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brownblob · 11 months ago

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"I Love You"

When the words "I love you" spill from the prefect's lips, how do the Housewardens react?

Part 1

TW: Kissing in Malleus' part, forehead kisses, mentions of insecurities (Fluff)

Part 2 (Separate): Kalim Al-Asim, Vil Schoenheit, Idia Shroud, Malleus Draconia

ᥫ᭡. Kalim Al-Asim ᥫ᭡.

Like the scorching sun in the Scalding Sands, Kalim's feelings for you burned deep within his heart. Why is it that he wants to spend time with you, but the moment he does, his heart seems to stop? Why is it that the word 'friend' bugs him when associated with you? Why is it that he wants to be selfish, to hog you for himself? His mind become's mush whenever you're near and his throat feels dry, he just feels so shy.

Kalim is everything but shy.

Expensive gifts, prized heirlooms, rare gemstones, and any luxury you could name- he'll give it all to you, so why do you reject? Anyone else would accept his gifts with open arms, encouraging him to give more. Wait, you aren't anyone, you're you. You don't take, you give. Despite the little you have in this new world, you who harbors no magic, gives him joy. You spend time with him, you care for him, and you don't take from him- he really wishes you would.

Take his riches and look back at him just one more time, he swears he'll hand you all the gold he can acquire. So please, please just look at him more.

You're caring, so much so that he could just melt in your arms. How lucky he feels when you look at him, but why? Jamil looks at him too, he doesn't feel as if mice are tickling him then. No, when you're around, all he can see is you. You who shines brighter than any gemstone his wealth could buy. You are not a prize to be won, he knows, but he wishes that the glitters of gold could woo you, make him your number one.

He feels so lost and it hurts, nights spent sobbing away.

Kalim, the name alone makes you smile. Someone who's kind despite all that he's faced, all the horrible people he's met- he still believes in the good of people. Some call it naivety, you call it 'a heart of gold'. Yes, he's sheltered, there's some things he's slow at, and he has flaws. Despite said flaws, he want to become better and you see him try every single day. You've seen how he makes everyone comfortable, always including anyone and everyone, how he's akin to a drop of sunshine. It's a rarity and you appreciate it greatly. Twisted Wonderland, it's new to you and things are difficult but when Kalim's there, things don't feel that difficult.

He doesn't look down upon you, he doesn't think you're weak despite having no magic, and he certainly never belittles you- others have and that hurt.

He's always up for some fun, but it always feels better when he can share the fun with you. Thus, flying carpet rides have become your nightly routine. There's a soft knock on your window every other night, a hand extended your way; calling you to live, be happy. You can't help but blush when the carpet takes off, his body huddles closer to yours and the moon seems tease you with how bright she is.

It's another night and he's come to pick you up to go see the Scarabia moon. You're sitting next to each other, the desert seemingly glowing underneath. The stars twinkle and you swear the breeze is cool on purpose, just so the both of you have no choice but to lean into each other. Hands intertwine, both of you looking the other way, cheeks red like cherries.

"I..I love you."

You fumble out on mistake, your breath hitching the moment you realize. His head whips towards you, garnet eyes appraising your blushing visage. A soft smile appears on his lips, his sun-kissed skin peachy with a blush of his own.

"I love you too."

He says eagerly, hands wrapping around you as he pulls you in. The moon looks bigger, the stars winking at you, and the scent of sandalwood engulfs you. A soft kiss is planted on your forehead, one that lingers. Like a pair of sea otters, you both hold the other's hand.

ᥫ᭡. Vil Schoenheit ᥫ᭡.

Center of attention, even the room's filled to the brim with pretty faces. Eyes the color of violets and a smile that's so striking, it could cut right through you. Just how a bright star commands everyone's admiration, Vil himself does exactly that. With beauty that's akin to a velvety rose, thorns sharp and drawing blood of the one who dares touch. He's not sure why he's so fond of you, really, it baffles him. Your constant babbling should bother him- your posture isn't perfect, you don't regularly use the products he recommends to you, and your diet could use improving.

He only recently realized the perfection of imperfection. That's what you are, like an abstract piece of art that can draw even the most elegant man's heart. Truly, you can take his breath and keep it, which is a difficult feat to accomplish. Yet, you seem to have done just that.

He doesn't like how drawn he is to you, the you who could improve so much. Nevertheless, he can't deny how his heart flutters when you ramble on and on, the words you spew seem like pearls to him. Undeniably, you've got his heart, and it bothers him.

Vil seems unreachable to you, as if he's a god and you're a follower. You can see him, but you can't touch. Everything about him is captivating- the way he moves, how he walks, how he talks, everything. You feel like a toad in front of him sometimes. Still, the reason your heart continues to flutter is not his beauty but how soft he can be. His words may be harsh, telling you to fix your posture or add a certain product to your skincare, but he means well. It used to irk you, how he pointed out your flaws, but he never touched an insecurity- it was never something you couldn't fix. Many times, he only tells you how to improve and that's in his nature. It started with you muttering curses under your breath, now all you do is give him a dopey smile as he flicks your forehead.

It's hard to love Vil, and you're sure that it's even harder to be loved by him. He's untouchable and you're not sure if he'll even spare you a glance. But, the nights you spend at his dorm, him tending to your skin as you blabber about your day. Or the few rarities when he opens up, speaking of his insecurities. It shows how human he is; how he too, can feel.

It's another night at his dorm, your skin's worsened as of late and Vil's ordered you to give him a visit. You sit at his vanity, the light's so bright that it could blind you, but what truly blinds you is Vil himself in all his glory. His dampened hair, the ends the color of wisteria, and the scent of patchouli just makes you want to melt right then and there. He strides over with a new product in his hand, carefully beginning to massage your face with it.

"I love you."

The words come out instantly, his hands stopping in motion as his violet eyes widen. A sheepish blush coats your face as you realize what you said. Your breath hitches, the fear of rejection drilling into your mind, and your heart drumming against your chest.

"That's quite bold of you, sweet potato.."

He lets out a small chuckle, eyes holding content. He leans closer before flicking you on the forehead gently.

"I love you too."

ᥫ᭡. Idia Shroud ᥫ᭡.

The buzz of video games, the stench on junk food, and an interest for oddities. Idia Shroud was a wallflower, yet you'd managed to befriend him, something he's truly grateful for- your presence. He liked you. You understood him, you never belittled him for what he enjoyed, in fact, you encouraged him to continue. No matter how good or bad you were at a game, you'd play alongside him. It didn't matter whether you enjoyed his rambles, you'd listen no matter what, before babbling on and on about something of your own interest. Nights like this, filled with games, reading manga, watching anime, and spending time with you- he never wanted these to end.

You were brave, so unlike him. You had no magic, still you managed to show courage, to fight against overblots. How he wished he was you, no, how he wished he was yours. The realization hit him like a truck in an isekai, quickly and out of nowhere. When he figured he liked you, he didn't let you anywhere near him for a week- opting to hide in his room and not leave. It took some convincing from Ortho and also the fact that you may dislike him if he ignored you, before he opened his doors for you once again. Nevertheless, he was skittish, averting his gaze from your face, and sitting on the other end of the couch when you visited. That worried you, you were sure you'd messed up big time and he became uneasy around you because of it. Thankfully everything became normal after two weeks, he was sure he wouldn't be able to recover.

The truth was, you liked him too. It was weird and something unforeseen, you both started out as friends- you'd visit his dorm, play games all night, munch on junk together, and then laugh at all the cringe characters in the current anime you both were binging on. Right now, you were experiencing that cheesy crush from a shoujo manga, and the feeling was messing with your brain.

The gloomy boy you pined for was everything but dreamy, somehow, that's what made him so charming to you. Hair an electric blue that flared up like flames, pale skin akin to porcelain, and eyes yellow like daffodils. His physicality was mesmerizing but there was so much more to his character too. He was passionate about what he enjoyed, jabbering on for hours about his interest, something that you didn't mind one bit. He was competitive, striking a triumphant grin whenever he'd win a game against you. He's prideful too, his creations making him an utter genius. At the same time, he held such emotion, a man who would never judge for he himself experienced the badmouthing of others.

There's just something about Idia, something that makes your cheeks flare up. You're not sure if he notices how his presence can make you skittish, how you become timid when he's near, and how divine he seems to you. He never notice how he makes you feel, how ironic that you become just like him when he's near.

Just like the usual, you're cooped up in his dorm alongside him. You've been binging an anime for the past few hours and the way he's so focused on the characters while you're so focused on him, it bothers you. He feels so close yet so far and the fact that you're having such thoughts about the whole situation, makes you feel stupid.

"I love you.."

You immediately pause at your own words, Idia pauses the show too. There's a long silence in the room and before you know it, Idia's moved far away from you. His hair's become an electric pink and his eyes are wide.

"W-w-w-what..!?"

He exclaims the words as if he's animated, the feeling of fluster surging throughout him. Were you playing a joke on him? This wasn't right, it couldn't be. His gaze averts the other way every time you look at him and he won't admit it, but he really hopes you're not joking.

"I love you, Idia."

