work.

DOWNLOAD

#baroque ts4 #baroque sims 4 #sims 4 baroque #sims 4 decades #my cc #historical cc #ts4 cc #historical sims 4 #sims 4 historical #historical sims #sims 4 cc #the sims cc

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satellite-evans · 5 months ago

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Hi! I saw that you’re taking requests..I wholeheartedly believe that Benedict is one of those ppl who are always warm like a human furnace sooo do you think you could write something about him keeping the reader warm when it’s cold outside (i.e, holding hands, hugging, etc.)

Much love😇💜

Warm Embrace

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader

Summary: You find solace in the warm and comforting presence of your husband <3

Word count: 874

Warnings: just pure fluff

A/N:

Thank you so much for your request nonnie, You guys make me the happiest girl in the world when you sent in not only request, but also asks or questions, it honestly and truly makes my day🥹🥹🥹

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

Happy reading xxx

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

The chill of the early winter morning seeped through the cracks of the old country house, the wind howling softly outside. You shivered, wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you looked out the window, watching the first snowflakes of the season dance gracefully to the ground. The room was dimly lit, the pale morning light filtering through the heavy curtains, casting a serene, almost magical glow over everything.

"You're awake early," came a familiar, warm voice from behind you. You turned to see Benedict, his hair tousled from sleep, standing in the doorway of your bedroom. He wore a simple nightshirt, the soft fabric clinging to his well-built frame, his presence comforting and reassuring.

"I couldn't sleep," you admitted, smiling at him. "The cold woke me."

Benedict's eyes softened as he walked over to you, his presence immediately warming the room. "Come here," he murmured, pulling you into his arms. His body radiated heat, and you sighed contentedly as you nestled against his chest, feeling his warmth envelop you. His embrace was familiar and secure, the perfect refuge from the biting cold.

He led you back to the bed, pulling the covers up as you both slipped underneath. Benedict wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. His body radiated heat like a human furnace, and you felt the chill melt away as he held you tight. The sensation of his warm skin against yours was incredibly comforting, a stark contrast to the cold air outside the bed.

"Better?" he asked, his lips brushing against your temple.

"Much better," you replied, resting your head against his shoulder. "You always know how to keep me warm."

Benedict chuckled softly, his hand gently rubbing your back. "It's a husband's duty to ensure his wife is comfortable," he said, his voice filled with warmth and affection. "Especially on such a cold morning."

You smiled against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath your ear. "Well, you're certainly excelling at it," you teased, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back. You felt the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, each exhale a soft whisper of warmth against your hair.

Benedict shifted slightly, pulling you even closer, his hands roaming your back in soothing circles. "Stay here with me," he whispered, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "We don't have to get up just yet. Let's just enjoy the warmth and the quiet."

You nodded, closing your eyes as you relaxed into his embrace. "There is no place in the world that I would rather at than to be here with you."

The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in your cozy cocoon. The wind continued to howl outside, but you felt safe and warm within Benedict's arms. His fingers trailed up and down your spine, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

After a while, Benedict began to hum softly, the deep, rich sound vibrating through his chest. You recognized the tune – a lullaby his mother sang to him and his siblings when they were children. Violet told you that it was the only way her children slept, especially Benedict, who always found it difficult to fall asleep. The melody was soothing, and you felt yourself drifting off, lulled by the warmth of his body and the gentle sound of his voice. You couldn't help but wonder if Benedict would sing it later to his own children too.

Benedict continued to hum, his hands never ceasing their gentle movements on your back. He was like a living, breathing source of warmth and comfort, and you felt incredibly grateful to have him by your side. His warmth seemed to seep into your very bones, driving away any lingering chill.

As the morning light slowly brightened the room, you opened your eyes to find Benedict watching you, a tender smile on his lips. "Good morning again," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. The look in his eyes was one of pure adoration, making your heart swell with love.

"Good morning," you replied, leaning in to kiss him. His lips were warm and soft, and you felt a rush of love and contentment wash over you. The kiss was slow and tender and felt like a warm lasting hug that you never wanted to break.

"Shall we get up and start the day?" Benedict asked after a moment, his forehead resting against yours.

You shook your head, a playful smile on your lips. "Not just yet. Let's stay like this a little longer."

Benedict chuckled, his arms tightening around you. "As you wish, my love," he said, settling back against the pillows with you still in his embrace. The sound of his laughter was like a warm breeze, filling you with happiness.

And so you stayed, wrapped in each other's warmth, savoring the quiet moments before the day began. Outside, the snow continued to fall, but inside, all you felt was the heat of Benedict's love, keeping the cold at bay. The world outside could wait; for now, there was only the two of you, nestled together in your own private haven of warmth and love.

#benedict bridgerton #benedict x reader #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #violet bridgerton #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton family #benedict bridgerton x you #bridgerton #bridgerton s3 #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

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gtgbabie0 · 1 year ago

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-Finnick Odair x reader

{Quiet moments between you and Finnick when you can’t sleep}

I hope you enjoy my lovelies! 💕

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Winter was in full force, with harsh winds that nipped at your skin. Not even the fireplace could fend off, let alone the fluffy covers that you’ve layered upon your shared bed. Perhaps it was the cold chill in the air that prevented sleep from capturing you, or maybe it was something else entirely… you decide to not let your mind wander to what that could possibly be.

You sit up wrapping your cotton shawl around your shoulders tightly as your eyes scan across your room, dimly lit by the small sliver of moonlight that peaks behind the curtains and stretches across the floor trailing along the wall.

Finnick doesn’t stir with your movement which means he must be exhausted because he’s often a light sleeper, although you’re not surprised with the busy day he’s had. You smile softly down at him, the way his cheek is smushed against the soft pillow. You gently push his hair away from his closed eyes as you admire him, you’re glad he’s found comfort beside you.

The thought crosses your mind to wake him up, he’s always told you that if you can’t sleep to wake him up, he wouldn’t mind. But looking at him now, you just can’t bring yourself to do it, you’d feel far too guilty.

Instead, you decide to make your way to the kitchen, but not before putting on a pair of thick socks, after all, the tiled floor always felt much colder in the dead of night. Perhaps a warm drink would help lull you to sleep? You think to yourself as you fill the kettle.

You cringe slightly as the water begins to boil, squeezing your eyes shut at the sudden loud noise. Finnick had brought all types of different teas with the hope that one of them might help you get a good night's rest, he’d do anything if it meant you were happy.

You remember when he brought them home, two whole bags full of boxes with different kinds of ‘sleep treatments’ it brought tears to your eyes.

Finnick was always sweet to you, it shows in the way he looks at you, the way he holds you, and the sweet nothings he whispers to you whenever you feel down. You start to miss him, even though he’s only in your shared bedroom, the room next to the kitchen, fast asleep.

You pour the hot water into the small ceramic mug, the same one Peeta had gifted you as a congratulations for your engagement, he had hand painted them, beautiful flowers that swirl around the cup.

Soon enough the sweet smell of the tea reaches you, soothing the restless feeling that builds up within your chest. You take a small sip of the warm beverage as Finnick wanders through the kitchen, eyes heavy with sleep.

“It’s freezing out here honey” his voice is rough despite the softness of his tone, exhaustion hangs on his every word. he shuffles closer to you, bringing his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him as if he’s trying to protect you from the chill that lingers within the air.

A sigh falls from your lips when he presses a kiss to your forehead, his hands soothing against your back as you rest against him. Even in the safety of his arms the guilt still bubbles up within you, “Did I wake you up?” You ask, pushing your face against his shoulder.

“No, was already awake” he’s lying but you decide not to fight him on it, far too distracted by the warmth of his hands as they slip underneath your shirt, fingers splaying across your lower back. “Can’t sleep without you anyway” he says, pulling back to get a better look at you, the truth of his words are shown through his eyes.

“M’sorry” you mumble into the soft fabric of his shirt, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me” The words come out much heavier than you’d like and it strikes a cord within Finnick, one that pinches his heart.

He tuts softly as he leans back slightly, holding your chin with his finger and thumb. “Hey,” he whispers, tilting your head to look at him. His eyes immediately soften as yours find his, “Don’t apologise, honey, it’s what I’m here for, yeah?” He smiles, seeming more awake than he was just mere minutes ago.

“I know, I just- I don’t want to be too much” The words feel silly as they escape your lips but your chest feels lighter for it. You know deep down you shouldn’t feel like this, Finnick has never made you feel anything but loved.

“Too much?” He repeats after you as if you had just said something that had completely baffled him, and it did. “There’s no such thing, sweetness,” he tells you, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I love you- so much” he whispers against your lips before kissing you, not letting your mind wander elsewhere for even a second.

“I love you too Finn” you exhale, eyes closing as he rests his forehead against your own, your noses bumping against each others slightly.

“Come on, it’s warmer in bed,” he says, unwrapping his arms from around you as he picks up the tea you had made, “I got this, you go get into bed honey” he smiles and you know better than to fight him on it, so you do as he says, climbing back into the cosy bed with Finnick following shortly behind you.

He hands you the warm beverage before joining you, his hand slipping into your own as you take small sips of your drink. He talks about the market, how they're starting to sell that one specific seasonal bread you like, and he even begins to make plans for the weekend with you. his voice clams your nerves, it brings peace.

"Thank you, Finnick" you whisper, resting your head against his shoulder as he pulls the blankets over your legs.

He brings your hand up to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles, “Always for you” he says, voice heavy with sleep once again. You set your mug on the bedside table before turning back to him, and for the first time tonight, you start to feel yourself drift off as you lay in his arms.

Finnick could admire you forever without wanting anything, study every ‘imperfection’ and fall even more in love with you. He would pour his heart out to you right now if he wasn’t so tired so instead he settles for a simple, “G’night beautiful” with love dripping from his tone, and soon enough you both find sleep.

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dhampling · 9 months ago

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sunburn dadstarion, <1k

She runs in with cheeks flushed, head wet with a thin clad layer of sweat. Remnants from some form of cool treat dry on her chin. Plaits - neat this morning - loose now with tangles and damp as she beelines straight for his workroom.

Face scalding as she buries it in his abdomen.

“You’re getting muck on my shirt, little one.”

She mimics his words with a cutting tone as she burrows deeper, wraps even tighter around him. Smells like cloves and hot paving and the dry-sweet musk of city dust. As he presses a kiss to her head he feels the sun lingering in her hair. Little white cowlicks brushing his nose.

If he stills he can hear you out on one of the cast-iron chairs with a glass of red in hand, talking to a friend of some parental variety in the early evening heat.

“You’re so cold”

His heat comes from woodsmoke and yours from the sun. Both familiar to her. He could light a fire but you’d moan at him for it.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

He pokes at her clammy arms with a fat laugh and she winces away, pulling a face.

“It’s hot.” She sneers. He quirks a brow.

“Sounds like a you problem.’

He lifts the last of her plaits and looks round at the ruddy blush beginning to bloom at the nape of her neck. She squirms at the ice of his fingers.

‘Run up to the washroom and get the cream. Quick.”

You sit just beyond the window - he can hear your laughter, the muffled lilt of your voice by the climbing ivy. He imagines the ornate carafe - left to aerate all afternoon - rich and ripe as the wine within soaks on your tongue and darkens your teeth. Your loving grin. The little wave you’d do; the light clothes he’d spent all winter designing for you to sit out front and feel comfortable in, in spite of the sweltering sun.

To throw a casual look through open shutters and see you out there again. A wink. A little sign that he’s thinking of you.

Maybe he’ll head out, when the stars are newly minted yet the sun still lingers. Feel the iron sear his skin through his clothes. The warmth of your palm as it wraps around his forearm.

It’s not until the youngling returns that his gaze shifts from the dark to her, a tired furrow on her brow.

“I’m too hot.”

Her mouth hangs open in a wide pant. Astarion kneels before her.

“Have you had any water?’

No.

‘Right then.”

Hours pass and you shuffle back in with a thick-knotted shawl draped lazy over your shoulders, the singe of a giggle still whisper-light in your breath as your friend shouts their farewells.

“She burned today, you know.”

He’s quiet as he stitches, merely an observation; thread between teeth. You sigh fondly in the doorway.

“She’s a child. It’s what children do.”

You bring your warm chalice to his mouth and he lifts his head to take a sip, humming softly. He looks up at you with a raised brow.

“Get burned?”

“You morose bastard. Sun-burn. Children get sunburned.”

She’s lounging on his worn chaise, hair wrapped in towel, with a small bowl of plums at her side and a drawing pad atop her knee. Contented in new pyjamas and the cool dim of her father’s workroom.

The cream has seemingly worked. The cool bath you heard her splash about in not so long ago must’ve been some clever placebo work.

“Found some pretty beetles today, but wasn’t allowed to bring them in.” She speaks as usual with Astarion’s theatrical whine, riddled with fatigue. You roll your eyes affectionately.

“What were they like, darling?”

He’s preoccupied, stitching something small in the gilded embroidery he works at; but there’s the persistent glimmer of interest in his tone. The slightest tilt of his head as his eyes find her in the periphery.

“Really pretty. Different colours. All pinky and greeny.” She waggles her fingers and sighs with a start.

“Draw them for me?”

She looks at him warily as you watch on.

“Will you keep it if I do?”

At that, Astarion stops. A gentle halt. The needle and thread in hand gently tucked into the stitchwork.

“I keep everything you do.”

You scoff. She looks at him with a tiny glare.

“Where is it then?”

“What?”

“All my drawings?”

“It’s where are they, darling.’ He chides, the smallest chit of his fangs.

You move to sit and your daughter lifts her head from the chaise, so it rests on your settled lap when dropped once more. The hint of a grin plays at his mouth.

‘And I keep them somewhere safe so when you’re old - like me - you’ll be able to look back on you now. You’ll be able to remember the beetles.’

He shuffles over to where you both sit, cross legged as he rests his chin on the chaise. Brings the back of a hand to her forehead and swears a sizzle as he pulls away.

‘Plus. I can’t see these beetles now, can I? My sunburn gets a fair bit more serious than yours in nature. I’d like to see them.”

She pauses for a moment.

“Okay. But ONLY because you can’t go and see them for yourself.”

#my writing #dadstarion #baldurs gate astarion #astarion baldurs gate #astarion ancunin #astarion #astarion x reader #bg3

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http-shield · 16 days ago

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♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ It Will Come Back

Chapter One: Don't Give It A Hand

~ bucky barnes x fem!reader ~tags/cw: angst, childhood memories, bucky as the winter soldier, eastern european/slavic heritage reader, does not follow the canonical timeline after bucky is arrested in romania, deviates from canon, childhood memories, implied SA, post war trauma, ~ wc:5.4k ~ not proofread Your grandmother has the gift so why couldn't she see the man in your future?

Chapter One: Don't Give It A Hand

It is said that you must not utter the name of the wolf. Use any other word to describe the beast for its name and title will summon it from the depths of hell.

1993 Nižepole, FYROM

A clump of wet tea leaves stares at you from within the porcelain cup.

"I see a rock," you answer honestly, pointing a tiny finger at the lump as you swirl it in the leftover liquid.

A wrinkled hand reaches out and slaps yours, and a harsh voice begins to berate you. "Stop! You're ruining it."