You say again, softer this time and you yourself look the other way, peachy blush coating your face. You're cursing yourself for speaking up, palms sweaty and clammy. You feel dizzy and your breathing is erratic , the feeling's mutual. The room's silent again, no one says anything and the only sound either of you can hear is the buzz of the computer.

"I...I...I dove, no, love you too.."

He mutters out, fumbling his words while he does. You both look at each other, shy gaze. Your lips form a small smile, making Idia's hair flare an even brighter pink. His face is rosy and he'd rather not look at you but you're just so pretty that he can't help but look.

You're not sure how it things fell in place but he accepted your confession, and now you've somehow managed to cuddle up to him. He's stiff but that's fine, the mere fact that he's holding your hand tightly is enough to reassure you. That, and how smug he looks.

ᥫ᭡. Malleus Draconia ᥫ᭡.

Child of man, you truly are peculiar. Malleus Draconia, the name alone makes millions, if not billions, tremble to the bone. He holds such unrivaled power that the thought alone is fearsome- he is fearsome.

A monster, that's what many would call him, but you don't. No one dares approach him as carelessly as you do, a bumbling smile on your lips as you walk next to him without a care in the world. Do you truly not know what he's capable of? 'Tsunotaro', that's what you've named him- quite bold of you, not that he minds. Please continue to enlighten him about human practices, he's interested in every thing you have to say.

Loneliness is a disease that he's suffered from since his childhood. It's second nature to be alone with his own presence, silence a bandage that covers but doesn't heal his wounds. Yet, the way you come to him, invite him to all your little events, how you choose him. How can he be lonely when he has you?

You, who is so bright like a star coated in gold- is he even allowed to go near you? It feels as if you'll break in his hands, yet you seem so brave, putting yourself in danger with a smile. You've got his heart in your hands and it hurts that you don't realize.

'Friend' was a word he grew to love, knowing the special bond you shared. Nevertheless, it's the same word that has caused Diasomnia to have horrible whether for the past week- you're a friend to many but a lover to none. Be his, child of man, he's the only one worthy enough to call you his.

Since the day of his realization, Malleus follows you as a second shadow would. Now, no one with ill intentions would dare approach what he's already considered his. Truly, how precious you are. Giving him small shiny pebbles you find, trying to tuck daisies into his hair but being unable to reach his head, and the times you try to tease him as a joke, making the silliest of faces. Please tell him that he's the only one who has the honor of seeing you in such various forms. Dragons are hoarders, you know? And he wants nothing but to hoard you all for himself.

Spending time with your Tsunotaro is always fulfilling. His knowledge on gargoyles, the depth in which he speaks of them and how little he knows of human interactions. It all makes your heart flutter, eliciting a smile on your lips. It's not difficult to have feelings for someone such as him, it comes naturally. He seems so intimidating, dangerous even and it's not that he's not- he is, but there's so much more to him. He's curious, always listening to what you have to say. He's sweet, always handing you gifts whether small or unimaginably grand. And the manner in which he speaks, the elegance he holds, he's just as charming as any prince in a book- if not more.

When you began actually having feelings for him, all his words seemed to make your mind all fuzzy. Could he really not tell how his vocabulary affected you? 'My dear', 'my love', and all other forms of endearments had become a usual, so much so, that it felt right.

You went on walks with him, spotting gargoyles and chatting about them. Sometimes you drag him to picnics with and he happily follows, letting you braid his ebony hair. Still, not everything you shared seemed friend-like, and if it was, you didn't want it to be. The way his emerald eyes gazed over you, how his touch lingered so gently, and how his lips brushed agains your ear when he said he'll keep you safe. It couldn't mean nothing, you didn't want it to.

A walk in a meadow at nighttime, how strange, but also the daily for you. You walk alongside Malleus, skittish and timid- this isn't how you usually act. The moon's peeking out from under the clouds and casting a silver sheen on all that it lands on. Fireflies scurry around slowly, the cool night air making you feel at ease- but it's not enough.

Your face is flushed and you won't meet his gaze, he's not sure what he did wrong. His frame towers behind you as you seem to walk quicker, increasing your pace. Hurt, that's what he feels; did you start seeing him as a monster too?

You can't leave, please- he'll beg if he has to, give you all of what he has and can create. Promise you'll stay, and don't ever leave.

Then you pause, turning around as you take deliberate steps towards him. You look up, your smaller frame covered by his daunting shadow.

"I love you, Tsunotaro."

You say with a certain melancholy in your voice, as if you know he'll reject you and your love. How could he ever think of rejecting? He'd rather pierce his own heart and bleed to death than ever think of rejecting any of your words.

His viridescent eyes widen, the glow of them seeming intense. His hands holds you in place gently, he seems to be staring at you, looking you as if you're the most fragile piece of glass. The words don't spill out of his lips and you look more desolate by the second- he seemingly can't speak, he's not sure if this is but a dream.

"I love you too, child of man. So much that you wouldn't believe it."

His hands wrap you in a desperate embrace, almost as desperate as the words he'd just managed to choke out. It was as if you would wither away if he let go, as if he was making sure you were not a dream.

Your own eyes widen, lips parting shock at his words. The night seems magical and his embrace is sincere. He pries away from you only to look at you more, all your expressions- please continue to show such faces to only him. Only he should see you like this, with your face flushed red and eyes widened as you stare at him as though he's the only man in the world. His hands seem shaky, unlike who he usually is.

No, he seems so vulnerable and you seem to be his vulnerability.

Everything seems alright when you're there, he doesn't feel loneliness; far from it, actually. He doesn't feel like a monster when you love him, when your own arms loosely wrap around his neck as you pull him in for a soft kiss- no, monster's don't get such luxuries.

Note: If you enjoyed this, please interact with this post, my blog, and reblog! Any kind gestures are greatly appreciated! Thank you!

Note 2: Please reblog, even if you don't press like on the post. Reblogs help a ton more!

Note 3: I didn't expect the last part to get so much attention, thank you so much everyone. I greatly appreciate everyone's interactions with my posts! As of now, I'll be working on requests and maybe some other ideas! (I really hope this part 2 is good too)

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jd-loves-fiction · 5 months ago

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hello hello i’m sneaking in for the Contes De Fees~ maybe i have Malleus, with aftercare from their first time? can be nsfw or just fluff, your choice~

💐Surprised Malleus didnt get like... all the requests 😅 Here's something cute for ya :) turned out a little short tho

❧ Hold me in return

❧ Malleus leans over you, panting as harshly as you do – pride swells within you at the thought that could affect such a being in the same way he does you.

His hot breath fans over the side of your neck, his long hair tickling your skin as you relax, letting go of your tight grip on his cape upon which you lay.

The sky is dark as his hair, stars as bright as his eyes which watch you silently as you gather your thoughts. The moment is broken when you shift and feel the evidence of your coupling, as he called it, sliding down your thighs. Suddenly, everything is sticky, gross and just too much.

Your disgust must show on your face because without a moment’s hesitation, Malleus scoops you up, hands under your knees and back, and cradles you to his broad, milky chest, “Mal–”

“I believe cleaning up is required after such… activities.” The hesitation in his voice comes from a place of amused mocking, not shyness, as is the fae way. You nod wordlessly, too tired to produce one of the reactions he delights in seeing.

He carries you with all the grace of a prince, arms strong around your weakened body, despite how weak he'd turned when leaned over you just a few minutes ago.

The lake you'd laid by shines with the light of the moon and stars, utterly unreal in its visage, were you not in the arms of a fae prince at this very moment. He steps into the water elegantly, lowering the both of you down into the cool waters together. You shiver slightly at the temperature and he clutches you closer in response, though the view around you is simply otherworldly, his eyes do not stray from you.

You help bathe each other in peaceful silence, observing one another now that the high has faded. Malleus sits back against the lake's edge once he feels your body grow lax and your eyes grow heavy, pulling you to his chest while delicately brushing your hair back from your face.

For a man so imposing, a man to whom nature itself bows down, he's as gentle as can be with you – aware of your human fragility.

Perhaps it is not such an odd thing, his gentle protectiveness, given his true inner nature. He just needed someone who'd hold him in return and never let go.

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melanchoire · 27 days ago

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THE EDGE OF THE GLORY ──── jang wonyoung.

── ( 👜 ) jang wonyoung, the untouchable darling of the k–pop world, finds her meticulously crafted facade crumbling after a fiery argument with her long-suffering stylist exposes the raw vulnerability and anger hidden beneath the surface, threatening to unravel her career and leaving her questioning if the price of perfection is worth sacrificing her sanity.

pairing. mean dom!idol!gp jang wonyoung x sub!stylist!fem reader

warning(s). blowjob, breeding + creampie, clit play, cunnilingus, degradation, fingering, hair pulling, making out, multiple orgasms, nipple play, throat fucking, wonyoung being the “mean girl” that the antis talk so much about.

word count. 5,5k

request? no.

the fluorescent lights of the dressing room hummed, a sterile counterpoint to the vibrant chaos within. makeup artists swarmed around the ive members, their brushes dancing across faces, transforming them into the flawless idols the world adored. jang wonyoung sat rigidly in her chair, her usual doll–like features pulled into a tight frown.

being jang wonyoung was a gilded cage. she was a star, a name whispered with reverence, a face plastered on billboards and magazines. from the moment she’d stepped onto the produce 48 stage, her charisma had captivated the public. now, years later, that initial spark had ignited into a blaze, making her one of the most sought–after idols in south korea.

but the blaze was fueled by relentless pressure. schedules were unforgiving, a constant blur of photoshoots, music shows, variety appearances, and fan events. sleep was a luxury, a stolen hour here and there. the line between wonyoung the idol and jang wonyoung the young woman had blurred, almost to the point of disappearing altogether.

wonyoung sighed, the sound barely audible amidst the bustling chaos of ive’s dressing room. the university performance loomed, a dark cloud on her already bleak horizon. she stared at her reflection, a flawless visage staring back, yet the eyes held a storm of discontent. being jang wonyoung, the nation’s darling, was an exhausting performance in itself. the constant smiles, the perfect poses, the endless schedule — it was a gilded cage she longed to escape, if only for a moment.

today, however, the cage felt particularly constricting. her gaze flicked towards you, her stylist. your hands hovered around a clothing rack overflowing with shimmering fabrics and intricate designs. you were relatively new to the team, and wonyoung had yet to fully gauge your intentions. was it purely professional, or did you fall into the category of people who treated her more like a commodity than a person?

you pulled out a skirt. It was undeniably eye–catching, a vibrant shade of fuchsia, embellished with sequins that caught the light. but even from across the room, wonyoung could tell it was short. painfully short. and tight.

her frown deepened. “is that...really the outfit you chose?” she asked, her voice laced with a delicate edge that could slice through steel.

you turned from the rack of clothes, a smile playing on your lips. you were proud of the outfit you’d chosen — a vibrant, youthful ensemble perfect for a university performance. “yes, wonyoung–ssi. i think it looks fantastic on you! the bright colors will really pop on stage, and it’s playful, just right for the occasion.”

wonyoung’s eyes narrowed slightly. youthful and energetic? was that supposed to be a compliment? she was barely an adult herself. sometimes, she felt like everyone wanted to keep her perpetually frozen in that image of the innocent, wide–eyed girl from produce 48.

“energetic is good.” she conceded, her tone still cool. “but comfort is also important. we’re performing, remember? i need to be able to move. is this really necessary?” she asked, her voice laced with a cool indifference that belied the frustration simmering within.

you turned, a polite smile gracing your lips. “just making sure we have everything ready, wonyoung–ssi. we want you to look your absolute best.”

wonyoung’s lips curled into a sardonic smile. “my best? or what do you think is my best?”

the air in the room seemed to thicken. ive’s other members, usually a cacophony of laughter and chatter, seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere and quieted down, their eyes darting nervously between wonyoung and you.

“of course, your best.” you replied, your voice carefully neutral. “we always take your preferences into consideration.”

“do you?” wonyoung challenged, her eyes narrowing. she gestured to the offending skirt, a minuscule scrap of fabric barely covering her thighs. “because this… this doesn’t exactly scream ‘wonyoung’s preference.’”

you winced inwardly. you knew this outfit was a risk, pushing the boundaries of wonyoung’s usual sophisticated style towards something more overtly… provocative. but the head stylist had insisted, citing a “youthful and energetic” concept for the university performance. now, you were paying the price.

“the concept for today is a bit more… dynamic.” you explained, trying to maintain a professional demeanor. “we thought it would suit the energy of the performance.”

wonyoung scoffed, the sound sharp and derisive. “dynamic? i have to dance in that thing! i’ll be lucky if i don’t trip and fall on my face.”

“ive isn’t a dance–focused group, wonyoung–ssi. and you aren’t a main dancer. the choreography isn’t overly strenuous. besides, the skirt is lined, and we can add some safety shorts underneath for extra security…” you held up the skirt again, your smile faltering slightly under her intense gaze. “i understand, but the designer specifically wanted you to wear this piece. it’s part of their new collection, and it would be a great opportunity for exposure.”

wonyoung’s lips curled into a barely perceptible sneer. exposure. that was always the excuse. Her body, her image, treated as a tool for someone else’s gain.

wonyoung stood up from her chair and walked towards you, her movements deliberate and measured. the playful glint in her eye was replaced with a storm. “so, because i’mm not the ‘main dancer’ i don’t deserve comfortable clothes?” she asked, her voice dangerously low. “is that what you're implying?”

“and exposure is nice.” she said, her voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm. “but i think my performance might suffer if i’m too busy worrying about whether my skirt is riding up every two seconds. wouldn’t you agree?”

you fiddled with the skirt, your nervousness palpable. “we can make alterations. lengthen it a little, add some inner lining for more security… we can add some safety shorts underneath, wonyoung–ssi. it’ll be fine.”

“alterations?” wonyoung repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “so now we’re admitting it’s a problem? why wasn’t this considered before?”

you bit back a sigh. this was becoming increasingly difficult. you understood her frustration, but her constant condescension was starting to wear thin.

“we try our best to anticipate these things.” you said, choosing your words carefully. “but sometimes adjustments are necessary.”

“your best isn’t good enough.” wonyoung retorted, her eyes flashing. “honestly, sometimes i wonder if you even know what you're doing.”

the words hung in the air, heavy with venom. the other ive members shifted uncomfortably, their gazes fixed on the floor. you felt a surge of anger rising within you, but you fought it down, reminding yourself that she was the client, the star, the one who called the shots.

you felt a knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach. you hadn’t meant to offend her, but you could see that your words had struck a nerve. “no, that’s not what i meant at all!” you quickly said. “i just meant that the outfit is designed to be visually appealing and appropriate for the performance. i wouldn’t put you in anything that would make you uncomfortable or compromise your performance.”

“oh, really? because i feel very uncomfortable right now.” sonyoung said, her tone dripping with venom. ”i feel like i’m being treated like a prop, like my comfort and opinions don’t matter. just another pretty face to be dressed up and paraded around.”

you were starting to feel defensive. you poured so much effort into your work, trying to balance the demands of the industry with the comfort and preferences of the idols you worked with. “wonyoung–ssi, that’s not fair. i always try to consider your preferences. you know that.”

“do you?” wonyoung challenged, her eyes blazing. “because it doesn’t feel like it. it feels like you’re more concerned with what looks good in pictures than how i actually feel.”

the dressing room was silent for a moment, the tension thick and suffocating. you took a deep breath, trying to remain professional. “i’m sorry you feel that way, wonyoung–ssi. but i assure you, that’s not my intention. i’m just trying to do my job.”

“and what is your job, (y/n)–ssi?” wonyoung snapped, her voice rising. “to make me look pretty and shut up? to blindly follow the company’s instructions without considering my feelings? is that what you think your job is?”

you had reached your limit. you were tired, overworked, and underappreciated. you had bent over backwards to accommodate wonyoung’s demands in the past, often sacrificing your own creative vision in the process. but her constant negativity and condescending attitude were becoming unbearable.

“my job is to make you look your best while adhering to the overall concept and guidelines set by the company.” you retorted, your voice trembling slightly. “and quite frankly, i think you look amazing in everything. but it seems like nothing i do is ever good enough for you.”

wonyoung scoffed, turning away from you with a dismissive wave of her hand. “oh, please. don’t try to make me feel sorry for you. you’re getting paid to do this. it’s not like you’re doing me a favor.”

your blood boiled. “that’s not the point, wonyoung! i pour my heart and soul into my work. i spend countless hours researching trends, sourcing materials, and putting together outfits that i think will complement you and ive. and all i get in return is constant criticism and disrespect.”

wonyoung whirled around, her face contorted with anger. “disrespect? you think i’m being disrespectful? you’re the one who’s being disrespectful! you’re just a stylist, (y/n)–ssi! you’re supposed to do what i tell you to do. you don’t get to have an opinion.”

the words hung in the air, heavy and stinging. you stared at wonyoung, your heart pounding in your chest. it was one thing to be frustrated or demanding, but to be so dismissive and belittling was simply unacceptable.

“i assure you, wonyoung–ssi, i am a professional.” you replied, your voice tight. “i take my job very seriously.”

“do you?” wonyoung challenged, taking a step closer, her eyes locking onto yours. “because it doesn’t seem like it. you’re always fumbling, always forgetting things, always making excuses. honestly, it’s embarrassing.”

you felt your cheeks flush with heat. this was beyond constructive criticism; this was a personal attack. you had worked tirelessly to meet her demands, often sacrificing your own time and well–being to ensure she was always perfectly styled. and this was the thanks you received?

“i am doing my best.” you repeated, your voice trembling slightly. “i am always available and try hard at my job.”

wonyoung tilted her head, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “your best? that’s a pretty low bar, isn’t it?”

“wonyoung—”

“one last thing. if ihave a problem with my wardrobe on stage, you’ll face the consequences.”

and that’s how you ended up here.