Your grandmother sits across from you on her wooden stool. Her shoulders hunched and covered tightly in a tartan shawl, a matching headscarf tied beneath her chin in a knotted bow. The years of farm life had worn on her, freckled marr her skin like stars on a clear night sky, lines and wrinkles embedded deep from all the years of love and laughter, stories so woven through her very being that they manifest in flesh.

Her eyes crinkle up as she smiles and gently takes the cup from your hands, knobby fingers like a birch tree cradling the porcelain as though it were a baby chick. She holds it up to the light, trying to discern the pattern from beneath. From where you are sitting, you can't see any light coming through, but Baba is magical—always has been—so maybe she sees something you can't.

She hums, lowering the vessel to eye level and taking another peek.

"You're going to move away from here—far, far away," she says wistfully, closing one eye to garner a new perspective on the future. "I see a cat." She flits her gaze from the prophetic cup to you and then back to the cup. "There is a tall man, but I can't see his face."

Your nose wrinkles at that.

Tall man? Moving away from home? Unlikely. There has never been a desire to get away from your farm. Your home's rolling hills and endless sky are enough for you, and you doubt you will ever want to be anywhere else.

A cat, maybe. You've always wanted one.

"There's something else, something sooner, but I don't know- I can't see it." Her voice dissolves into a whisper as your attention shifts.

With your head slung back against the chair, you bask in the mid-spring sun. Heat kisses your exposed skin, and the warm breeze does naught to cool you down, but you enjoy it. You have longed for the heat all winter, wished that the months would be shorter so the sun would come around quicker, and now that it is here, you never want it to leave. The farm is its usual springtime uproar, with birds chirping and bugs humming as they flit from flower to flower. Cowbells ring from the neighbouring field as the cattle graze for lunch, chickens cluck in their roosts, and the dogs across the road bark as a newcomer drives by. You hear the rumble of an engine; the sound of rubber under gravel fills you with excitement at the possibility of a new face or delivery from the main town.

The dogs bark louder as the car draws nearer, but their howls have a sharper edge, and their snarling is grittier and lower. Fear begins to settle in your chest.

The air shifts, the wind suddenly stops, crickets no longer hum, and birds are eerily quiet. The sound of the engine ceases for a moment, and then there is the crunch of boots on gravel. Your grandmother reaches out to you; her bony fingers wrap around your wrist and tug you forward. Her words are hushed, spat out at a speed you can't understand.

"Listen to me," she tugs on your wrist, and you look at her face. Terror lies in her furrowed brows, thin lips pursed as her jaw clenches.

"You need to get inside. Go hide in your cupboard, and don't leave until I get you. I don't care what you hear; stay inside until I come for you." Her words are grave, a direct warning not to disobey her instructions.

"What's happening?" you whisper, panic rising in your throat.

She spares a glance at the front gate; the sounds of footsteps are replaced by howling dogs.

"The wolf is here."

2015 Bucharest, Romania

A wolf can smell its prey from two-point-four kilometres away. This is a fact.

That is the distance between you and your apartment, exactly two points four, or no more, no less, as stated by the map on your phone.

Your location pings as a small red dot being shared with your friends, who can easily open the application and see that you are almost home, almost safe within the confines of your apartment walls, but you don't know if you will make it home tonight, for there is a wolf standing on the street corner.

Cloaked entirely in the blackness of night, the outskirts of the streetlight do little to illuminate much beyond the silhouette and glint of canine eyes. It is crouched over in the street, claws digging into the freshly fallen snow as it hurls its guts up, spewing its latest kill into the gutter. Terror slices through you, a sharp winter wind following suit and turning your blood to ice. You need to move, to step back into the darkness before the beast takes notice and begins its hunt. The snow is soft beneath your feet, and the wind is loud enough to cover any sound you make; you might make it out alive. Might cheat death once more. Potentially be more than just a number on a spreadsheet, so you take a step back, gently, carefully, ohh so tentatively to avoid arousing suspicion. Still, as your shoe crunches on powdery snow, the wolf turns.

In the low light, the beast begins to shift. Standing from the crouch emerges a man as he rises on two legs and stumbles forward, sputtering unintelligible sentences as he lunges through the snow. The creature paces forward, his steps sloppy and belligerent, but he is tall, his gait wide and lengthier than yours, and though you have turned, tried to make a break for the street beyond, a hand clamps down on your wrist. There is no fur, no claws, nothing to resemble a beast beyond the look in his eyes as you are yanked forward. The nauseating stench on him fills your nose; sweat and beer, vinegar and cigarette smoke engulf you as he shoves his face into yours. You attempt to pull back, the bag on your shoulder having slipped off and down to the earth below.

"Let me go." You grit through clenched teeth, the lump in your throat turning to bile as you breathe in more of the putrid scent. "Get off me."

The beast smiles, teeth rotted and missing, and you try desperately not to gag. "Where are you going? Do you need someone to take you?"

"Leave me alone." You tug on your arm, but his grip is locked. "Please."

You curl your fingers into a fist, nails digging into your palm in a sharp sting, but that is nothing compared to what could come, what you could be facing if you do not make some attempt to fight back.

The beast stumbles forward, his chest pressed against your arm, your hand being placed over the seam of his pants. A scream builds in your chest, your throat tightening painfully against the tears that begin to line your eyes, but before you can make a sound, neither a whine nor whimper, the beast is ripped away from you.

A second pair of hands is tugging at your shoulders, pulling you back into the shadows of the building as your assailant slides through the snow.

"It's okay. You're okay." another man's voice fills your head as you are pulled further back. "Just keep walking."

You shouldn't follow the instructions; for all you know, this was planned. Have someone scare you, then use a second man to lull you into a false sense of safety before you are finally trapped and carted off to where they had planned, but you do as he says. You lean into his hands and let him guide you away, leaving the beast in the snow.

The hands veer you in the opposite direction, towards the light and sound of a busier street. You want to turn, to face the person who had just pulled you from certain death and thank them, to offer them some kind of reward for the deed they had just committed, but the hands on your shoulders keep pushing forward.

"My bag!" you exclaim, suddenly aware of the lack of weight dragging down your right side. It feels silly to worry about such a thing, but you had your wallet, keys, and phone in that bag; your entire life was in that bag.

"Got it." Your hero mutters, and you spot the white canvas bag swinging at his side.

When did he pick that up?

The light of the street stuns you as you step out of the alley. You still, for a moment, reorientate yourself as you feel the pressure of his hands leave you, only to be replaced by the weight of your bag on your shoulder. Whirling around, your vision blurring momentarily at the sudden spin, you face your saviour.

"Thank you so much," you whisper, voice shaky as you take deep breaths, the ice-cold air burning your lungs. "Thank you, thank you."

Another gulp of air stabilises your vision, subsides the tingling in your hands, and begins to even out your heartbeat.

"I'm so sorry." Apologies are quick to be thrown. "I don't know what would have happened if you- thank you" The words fly out of you as you speak, not pausing to breathe. "I owe you so much. A drink or food or money, I'll give you money."

You reach into the canvas bag, searching for your wallet, to offer money as a thank you, but a gloved hand on your arm stops you.

"Are you okay?" the man asks.

The question gives you pause to truly understand what just happened. Tears sting your eyes, your throat tightens once again, and you begin to feel your bottom lip shake, but now is not the time. You will break down at home, in the sanctity of your own bathroom, not in front of another strange man.

"Yeah, I think," you swallow the lump in your throat and blink back the tears, your shaking hands wiping your cheeks in case any had fallen free. "Thank you."

"Do you need to call someone?"

The offer has you looking up at your hero and are stunned by his appearance. He is handsome, scarily handsome. Chiselled features of sharp cheekbones and strong jaw, piercings blue eyes framed by locks of dark brown hair hidden beneath a scruffy baseball cap. His brows are set in a concerned furrow, his mouth following suit. You stare, unable to make sense that a man so perfect is standing before you and not the leading man in a painting by Eugene Delacroix.

"I can wait with you?" He presses, dipping his head so as to not seem so imposing.

You shake your head. "No, I—I don't have anyone to call." A frown tugs at the corner of your mouth. "I can walk home; it's just a block away."

The man shakes his head. "I'll call you a cab, " he says, raising his hand to signal a taxi.

"No, no, please." you begin, waving your hands in protest. "I'm fine!"

A car pulls over as the man flags him down. "I'll pay for it, please."

"No, I can't accept that-"

"No. Ma'am, please. Let me get you home safe." His insistence shuts you up, and you find yourself following his instructions as he opens the door of the car and motions for you to get in.

The taxi is warm and smells of tobacco. The driver is an old man who looks vaguely like an uncle you haven't seen in years. He smiles at you and turns back to your saviour for directions. The man stands on the sidewalk, one arm slung over the top of the car as he leans in and nods to you in the back seat.

"Take her wherever she needs to go." a gloved hand slips him a decent amount of bills that could cover three of your trips.

"Ohh, that's…" You're once again shut down by a look from the strange man. You sink into your seat, suddenly feeling like a child being scolded.

"Please, just get her home safe, " the man implores, glancing at you once more before he pulls away.

The driver tips his hat with a small "yes, boss" before he pockets the money and pulls away from the curb.

You turn in your seat, staring out the back window to catch another glimpse of the strange man, but as you look back, you see that the spot he once stood in is empty. Nothing but the swirl of snow. You sink back into the leather, inhaling deeply as you run through the events of the last ten minutes in your mind. Who the fuck was that and why did his eyes look so familiar?

---

Bucky hates snow—always has and always will. His mother had always scolded him for using that word, her soft voice reminding him that hate is such a strong word that he should use softer, kinder words. That there was no room for hate in his heart. Bucky detests snow.

There is nothing magical about frozen rain as it pelts against raw skin, covering the world in a dangerous icy slick, freezing the ground so nothing can grow, and turning everything into a white wasteland devoid of any sign of life. He didn't like it as a child and certainly does not like it now.

His breath is puffs of air into the frozen morning, the street glowing yellow beneath streetlights, shopfront displays of Christmas trees, and twinkling fairy lights. Bucky thinks for a moment, trying to recall the months of the year and how many of them he had spent in this city if it was almost Christmas. His mind is a jumble of days and weeks, and he cannot pinpoint the exact moment he had come to Bucharest; it would be on a ticket somewhere in his apartment. He should get a calendar and start marking days off. That would be normal. It could lead to the healthy habit of timekeeping, grounding him to the present day whenever he felt the world got too soft beneath his feet. Timekeeping is good, something he wasn't allowed to do back then, and he was never given a chance.

Bucky scrawls his to-do list of buying a calendar in the top margin of his notebook, followed by a simple 'food; right under it. He had been paid yesterday. Cash in hand for his work as a handyman, carrying supplies up and down stairs on a construction sight. Easy, simple, achievable work. There was no thinking or conversing, simple yes's and no's to even more straightforward questions. It hadn't been hard to find that type of work once he settled into his version of a normal life post-Hydra. There is no shortage of under-the-table work. Employers want to avoid paying benefits and taxes to their team, so they hire drifters and passersby, undocumented people who overstayed visas and travellers looking for some extra cash. Bucky had fit right in, his quiet demeanour hiding him from prying eyes as he worked, head down and mouth shut, just making enough to eat. Never more. There is no need.

The weight of the notes sits heavy in his pocket, and he knows he should have gone into the market yesterday to blend into the crowd, but as the day wound down, his anxiety did the opposite. The racing in his chest at being recognised spun him into a frenzy of shortened breaths and darkening vision. The roaring in his ears as his blood rushed through his veins became all too similar to the machines that had been used on him, the pressure in his mind building and building until all he could think about was smashing his head against the wall until he cracked his skull, the blood spilling and tension easing but as the minutes passed, the cold tiles of the bathroom soothing his clammy skin, did his heart return to normal, breathing intense and laboured but even, the roaring dulling until he felt like Bucky again. A very blurry and fragmented Bucky, but Bucky nonetheless. His stomach begins to growl, his hunger becoming nausea as the time between meals stretches further, and he is reminded why he had decided to face the world.

Food.

---

"I need you to watch him." your manager whispers as she passes behind you, her arms full of boxed muffins.

"Who?" you follow her as she rounds the corner of the bakery department, throwing the stock on the silver bench. You quickly scan the area around your workspace, spotting no one other than your coworker who is busy decorating a cake.

"There's a guy in the bread aisle; he looks weird." is the only explanation as she begins to scan each small box, the scanner unit in her hand chirping after each successful read.

"Why me?" you groan, fingers working on tightening your apron strings. "I don't wanna watch some creepy guy."

Your boss stops, places her hands flat on the counter and fixes you with a look of mild annoyance. The muscles in her jaw twitch as she takes in a breath.

"Just go. Pretend to fill stock, readjust tags, just make sure he pays for whatever he takes."

You wait a moment, debating whether or not to turn this into an argument and whether the subsequent unpaid overtime you might have to do would be worth it to not watch a potential shoplifter. But you value sleep and time alone, and doing unpaid work is not worth the mild inconvenience it would be if you had to talk to the guy, so you sigh and throw your head back dramatically, resigning to the orders of your boss.

She shouts a sung thank you as you walk away; your only acknowledgement of her gratitude is a raised hand as you walk into the aforementioned aisle.

The shop's bright white fluorescent lights reflect off the grey linoleum with a harsh glare, smothering the cavernous warehouse in a mildly offputting, ever-present light. Smooth, bulbous black security cameras hang over the ends of each aisle, deterring most thieves; however, some still try to push their luck. Towards the end of the aisle, the suspected man stands in front of the packaged loaves. Oh. You've seen him before, a few times, actually within the past few weeks. He had become a frequent shopper, always quiet and polite, and never once struck you as someone who would try to steal, though his current ensemble did scream thief! Dark jeans, heavy black boots, a green jacket, and a black baseball hat slung low over his eyebrows. You watch as his gloved hands trace over the labels, mouth moving as he silently sounds out the vowels. He turns the bread over, weighing it before his head snaps towards you.

Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden movement. There have been very few moments in life when you felt as though the ground would crumble away beneath you. Honestly, you can count them on one hand, but so far, the man in front of you has been present for two of them. Those familiar blue eyes stare back at you, and you cannot move.

It's not fear but something so remarkably close that freezes you to your spot. It is not an emotion you can name. It is something you haven't felt before, but the tightness in your throat has you categorising it with the bad emotions, the ones that make you want to curl up in your bed and hide from the world, the ones that make you feel small again.

The man takes a tentative step towards you—just one, no more—not as if he wants to get closer, just open up his body for conversation. You swallow, knowing he is about to speak, but the rock in your throat makes it impossible.

He holds up the loaf of bread in his gloved hands and asks, "Do you know which bread keeps the longest?" There is a hint of an American accent you had not heard a few nights ago.

You shook your head. "I can ask if you would like?" the Romanian strangely formal on your tongue.

He shakes his head, a tight smile appearing briefly before he turns on his heels and walks out of the aisle.

A shaky breath escapes you as you fold over. Hands on your knees as you open your mouth, gulping air down and down into your body, the oxygen chasing away the static slowly creeping along your limbs. A nervous response your body has enacted for as long as you can remember, but it always goes away with a few deep breaths, the electricity turning back to blood and rushing through your body usually. When you were younger, you often panicked that if that static got to your heart, it would override your entire body, turning your muscles into electrical wires. You would become part robot, part human, and that fear had only been exacerbated after witnessing the man in your barn. His metal arm glinting in the low light sent shivers down your spine at the genuine fear your young brain conjured up, but that had to be a dream; there was no plausible explanation for that. Who has a metal arm?

Another deep breath has your body relaxing, the tightness in your muscles easing away, but it does not stop your mind from racing. You hadn't had a moment to sit and think about that man from the other night; the second you got home, you had been bombarded with emails from your aunt, unanswered calls from your manager and an inbox from a friend you had not spoken to since moving away. There was not a single second where you sat and processed the events and the possible outcome of what could have happened, and if you are being honest with yourself, there never will be. You don't want to open that, to tear a small hole open to inspect inside, because if you open that gash, it would undoubtedly undo the rest of the hastily sutured wounds you have, and there is no time for that. No time to think about your home, your parents, your grandmother, the life you left behind, no time for anything other than moving forward. To keep pushing, to keep living.

"Are you okay?" your boss asks, her hand sliding up your back to rest between your shoulder blades.

Another deep breath in.

"Yeah, just tired." You lie and stand, your vision darkening temporarily at the sudden movement. "Just saw someone I thought I knew."

---

You see your hero two more times in store before you work up the nerve to say something.

The original plan was as follows:

Step one: Introduce yourself.

Step two: Say thank you for the other night and apologise for taking so long to say thank you

Step three: Ask him out for coffee as a thank you (and not because he is possibly the most stunning man you have ever seen)

However, like all good plans, yours goes to waste the second you see him standing in the bread aisle.

"This bread is really good even if you keep it in the freezer." you slide up to him, a loaf of bread in hand, an attempt to be smooth and start a conversation.

A side glance is spared your way. His jaw is clenched, but upon seeing you, it relaxes. He turns his head, his eyes finding yours for a split second before glancing at the bread in your hand.

"Sorry?"

Oh.

Your cheeks heat in embarrassment. Have you got the wrong guy? Is this not the man you have thought of for the past week? The man who had saved you from certain doom?

"The last time you were here, you asked which bread would keep the longest, and I didn't have an answer." You hold the bread up a little higher. "But now I do."

Should you mention the incident in the alley?

Confusion furrows his brows, but he accepts the loaf nonetheless. "Thank you."

But there is no sincerity in his words. He is cautious about avoiding touching you despite wearing gloves, his fingers digging into the paper bag with gentle strength. He takes a step back, eyes squinting as though trying to figure out your motive behind the gesture and continues to back away before swiftly turning for the register, not another word spoken.

A heavy sigh leaves you. All the air in your lungs had turned to lead for the duration of the conversation.

Yes, You should have mentioned the incident in the alley.

---

"Thank you," a smooth voice says from your left. You quickly turn to find the source, unsure if it's a customer or coworker, and are pleasantly surprised to see your illusive hero standing beside you.

You stand, brushing your hands on your apron, suddenly aware of how grimy and dirty your uniform is. "For?" the question comes out a little harsher than you intend.

He shifts uncomfortably at your tone. "The bread, earlier in the week."

"That's okay. I'm just doing my job." You're quick to correct the bitterness you had just spilt with a quick smile. "I'm glad it worked out."

There is an unusual jitteriness to him. Usually, he is still and calm, like a man made of marble, as he analyses the stock, but today, he is fidgety. His fingers twitch at his side, and his eyes search for something in the space between you. You think he is going to speak as he parts his lips, but he doesn't.

You fill the gap. "You probably don't-"

"I just wanted to"

The two of you awkwardly talk over the other as you realise you both want to say something.

"Sorry. You finish what you were saying." He holds out his gloved hand as a gesture to keep talking.

"It was nothing, I just—It's not important." You quickly dismiss yourself, not sure if you want to open that can of worms. If he has yet to mention it, surely he doesn't remember.

The man looks like he wants to say something but stops himself and takes another direction. "I just wanted to say thank you. I'm Bucky." A gloved hand is extended, and you take it without a second thought. The leather is warm against your frozen fingers as you introduce yourself.

Maybe you'll just let it go and start afresh. Close that wound completely and get the healing over and done with.

"Lovely to meet you, Bucky. If you ever need anything, come find me." You've made this offer to many customers and thought nothing more of it but as he lets go of your hand and bids you farewell, you hope that isn't the last you see of him.

---

It's not.

Bucky becomes a frequent shopper. Having been seen maybe twice a fortnight, it is now once a week, with increasing conversation each time your paths cross.

It starts with small hellos as you stock the aisles he is in, both of you watching each other as you navigate the small space; then he starts to ask about your day, comments on the weather, and the busyness of the square outside. Small talk to break the ice and ease him into conversations. He wants to talk to you despite every cell in his body telling him to run and hide from the potential threat; he can't stop himself as he smiles at you.

"Do you like fruit?" he asks rather abruptly one day as he watches you stock the apple display.

The question gives you pause, and he worries he has said the wrong thing or made a mistake, but your smile eases his anxiety.

"I like fruit," you nod, attention on him but hands still working to stack. "Why?"

Bucky is still determining why he asked the question. He has been looking at foods that increase memory and brain health, so that could be where it came from, but there is another part of him, something smaller and buried a little deeper, that wants to get to know you. He knows of you, has seen you in the store and saved you from that freak that one time, but other than that, you are just the pretty store clerk who he can't seem to forget about.

"I've read that fruit can help with memory and was going to ask if you had any favourites I might try." That works.

"Well, watermelon is my favourite, but I don't think that helps the brain a lot, so I think after that, it might be rasp-ber-ry?" you struggle to pronounce the word in Romanian, your tongue slipping over the constants.

"Raspberries?' Bucky answers in English, having already known your native language just by the way you pronounce certain words.

"Oh, you speak English?" you turn towards him, eyes wide as the familiar language catches you off guard.

"Better than Romanian." a small chuckle escapes him before he can help it. "We can stick to it if its easier."

Your eyes narrow as if trying to figure out who you are talking to. Bucky wants to laugh at that and encourage you to try. Let him know if you work it out so he can figure it out, too.

"I've heard plums are pretty good, too." he watches as you bite down on your bottom lip, pulling the flesh into your mouth for a second. "You know-"

Bucky stiffens, heart beginning to race. There are too many variables as to where this conversation is headed.

"I know you, " you say, brows crinkling ever so slightly. You helped me that one night. I'm not sure if you remember."

A huffed breath leaves Bucky as his muscles relax. Not the direction he dreaded. Good. He nods and leans against the stand.

"I know, I didn't want to say anything in case you were…I didn't wanna scare ya."

You nod slowly, taking a deep breath as you turn back to stack the apples in your hands. The silence has his heart racing, this time for an entirely different reason.

"Can I take you out as a thank you?" you ask suddenly, staring at the produce under your hands.

Bucky jolts, the fruit beneath his elbow shifting at the surprise, but he quickly catches them. The mechanics in his arm whirs, and he hopes to God, you didn't hear it.

"Me?"

"No. The other man who saved me." you joke, and Bucky notices the blush that begins to creep along your cheeks.

Bucky laughs. "Uh, sure."

"If you want." You are quick to amend.

"I want to," he reassures you, not wanting to cast doubt on his desire to go out with you. "I just haven't gone out in a long time,"

"Me neither," you shrug, leaning on the plastic create. "It's just a thank you. You don't have to dress up, I swear."

Bucky wets his lips, pulling the bottom one between his teeth as he deliberates. "Sure."

Your eyes narrow suspiciously. "I can give you my number?"

"I don't have a phone."

"I can meet you here?" The offer is sincere and you don't look too perturbed by the fact he doesn't have a phone.

There are a lot of things missing from Bucky's life—a phone, a proper house, friends, family, his sane mind. However, something is pulling him towards you. He isn't entirely sure what it is, where it has come from, or what will happen if he starts a friendship with you, but there is something so deep within him—the same gut feeling he had when he saw Steve on the bridge all those months ago—that is pulling him towards you now.

He squares his shoulders before asking. "What time?"

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shadowdaddies · 2 months ago

Text

The Offering

Nesta x witch!Reader smut (AU)

A/N: I'm very much in the Witchy Girl Autumn spirit. This is an AU where Nesta is a Death Goddess; be warned it's a bit dark and twisty.

Warnings: mean domme!Nesta, fingering, oral f!receiving, tribbing, pussy spanking, breath play ish?, degradation, idk this is filthy just beware and minors dni or I'll hex you

Ice-coated leaves crunched beneath your bare feet, the remnants of snow a dulled sting against your skin. Unable to fight the shivers that wracked through you, you inwardly cursed yourself for being such a weak witch to be phased by something as little as the weather.

The heavy black cloak draped over your body provided your only protection from the late December air as you found your small opening in the forest and knelt. Shaky hands, stiff from winter air clumsily pushed debris to the side, pulled kindling from your pack, carved the spell circle into the dirt.

Hands dirtied, breath cloudy in the crisp cold, you looked to the sky as the stars seemed to dim even without the light of the moon. The second full moon of this month - and the last of this year - would guarantee the strongest connection to the earth. As mother nature began anew, you would so draw from her power, praying to the goddesses for guidance and strength to begin anew as well.

Regretfully, you pulled the black shawl from where it draped across your neck, sucking in a deep breath at the chill that filled your bones when you laid the offering at your makeshift altar’s base beside the purple candles and fruits you’d set to honor the Crone.

The symbol of new beginnings, wisdom, and serenity - your last hope was sacrament and supplication to the waning facet of the Triple Headed Goddess. As darkness enveloped the land and the wind grew eerily still, you breathed light into the candles with a whisper of a spell-cast. The kindling caught quickly, blazing to life with a ferocity that had you pulling off your cloak.

Completely bare in the darkness with the spirits of goddesses and witches past watching curiously, you began to chant in the old language - your story, and your please for help. A soft smile graced your lips as the flames raged higher and higher, the only source of light in this Black Moon night, signaled that your voice had been heard.

As warm hope swelled in your chest, you closed your eyes, head thrown back in whole surrender to the powers that listened, only for that warmth to be brusquely ripped away. No gust of wind signaled the suffocation of the flames before you. It was the cold, a supernatural force that rattled your core which told you something was amiss.

Eyes fluttering open, you gasped at the sight of the North Star shining brightly in the sky, where it had been missing only moments ago.

“It’s snowing,” a sultry voice purred. You jumped at the sight of a woman - not a woman, but something... more - leaning against the pyre, seemingly unbothered by the simmering embers of extinguished flames against her exposed skin.

Translucent silver fabric draped over the curves of her body, your eyes drinking her in as they trailed upwards. The thorned diadem that circled her braided hair seemed to mimic the silver flames that danced in her eyes, and you gasped at the realization of who was before you.

Lady Death read your expression with a taunting smirk, eyes glittering with amusement as she leapt from the altar with grace. You watched in awe as she picked up a pomegranate from the offerings, humming a cheery tune that seemed to betray the nature of her being.

“It’s snowing,” she repeated, brow arched in question as Death’s gaze raked unabashedly over your naked body. “Aren’t you cold, little witch?”

The heat from her gaze sent a shock of confidence though you, your expression shifting to match her own. “I could ask the same of you, Lady Death,” you countered, accentuating your own, slow stare. You allowed yourself to fully revel in her form, the unexpected beauty of a goddess of death.

Her long legs reflected the star’s light through the slits of wispy fabric in her gown, her breasts peaked from the cold, nearly as pale as the snow that had begun to drift upon the forest floor.

A laugh echoed through the air, and your eyes snapped to hers to find that same taunting smile, lazy like a predator who’s caught its prey. “I am Death,” she purred, plunging a finger through the flesh of the pomegranate in her hand. “I don’t get cold, pet.”

Tipping the fruit to her lips, pomegranate juice flowed down, staining her lips a deep red and trailing down. Down her throat, the red liquid flowed slowly between her breasts and below the dress.

You could feel heat rise to your cheeks, cunt fluttering at the mere sight of her, of everything you could and could not see. The fruit rolled from the goddess’s fingertips, dropping to the ground unceremoniously as she strolled toward where you still kneeled on the ground.

A single finger curled under your chin, easily maneuvering you how she pleased. “Why did you summon me?”

Heart thundered in your chest, eyes widening as you registered her question. “I-I didn’t mean to summon you,” you argued, voice pleading. “I was making an offering, hoping for a blessing from the Crone-“

“You meant to summon the Crone?” Death’s grip sharpened on your chin.

Willing your heart to still, you forced yourself to look into her eyes, the depths of them swirling with dark power. “No, I meant to ask for wisdom. For blessings with a fresh start. My life-“ You choked slightly at the press of her hand at your throat, just hard enough to make your head feel lighter.

“You summoned me, you naive little witch.” She spat the last word like a curse, cupping your jaw as she jerked your head to face the circle behind her. “You summoned the Crone. Hecate, Coatlicue, Muerte, Meng Po, Lady Death.” The briefest pause. “Nesta.”

I go by many names, witch. And yet, you somehow ‘accidentally’ summoned me, for a mere blessing?”

“W-well, yes. I just wanted to move on, my relationship-“

A sharp cackle cut off your rambling, the noise so unlike how the goddess had sounded earlier that you nearly jumped again.

“You know, pet,” Nesta whispered, leaning down until her face was a breath away from your own. “I appear to those who call on me as what they truly desire. And you, my dear, see me as myself.” Drawing back slightly, the goddess’s hand moved to stroke your hair in a frighteningly soft manner.

“So tell me, pet, what do you truly desire?”

Eyes dropping down to the trail of sweet juice that stained Nesta’s skin, you could feel her smile as though she could read your thoughts. Lust overcame you like a force of its own, head cloudy as you heard yourself babble admissions of want.

“Take it. Take what you need, little witch.” Nesta gasped as you lunged forward, pulling her to her knees along with you in the dirt. Lips instantly found hers, a clash of teeth and tongues as you licked every bit of remaining fruit from her mouth.

Trailing down, you followed the path of temptation down her chest with a frantic need you had never felt before, pawing at the scraps of fabric that held Nesta’s dress in place. She laughed softly, the sound quickly turning to a moan as you took one of her nipples into your mouth.

“Lay back,” you panted, Nesta’s amused lack of urgency only spurring on your own frustration. “Please,” you whined, helpless in your need to touch her, taste her. With a soft hum, she obliged you, laying back on the thin blanket of snow with a slowness that allowed you to strip her bare before she hit the earth.

Bringing your lips back to her chest, you licked and sucked dark bruises that drew sinful moans from the goddess. She reveled in the pain and pleasure, and with that knowledge you dragged your nails down her thighs, cleaning up the juice until you hovered above her glistening cunt.

Practically panting in your crazed state, you spread her legs to settle in when you felt yourself suddenly lifted. Death had easily flipped you onto your back, her hips nestled atop your own as she pinned your wrists into the dirt.

“You look so cute like this. Needy, desperate enough to let me do anything to you,” she growled. So wrapped up in your lustful haze, you simply nodded along, weakly arching your hips for some sort of friction. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you asked for, baby,” Nesta cooed. Her hips lowered to meet yours, legs interlocked as she slowly ground her clit against your own.