“i’ve been thinking about your filthy mouth all day, (y/n).” she growled, her hand sliding up to tangle in your hair, gripping it tightly. “and now i’m going to ruin it.”

wonyoung crashed her lips against yours in a brutal, demanding kiss, her tongue forcing its way into your mouth to claim and explore. at the same time, her other hand drifted down to palm your ass, squeezing the firm globe possessively.

she ripped her mouth away from yours to attack your neck with biting kisses, sucking dark marks into your sensitive skin. “get on your knees.” she commanded breathlessly, her voice rough with lust. “i’m going to fuck that dirty mouth of yours until you choke on my cock, you filthy girl.” wonyoung’s hand tangled tighter in your hair as she forced your head down, pushing you to your knees on the rough ground of the dressing room. her other hand fumbled with the button of her skirt, roughly yanking them open and shoving them down her long, toned legs along with her lacy black panties.

“open your mouth, (y/n).” she hissed, freeing her already hard, thick cock. it bobbed in front of your face, the musky scent of her arousal filling your nostrils. “i’m going to fuck your pretty face until you gag on my dick, you dirty slut.”

she grabbed your hair with both hands now, gripping it like a handle as she rubbed the leaking tip of her cock against your soft, plump lips. “don’t you dare try to close it. take it all like a good whore.” wonyoung growled, her voice dripping with dark promise.

with a swift, brutal thrust of her hips, she shoved her thick cock past your lips and into the hot, wet cavern of your mouth. she didn’t stop until she had forced it down your throat, until she could feel your nose pressing against her pelvis and your chin resting against her balls.

wonyoung groaned in dark satisfaction, her fingers twisting painfully in your hair as she held you in place, your nose buried in her crotch. “fuck yes, take that cock, you dirty bitch.” she snarled, her hips already starting to move, to fuck your face with hard, brutal thrusts.

she used your mouth like a cock sleeve, ruthlessly slamming her thick dick in and out, hitting the back of your throat with every thrust. drool leaked from the corners of your stretched lips, tears springing to your eyes as she fucked your face without mercy in the dressing room. wonyoung grinned wickedly as she felt your throat constricting around her pistoning cock, your desperate gagging and choking only spurring her on. she fucked your face with wild abandon, grunting and growling like an animal in heat.

wonyoung’s balls slapped obscenely against your chin with every violent thrust, your eyes watering and throat burning as she used your mouth ruthlessly. she showed no mercy, fucking your face with a single–minded hunger, determined to paint your insides white with her hot seed. “fuck, your throat feels so good squeezing my cock.” she panted harshly, her grip on your hair tightening as she slammed into you particularly hard. “i’m going to fill this dirty mouth with so much cum, you filthy slut. fuck, i can’t wait to make you choke on it…”

she punctuated her words with sharp snaps of her hips, each thrust pushing her closer to the edge. your jaw ached and your lungs screamed for air as she rutted into your mouth, chasing her rapidly approaching orgasm. with a strangled cry, wonyoung buried herself to the hilt in your spasming throat and erupted, flooding your mouth and belly with what felt like an endless deluge of hot, thick cum.

she held you in place, forcing you to swallow every drop as she rode out the waves of her intense climax. finally, with a shuddering gasp, she pulled out, her softening cock slipping from your abused lips with a wet pop. a strand of cum and saliva connected your mouth to her dick before breaking, dripping down your chin and onto your heaving chest.

wonyoung grinned down at you, her dark eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction and dark promise. “fuck, that was hot as hell, (y/n).” she purred, swiping a thumb through the mess on your face and pushing it past your lips for you to clean. “we are definitely doing this again. i have so many more filthy things i want to do to this sexy body of yours…”

wonyoung helped you to your feet, her hands lingering on your curves as she brushed off your jeans. she spun you around and pinned you face–first against the rough brick wall, pressing her lithe body flush against your back. her breath was hot against your ear as she leaned in close, her voice a low, seductive purr.

“you know, i’ve seen the way you look at me when you think i’m not watching.” she murmured, her hand sliding around your hip to splay across your belly possessively. “i know you want more of this, (y/n). i can give you so much more…”

her hand drifted lower, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to caress the soft skin of your stomach. she circled your bellybutton with a teasing finger before trailing lower still, brushing against the waistband of your jeans.

“i want to spread your legs and bury my face between your thighs until you scream.” she breathed against your ear, her voice dripping with dark promise. “i want to taste your pussy until you're shaking and begging for more. until you’re addicted to the feel of my tongue fucking your greedy little cunt.”

wonyoung punctuated her filthy words with a sharp nip to your earlobe, making you gasp. her hand drifted even lower, popping the button of your jeans and slipping inside to cup your mound through your panties. she could feel the damp heat of your arousal even through the fabric.

“tell me you want it, (y/n).” she demanded breathlessly, grinding her hips against your ass. “tell me you want me to eat this pretty pussy until you're sobbing and drenching my face in your cum. beg me to fuck you with my fingers until you're shaking and seeing stars.”

her fingers pressed harder against your clothed sex, rubbing your clit in tight circles. her other hand slid up to palm your breast, kneading the soft flesh and tweaking your nipple through your shirt. “i want to ruin you for anyone else, (y/n).” she growled, her voice rough with lust and dark intent. “i want to fuck you so hard and so good that no one else will ever satisfy you again. i want to make you my personal fuck toy, always ready and eager for me to use your sexy body however i want.”

wonyoung’s fingers slipped under the hem of your panties, brushing against your slick folds. she groaned in satisfaction as she felt how wet you already were, your arousal coating her fingers. she circled your clit with a teasing touch before plunging two fingers deep inside your tight channel without warning. “fuck, you’re so wet and ready, you naughty girl.” she purred, pumping her fingers in and out of your dripping pussy. her thumb pressed hard circles against your clit, making your hips buck and your back arch.

“that’s it, grind on my fingers like the desperate little slut you are.” wonyoung growled, nibbling and sucking at your neck, no doubt leaving marks for all to see. her other hand slid under your shirt, pushing your bra up and out of the way to roughly palm your breast. she pinched and rolled your nipple between her fingers, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

“i’m going to finger fuck this greedy cunt until you're dripping and begging for my cock.” she promised darkly, her voice rough and laden with lust. “i’m going to make you cum so hard on my fingers that you forget your own name. the only thing you’ll remember is the feeling of me fucking your pussy raw.”

wonyoung curled her fingers inside you, pressing against that sensitive spot deep within your walls that made your vision go white and your knees weak. she rubbed and massaged it relentlessly as she fucked you with her hand, her thumb grinding mercilessly against your clit. she could feel your pussy clenching and fluttering around her invading fingers, your body instinctively trying to draw them deeper. wonyoung growled in approval, loving how responsive and eager you were, how your sexy little body betrayed your desire for her touch.

“fuck yes, squeeze my fingers like that.” she purred, her voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “your hungry cunt is sucking me in, begging to be filled. you need to be filled, don’t you (y/n)? filled and stretched and fucked until you can’t take anymore.”

she pumped her fingers faster, slamming them in and out of your dripping sex with wild abandon. her palm pressed hard against your clit with every thrust, the rough friction sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. wonyoung could feel your arousal coating her fingers, dripping down to pool on her palm and wrist.

her other hand tugged your shirt up and over your head, tossing it carelessly to the side. she unhooked your bra with deft fingers, freeing your breasts to the cool evening air. wonyoung’s hands immediately went to your tits, kneading and squeezing the soft mounds roughly. she pinched and rolled your nipples between her fingertips, tugging on them just hard enough to make you gasp and arch into her touch.

“that’s it, let me hear you.” she demanded, her breath hot against your ear. “i want to hear all those pretty noises spilling from your lips as i play with these gorgeous tits. i want the whole fucking building to hear what a shameless slut you are for my touch.”

wonyoung’s fingers never stopped their brutal pace, pumping in and out of your clenching cunt, curling and twisting to hit that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. she could feel your body starting to tremble, your muscles tensing as your climax approached. her thumb pressed hard and fast circles against your clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

wonyoung could feel your body tensing, your inner muscles fluttering wildly around her pistoning fingers as your orgasm rapidly approached. she doubled her efforts, fucking you with fast, sharp thrusts of her hand, her palm slapping obscenely against your dripping sex with every push. her fingers curled just right, rubbing that perfect spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

“that’s it, cum for me, (y/n).” wonyoung growled, her voice ragged with lust and dark satisfaction. “cum all over my fingers like the desperate little slut you are. i want to feel this greedy cunt squeezing the life out of my hand as you scream my name.”

she pinched your nipple hard, twisting it just shy of pain, sending a jolt of electric pleasure straight to your core. her thumb pressed down ruthlessly on your clit, grinding against it with fast, tight circles. your hips bucked wildly, fucking yourself back against her hand, riding her fingers with abandon.

wonyoung’s hot breath washed over the side of your neck as she licked and sucked at your sensitive skin, no doubt leaving dark marks for all to see. she wanted everyone to know that you belonged to her now, that this sexy body was her personal fuck toy to use as she pleased.