Soft moans flowed from her lips like a melody, your own soft pants swallowed by her lips crashing against yours, her teeth sinking into your skin, lips sucking your tongue into her mouth as though she was trying to consume you. Nesta kept you pinned beneath her, using your body as she humped and rolled her growing slick against yours.

You had never felt so helpless yet so powerful, lacking control but seizing pleasure. Your pussy clenched, lips gaping as you felt yourself begin to hit your orgasm when Nesta abruptly pulled away. “Not yet, pet,” she tsk’d at your fucked out confusion beneath her.

“You need to take care of me.” Turning around, Nesta slid up your body, her sticky cunt perched over your mouth as her hands skated down your hips. “Show me that you deserve my blessing.”

Fully pressing her weight onto you, you moaned at the feeling of breathlessness, the taste of her dripping against your chin and lips as her hips began to rock. Taking advantage of Nesta releasing your wrists, you wrapped your arms around her thighs, pulling her closer to lick her clean, sucking and lightly nipping at her clit while you studied her reactions to every motion.

You could tell she was close, doubling down your efforts when she suddenly thrust a finger inside of you, curling against your slick walls with embarrassing ease. She chuckled, adding to the humiliation when she added a second finger, twisting a curling with tortuous slowness that stole your focus from her pussy.

Nesta’s thumb found your clit, your hips bucking up at the sudden feeling. Before you could register what happened, Nesta was fully sitting on you, cutting off your air as a harsh smack landed on your pussy. Your scream was muffled by her cunt on your lips, but Nesta rolled against you in response, moaning at the vibrations.

Lifting up slightly, the goddess rolled a soothing hand over your puffy clit. “You take what I give you, pet. Now, stay still. I will not ask again.” She gave no warning before plunging her fingers inside of you once more, this time faster as her tongue licked a wet stripe down your clit.

Your legs burned from keeping them still against the cold, hard ground, head swimming from how long you’d been held between Nesta’s thighs when she fluttered around your tongue. “Come, now,” she commanded, and your body obeyed. Shaking and moaning, you savored her release as she worked you through yours.

Sitting up with an impossible grace, Nesta smirked at you over her shoulder, lips stained red and shining with your arousal as the North Star cast a glow over her silhouette. You lay, sore and exhausted, as the goddess crawled up your body, sitting her wet pussy on your stomach. She looked down at you with a sense of appraisal, hands lazily roaming every inch of your skin.

“I think I’ll have to keep you,” she hummed, thumb lazily dragging across your bottom lip.

“Keep me? What does that mean?” you squeaked out in a whisper, eagerness and fear eddying within your mind at the possibilities.

Nesta only offered you a cryptic smile, thumb dipping into your mouth where you could still taste the pomegranate’s sweet nectar on her skin. Tongue flicking out, you wrapped your lips around her like second nature. “Good girl,” she muttered as the forest grew dark around you once more.

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dearharriet · 9 months ago

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About Time | Chapter 1

james potter x reader time travel au | 3k words | contents

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00:00 — 1 JANUARY

James waited until he’d fallen into his childhood home, half-plastered and sad and staring himself in the eyes through his bathroom mirror. His gaze seemed colder, lonelier than usual, and when he splashed his face with cool water it chilled him to the bone.

He’d never been unsettled by solitude, never minded much retreating to an empty bed at the end of a long day. Until then.

That’s when he knew he had to go back.

“Pardon me.”

The voice from behind you was so sudden and deep that you jumped, whipping around clumsily to meet it.

“God, you startled me!”

Laying eyes on the man responsible, you instantly released any ill-will you had.

“Hi, sorry,” he said, and you were already quite smitten.

He was young, though surely not any younger than you. Handsome too, in a dismantling way, like he might take you apart if you were an old clock, just to see what made you tick.

And if he wasn’t young and handsome, he’d still gain a little credit just in looking so guilty for spooking you.

“Hi.”

This was January, and you were out on the veranda, so your breath escaped you visibly. You were aware of it trickling upward as the handsome man smiled shyly and introduced himself.

“I’m James.”

Leaning up against a white banister, you snuggled further into your shawl, watching him. He was a few steps above you, and taller by a lot anyways, so it posed a bit of a strain.

“Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Lovely name,” James commented, not missing a beat. It surprised you, but you rallied easily.

“And yours.” You sipped your drink, and when he hadn’t formed a response, decided to elaborate. “Classic.”

James ducked his head in a dashing sort of way, adding a little humility to the lethal mix of attractive traits he contained.

“Yeah, but don’t let it take any precedence. It's strangeness across the board for the rest of me.”

Your lips curled up at the corners.

“For some reason I think that’s true,” you teased, eyes shining with mirth.

There were lots of ways to be flirted with, several of which left a bad taste in your mouth and a loneliness that felt unquenchable in your chest, but this you liked.

James spoke like he was on his toes, constantly steeped in anticipation. If possible, he seemed to savor every moment while simultaneously rushing into better, deeper territory.

He came further down the steps then, and you appreciated the relief on your neck. The smell that drifted off of him was like honey and biscuits, perpetually warm on your senses, even in late winter.

“So how do you know Marlene,” James asked, and you felt the tightness of excitement in your chest realizing that he was going to stay and talk to you.

“Work,” you told him, “she’s a madwoman. Flirts with all the customers.”

James kept a polite distance from you, gravitating toward a patch of light from the windows. He wore a tailored suit that was primarily night blue, which somehow fit him with both strict lines and a charming rumpled messiness.

You wondered if he’d get any easier to look at.

“That sounds like Marly,” James agreed, looking fond. A tiny needle of jealousy pricked you, which was ridiculous, because if this were Marlene’s boyfriend she’d have been shouting it from the rooftops.

Clinging to that affirmation, you asked, “you two are familiar?”

Each of James’ hands held the opposite bicep in a half-hearted cross, aiding a small shrug.

“We went to school together.”

You nodded, growing envious for new reasons.

“That seems to be the theme around here. I’m sad I missed it.”

James smiled warmly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Would it make you feel better if I told you it was boarding school? We had to share dorms all year.”

Fiddling with a ring on your finger, your gaze skipped to the square orange portal that led to the party inside. The window was one on the back wall of the parlor, and it became devastatingly easy to pick out the school club from the others inside. Marlene lounged beside other sharp girls and well-dressed guys, all of them laughing and bickering like siblings. You craved to be at the heart of it more than anything.

“Co-Ed?” you asked abruptly, tearing away from the vibrant crowd to see James’ face contort.

“No,” he laughed. “I roomed with Sirius, Remus and Frank.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Four to a room?”

James’ laugh thickened, his spectacles glinting white as his head tossed back. His amusement was acerbic, corrupting your bewilderment until it was lost to a goofy smile.

“I do feel much better, thank you,” you said. “Private school sounds awful.”

“Well, don’t rub it in, now,” he chided lightly.

An army of wind marched around the corner of the estate then, fighting through your thin shawl. James’ eyes traced your shivering frame as he stepped ever closer.

“Erm, hey, I was wondering—”

The patio door opened, delicate glass inlaid with iron, and yet your moment with James seemed the thing to shatter. A fair-skinned man stepped out, a hunt in his eyes, and you hoped whatever it was for wasn’t James.

Nyx-dark hair moved like shadows over the night sky, reflecting the party inside glossily. His head turned, and then he was laying eyes on your companion.

“James!” The man said, his poised effect splitting down the middle, revealing a collie’s energy. He motioned for James to meet him up on the landing. “C’mon mate, Remus has a plan.”

James shook his head simply.

“Do it without me, yeah?”

Something territorial swept over James’ friend’s face, and he suddenly looked you over. You were embarrassed to only warrant a millisecond of his attention.

“Bollucks,” he declared, challenging James to disagree. “Let’s go.”

Then he returned swiftly inside, leaving both French doors and your chest swung open. James sighed, the weight of a lost battle on his shoulders, and found your eyes again.

“Sorry, that’s Sirius,” he explained, and you supposed that would make sense.

“The roommate,” you provided. James nodded.

“I swear he’s nicer.”

You wouldn’t say you found him rude, just unfriendly. He certainly seemed warm, as did everyone at the party, but to a select few people. A select few that didn’t include you.

You said, “I’m sure.” If James thought someone was nice, they probably were. He seemed a good judge of character. Unless you had very poorly judged his character, which you wouldn’t put past yourself.

James winced. “I have to go. But, um—”

“James, mate, come on,” Sirius called from inside, and then he and another, taller man poked their heads out to check his progress in detaching himself from you.

“Alright, one second!”

You’re not sure why you said it, perhaps the people pleaser overriding your system, but you said, “it’s alright, James. You can go.”

It didn’t make him look any less torn. His head whipped back and forth between you and his friends, trying to find a solution.

Of course you wanted him to stay, but you didn’t want to hold him hostage, so you tried your best to look supportive of whatever he chose.

In the end, he stepped close to you, brows pinched with regret.

“I won’t be long. Will you—would you stay?”

You pressed your lips together in a tight smile, choking back the clawing barrage of disappointment.

“‘Course,” you said.

James blew out a breath, relaxing his tense posture.

“I really swear it. Back before you can say ‘private school,’ yeah?”

You laughed weakly, taking a long look at him for memory.

“Yeah.”

Reluctantly, James backed away from you, then turned to climb the steps toward his friends. They were sagged with impatience, hanging onto his every step the same way you were, except for different reasons. In a way, you were more jealous of these two than you were of Marlene, because they were like James’ brothers. They knew him better than probably anyone, you guessed.

James hopped up onto the landing and glanced back to you, frowning slightly. The light from inside caught his lenses just so, hiding his eyes from you, and that small detail alone felt like the end of all things.

Then, Sirius and his accomplice took each of James’ arms and hauled him inside, shutting the doors behind them.

Shivering again, you watched the three of them appear in the window, heads bowed together in conspiracy. James looked different there, like something out of a movie. He snapped right into place with the rest of them, glittering and masterfully made.

It was clear he had a world of his own—one that you would likely never penetrate, no matter how badly you wanted for it, no matter how long you waited in the cold.

Marlene would forgive you for running off, but you’d never forgive yourself if you got sick for a silly dream, so you left the party and made peace with the what-if that was James.

James fell headfirst out of the cramped coat closet, cursing as his legs tangoed and lost to a tall pair of rain boots. In his fall, he took down with him three raincoats and a hanging organizer (six hats, a bucket of gloves, and five and half pairs of sandals).

He was already tired and fuming when he entered the closet, and now he felt he’d completely lose it any second. Disengaging from his fight with evil clothing, he scooched on his bum to the scrunched up hall runner that paved the Mckinnon’s entry.

Near the end of it someone cleared their throat, and James looked up to see Fabian and Gideon Prewett, the nosiest blokes in the world. Fantastic.

“Look who we have here,” said one twin, the other smiling wickedly, ready to pick up the second half of their routine snooping.

“Off for a snog-sesh with someone, are we, James?”

Battling to his feet, James let out a long-suffering sigh, already moving their way.

“Yeah, your mum,” he snarked.

As they both laughed, James prepared to push between them, but they parted before he had to. He walked through their flank, relieved yet nervous—the typical reaction those two elicited.

Leaving them behind, the narrow hall forked off into several different rooms, offices and kitchens and a library. James played here even before he was in school with Marlene, so he knew every corner like it was his own home. He headed for the parlor.

Even for someone who had never been in the house, finding James’ destination would be easy. All they had to do was follow the music.

In the parlor, chaise lounges were hardly visible under old school friends and their families, the walls lined with business partners and gossiping aunts. Smaller children ran amok, like birds weaving between a forest of mingling adults. The hearthfire hissed and spat, bound to take down at least one fashionably dressed lady before the year was over.

James swept his gaze over the bobbing heads and flying hands, looking for someone in particular. Sirius’ thick black hair beat like a raven's wing near the back of the room, so that’s where the bespectacled boy went.

On his path, Remus stood glued to a wall, looking very antisocial. He pinged from one crutch to another, taking up new residence at James’ side.

“Where’d you run off to?”

“Had to take a piss,” James said casually. He’d grown accustomed to small lies like that, since no one knew about his little habit.

Remus didn’t question it, just picked through the crowd to where Sirius was.

“Padfoot,” James called, and he didn’t have to say anything else. Sirius excused himself and met the two of them without question, a silent understanding that forged the undercurrent of their friendship.

James led them all into another hall, one closer to the crystalline patio doors.

“I heard,” James started, “that Marlene has a pot stash somewhere ‘round here.”

Sirius and Remus glanced at each other, and James knew he had them. Even if they came up dry, the two of them would snoop just to snoop, and Remus obviously wanted away from the party anyways.

“Whereabouts do you think it is,” Sirius asked, looking at a mounted painting like it might be involved.

“Dunno,” James said, “but if we split up I bet we’d find it before the new year.”

Sirius grinned, and it spread onto Remus’ lips.

“I can take downstairs, and you and Pads can go up,” Remus said.

James shook his head.

“No, you two can go.” The two of them gave James skeptical looks, but he shrugged. “I have heavy footsteps, they’d hear me up there.”

Sirius’ expression cleared, and then he was nodding along. “Right.” He took Remus’ arm in his grasp and pulled him along. “Let’s go, Moony. I bet we can find some before Prongs.”

James heard Remus object that, “it’s only in one place,” before their conversation was lost by distance. Then, he turned around and pushed through the back doors, praying you were where he left you.

You were. Just like last time, your back was turned to him. You were staring at the clear sky, gripping your wrap close to your chest. James remembered that he’d startled you before, so he latched the doors as noisily as possible. You still didn’t come around.

He supposed that was for the best, actually, since he’d changed something already. He crept down the steps, feeling terrible for sneaking up on you, and wondering what you might’ve been thinking about that kept you so distracted.

“Pardon me,” James begged, and you spun around in shock.

“God, you startled me!”

James smiled, and your eyes trailed all over him. He couldn’t say he minded, since he was doing the same.

You reminded him of a mouse—shy but necessarily bold, holding yourself up outstandingly well as a stranger in a roomful of friends. That was, until you dipped outside and didn’t return.

“Sorry, hi,” he apologized, really meaning it this time. As expected, you smiled shyly, golden champagne tilting in the glass you held.

“Hi.”

A swath of mist escaped your mouth with the exhaled greeting. James had to remind himself that you didn’t remember the first time this happened, so you wouldn’t know his name.

“I’m James.”

You leant back, neck craning to keep his eyes. James stepped down to accommodate you, and your brows smoothed.

“Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

“That’s a pretty name,” James said, getting bolder. It was hard to hold himself away from you.

You dropped your head then, smiling primly at the stone steps.

“Thank you,” you said, instead of complimenting James in return.

James blinked. What happened?

“Yours—”

“I’m—”

James paused as you both spoke at the same time, looking at you the way someone might look at a tricky puzzle.

“Sorr—”

“You can—oh.”

Fingers pressed to your mouth, you looked at James, a tentative smile in your eyes. James sighed, and then laughed strangely. He motioned for you to go ahead, only to find your hand unfolding into the same gesture. Both of you stared at each other for a beat before falling into a fit of giggles.

“You go,” James said finally, smiling. You just shook your head.

“I don’t even remember.”

James squinted at your rosy cheeks, his lips picking up at the corners. You could lead a horse to water, he supposed.

The temptation to learn more about you began to win him over, so he bent a few rules.

“So you work with Marlene, I hear,” he spoke, fibbing ever so slightly.

You smiled a bit, none the wiser. “I do, yeah.”

James looked inside, checking for dark hair or an itchy sweater, but Remus and Sirius were still missing. Good.

“What’s that like?”

Brows furrowing, you followed his gaze.

“It’s…interesting. She’s really nice, but she—”

“Flirts with all the customers?” James supplied, peeking at you out of the corner of his eye.

You stared at him for a tick. “Yeah. You must know her?”

“Childhood friends,” James decided, nodding. When he turned back to you, you were raking your eyes over his dressy outfit, lip caught between your teeth. Your eyes found his, and you looked away. James thought he saw a flush to your cheeks.

The wind whipped around the corner then, and James began shouldering his thick jacket off, finally doing what he’d wanted to do before.

“You must be crazy,” he said, coming closer. “It’s freezing out here.”

You braved a look at him, and alarm sunk into your features.

“No, James, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine.”

“Don’t be polite, lovely, you’re shivering. Here.”

James slowly held his coat over your shoulders, leaning back to watch you carefully. He saw the moment you accepted his offer, sinking back into the warmth the garment still held.

“Thank you,” you breathed as James pulled away. He shoved his cold hands into his pockets, now looking to conserve heat.

“‘Course.”

Though his hands weren’t on you anymore, James stayed just as close as he was moments ago. He could smell the champagne in your glass. He glanced around to the garden, to your feet on the step, just below his.

“D’you want to head inside?” he asked. “It’s almost midnight, I think.”

Your lips turned up, and James hoped to God he’d get to kiss them.

“That sounds lovely.”

James flipped his phone open, the small screen giving off just enough light in his dark room to make him squint. He was wondering what you’d put for your contact—a smiley face, maybe, or a heart? He hoped you put a heart. It took his brain far too long to catch up to reality.

With a shock of gut-twisting dread, James realized he’d been so wound up over kissing you that he forgot to ask for your phone number. Your phone number.

He groaned, glancing at his bed longingly, but he knew he wouldn’t fall into it very soon. He’d go back a hundred times before he slept that night if it got him one date with you.

thank you for reading! xx | masterlist

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#about time #james potter #marauders #james potter x reader #james potter imagine #james fleamont potter #james potter au #james potter fic #james potter fanfiction #marauders fandom #marauders au #maraders era #marauders fanfiction #marauders era #time travel #time travel au #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom

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cilant-lis · 4 months ago

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rhian's wardrobe study... done at last..,,,,

read my ramblings (design notes) below:

origin hunting gear - standard dalish leather armour, with some personal trinkets like a colourful woven ribbon around the belt and hunting trophies (bear claws hanging off of their belt)

origin casual wear - simple, comfortable tunic, loose trousers and a shawl from ashalle

camp casual warm - sleeveless shirt, a shawl/poncho thing bought in lothering from elven refugees, Ashalle's shawl used as a sash, they prefer bare feet but it's not always practical

camp casual cold - nice halla-wool jacket and shawl from the dalish clan in brecilian forest, fingerless gloves and winter boots, and ashalle's shawl as a sash again

early game armour - leather dalish breastplate and pauldrons, begrudgingly wears grey warden gambeson sleeves and 'proper' boots, ashalle's shawl is there as always, looped around their belt

light armour - refuses to wear grey warden heraldry or colours, got their dalish armour repaired and reinforced at redcliffe, ashalle's shawl as sash

medium armour - rhian finally comes to terms with being a warden and commissions wade for a silverite set and a long gambeson. also it's fucking cold in ferelden and they had to cover up their arms :(

heavy armour - still silverite, now with a heavier breastplate and reinforced gambeson, longer hair in a braid (very briefly, they hate having longer hair)

warden commander armour -bulkier silhouette, a fancy fur mantle and thick embroidered woollen tunic. they still honour their dalish origin through embroidery designs and breastplate. hair cut very short for practicality

warden commander formal - dalish silhouette with grey warden colours, a new shawl from ashalle, a bit of cheesy symbolism through the brooch of their clan's heraldry connected to the grey warden symbol on their arm

warden commander casual - tunic, leggins and belt, simply made but nonetheless fine dalish crafts. and ANOTHER shawl from ashalle (she sends them one every winter)

#they're so hard to design clothes for.... unfashionable king #dragon age origins #dragon age warden #warden mahariel #da:o #dragon age #dragon age oc #oc: rhian mahariel #myos art #i had a very brief idea of rendering the entire thing........ thankfully i came into my senses

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mintywolf · 3 months ago

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In the woods not far from Whitestone, close enough that she can see the lights of the castle on the hill if she looks up, but far enough that the warmth of them is only a distant memory, a nameless dead girl is stumbling through the snow. The long furrow cut by her dragging feet winds between the trees like an unrolled strand of yarn, looping erratically around the scaly trunks of the pines and dodging the sharp elbows of rock jutting from the mountainside where she has paused to search for berries, or lichens, or tree bark soft enough to chew on. But the basket dangling from her hand is as empty as the rest of her.

The rough edge of frost in the air catches in her throat and she stops to cough into her threadbare shawl, reaching out a hand to the trunk of a nearby tree to keep from being toppled over into the snow. When she straightens up her teary eyes catch on something bright through the blur of ink, and after she blinks a few times it resolves itself into a hopeful cluster of berries hanging like forgotten holiday ornaments from a tendril of leafless vine. Shifting her basket onto her arm, she makes a shuffling step towards them.

Don’t eat those, the Lady in her head snaps, before she can even examine them, it's bittersweet.

“I don’t mind.”

You will if you eat them. Bittersweet is kin to nightshade. Best left for the birds. Come, the woman says, and it’s like a hand has taken hold of her arm, only the hand is in her mind like the voice of the woman commanding, coaxing, berating her onwards. The dead girl wants to go home, where there’s at a place to sleep and a fire that might soothe a little of the bone-deep ache under her skin, but her shelves are winter-bare, and so she continues on through the woods.

“Delilah? How many ways to die in the Parchwood do you think there are?” she asks to pass the time as she trudges along, a little breathless from the uneven ground that makes it feel like she’s always going uphill. (How funny, to think of a corpse being out of breath. But the air still goes in and out of her lungs like a creaky bellows, albeit a bit slower than it used to.)

(Read more on AO3)

#critical role #critical role fic #laudna #imogen temult #delilah briarwood #imodna #southerngothic #bells hells #cr3

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zeciex · 4 months ago

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A Vow of Blood - 90

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 90: The Mother's Prayer

AO3 - Masterlist

Dark clouds gathered overhead, heavy with the promise of an impending deluge. The scent of rain permeated the air, carried on a chilled with that made Daenera shiver. The light fabric of her gown offered little resistance to the growing chill–summer was truly over, and winter was coming. She gripped her skirts, rising a few steps towards the doors of the Royal Sept before stopping. Turning, she glanced down at Mertha, who trailed behind her with the usual frown on her face. Mertha halted when she noticed Daenera had stopped, lifting her murky gray eyes to meet the princess’s gaze.

“Would you be so kind as to fetch my shawl?” Daenera asked, her tone carefully threaded with a semblance of sincerity, masking the deliberateness of the act.

Mertha’s expression settled into a scowl, her brows knitting into a tight frown, “You ought to have heeded my warning when I told you to bring it, Princess.”

“Yes, I realize now it was a mistake. I should have listened,” Daenera conceded, carefully smoothing any hint of condescension from her voice. “But could you please fetch it now?”

“I should let you feel the chill, perhaps then you’ll learn to listen to me,” Mertha grumbled under her breath, her steps deliberate as she headed past Daenera towards the doors of the sept. She seemed almost inclined to leave Daenera to endure the consequences of her supposed heedlessness.

Daenera lifted the hem of her gown slightly to facilitate her movement and quickened her pace to match Mertha’s. With a calculated ease in her tone, she suggested, “It would be rather unfortunate to fall ill now, wouldn’t it?”

Mertha stopped abruptly and turned to confront Daenera, her height accentuated as she stood two steps above on the staircase, a deep scowl etching her features. Her left hand clutched the skirts of her dress, while her right firmly clasped her well-worn, leather-bound copy of The Seven-Pointed Star–a tome from which she often instructed Daenera to read.

With a stern expression, Mertha asserted, “I mustn’t leave you unattended, Princess. I will not allow you to make a mockery of me again or cause another spectacle.”

“The princess isn’t unattended,” Finan interjected, stepping up to join Daenera on the same stone step, his posture relaxed yet alert, thumbs hooked casually on his belt. “It wouldn’t bode well for the princess to take ill, especially not with the wedding so close. I doubt the Prince would appreciate his betrothed being sick to say her vows, nor would the Hand find it acceptable.”

“Then you should fetch the shawl,” Mertha retorted sharply, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at Finan, who met her gaze with an amused calm, unconcerned by her scorn.

Daenera stepped closer to Mertha, her expression one of slight dismay. “I’d rather not have a man searching through my belongings. You know which one I mean–the thick, green shawl with the small blue flowers on it.”

Mertha’s lips pursed as she seemed to consider the situation, her eyes flicking between Finan and Daenera. She seemed to realize the implications of allowing Finan into Daenera’s private chambers–a space where the guards, typically stationed outside the door, seldom entered.

With a reluctant huff, Mertha finally acquiesced. “Very well. Ensure that she remains within your view and that no one approaches her while she’s in prayer.” Stepping down another step, she handed Daenera her book of prayers with firm instruction. “You may start with the Mother’s prayer.”

Daenera nodded in agreement, her gaze lingering on Mertha as she made her way down the steps, her figure gradually diminishing as she crossed the vast expanse of the courtyard outside of the Sept, moving down the path leading to Maegor’s Holdfast. The Keep buzzed with activity as though the world hadn’t turned upside down. Servants scurried across the cobblestones and dirt paths, their movements swift and determined, some clutching linens, others hastily covering baskets and removing them from the impending rain.

As her eyes roved over the scene, she noted the guards patrolling the high walls, their presence a reminder of the new regime–their uniforms had been changed to a striking green, each emblazoned with a golden, three-headed dragon that seemed to gleam even under the overcast sky. Even the servants' uniform had become a subtle forest green. It struck Daenera how quickly the fabric of the Keep had been altered; the seamstresses and tailors must have worked through the nights to provide the Keep with their new uniformity–or it suggested premeditation, one she wouldn’t put past the Hightowers.

Daenera’s voice was a low murmur, her eyes remaining cast out over the courtyard as she spoke, “I’ve secured Fenrick’s release. He will be freed the morning after the wedding.”

The weight of the concession she had made hung palpably in the air between them. There was no need for words to convey what was understood in their shared silence: she had bartered her obedience and compliance for his freedom–a substantial sacrifice on her behalf.

She could have resisted, could have continued to balance precariously on the edge, with Fenrick’s and Patrick’s lives dangling like a sword over her head, vulnerable to any misstep she might make. The wedding was unavoidable–a fact set in stone–and she had chosen to leverage what little power she had for Fenrick’s freedom. It was a calculated trade, a deliberate sacrifice made within the harsh confines of her circumstances–and it would not be the only sacrifice made that day.

“Otto Hightowers is unlikely to let him simply leave the city,” Finan remarked, echoing Daenera’s own concerns. His brows furrowed deeply, his face etched with the stern solemnity characteristic of a Northerner. “Neither will the Lord Confessor.”

Daenera nodded, her expression equally grave. She understood all too well the reality that either figure might send men to prevent Fenrick’s departure, ensuring that he never left the city alive. It was impractical for them to allow a known adversary to reinforce the ranks of their opposition–and to bring them any information they might suspect he carried.

“I have contacts here in the city,” Finan continued, his tone somber yet resolute. “I’ll arrange for them to aid his escape, to ensure he vanishes without a trace.”

The chill wind wrapped around Daenera, penetrating the fabric of her dress and settling into her bones. She instinctively hugged the book closer to her chest, seeking its meager warmth. “Fenrick knows how to fend for himself.”

Finan’s eyes met hers, brows inching downward. “Are you asking me not to get involved?”

“I advise caution,” Daenera replied, her voice steady but somber. “If the Hightowers suspect outside help, they’ll scour the Keep for anyone who might be involved. If your ‘friends are caught, they’ll trace it back to you, and then to me. I cannot afford to lose you in this.”

The loss of Finan would strip her of her eyes and ears beyond the confines of the Red Keep, severing her last tether to any semblance of influence and knowledge of the war efforts. She needed him; without his aid, she would be completely isolated, reduced to a mere pawn on the board for the Hightowers to move about as they willed. The thought of such isolation, of being utterly alone, was a chilling prospect that made the wind seem even colder.

Daenera relied too heavily on Finan to allow him to needlessly risk himself. She trusted Fenrick’s ability to ensure his own safety. He would undoubtedly have reached the same conclusion about the Hightower’s unwillingness to let him leave the city alive. He had friends within King’s Landing and the City Watch. He would find a way out, of that she was sure. He had to.

Finan’s jaw ticked as he clenched his teeth. “I’ll make certain no trails lead back to me. I’ll have him seen out of the city, alive, and with enough coin to pay his way to Duskendale where a ship can take him to Dragonstone. Don’t ask me to abandon him… Please.”

Daenera’s expression hardened as she turned to face Finan, her eyes narrowing as she regarded him for a long, measuring moment. “I once told you I had little use for someone whose loyalties lie elsewhere. You assured me that your loyalties would lie with me. You gave me your word–you swore to me.”

“My loyalties lie with you, Princess,” Finan assured her, his eyes earnest and sincere. “But my concern is also for Fenrick and the state he’s in after days in the dungeons. He’ll need help if he is to survive the journey.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Daenera cast her gaze out over the gloomy sky again. “Do what you must, but do not get caught.”

She locked eyes with him again, her gaze intense and commanding–be cautious, she warned him. Finan acknowledged her with a firm nod, understanding the gravity of the silent command. He then gestured towards the sept, the wind picking up and sending a shiver down her spine. “We better get you inside before you truly catch your death in this weather.”

They turned away from the courtyard and ascended the final steps to the Royal Sept. Finan courteously held the door open for Daenera, allowing her to step into the sanctified space. Immediately, the sweet yet cloying scent of incense mixed with the warm aroma of burning candles enveloped them, the fragrance almost tangible as it clawed at the back of their throats.

Inside, the sept was hushed, the silence punctuated only by the soft whisper of flames dancing in the draft. A few septas stood in the corners, methodically sweeping the floors and tending to the candles, their movements quiet and reverent.

Soft light seeped through the grand, stained glass windows of the sept, casting a tapestry of muted colors upon the floor, their vibrancy subdued by the overcast sky. Candles lined the walls and clustered solemnly on the altars dedicated to the gods, were the only source of true light, their flames flickering gently in the air.

Although the thick walls of the sept offered refuge from the biting wind outside, they did little to ward off the pervasive chill that lingered within. Daenera felt the cold slither across the stone floor, sneaking beneath her dress and creeping up her legs.