“come on baby, give it to me.” she purred, her voice a sinful temptation. “i want to feel you cumming on my fingers, drenching my hand in your juices. i want you to scream so loud that the whole fucking school hears what a dirty girl you are for me.”

she could feel your body starting to seize, your thighs trembling and your belly clenching as your climax crashed over you. wonyoung fucked you through it, her fingers pumping in time with the waves of pleasure radiating through your core. your pussy clenched and spasmed around the invading digits, trying to suck them in deeper as your release consumed you.

“that’s my good girl.” wonyoung groaned, feeling your molten heat gushing around her fingers, your arousal dripping down to pool in her palm. “fuck yes, cum for me (y/n). cum so fucking hard on my fingers. you feel so fucking good squeezing me like this.”

she could feel your pussy pulsing and fluttering wildly around her fingers as your intense orgasm ripped through you, your body shaking uncontrollably in her arms. wonyoung groaned gutturally as your scorching juices flooded her hand, your release dripping down to puddle on the ground beneath you. she worked you through it, her fingers pumping in time with your spasming walls until the last aftershock faded away.

panting harshly, wonyoung slowly withdrew her soaked fingers from your sensitive sex, bringing them to her lips to lick them clean. she made a show of savoring your tangy essence, her eyes fluttering shut in bliss. “fuck, you taste even better than i imagined.” she purred, her voice low and dripping with dark promise. “i could get addicted to the taste of your cum, (y/n)."

she spun you around to face her, one hand gripping your hip possessively while the other cupped your chin, tilting your face up to meet her intense gaze. her thumb brushed over your kiss-swollen lips, smearing the remnants of your arousal across them. “you’re mine now, you know that?” she declared, her voice rough and filled with a primal hunger. “I’m going to fuck this sexy body whenever and however i want. and you’re going to be a good girl and take it like the eager little slut you are, isn’t that right?”

she crashed her lips against yours in a brutal, dominating kiss, plunging her tongue into your mouth to claim and conquer. she kissed you like she owned you, like your lips belonged to her and only her. when she finally pulled away, you were both left panting and wanting, your lips red and raw from her fervent attention.

she chuckled darkly, her hand sliding down to possessively cup your ass, squeezing the firm globe. “mhm, you want me to breed this tight little cunt, huh?” she purred, her voice dripping with sinful promise. “you want to feel my hot cum flooding your womb, filling you up until your belly is swollen with my seed?”

she spun you back around and bent you over the arm of a nearby arm couch, hiking your hips up and exposing your dripping sex to the cool evening air. wonyoung dropped to her knees behind you, her hands gripping your ass cheeks and spreading them wide. she leaned in close, her breath hot against your slick folds as she spoke.

“i’m going to ruin this perfect pussy.” she growled, her voice rough with lust and dark intent. “i’m going to fuck you so hard and so deep that you'll be feeling me for days. i’ll pump you so full of my cum that it takes, that my seed takes root in your fertile little womb.”

wonyoung licked a slow, teasing stripe up your slit, her tongue delving between your folds to taste your arousal. she groaned in satisfaction at the flavor, her eyes fluttering shut as she savored your essence. “fuck, you taste divine.” she purred, before sealing her lips around your clit and sucking hard.

wonyoung’s hands gripped your hips tighter as she pulled you back against her mouth, grinding your dripping cunt against her face. she licked and sucked at your sensitive flesh, her tongue delving deep to taste your essence directly from the source. she could feel your body trembling, your hips rocking instinctively against her mouth as she pleasured you.

“that’s it, grind this pretty pussy on my face.” wonyoung growled, the vibrations of her voice sending shockwaves through your core. “ride my tongue like the desperate little breeding slut you are. i want to feel you cumming all over me as i eat this hungry cunt.”

she sealed her lips around your clit and sucked hard, flicking the sensitive bud with the tip of her tongue. at the same time, she plunged two fingers deep into your dripping channel, pumping them in and out in time with the lashes of her tongue. she could feel your walls clenching and fluttering around the invading digits, your body eagerly sucking them in deeper.

“fuck, i can’t wait to fill this tight little fuckhole with my thick, hot cum.” wonyoung panted against your sex, her fingers never stopping their relentless pace. “i’m going to pump you so full that it gushes out of you, that you’re dripping with it for hours. i want everyone to see the evidence of me breeding this perfect pussy, marking you as my personal fuck toy.”

she could feel your climax rapidly approaching, your body tensing and your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. wonyoung doubled her efforts, fucking you with wild abandon, determined to make you cum harder than you ever had before. she wanted to ruin you for anyone else, to make it so that no one could ever satisfy you like she could.

“come on baby, give me that cum.” she demanded, her voice ragged with lust and dark hunger. “i want to feel this greedy cunt squeezing the life out of my fingers as you scream my name. i want the whole fucking world to hear you claiming me as the only one who can make you feel this good.”

she could feel your pussy starting to spasm and clench, your release barreling down on you like a freight train. wonyoung groaned against your sex, the sound sending delicious vibrations through your core. she pressed her thumb down hard on your clit, rubbing tight circles against your throbbing clit as she slammed her fingers in and out of your gripping sex. she could feel your release surging through you, your pussy clamping down on her invading digits like a vice as you screamed her name to the heavens.

“yes, that’s it! cum for me, (y/n), cum so fucking hard on my fingers!” wonyoung growled, her voice muffled against your spasming sex. she licked and sucked your clit mercilessly, pushing you through your intense orgasm with the skillful flicks of her tongue. your arousal gushed out around her fingers, dripping down to puddle on the ground as your body shook and jerked with the force of your climax.

as the last waves of your release ebbed, wonyoung slowly withdrew her soaked fingers from your fluttering sex. she brought them to her lips, making a show of licking them clean as she gazed up at you with a wicked, satisfied grin. “delicious.” she purred, savoring the taste of your essence. “i could get addicted to the flavor of your cum, (y/n). i think i’ll be eating this pretty pussy every fucking day until you’re swollen with my baby.”

“just breed me already.” you whimpered pathetically, words coming out of your mouth that surprised even yourself.

wonyoung stood up, a dark chuckle rumbling from her chest at your desperate plea. she quickly shed her remaining clothes, revealing her soft, feminine body — all lean muscle and smooth, caramel skin. her cock was already hard and throbbing, the thick shaft jutting out from a perfectly trimmed patch of dark curls at the apex of her thighs. she stroked herself slowly as she moved to stand behind you, the swollen head of her dick catching on the curve of your ass cheek.

“fuck, i’ve never wanted to breed a cunt so badly," wonyoung growled, her voice low and dripping with primal hunger. she gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises as she notched the tip of her cock against your dripping entrance. “i’m going to ruin this perfect little fuckhole, (y/n). i’m going to stretch it out and fill it up until you're overflowing with my seed.”

with one brutal thrust, wonyoung buried herself balls–deep inside you, her thick cock splitting you open and driving the air from your lungs. she didn’t give you any time to adjust, immediately starting to fuck into you with hard, deep strokes that rocked your whole body. the bench creaked and groaned beneath you with the force of her thrusts, the metal biting into your skin.

“fuck, you’re so goddamn tight.” wonyoung snarled, her hips slapping lewdly against your ass with every push. “this cunt was made for my cock, like it was molded to fit me perfectly. i’m going to fucking wreck you, (y/n).”

she gripped your hair, twisting it around her fist and using it as a handle to yank your head back as she pounded into you from behind. her other hand drifted around to your front, finding your swollen clit and rubbing it in tight, fast circles. she could feel your pussy clenching and fluttering around her pistoning cock, trying desperately to draw her in deeper.

“that’s it, fucking squeeze my dick.” wonyoung growled, her breath hot against your ear. “milk it with this hungry little cunt. i want to feel you squeezing every last drop of cum from my balls as I breed this perfect pussy.”

she could feel her climax approaching, her thrusts growing erratic and her grip on your hair tightening. she could feel her cock throbbing and pulsing inside you, growing even harder as she fucked you with wild abandon. wonyoung’a hips snapped forward with a final, brutal thrust, burying herself to the hilt inside your spasming sex. she threw her head back with a guttural moan as her orgasm crashed over her, her hot seed erupting from the tip of her cock to paint your insides white.

“fuck, take it all!” wonyoung roared, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips hard enough to leave livid bruises behind. she ground her pelvis against your ass, pushing her cock in as deep as it could go as she filled you with spurt after spurt of her thick, virile cum. she could feel it flooding your womb, your belly starting to swell slightly from the sheer volume of her release.

“yes, fuck yes, i’m breeding this cunt.” she gasped out, her voice raw and ragged with pleasure. “i’m pumping you so fucking full, (y/n). gonna make this belly big and round with my baby. you’re mine now, all mine to fuck and breed whenever i want.”

wonyoung collapsed against your back, both of you panting and trembling in the aftermath of your intense coupling. her softening cock stayed nestled inside your cum–filled sex as she rolled your hips, stirring her seed deeper into your womb. she nuzzled under your jaw, pressing sloppy kisses to your neck and shoulder as she murmured filthy promises into your ear.

“gonna fuck you every goddamn day, (y/n). gonna keep this pussy full and dripping with my cum. gonna make you my personal breeding bitch, always ready and eager for me to fill you up again. you’re fucking mine now.”