As she walked deeper into the sacred space, her footsteps echoed softly against the ancient stone, harmonizing with Finan as he felt into step at her side.

“The Hightowers haven’t been idle,” Finan said, his voice a hushed murmur meant only for her ears. “There have been significant changes made within the City Watch. Ser Gregor Selter has been removed from his position as Lord Commander for his refusal to bend the knee, and they’ve installed Luthor Largent in his stead.”

Daenera’s lips pursed as she took in the information. “Ser Luthor Largent served under Daemon during his time as Commander of the City Watch. They were friends, I believe.”

“Many Gold Cloaks have served under the prince, Princess,” Finan replied, his eyes scanning the room cautiously. “But with the threat of dismissal or worse, a great number have sworn obeisance to Aegon. These are treacherous times, and with the Hand of the King positioning his own son, Gwayne, as the second-in-command of the City Watch, self-preservation dictates much of their allegiance.”

Daenera’s thoughts lingered on the loyalty of Ser Luthor Largent. While he was Lord Commander of the City Watch, he was still kept under the watchful eye of his second-in-command, Gwayne Hightower. It seemed unlikely that he could offer her any immediate aid; his circumstances were similar to her own–both were shackled by their roles, both adrift in a menacing sea of constrained choices.

As they made their way towards the main altar, Daenera’s voice was thoughtful, “What are the sentiments among the smallfolk with this shift in power?”

Finan’s reply was a subdued murmur, matching the solemn pace of their walk. “They grow… uneasy. With the first blood of war being drawn, and the king’s brother having made himself a kinslayer, they fear retaliation.” He glanced towards her. “They pray for you, Princess, and curse Aemond’s name in turn…”

Daenera paused before the altar, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames. The warmth radiated from the flickering wicks, distorting the air above them, yet it barely penetrated the chill that clung to her skin. As she watched, a notion began to take shape in her mind. She had always been adored by the smallfolk for her charity and love for the arts. It seemed these efforts were now poised to yield dividends, a factor that undoubtedly fueled House Hightower's determination to wed her to Aemond.

If she could publicly forgive Aemond for his act of kinslaying, perhaps the common people might follow her lead.

There was strength in the goodwill of the common folk. While power was limited, leveraging this favor could prove advantageous. And though Otto Hightower would recognize the intent behind her actions, he was a man of pragmatism. If she gained the favor of the smallfolk, that favor would extend to them.

Daenera circled the rounded altar, her steps slow and measured. Finan trailed behind her, his voice a soft undertone as he added, "The blockade your mother has enforced on the Gullet is tightening. It's becoming nearly impossible to bring in imports. The wealthy are already hoarding provisions, and as a result, those less fortunate are left scrambling for the leftovers. Such scarcity is soon to bring unrest among the people."

Good, Daenera mused, opportunity often lay hidden within unrest. She drew in a slow, deliberate breath, shifting the conversation, turning slightly towards Finan as she inquired, “How is Cerys?”

Their eyes locked, and a small smile touched Finan’s lips. His voice warmed with a touch of admiration as he answered, “She’s showing remarkable strength, all things considered.”

Daenera’s gaze shifted to the nearest altar, where The Smith was eternally frozen in stone, his figure commanding within the semicircle. He was sculpted with a hammer clasped in his hand, his strong form standing tall, his head bowed reverently toward his own altar, and a gentle beard framing his solemn face.

With a contemplative sigh, she turned back to Finan, her expression troubled. “I fear my advice to Cerys was misguided. I urged her to nurture her anger towards Aegon, to never forget his offenses. It was harsh, perhaps too much so. Now, I worry she might act rashly, endangering herself.”

Now fully aware of Joyce's concerns, Daenera felt a pang of apprehension. She realized that inciting Cerys to seek vengeance against Aegon might have dangerous repercussions. Such encouragement could not only place Cerys in grave danger but potentially threaten Daenera’s own safety as well.

“When I last spoke with her, she seemed well aware of the risks,” Finan answered, his tone steady. “She promised not to take matters into her own hands and to serve you loyally, as she has done ever since you took her in.”

“And you trust her word?” Daenera pressed, searching for any hint of doubt in his eyes.

“I do.”

Daenera responded with a slow, contemplative nod, her gaze drifting towards the next statue. The Warrior stood tall, helmented, both hands gripping the hilt of his downward-pointing sword, his head bowed in a posture similar to The Smith’s. The details of his armor were meticulously cared into the stone, every line a testament to the sculptor’s skill. She knew she would have to rely on Cerys’s promise of restraint and patience.

“Has there been any news from Dragonstone?” Daenera asked quietly, her eyes shifting to the Statue of The Father, as they continued to follow the semi-circle, finally reaching its peak. His long beard was carved into the stone, resting against his chest, and in his hand, he held out a scale for judgment. Unlike the other statues, The Father’s gaze was not directed downward but stood tall and judging.

“No,” Finan replied, his voice carrying a note of empathy. “Your mother hasn’t returned yet from Storm’s End, it seems.”

Daenera’s gaze lingered on The Father’s stern visage, the weight of his judgment seeming to bear down on her. She clutched the book of prayers a little tighter, her heart heavy with the thought of her mother still scouring Shipbreaker Bay for her lost son. The relentless waves seemed to refuse her any remnants they might have swallowed. It was cruel, Daenera thought, and foolish for her mother to linger. As Queen, she was needed at Dragonstone, especially during a time of war. Each day she remained away from her seat of power, her influence waned, and perhaps even her spirit. Daenera wondered if her mother was taking care of herself or if she had become consumed by grief. Her mother also had to think of her own well-being and that of the child she carried–a child Daenera would never be able to see into this world.

Daenera couldn’t blame her for searching, though. She, too, would have done the same, seeking any sign that her brother was truly gone–that he had been alive at all.

Finan’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Your brother remains in Winterfell.”

“Winterfell?” Daenera echoed, her eyes drawing to the statue of The Mother as they stopped in front of it. The stone figure wore a gentle smile, her head bowed towards her altar. A veil cascaded down her back, hiding her tied hair, and her hands were neatly folded in front of her, poised as if ready to tenderly caress the heads of her kneeling children.

Daenera took a deep breath, steadying herself with the thought of her brother–alive and safe in Winterfell. He would have gone there to forge an alliance with House Stark and bring the North to their mother’s side. “If anyone can sway the Starks to my mother’s cause, it is Jace. He will manage well.”

Finan nodded. “Cregan Stark will welcome him warmly and treat him with the honor and respect due to a prince… But his main concern will remain with the safety and welfare of his people. He will be reluctant to get involved in Southern conflicts.”

“This war will affect the whole realm, not just the south,” Daenera said tersely, her frown deeping as she shook her head in exasperation. The North might be isolated and governed on their own, but they must understand that this conflict would inevitably reach them. “The Stark swore their loyalty and to defend her claim when she was named heir.”

Finan responded with a cautious hum. “Aye, they swore to your mother and they will keep their oaths. But wolves protect their own, and Cregan must consider his people now that the winter is steadily approaching. He will be reluctant to lead them into war.”

Daenera seated herself at the altar, her gaze rising to meet Finan’s. He remained standing, his expression solemn yet kind–an embodiment of the Northern demeanor, she supposed, where even friendliness was tinged with solemnity.

“Will my brother be able to win him over?”

Finan’s lips curved into a slight smile, a gleam of reassurance in his eyes. “I’m confident he will. We Northerners may be a stern folk, but our hearts are not made of stone. Cregan understands the pain of seeing one’s rightful claim challenged. He will sympathize with your mother’s cause. And your brother, being a good and honorable man, will earn Cregan’s respect.”

The flickering candles cast a warm glow on Daenera’s face as she absorbed Finan’s words. The room seemed to hum with a quiet intensity, the presence of the statues–the gods–adding the feel of judgment upon her shoulders.

A small smile appeared on her lips as she turned her gaze to the flames. Jace could be stubborn at times, yet undeniably charming. He would understand that they needed the alliance with the North, and he wouldn’t return to Dragonstone empty handed. The thought of her brother made her heart twist painfully within her chest. She missed him dearly. The smile faded as she stared into the flames for a long moment, letting the silence settle between them, broken only by the soft snapping of orange tongues lapping at the air.

“Could you procure something for me?” Daenera asked quietly, lifting a finger to dart through the flames just fast enough for their scorching touch not to linger and burn. “From the gardens, I mean.”

Finan shifted beside her, the sound of leather rustling as he moved. “What do you need?”

“In the herbal garden, near the southern hedges, there’s a particular tree,” Daenera began, her tone measured and deliberate as she idly toyed with the flickering flames before her. Her fingers traced delicate patterns through the air, shadows dancing along with her words. “The trunk is gnarled and twisted, the bark a deep reddish-brown, rough to the touch. Its branches are thickly draped with needle-like leaves.”

The flames were warm against her skin as she played with them, fingers flickering through their tongues as though teasing them for a taste. Her voice softened, almost reflective as she continued, her gaze distant. “It’s easy to identify by the clusters of red berries it bears. Each berry has a small hole at its center where the seed rests, like a dark eye hidden within…”

“Yew,” Finan drawled, his voice low and serious. “I know of it.”

Daenera abandoned the flames and turned towards Finan. Her eyes met his, reading the seriousness beneath the furrow of his brow. “If you could, I need only a handful of those berries.”

Finan's expression darkened, his brows knitting into a deep furrow. His gray eyes, mirroring the somber sky outside, were filled with a concerned question. The word ‘poison’ fell from his lips, spoken with such caution it seemed as though he feared it might disrupt the fragile silence that enveloped them.

“Yes,” Daenera replied quietly, continuing, “Once you’ve acquired them, leave them in the small lavender sachet beneath my pillow.”

She was sure that Mertha, or indeed anyone else, would overlook such a sachet. Why would they? They were common among the nobility, used to suffuse fabric with the scent of whatever dried flower or herbs contained within. They were often nested in the pockets of dresses or among linens, tugged behind pillows and hidden in small chests around the room.

“I must have them before the wedding,” she added with a sense of urgency, facing Finan directly.

“I feel I must ask–”

“You really don’t have to.”

“Even so, I will,” Finan insisted, his tone firm despite the clear reluctance. “Why do you need these berries?”

Daenera’s gaze drifted back to the altar, her eyes fixed on the candle flames that flickered and danced, consuming the wicks with a sputtering hunger. “I am left with nothing.” Her hand fell from the flames, resting against the cold stone of the altar. “They’ve sought to remove my herbs, my teas, oils, even my soaps. My jewelry has been taken, fearing I might use them for bribes. I am defenseless.”

“You still have the dagger I gave you,” Finan reminded her, hoping to offer a sliver of solace. The dagger remained unsettled in its hiding place beneath the table beside the settee. The knowledge that it was there did offer some semblance of comfort, but it did not extend beyond her chambers.

“But how long will it remain hidden there?” She murmured aloud, casting her eyes back at Finan. “It’s not easily concealed in a spot that’s both discreet and accessible. I need something I can carry with me, if necessary.”

Finan hesitated before cautiously offering his thoughts. “Considering your upcoming marriage–”

Daenera couldn’t suppress the small, wry smile that tugged at her lips, a soft chuckle escaping her. “Are you concerned I might use it against my future husband? Or perhaps you fear I might poison the King?”

With a wary frown on his brow, Finan cast a glance around the shadows of the sept, ensuring no one lurked close enough to overhear their conversation. The only ones present were the septas’ sweeping the floors at the opposite end of the sept.

“Or,” Finan ventured cautiously, “perhaps you intend to use them on yourself…”

His concern was evident, reflecting the multitude of perilous possibilities that lay in the simple act of acquiring those berries. Daenera understood the gravity of his apprehension, aware of the delicate thread upon which their plans–and her life– balanced.

The fleeting sense of amusement vanished from Daenera as abruptly as the light from a blown-out candle, replaced by a profound sadness that lingered like wisps of smoke dissipating into the air. She understood Finan's apprehension; their plans balanced on a delicate thread, and she knew his concerns ran even deeper, rooted in the hopelessness and helplessness she had felt the previous night, consumed by grief.

Daenera averted her gaze, feeling her throat tighten. "It would be a swift end once the symptoms take hold. The heart slows and eventually stops. You’d simply fall asleep..." She looked back at Finan, her eyes reflecting the gravity of her words. "But I have not yet reached the point where I consider using it on myself, nor would I target my husband-to-be or the usurper king."

The room seemed to hold its breath, the flickering candlelight casting long, wavering shadows on the stone walls. The statues around them stood silent and watchful, their carved expressions frozen in time.

Daenera understood the implications all too well. Poisoning the wedding party would require far more than just a handful of berries though, and becoming a kinslayer or kingslayer was not part of her plan. Despite her deep-seated desire for retribution, she was wise enough to recognize the folly in such actions. Any attempt would inevitably cast suspicion upon her, implicating her mother as well.

Moreover, the thought of her own death carried consequences far beyond herself. It would lead to the execution of her loyal men and plunge her mother into an even deeper abyss of grief, intensifying the already profound sense of loss Daenera knew she was enduring.

"And Lady Mertha?" Finan probed, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Daenera matched his smile with a faint one of her own. "If I were to poison Lady Mertha, however much she might deserve it, I would only see more of my freedom taken away, and she would simply be replaced." She shook her head slightly, thinking that if she were to poison Mertha, it would be with something far more painful than the berries. "The berries are merely a safeguard, nothing more."

Finan responded with a nod, yet his expression still held traces of unease, indicating his lingering worries despite Daenera’s reassurance.

The resounding creak of the heavy sept doors opening reverberated through the sacred space, immediately followed by the distinct sound of Mertha’s footsteps hastening towards Daenera and Finan. A moment before she arrived, the gust of wind she had let in whirled around them, the candles flickering wildly. Daenera, sensing her approach, turned her attention to the book, deftly flipping to the page where their previous reading had concluded.

“What were you two discussing?” Mertha demanded, her tone sharp and laced with suspicion as she arrived beside them. Her cheeks bore a rosy tint from exertion, and a few stray strands of hair framed her face, too short to be caught up in the tight bun at the nape of her neck.

“I was going over the Mother’s prayer,” Daenera responded evenly, her voice carefully neutral, betraying neither falsehood nor sincerity.

Mertha’s lips tightened into a thin line. She unfolded the shawl and draped it around Daenera’s shoulders before taking her place on the cushioned bench below the altar, adjacent to Daenera. Finan, sensing his cue, quietly withdrew to the periphery, blending into the shadows. He stood watchful and alert, his hands clasped behind him.

“Begin again, from the start,” Mertha commanded, settling herself for the reading.

Oh, gentle Mother, god of mercy, Bestow your grace upon our souls. In your embrace, we find sanctuary, In your wisdom, our hearts console.

Mother, guide us in our journey, Through trials, through pain, unseen. With your light, the path illuminates, In shadows deep, where hope has been.

Bless the children, your tender flock, In your compassion, let them grow. Shield the weary, under your cloak, Grant them solace from their woe.

In times of strife, be our haven, In moments of doubt, be our guide. With your love, our hearts unladen, In your strength, we shall abide. Mother, hear our humble pleading, To your kindness, we entrust our plea. In your care, our souls are leading, To a future where we are free.