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eldrith · 3 months ago

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˗ˏˋ A Golden Council ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon

jacaerys velaryon x targtower fem!reader [part five of a golden cage series.] words: 12.2k. synopsis: "The innocent have already begun to drop like flies, Jacaerys. War is here," you whisper, "and it looms with an ancient breath." notes: things are progressing... ugh they're so cute! i hope nothing bad happens to them! warnings: emotional complexities. unreliable narrator. premonition. fluff. canon-typical violence/blood/injury. allusions to torture. survivor’s guilt. character death. angst. religious trauma. bad coping mechanisms. semi-public smut [fingering, f!receiving]. light hair pulling. mentions of hunger/not eating. also eating. foreshadowing. requests closed. previous. series masterlist. masterlist.

YOUR DRESS SKIRTS KISS ALONG THE WET STONE, AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS INTO THE GRAND CHAMBER.

Outside, the morning’s cries have bloomed into a thunderstorm – thrust from the bosom of the gods, heavy sheets of rain pelt upon windowpanes, seeping through the crumbling cracks on the outer bailey’s walls.

Your chambers were cold.

No hearth lit, scrubbed clean, stripped bare and brandishing a horrid stain swept over by a new tapestry rug, it is a new room now; and just minutes ago, as you’d tugged on the dress selected with your own delicately trembling fingers, cracks of thunder had beat upon the earth and tremored your spine. Jacaerys had posted with your guard just outside the doors. The Sept’s chill had brought you a bout of shivers, and even your betrothed’s cloak fastened tight round your neck did little to quell it. After dressing yourself, you’d stepped wordlessly from the empty room, fraught with ghostly whispers and phantom chokes, tugging your tresses from your neck and facing away from the Prince; and he, tightening your dress for you with dutiful fingers – muscles remembering the fastenings of your dress as though that first night was merely a breath past.

Your hair falls freely – you could not bring yourself to meet the mirror hanging so hauntingly near your bedpost – and so you remain unobserved by your own wary eyes, focused instead on the visages which twinkle like stars in the abyssal sky of night as you and Jacaerys enter the Grand Hall.

Your betrothed’s eyes trace your figure – a practice well known now, though you know this morning it is in regard less to your figure as it is concern for the absent look in your eyes; and you grasp the fine black satin of your dress as you bring yourself towards the table glowing and waiting before you.

It is the very dress you’d worn just days earlier to sup with your family – the very dress that’d been the subject of Jacaerys’ childish jabs, of your rage, of the depths of depravity that you’d fallen into with Jacaerys.

It is that, but it is also the very dress that’d been hand-stitched by Elina.

And though the torches burn bright against the midmorning overcast, a dismal cool serves to quench any warmth from the room – the hearth licks hungrily at the air as figures surround the painted table, your eyes heavy upon the Queen at the head.

It is a pall that has been cast over the council; and you have to assume, surely, they have been readily informed of the ructions from last night – the ashes of some distant pyre lit in the haze of a stormy morning.

And the Queen, carved from stone, stands with a grasp so tight upon the back of her chair, you wonder numbly if the wood might splinter below her touch. The fire licks up her stoned visage in a backlit haunt as your and Jacaerys’ feet fall to rest before your seats at the table.

The Queen pardons you all to sit, and as you do your eyes meet Baela’s; a fire of concern that burns into the guilt raging within. You tear your stare away from your cousin to meet the burning curve of Gulltown carved along the table’s coast just before you, your nail tracing its indents idly.

Perhaps it is the table’s burning kiss – a light that illuminates the hollows beneath Rhaenyra’s gaze, the tight set of jaw, the tempest which swarms the shore of her stare as she stares out into the storm that rages beyond the casements.

It is a look, absent and ruminating, you know too well – and whilst she broods, Daemon, from beside her and with words as sharp as the blade on his hip, relays the night’s events to those who were not in attendance for the spectacle.

His words, to you, fall on deaf ears – for there lies before you a cup, and your reflection swims in its contents; a ripple when someone shifts, a shutter when thunder rocks the table. Jacaerys, in the faint morning light, looks a picture too young from memory; a watery thing, washed away by the shores of a childhood lost to fate. And Lucerys, when the cup is jolted again – his young visage turned up with a snicker, mimicking his brother’s brow in a line of jest from years past. Your throat tightens inexplicably.

And, in that way your mind often does, you are reminded of that haunting thought – that shadow cloaked around you, wherever you go.

Why indeed was it not you in his stead, at Shipbreaker Bay? An unuttered thought, though just as vivid; as if it were ripped from the lips of your own betrothed, or the Queen herself. And as Daemon’s lips form the tale of teas and servants and one-eyed snakes, your own thought rises, smoke unable to die.

It is thick, living in the tremor of breath, in the curl of lips, in the inching close of your posture; why were you forgiven mercy to cross paths with the Stranger, and not Lucerys? Not Elina? It is an event which taints your very thoughts – a seeping grief, one so blistering that it sinks into the marrow of the air and grasps your throat.

What fate is worse than theirs that the gods have planned for you?

You do not spare a glance at any attendant of the council until Daemon has finished the recount of last night’s events; you surface, then, in the middle of some sentence:

“–And they sent the girl?” Baela’s voice – a shard through the fog of your mind.

“She named her masters,” Daemon affirms – there lies a bitter satisfaction curling in his tone; your gaze meets his, and nails press crescents into your palms.

Soon there is a parchment unraveled by Maester Gerardys upon the table, spread across the table’s thick stretch of the Riverlands; and upon inspection it belies a horrifying shake of penmanship, imbued with the distinct kiss of drying blood. You must bite back a bout of nausea at the sight of the scrawled little markings, stomach churning with what must have happened. It could not be less fresh than this very morning.

Like the rest, Baela leans forward; a silent intake of the jagged script, the remains of blood upon the confession, though you do not dare.

In a moment of understanding, it sinks your heart below your stomach; your breath lodges in your chest. A note of your own, written so neatly and yet with haste just this very morning – a promise of duty, of matters with Daemon. You glance at Jacaerys, but his gaze is upon his uncle across the way, jaw tight and eyes resolute.

You sway, sick and light; Had he watched? Had Jace stood by as the girl screamed, as that weakened courage had unraveled, thread by thread, beneath the pressure of shared fury? Did he even flinch?

Your cheek is torn by the sharp bite of molars – and someone speaks, though you remain trapped in the narrowing confines of your own mind, swirling with realization, with possibilities: Jace’s hands, stained with that very same guilt that Daemon wears so brazenly.

Daemon’s words cut through your thick haze of shock. “She was a servant from the Red Keep. She came at the bidding of the Prince himself; a loyal friend, sent with poison to deliver his message—”

Your swallow is thick and it is as pulsing as your own heartbeat when the words come:

“Aemond One-Eye.”

And though no one speaks, the words chill the air, tighten throats, cast sidelong glances; your dress is pressed tight to your thigh, a clammy palm soothing in some self-regulatory attempt to cast aside the attention so unwillingly brought to you.

And for your part, you cannot speak; the girl’s confessional inked by an unsteady hand bleeds together in your vision – and the enormity of it is numbing.

Aemond has killed kin before – and it is no revelation, no bolt of sudden shock, to realize that his hatred for you has festered beyond the pale confines of mere words.

No, it has always lived there, sharp as a sapphire eye in the cold light of flame, hungry as a hound starved in the dead of winter, patient as a wolf in wait.

It has always been known, as the pains of your mother and the shame of your own name, that the seeds of his loathing would one day seek a darker bloom than mere words.

Perhaps, as sure as you were the branch of olives extended weakly across a chasm in youth, as sure as you are now the tie that will bind the smallfolk to the Black Queen – perhaps as you are these things, so too you are to them — to everyone — simply a vessel. Carrying a name, carrying blood, carrying an excuse, carrying defiance, carrying sins – carrying a future that cracks, that seeps smoke, ash, blood, and ruin.

And perhaps now more than ever it occurs to you: Gone are the days of innocence, of war written with ink and quill.

Lucerys’ slaying marked the smothering of whatever last flicker there may have remained of childhood affection. Of shared lineage, of recognition of the fiery blood which pulses the same through all of you. Gone are the days that, in some childish dream, you might see your brother’s laugh again, see the shine of hair glinting in the swordyard, hear that humming song of beetles through a chamber door. It is a certainty, now:

You are a thread to be cut, a piece to be moved from the board.

To Aemond, to them — your life, that fickle thing that became inconsequential the moment you took your dragon to the sky and left for Dragonstone – your life matters far less than this war, than this pain, than the endless, aching thirst for power and retribution.

Aemond One-Eye.

It seems that once more, the conversation has continued on without you – and you rejoin in a hazy blink of numbness to Daemon’s sharp lilt.

“This is no work of Otto Hightower,” He claims to a suggestion of falsities, “The Hand plays a game. Precise, careful. He would never risk the pretense of honor to kill his granddaughter – though, Aemond…”

Your eyes meet Daemon’s – within them lies a troubling appetency.

“That one is unburdened by such concerns.”

A lull, graced by a crack of thunder – and then a burst of bright light upon the sullen frames of shoulders – and the quiet cracks too, a splintered thing that brings a swarm of foreboding through you in the silent chamber. It has always been known, you are reminded.