The prayer was one mothers uttered to their children at night as they tucked them in, brushing strands of hair away from their foreheads before placing a loving his there. It was not a prayer her own mother had ever whispered. Instead, Rhaenyra had often hummed an ancient Valyrian song to her before bed–a song of fire and blood, of dragons and magic. The notes of the song would linger in the air, blending with the crackling of the fire and whirling of the wind as it swept past the stone outside.

While the Faith was something every prince and princess was subjected to learning, it had never been strongly enforced within the walls of Dragonstone. The Maesters' lessons of the Seven often felt distant and formal, lacking the warmth and intimacy distinct to Valyrian traditions. Daenera had always felt a deeper connection to the Valyrian customs, those of fire and blood, and the more ancient faiths such as the Old Gods.

As Mertha continued the lessons in the Faith, Daenera listened dutifully, nodding at the appropriate moments, humming agreements, and posing questions when necessary. Her face was a mask of solemn study–an act created with the sole intent of showing her compliance.

While she harbored no animosity towards the Faith of the Seven or the gods themselves, she found little interest in them–especially when the teachings were forced upon her. She did not discount the existence of the gods; she might even pray to them at times, but she found little comfort in them now.

Still, she prayed, lighting candles in their name to carry off her plea: protect her family, keep them safe and well, and see the Hightowers pay for their treachery and the blood they had shed. Make them suffer.

Rain began to pelt against the windows of the sept, the sky outside finally breaking open to unleash a rough downpour. The rhythmic drumming of the rain against the glass filled the air, a low rushing sound that seemed to fill the quiet of the sept. As the downpour intensified, the light filtering through the stained glass windows dimmed, the colors on the floor fading into shadows. Now, only the candlelight illuminated the sacred space, casting a delicate glow on the stone walls and the statues that stood vigil.

Daenera glanced towards the windows, tugging the thick shawl tighter around her body, feeling the chill creep in.

The quiet of the room was suddenly broken by hurried footsteps echoing down the aisle, crossing the vast expanse of the chamber. The sound grew louder, finally coming to a stop just before Daenera and Mertha, who remained seated under the watchful gaze of the Mother at her altar.

Mertha glanced up at the servant, a boy with dirty blond hair cropped unevenly and an unfortunately narrow nose that hooked at the top. Her eyes narrowed at the interruption of their lesson, and she barked out, “What is it? We are in the middle of our lessons.”

Daenera felt a flicker of half-hearted hope that this intrusion might bring an end to the lesson. She would much rather endure Otto Hightower's discerning company than continue with this dreary affair. In fact, she’d even prefer Alicent’s presence, perhaps to discuss wedding preparations, over Mertha's monotonous instruction. Any company would be better than this, she thought, as boredom gnawed at her mind.

The servant shifted nervously under Mertha’s scrutinizing gaze, his feet shuffling slightly as he stood at the edge of the candlelit altar, his hair plastered to his pale face. His green tunic was darkened by the rain, the droplets having seeped into the fabric making it fall heavily upon his quivering shoulders. “The Prince, Aemond, wishes to see the Princess.”

“Can’t it wait?” Mertha questioned, her tone sharp with irritation.

“I–I…” The boy stammered, then forced out, “The Prince wishes her brought to him immediately…”

“Tell the Prince that I am busy with my lessons,” Daenera said dismissively, her voice cold and firm. She managed to avoid him ever since the council meeting and had no desire to face him now. She was not some dog he could summon at will. “If he wishes to see me, he should arrange it through Lady Mertha to find an appropriate time. He should know that I am busy with my lessons and still recovering. I have little time to spare.”

The rain continued to batter the windows, the downpour’s intensity matching the tension in the room. Daenera detested her lessons with Mertha. Yet, as much as she loathed the dry, endless monologues about the gods, she preferred them over the thought of seeing Aemond. She had no desire to see him or speak with him. They would be married soon enough; there was no reason she should grant him more of her time now.

Spite coiled within Daenera like a vengeful serpent, nesting amid the searing flames of her anger. She knew that he wanted to see her–she had felt it in the scorching intensity of this touch when he had gripped her with a fierce, almost desperate force, his eye burning with incredulous fury, demanding acknowledgement. He wanted her, and that precisely why she would deny him. Although she had traded her compliance for Fenrick’s freedom, she had no intention of offering him anything beyond what was agreed.

Mertha’s lips tightened into a grimace, pursuing in displeasure as she drew in a resigned breath. With deliberate slowness, she closed her book of prayers and gently gripped it with both hands. “If the Prince wishes to see you, we shouldn’t deny him.”

Daenera’s eyes narrowed as she stared at Mertha. There was a prick of betrayal nibbling at her at the crones decision–as though for once they had been allies in something. But she supposed that she could never depend on Mertha.

With a resigned sigh, Daenera rose from the altar, wrapping the shawl tighter around her body. The fabric, though warm, did little to shield her from the chill that had settled in her bones. Mertha followed closely, clutching her book of prayers tightly as they made their way towards the doors. Their footsteps echoed in the silence, the low hum of rain lashing against the windows reverberated through the air.

The world beyond the oaken doors had become one of mud and water. As they stepped out of the sept and stood poised on its upper steps, still shielded by the roof’s overhang, their gazes turned skyward. The sky had plunged into a deep, oppressive gray, and the rain poured down with such ferocity that it felt as if the gods themselves were trying to wash away their existence.

The once familiar courtyard was now a mire of puddles and rivulets, the ground churned into a slippery mess. The rain fell in relentless sheets, each drop striking the earth with a force that seemed to fracture into a fine mist upon impact. The distant outlines of the Keep’s towers were blurred and softened by the downpour, giving the scene an almost dreamlike quality–if dreams would have you drowning that is.

Daenera pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, feeling the cold, damp air seep through the fabric. Her breath fogged in front of her as she exchanged a glance with Mertha, who now clutched her book of prayers tightly against her chest. The old hag’s expression was one of grim determination, her mouth set in a thin line as she surveyed the sodden landscape.

“Go! Fetch something to cover us with!” Mertha barked, her voice barely audible over the roar of the rain. At the command, the boy darted out into the rain, each footstep stirring the mud and as he rounded a corner, he slipped and fell into the mud, landing with a wet twrp before quickly scrambling to his feet and continuing on his path.

The sight might have been amusing were she not to venture out into the downpour too. Gazing up at the sky, Daenera mused aloud, “Do you think this is a sign from the gods?”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Mertha chided sharply. “If it is a sign from the gods, it is a warning of their displeasure.” Her eyes found Daenera and narrowed with condemnation. “The gods are not so forgiving towards heaten girls and their wickedness.”

“Should the gods not be more offended by the act of kinslaying than by a girl uttering curses in the night?” Daenera retorted, her voice even as she met Mertha’s gaze. “Perhaps it is their displeasure for the blood that has been shed.”

“Bastard blood,” Mertha sneered, clutching her book of prayers so tightly the leather might rip, holding it against her heart as though it could shield her from the judgment of the gods. “The gods may yet forgive the sin of kinslaying–indeed it is a heavy one. But the gods have always despised bastards. They are an insult to all that is virtuous and honorable. The gods may forgive the prince for his sin, I’m sure. They will forgive the action taken in battle. You, however–”

“Lady Mertha,” Finan interjected, his voice cutting through the rain-soaked air. Mertha almost seemed to startle at his presence, as though she’d forgotten it. “Don’t confuse your view of bastards with those of the gods. Bastards are judged more harshly by man than by the gods themselves. Why should a babe be condemned by the actions of their parents, whether born of love or violence? Why must they then suffer the judgment of the rest of the world? Is the rape of a peasantgirl by a highborn man less sinful than the babe she births?”

Mertha let out a derisive scoff, head shaking in exasperation, wordlessly voicing her opinion on the matter.

Finan continued undeterred, “Should shared love between two people and the product of that be punished?” He shifted to face Mertha more directly, thumbs hooked in his belt. “I’ve met bastards far more compassionate than many devout followers of the gods are, who would share their last bit of food with a stranger in need. Bastards are no different than you or I; they are no more sinful.”

Finan head tilted slightly. “And a kinslayer offends every god, new or old. They care little for the circumstances; the gods condemn it all. And there’s none so accursed as the kinslayer…”

“How can the gods not judge those born of sin? It is in their very nature to be sinful,” Mertha replied tersely.

“Does the birth of bastards offend you more than the acts of kinslayers?"

“Mind your tone,” Mertha warned, a note of condescension in her voice. “I will not take lessons in faith from a northern dog whose god is no more than a tree. You are not here to offer your opinions; you’re here to ensure that the princess does not run off. Do so in silence.”

Finan’s lips remained curved, unbothered by the hostility. “Mmh, yes, we mustn’t forget ourselves in the presence of the princess.”

“Well,” Daenera hummed, her tone one of exasperation, “I suppose we’ll see who the gods favor and who they condemn to drown should the rain persist like this.”

The boy reappeared, his clothing muddied and clinging to him, thoroughly drenched. He was followed by a group of guards, who grappled with a large canvas cover, each man holding the wooden posts and attempting to stretch the canvas at the top to provide cover. The men strained against the wind that whipped and pulled at the canvas.

Pulling the shawl tighter around her, Daenera released a resigned breath before stepping into the relentless downpour. The rain immediately lathered her, even as she stepped into position under the canvas cover, finding it as insufficient as expected. Mertha was quick to follow, almost stepping on Daenera’s heels, and together they drudged across the soaked terrain. As they walked over the muddy ground, water seeped into their shoes and saturated the hems of their skirts.

Halfway to Maegor’s Holdfast, a shrill yelp sounded behind Daenera, followed by a tug on her skirts and a swooping twrp. When she glanced back, she saw Mertha on her hands and knees, mud blotting her face and soaking through her dress. Half-amused, Daenera chided, “Come along now, Lady Mertha, this isn’t the time for play.”

Mertha glowered up at her with angry eyes, sneering as Finan graciously helped her to her feet. The moment she was steady, she yanked her arm away, flicking mud off her hands. “You did this on purpose…” The unspoken words hung heavy in the rain-soaked air between them: wretched girl, cursed girl.

“Do not blame me for your own misfortune, Lady Mertha,” Daenera replied, gripping her skirts more tightly as she began trudging through the slippery mud again, fully prepared to leave Mertha behind if she didn't hurry after her.

The storm continued to pour, the relentless rain turning the path into a treacherous mire. The sky above was a roiling mass of dark clouds, and the air was thick with the scent of wet earth and the distant rumble of thunder. Daenera's steps were careful but determined, her eyes focused on the looming silhouette of Maegor’s Holdfast ahead.

And by the time they reach the safety of the Holdfast, each of Daenera’s steps squelched with the weight of water. Her gown, now heavy and sodden, trailed mud and puddles across the stone floor. Although her hair remained largely dry, the tips clung damply to her neck and her dress adhered uncomfortably to her body as she ascended the steps, with Mertha and Finan closely behind.

“It would be wise, I reckon, to make for your chambers and have you changed out of your sodden clothes–”

“No, if the prince summoned me with such insistence, then I must go as I am,” Daenera interjected sharply, her voice echoing slightly in the damp corridor, the sound of the rain hitting the room creating a low, consistent hum. She clutched her soaked skirts, lifting them as she ascended the steps, the sodden fabric trailing heavily behind her and leaving a wet streak on the stone.

If the chill from her drenched attire led her to catch the death, then so be it. Falling ill might even serve her a purpose–if she needed a swift exit, her drenched condition would provide the perfect excuse to retreat from his company.

They boy led them up the steps and into the corridors that followed along the inner courtyard of Maegor’s Holdfast. Below, the relentless rain battered against the wet stones, shimmering in the low light. The other side of the courtyard was a blur through the sheets of rain, obscuring the opposing corridor. The platter of droplets echoed through the hallway, growing louder as it fell through the semi-open architecture, causing droplets to splatter against the polished stone floor and bead off the ornate banisters that protected them from the plunge to the stone below.

The columns along the corridor were unevenly wet, showcasing the odd way the rain infiltrated this part of the holdfast–dry on one side where the shadows lingered longer, and slick and glistening on the other, exposed to the weather’s fury. The very air was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked stone, a cool dampness that wrapped around Daenera as she followed closely behind the boy.

As they walked past the Queen’s chambers and the adjacent nursery where Jaehaerys and Jaehaera played on the carpet, their gentle musings reaching into the hall as their caretakers played with them, Daenera half-expected to be brought towards Aemond’s chambers, however, the boy stopped before they ever reached his doors.

The boy gestured towards the open doors of one of the unused apartments–one of many others, kept ready for royal visits or the royal offspring to grow into.

Daenera’s brow furrowed as she took a few steps into the chambers. There, she found Aemond casually leaning against a round table, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on its edge. As she approached, his gaze lifted to meet hers, brow rising slightly as his eye took her in.

“You look–”

Daenera swiftly interjected before Aemond could fully articulate his thought, her eyes briefly shifting back to Lady Mertha, who lingered at the entrance of the chamber. Mud coated Mertha's hands and climbed nearly to her elbows, with splatters marring her face and her hair in disarray, strands escaping the confines of her usually meticulous bun. Her dress, soaked at the knees and hem, clung to her form in a sorry state.

"Yes, I agree," Daenera acknowledged, locking eyes with Mertha, whose scowl deepened at the observation. "Lady Mertha does indeed appear rather unfortunate, but we must overlook it," she continued with a sly tone. "Unfortunately, the gods were not generous, and today's rain has done her no favors."

Turning back to Aemond with a more formal demeanor, Daenera added, "You must excuse our appearance. The weather outside is truly dreadful."

The thunder growled ominously above, punctuating her words, while a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room through the windows. Aemond paused, his eyes tracing Daenera's sodden figure. His head tilted contemplatively as he ventured, “Perhaps you wish to change—”

“Thank you for your concern, but you made it clear that you wished to speak with me, urgently,” Daenera replied, her voice steady despite the chill that clung to her wet clothes. She brushed a hand along the heavy fabric of her skirt, fighting the urge to shiver as the cold began to bite deeper. Her gaze remained fixed on his.

Aemond watched her intently for a moment, then his voice softened, "I thought you might wish to lend your voice on the matter of preparing our marital chambers.”

A frown creased her brow, his words slowly sinking in, as she repeated softly, almost to herself, “Marital chambers…”

Her gaze finally moved from Aemond to the activity within the room. Servants were busy at work, one teetering on a ladder as he carefully removed the heavy curtains from the windows, likely preparing them for washing. Others swept the floors briskly and striked the fire in the large hearth, bringing a flicker of life and warmth into the space. There were servants coming and going with buckets of water and fresh linens, some dusting the shelves and carefully placing the decorations back in their place.

A heavy thud echoed in her chest, her heart pounding as a wave of understanding washed over her. She swallowed hard, her stomach twisting at the thought that they would share these chambers, that she would have to relinquish her own personal chambers–however violated that sanctuary was, it had still been hers. It had somehow never truly crossed her mind.

A sense of dread settled in her stomach as she took in the room–the large hearth at the end of it, with two chairs set up in front of it and the two settees framing a small table between them at the center of the common room, then drew to the long table behind Aemond and casting a glance toward what would be their bedchamber, hidden behind ornately carved screens that gave the hints of what was within.