Queen Rhaenyra’s head lifts – emboldened by the beastly chill that laces her visage; her voice is quiet, sharp. “She came for the future Queen.”

Your stomach pools in a horror, some numb thought of a future burdened and murky. The future Queen — to be referred to as such might have once put a proud curve to your lips, but now just brings you closer to that precipice you must not name.

Daemon’s reply is sharp and litigious as ever – a far cry from the slithering smirks and teasing mirth from just the day before. Gone is any such semblance of taunt; all that remains is wrath.

“And she failed,” He reminds the Queen.

At this, Rhaenyra snaps up straight, whipping her voice across the chasmed chamber as her chair scrapes against stone.

“My son is dead!”

A reverberation through the chamber – an echo that could send forth a murder of black winged creatures through the sky, that could stir the deepest of untamed beasts from their homes in the underbelly of the Mont.

You are not the only one to tense in the chamber. And beside you, Jacaerys’ eyes shine – with vindication, with torment. Outside, the wind howls and wails; tears lament the casement behind you, and across the island, the empty Sept weeps quietly.

“My son,” she repeats in a harrowing, splintered voice, “was slain by that monster – and now he dares take her too?”

And there lies that spectre – the one which waits in the shadows of each council and curls fists, draws hands to swords, presses quills to parchment.

She shakes her head – the glint of a golden crown aches in the kiss of firelight. Thunder clouds moan ominously outside the castle walls. “I will not suffer it. I will not lose another.”

Your throat, held in a choked pain, that empty lingering of sorrow. Grief knocks upon the door of the chambers, it pelts upon the windows, it slides down the stone walls. It kisses the guilt which lives in your chest, which blossoms something darker and less known; and your eyes avert towards the table once more, ignoring the twitch of your betrothed’s fingers underneath the table, flexing upon his thigh. It is an effort to not reach across the empty space between you and cradle his palm in your own.

A voice finds traction in the aftermath of the Queen’s words – though you’ve hardly enough capacity to recognize the owner as foreboding hatred swirls in your heart. “What is to be done?”

A short exhale, and then – and as clear as the Sept’s bell chimes over hills, the Queen nods. “The girl will pay for her crime.”

A whisper of death, that horrible thing – it curls through the hall, blowing a chill down your spine – and the room is as still as death itself, as though the Stranger looms just outside the doors, biding his time.

But the Queen has not finished; her eyes burn; soon venom drips from the blades strapped to each man at the table – the scent of smoke is thick, it clouds your mind in a hazy fog, twisting the rainfall into the beat of wings in the air, to the whoosh of arrows, the roar of turbulent waters – of the rush of earth far below, wind through hair, the last scream of battle.

Her voice is sharp and heavy – wind off icy slopes, fire burning villages peppered with snow; villagers fleeing like frantic ants in a sugar bowl. Crushed beneath the heel of hatred and fury and wrath.

“I want Aemond Targaryen.”

THE SKY STILL WEEPS WHEN THE GIRL IS BROUGHT FORTH.

The servant girl is bound by wrist and dragged before you before the sun reaches its crest in the sky; sheltered by thick clouds, cloaking the island in a dark haze.

She does not yet weep – though her lip trembles, her eyes darting around the chamber, it is not until her sight befalls Daemon that true terror lights the color of her stare. It is all the confirmation you need.

Knees fall shaken before the dais where Queen Rhaenyra sits. Imposing as ever in the dismal dark cloud of weak day, she is flanked by Daemon and Corlys; and you, lingering idly and emotionless behind the Queen, feel heavier than the rolling clouds high above.

Baela’s warmth, just a breath away, provides only a scarce bit less comfort than Jacaerys, who stands in wrath beside you; though you do not waver at the blossoming stains of wounds streaking the girl’s skin before you, still your stomach clenches.

She weeps soon enough. Pleas fall from her split lips, breaths trembled into the cold air – it is in less than a moment that the girl is left upon her knees that Queen Rhaenyra rises; a dark river of blood-red silk and a crown glinting in the low light of storm.

It is a deceptively calm voice that reaches through the silence of the chamber.

“You sought to poison my kin.”

The girl’s babbling ceases, though tears thick and fat slide over her sullen cheeks.

“To take the life of a royal Princess – who is as much my daughter as she is my father’s daughter.”

In the pit of your stomach comes a festering, long-hibernated thing; a violent spill of gratification, of a starved and upended desire to be loved, to be cherished. A flickering memory – that first time, weeks ago, when you’d stumbled weary and bloody onto the Island; Perhaps, you have always bore this burden.

“You will pay for your treachery, and for the innocent life taken.”

And despite the girl’s tears, large and lamenting as the rain that slows outside, it is in a deep tone that Daemon reads aloud the girl’s confession – guilt laid for all to hear; and you with a growing numbness in each turn of coerced sentence, each stuttered breath the girl takes as her eyes watch the glint of Ser Erryk’s blade.

But as they read through the confession, a glint sends a tremor through you – the haunting green of eyes; the lick of silver in a scar across her wrist, glinting in the low stormlight. There is a twitch to her lips – she pleads with you now, you realize with a dropping horror. Mercy.

A sickening pit in your stomach opens; you swallow down the lilting voice from the eve before. Elina, with her fingers threaded in your hair:

But the smallfolk love you.

A bitter thing, that is. Your own life, attempted by the brother who’d taunted and whispered, snapped in the crowded street – they do not love you, he’d promised; They are dogs at the foot of a table, grateful for scraps discarded from hands that feast.

And she was, you know deep down. She was kneeled before his greedy, cunning hands — simply waiting her turn for a bite. In a way, you cannot blame her. Though you do not look away, and you do not lament for her impending death.

The sentence is pronounced; flames lick up the dark slated stone walls, and Jacaerys’ shoulder brushes against your own. It is an old habit – that starving, crawling reflex which spurs your mind:

May the gods judge her with mercy where we cannot; may her soul find peace where we could not offer it; may the fire take her sins – as it will someday take us all.

The words whisper in your mind as Ser Erryk draws his sword, and they are a fragile shield against the weight in your chest. A plea for absolution; for her, for yourself, for all the blood that has yet to be spilled.

And with the rustle of armor, your heart lurches.

The blade rises.

It glints in the chamber, and you lament that this procession was not under the weeping sky, where the sins of your line and the rivers of her blood might be washed away in streams.

A warmth finds your own hand, then – slow, a hesitant drag of knuckle over the top of your hand – and in a rush of comfort, your palm turns over to accept him. Jacaerys’ fingers link between your own, locking your palm in warmth, a squeeze tight as the blade glints above the Queensguard armor. You do not look at each other.

In a breath of pain, you squeeze back – his pull brings you to his side closer, and the satin of your black gown grazes his own dark cloak, still damp from this morning.

The blade falls.

A horrifying sound, a gasp muffled by the turn of your gaze towards Jace’s shoulder – and with a sickening silence, the rain has ceased.

The chamber is silent, but for the trickling pulminations aching onto the stone before the body. Your stomach churns. For your sake, a life has once again ended.

In the aftermath, Daemon simply turns to leave – and at the question of his daughter, he reveals only a clipped sentence: He goes “to visit the prisoner.”

Numb, you do not think anything of it; and the doors echo through the room. Dresses, cloaks, tresses and trousers ruffle as the council is dismissed; Ser Erryk wipes dark streaks from his blade.

A foreboding swirls in the ripples of forgotten goblets by the doors; in the blood on the stone floor, which glistens sickeningly in the torchlight; a horrifying thing, one that echoes the price of treachery – and in the faces of most around you is no relief, no victory.

Your gaze is frozen in a glance, then another, towards the corner of the hall; blinking away a vision of a cloaked, hooded figure you swore was just stooping near the dark.

A haunting shadow, one that disappears as you blink: A spectre of what is to come.

Smoke to be fanned.

Blood to be spilled.

IN THE WAKE OF THE RAINSTORM, WELL AFTER THE SUN FELL FROM THE SKY, CAME THE FOG.

It crawled from the shadows across the sea; lumbering like the distant stirring of giants, it slid across the glassy water and choppy tide, lurking upon the Dragon Bridge and slithering into Aegon’s Garden.

Night fell early today – though you spent most of the day perched at your casement, worrying your lips raw with thoughts that could not leave. It was not until the sky was blanketed by the relief of night, and stars littered its visage, that the anger came; and when it did, it was vicious, irrational.

Dripping from the ends of your hair, leaking from billowed breaths as you clasped your cloak tighter to the shoulder of your doublet, your hatred steeped long and resenting within your heart.

Now, the yard is still as it has been in the moon and a half since you arrived; it is quiet, the night biting at your nose, kissing your cheeks with a chilly hiss as the blade in your hand glints under torchlight.

It is a poor hack which you unload at the straw-stuffed dummy before you – clumsy and misaligned, your stance falters and wavers. The steel in your palm is heavy, and your arms tremble with the unfamiliar burden; screaming muscles, aching throat – though sweat beads along your brow, you ignore the throb of fear and anger which twist in your chest.