“It's considerate of you to ask for her input, my prince, but I'm certain the Queen Mother will arrange the chambers to your satisfaction–”

“These will be our chambers, Lady Mertha, not my mother’s,” Aemond interjected, his voice gentle yet firm, a tone he often adopted. His gaze shifted dismissively from Mertha back to Daenera, observing her with careful attention.

Daenera inhaled deeply, masking her discomfort with a practiced smile. “Thank you, my prince. I will give it some thought, but if there's nothing more, I would like to retire to my chambers now.”

As she turned to leave, her movement was halted by his voice calling out her name, “Ābrazȳrys.”

Daenera closed her eyes for a moment, letting the word sink into her heart with a volatile gentleness, like the caress of claws tearing it apart and feeding it to the flames of her anger. Her voice was hard and forcibly even as she bit out, “Do not call me that. I am Princess Daenera, if you must call me anything.”

“Daenera,” he answered, so softly that she wished he had not spoken at all.

A shudder coursed through her, her heart skipping a beat at the softness of her name on his lips, wrapping around her like a silken thread. She stood still, the storm outside a mere whisper compared to the tempest within her. The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls closing in as the intensity of the moment pressed down on her.

With a wary expression, she turned to face him. Aemond straightened, leaning more purposefully against the table. His gaze was sharp, slicing through the air like a blade, grazing against her carefully maintained composure. He seemed eager to cut through the layers of formality she wore like armor, aiming to uncover the raw wounds of her thoughts beneath. Daenera stared back at him coldly, her eyes expectant and unyielding.

Aemond’s gaze remained on her as he commanded, “Leave us.”

The servants hastily abandoned their tasks and scurried out the room, their gazes lowered as they passed by Aemond, and then Daenera–she held his gaze, eyes burning with defiance.

“Mertha, would you be so kind as to arrange for a warm bath? It won’t be long,” Daenera dismissed the vulture hovering over her shoulder.

When Mertha hesitated, Aemond finally shifted his sharp gaze from Daenera to her. His decisive glare was enough to send Mertha scurrying away–the sounds of her hurried, wet footsteps and the heavy, sodden fabric of her garments dragging across the floor echoed through the room as she departed. Daenera felt the change as his eye left her, like a shadow lifting, and she breathed a bit more easily. She turned her attention to the room, noting the sudden quiet as Aemond moved past her to close the doors behind the departing servants. The silence settled heavily in the room, accentuating the tension that lingered in the air.

Her dress dragged heavily over the stone as she descended the two steps into the common room, the weight of the damp fabric creating a soft, sloshing sound with each movement. The only other sound there was was the rain outside and Aemond’s steps as he lingered behind her. Her eyes swept across the space, taking in the unfamiliar layout–the crackling fire in the hearth, the rich tapestries adorning a few of the walls or being prepared to be mounted, and the plush cushions arranged neatly in the chairs arranged before the fire.

She paused, her gaze lifting to the inner corner of the room, where a stately chest of drawers lined the walls, reaching all the way to the ceiling. The chest, made of dark polished wood, seemed to almost gleam in the dim light, small nooks set into each drawer for easy pull-out. As she approached, her fingers brushed over the smooth surface of the round table propped up between the drawers, the wood cool and solid beneath her touch, yet unblemished by cuts and spills as her own had been.

A small frown creased her brow as her fingers curled into one of the nooks of a drawer. She pulled it open, the wood sliding with a soft creak, and the sweet, earthy scent of comfrey wafted up from the dried leaves hidden within. The aroma was soothing, a familiar comfort would have eased her nerves did she not feel his gaze on her.

Daenera sensed his presence behind her, the weight of his gaze tracing her every movement. It prickled against the nape of her neck, like the soft caress of a shadow, sending an involuntary shiver through her body–she felt a chill run down her spine, as if a cold claw had trailed along the curve of her spine, and the dampness of her soaked clothes only deepened the sensation.

“Your herbs,” Aemond hummed quietly, his voice a low murmur that broke the heavy silence. “I had the Maesters procure what you might need so you can prepare your teas and draughts.”

Daenera’s fingers paused over the open drawer, the earthy scent mingling with the cold air. She took a moment to absorb his words–felt them settle heavily within her as her eyes roamed over the chest of drawers, each promising to be full. It was a small comfort, a touch of familiarity in an otherwise unsettling environment.

Slowly, she turned to face him, her expression carefully neutral as she clung to her formalities, and she nodded slightly, “Thank you, my prince. It is… considerate of you.”

She could see her formality needle at him, a subtle tightening of his jaw betraying his annoyance. Daenera averted her gaze, biting the inside of her cheek as she pushed the drawer closed. The words ‘how gracious of you’ died on her tongue, swallowed to fester in the pit of her stomach.

Daenera moved past the fire, feeling its warmth briefly seep into her damp skirts before the chill reclaimed them as she continued. The contrast made the cold feel even sharper, the damp fabric of her skirts clung uncomfortably to her legs, and with each step, water and mud squelched between her toes–a sensation she detested. She trailed mud and water across the newly swept floors, leaving a messy path behind her as she came to stand before the windows. The gardens and Blackwater Bay lay hidden beneath a curtain of rain and clouds, the usual splendor of the landscape reduced to shadowy outlines and indistinct shapes. Raindrops streaked down the glass, blurring the outside world even further.

The view, she supposed, would be quite beautiful on a clearer day, with the gardens in full bloom and the bay glittering under the sun. But today, the relentless downpour and gray skies mirrored the dismal tension within the room, adding to her sense of unease and confinement.

Daenera traced the path along the outer wall, where windows, now bare from the removal of drapes, allowed the muted light from the overcast sky to filter through. She ascended the steps again to the long table, noticing a bowl of fruits at its center, awaiting the evening meal. Along the wall leading to the archway of the bedchamber, shelves brimming with books had been mounted.

Her fingers glided over the leather spines, recognizing some as her own and others belonging to Aemond–books that had once cluttered his tables, towering as he diligently studied each one. She let her gaze wander through the room once more before settling back on the shelves, pulling out one of his books–a volume of ‘Watchers on the Wall’ by Archmaester Harmune.

“Your books and mine,” Aemond remarked, his voice drawing her attention. He had taken up a position against the round table opposite where he had initially greeted her. His eye were fixed on her, observing her movements with the same intensity one might reserve for a pet exploring its new surroundings.

“These are the only things of yours here,” Daenera noted coolly, glancing up from the book’s cover, where a crown of ice was embossed in silver on the leather. She watched Aemond through her eyelashes, feeling the chill seep further into her skin. Then, it scarcely qualifies as a marital chambers, does it?"

The room’s flickering firelight cast long shadows, the sound of rain pelting the window adding to the oppressive atmosphere–thick and damp and suffocating. Her eyes remained fixed on Aemond, who returned it with his own intensity.

Aemond tilted his head slightly, his eye appraising. “I cannot have my blades here,” he answered, voice steady and measured. “They would not be appropriate in a shared space meant for us.”

A derisive scoff escaped Daenera's lips. “Why not?”

She abandoned the book on the table, stepping towards Aemond with deliberate slowness, her fingernail trailing over the polished wood surface until it reached the edge. Now that they were alone, she felt her formal composure unraveling under his persistent gaze, each thread slowly cutting away and reopening the wounds he had left her with.

“Are you afraid I might use them on you?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Her head tilted slightly as she scrutinized his reaction. “Wait until you fall asleep and take your other eye?”

Aemond’s gaze hardened. The tension between them crackled like thunder in the air, the distance closing as Daenera stood her ground, defiance etched in every line of her posture.

"Or do you fear that the very thought of marrying you is so intolerable to me that I might use them to slit my wrists?" Daenera pressed on, her voice cutting through the thick tension between them. She noted a subtle shift in his demeanor, a flicker of unease shadowing his features–a thread of something she couldn’t quite decipher. "Or perhaps after you've finished off my family? Believe me, if I intended to end my life, being deprived of your blades would hardly stop me–an open window would suffice."

Aemond's reaction was immediate; his gaze shifted away, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he gritted his teeth, lips thin and sharp.

“You are the kinslayer, not I. I will not curse myself by becoming one,” Daenera spat at him, her voice filled with venom. “However much you and your treacherous family deserve to die…”

Aemond’s expression hardened, but he maintained his composure. “I cannot have all of my things here–the maps and plans I have, and my swords,” he said, his voice measured. “I cannot trust you with them, as you well know.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the heat from the hearth battling bravely against the chill that crept along the floors. Daenera’s eyes burned with defiance as she faced Aemond, the tension between them as palpable and dense as the sheets of rain battering against the windows.

“Not much of a marriage then, is it?” Daenera needled, her words seeming to burrow beneath his skin as he glowered at her, gripping the edge of the table tightly.

Their gazes remained locked, the tension between them crackling like distant thunder. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room through the windows, casting stark shadows across his face, followed closely by a resounding crack of thunder that seemed to shake the very air around them.

Finally, Daenera broke the intense stare, her gaze drifting through the archway into the adjoining bedchamber–their bedchambers. She moved into the room, feeling the warmth from the hearth contrast sharply with the chill that swept in from the windows, creeping along the stone floor. By the hearth stood a bathing tub, its copper surface gleaming, flanked by a stool and a small table holding a neatly folded piece of cloth and an array of familiar oils. A comfortable chair had been set up by the fire as well, turned slightly towards the tub, with a little table at its side.

In one corner, a desk stood with a chair neatly tucked underneath it. The desk was well-organized, with quills and parchments ready for use, and a small, ornate inkpot gleaming in the firelight. Shelves above the desk held an array of books–most of these Aemonds.

The bed itself was constructed from sturdy dark wood, with two tall spires at the corners of the headboard, spiraling upwards. It was larger than her own, adorned with a spread of silk and cotton blankets neatly arranged across the mattress, and atop the blankets lay several of her dresses, yet to be put away–her own dresses, their familiar fabrics and colors a strange reminder of her displacement. Her fingers brushed over the fabric of her dark blue dress, adorned with vines of silver embroidery.

Her eyes lifted to the painting framed by the spires of the bed, noting how the bed had been pulled away from the wall to give the artist space to complete the new mural. The mural depicted a castle rising from the ground, its walls darkened and molten by fire as a dragon unleashed a torrent of dragonfire upon it. Harrenhal.

“You’re having Harrenhal painted above our bed?” Daenera questioned, glancing over her shoulder to see Aemond leaning casually against the stone pillar of the archway, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I thought it suitable,” Aemond answered, his voice smooth, a twist to his lips. “It is part of your heritage after all…” He pushed off the pillar and strode towards her. As soon as he reached the end of the bed, Daenera moved away, out of his reach. His expression darkened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “And I shall soon claim it.”

Daenera exhaled, shaking her head, her eyes returning to the half-finished mural. “If Daemon does not take it first.”

“If he does, he won’t hold it for long,” Aemond drawled, his hands folding behind his back, holding himself with an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance. “I will take it from him.”

Harrenhal seemed not a place to be easily claimed and much less easy to hold, Daenera thought. There was something twisted about the castle—haunted, as it was said to be. And cursed. It seemed almost like an entity unto itself.

"Then you will die there," Daenera mused, her voice light yet laden with dark foreboding as she drifted closer to the dressing table. "Daemon is likely to take your head."

"He may try," Aemond retorted, a thread of confidence woven into his soft drawl, unperturbed by the grim possibility of Daemon Targaryen severing his head from his body. "But he grows old and slow."

"Your arrogance will be the death of you," she replied, turning sharply towards him. Her gaze was icy, piercing through the air between them like a cold blade. "He merely needs to approach you from the right angle—then you won't even see him coming."

Daenera’s fingers brushed over the items on the dressing table, her touch light yet purposeful, while Aemond remained rooted behind her, his posture unwavering. “If you so desire to gaze upon Harrenhal before bed, then mayhaps you should sleep in your own chambers, as it seems you are to keep them.”

Her frown deepened as she reached for one of the many familiar bottles lined up on the dressing table. She picked up a pink one, pulling out the cork. The scent of rosemary oil and lavender wafted up, filling her nostrils as she inhaled deeply. Tears stung her eyes–he had returned her perfumes and oils, those familiar bottles whose contents she had made herself.

The scent seemed to claw at the back of her throat as she placed the bottle back down, her gaze shifting to the nearby chest. Opening it, she discovered her own jewelry. Her fingers traced over the pearls that had adorned her hair during her first wedding, brushing over the small shell hidden in the corner. Baela had brought the shell on one of her visits from Driftmark, having found it on the beach. Its interior shimmered with a deep, iridescent purple. She’d hidden it in her jewelry chest to keep Joffrey from getting his hands on it, the boy having once snatched it from her table and run away with it.

Daenera's fingers brushed against the cold steel of a necklace—a piece her mother had once lent her. The dark steel was intricately wrought into three interconnected circles with a ruby set at its center. She withdrew it from the box, her thumb tracing the smooth gem, feeling the metal warm beneath her touch. As a child, she had been captivated by it, frequently sneaking it out of her mother's collection until she was finally allowed to keep it in her own jewelry box.

She was jolted from her reverie by the sound of his approaching footsteps. His voice was soft, almost tender, "Let me help you put it on."

With a sudden motion, Daenera tossed the necklace back into the jewelry chest and slammed the lid shut. The sound echoed sharply in the room, and she heard him release a breath, a subtle sigh that spoke of his resignation.

“You may decorate our chambers as you see fit,” Aemond asserted, his voice as smooth and soft as silk, and had she been able to fully appreciate it, she might have noticed a thread of plea weaving through his words.

Daenera drew in a tight breath, feeling as though her lungs couldn't fully expand, her ribs tightening painfully around them as her heart twisted within her chest. She understood that his actions were meant as a kindness, a gesture to ease the pain he had caused her—but she couldn't so easily forget.

“Do you believe that returning my possessions will earn you my forgiveness for forcing me into this position?” Daenera asked incredulously, her voice edged with bitterness. “Do you think changing the drapes or adding a new rug will make this any less of a prison?”

She abandoned the dressing table, her wet skirts dragging heavily across the floor, leaving a damp trail in their wake. “No matter how many comforts you allow me, this remains a cage.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as Daenera met his eye. His gaze was sharp and piercing, the color of it a steely gray, colder and more intimidating than the shade of blue it usually held. The chill in his look seemed to seep into the air around them, adding a tangible tension that hung heavily between them.He stared at her, offering no glimpse of what, if anything, lay beneath–a gaping void or a soul festering with cruelty.

Daenera took a moment to gather herself, retreating into the familiar coldness of formality. She straightened her posture, standing tall and regal, embodying the highborn lady and princess she was. Her head was held high, her neck stretched gracefully, and her shoulders pushed back. The chill of her wet dress had seeped so deeply into her skin that she felt ice, but she used that coldness to bolster her resolve.

“I thank you for your consideration,” she said, her voice steady and composed. “My only request for our marital chambers is that there should be no seven-pointed star emblems.” She couldn’t stand to look at one more seven-pointed fucking star. “Should any more be added to the Red Keep, it will soon resemble a sept.”

With that she walked past him, her heart feeling hollow and her chest aching.

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