Each swing brings about another flash – whispers, a bloody parchment; a lifeless body, the thud of a final gasp. A face, hollowed and absent. The pelting onslaught of rain, blood bubbling from a gasping mouth – the grasp of a girl trying to remain in the realm of the living.

And you, helpless, guilty.

A cruel joke, your mind plays: Because in an effort to cast away the horrid dredges of your memory come forth the more pleasurable ones.

Unbidden and brash are the memories of kneeled Princes, of lips plush and pursing around quiet prayer; of fingers straining against a nightgown, of a sigh pressed into your own mouth. Visions of a grin set apart by a longer memory of sinned tongues, wandering fingers, and hands grasping starched sheets.

The Sept, heavy with desire and transgression, with death and life and whatever odd thing lies in between.

You slip only slightly on the mudded ground, breath pluming as fog swirls below – a strain to recall just days before the words of instruction from Jacaerys, hands adjusting your grip on the hilt, fingers brushing your own.

Any effort to cast out thoughts of your horrid desires, the burning warmth that blossoms and festers at the thought of his hands on your skin, is futile. An exhale falls sharp from your lips, eyes tired as you swing again; nothing but an intact dummy and a ringing in your forearm, you curse quietly under your breath. Failure pricks at your pride, whispering inadequacy and impending danger. And so you push forward. After all, the blood of a Hightower is thick in ambition.

“Your footwork is abysmal,” comes a voice from the shadows – rich and familiar, though in your state, still you startle.

Your turn is sharp to meet Jace, crossing the darkened edge of the yard under the faint light of torches. And perhaps, had you felt any less bristled, you would have admired the expression leaking from his visage – bemused, exasperated, but wholly and effortlessly handsome.

Your affection translates rather seamlessly to irritation. “Shouldn’t you be abed?” You retort – a stubborn one you’ve always been, hoping to steady your breathing as memory of the last shared solitude between you resurfaces once more. Your huff is quiet, “It is quite late.”

Boots drag against muddy gravel, and he hums a low thing, sending a warmth down your spine.

“Perhaps. But here you are,” he counters, always one for a verbal spar – and his eyes rove rather slowly over your figure before flicking to the target of your anger in all its straw glory. “...Waging war against straw and sticks.”

You pay little mind to the curling amusement in his countenance nor the uptick in your own lips that you school easily. A raise of your blade, hoping to recall any such stance that might belie half the skill you wish to possess. “I need the practice.”

He is quick, dry. “For what, exactly?” A glossy curl falls into his eye as he tilts his head, lips twitching, “Cutting your own hand off?”

And it is odd, for him to mask his worry with humour – you bristle in defiance, knowing if you succumb to his plot to distract you, you’ll be nothing more than a green-girl breaking in a blushing fit – and the emotion that pricks at your eyes is quelled by a tight swallow.

“Spar with me,” you demand instead.

He seems to find this amusing – in a raised brow, he shakes his head. “You’ve held a blade for all of three days, Princess.”

Your jaw sets. “Then this should be easy for you, Prince,” you shoot back with a half step towards where he lurks at the edge of the foggy courtyard, beside the bannister overlooking the restless sea.

For a moment, he regards you – you, in a muddied dress, hair messed and cheeks rosy from the cold; and in that dark gaze, you feel warm and still chilled to the very bone.

He exhales quite slowly, a light shake of his head. “I won’t.”

You resist a sharp sigh, ticking your jaw. The blade falls as you drop your arm, the tip dragging in the mud as you take another step towards him.

“I’m not made of glass, Jace.”

And at your tone, he takes on his own patience. “You are not,” he agrees, “But I’m no fool, either,” he purses lips, wettened with his tongue. “Grief and anger are poor sparring partners.”

You falter at his words, sage as they are hypocritical.

Some burning anger still festers, some resentment for the world that has chewed you up in a shipwreck of loss and spat you back onto untread shores; some disdain that nests clear in your heart and threads a tale for future loss and future sorrow – that warns of dreams past, of dreams soon to come – it burns.

The blade is lifted before you can even think twice.

And he, staring at you for a brief moment as you levy the steel, and then down to the very blade that lies level just upon his nose.

Your hand is not steady; for it is a stark memory, a mirror reversed in some sick trick of the eye, moon past and breaths far since fallen.

His gaze locks onto your own, dark and searching again – and there is a flickering there. He remembers.

A memory shared in twin agony; two sides of the same mad coin.

He remembers, and you can see it in the way his lips part, the way his brow knits upwards; that moment, now long ago and yet so burned into you both — a blade held between you, a desperate attempt to wield control in the face of everything so very uncontrollable – and a shaking palm, a whispered defiance.

The faint scar across your palm that still lives.

Jacaerys doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch – and with a signet ring glinting in the torchlight, he reaches up slowly.

You cannot blink before he is taking the blade into his palm and gripping.

There is no sound to the contact – your breath hitches, and the sight of his palm closing over the sharp steel stings; salt in a wound. Dots of dark blood well from where the blade bites into flesh, crimson and soon weeping gently down his wrist.

You’re struck with some horror. “J-Jace,” you falter, words falling from your lips in a frosted whisper – and your grip falters, though he does not let go.

A shiver falls down your spine as you swallow down the rush of anger arisen.

At the thought of Jacaerys, at the thought of your father, long since burned and gone from the realm of men; at the thought of the man you once called brother – the one who sent that knife so willingly towards your throat. At the whispering voice of your mother, which still curls around the corners of your mind and spits sin into the shadows.

It is Jacaerys, you remind yourself. And perhaps, you have both always bore this burden.

And when his voice comes, it is firm.

“Skoros iksis aōhon iksis ñuhon.”

The sword is heavy; his words are heavier. What is yours is mine.

Blood drips slow down his pale palm, steady as what you’ve done, what you did – what you will do.

And then your grip slackens entirely; his fingers tighten around the blade, refusing to release it as emotion stings in your eyes, breathing heavy as you shake your head.

The blood is slow but it is real, and it comes from your betrothed.

A fear – one that scratches its talons down your spine and claws at your throat; the burden of sharing, of becoming one.

You nearly whimper as the sword lowers, slipping from your hands as your arms fall limply to the side. “Kesā botagon syt ziry,” your words hang in the yard: You will suffer for it.

And for a moment, he does not move; the blade is now in his own fingers, wrapped and bloody as you tremble, a leaf in the dawn of winter.

The hilt hits the mud – and perhaps in his gaze you find the emotion you cannot name, that ache in your chest that pounds with each breath you struggle to find.

When the blade finally falls, his blood-slicked fingers leave smears of crimson upon steel; and his hand falls to his side, eyes still locked and unrelenting upon you.

It is this reverent stare – a whisper, one from when the day was still lit with lighter stormclouds – this morning, when it cleansed itself with torrential pours and you and your betrothed ducked your heads under the gaze of seven strange gods.

It is this stare you find again, calling to you, whispering. For the future… That I might be worthy of it.

Of the realm, and of those who are beside me.

And just as the echo of his words reverberate in your mind, the days catch up to you; in a dizzying spell of empty chested-gasping, your knees buckle rather ungracefully.

Jacaerys catches your back swiftly, uncertain; as though he knows not where to purchase them without overstepping. And he murmurs your name low – the bloodied hand comes to rest at the small of your back, warm and firm despite the sting you know it must carry.

Your own grasp his shoulders, pulling him into you, unable to bear the stare of his gaze.

Your apologies are swallowed by the threat of tears – vicious things that prick at your eyeline and tremble your lip, though you swallow hard and blink away the haze clouding your vision. His embrace is hesitant as it is welcoming, hands light but steady all the same.

Your own shaky grasp curls into the affection you so desperately dreamt for in youth – from upturned chins of your kin, from the avoiding gaze of your father, from the unreachable hands of your half-sister, from the cold pity of your mother.

But Jacaerys is here now; he is here because fate has brought him to you, as you have been brought to him. And tresspasses must be gone, forgotten, swallowed by the irascible pit of youth – and in its wake must bud something else entirely.

Your hands hold him, and they feel cleansed.

It is a long moment suspended in the embrace of each other – the moon dances shyly behind thin clouds, and the shadow of a beast tattered and wild flickers high upon the Mont in the East.

“Come,” Jace says at last – a light brush of his palm to your sleeve – and he guides you towards the banister overlooking the steep walls of the castle.

Down below the sprawled stone walls, the fog crawls back in retreat; a dance with the tides, a waltz whose steps you know quite well by now. Soon, the slow march of fog will retreat in the longer slumber of eve; and it will return hungry and crawling in the wake of morrow to claim the fishing boats which depart from the docks.

Jacaerys is a warm pillar beside you, blocking the brunt of seabreeze and bringing back the warmth to your cheeks.

Down the coast is a cluster – the fishing docks and a gaggle of homesteads, lit by specks of torches. The waves rock in a slow dance against rafts, and the lanterns bob gently in the lick of tide. The thought pangs at your stomach as grass blows down the mountain in ripples lit by the moon – Elina’s lover, the boy with the bubbling laugh and a heart of the sea – does he look out upon the same glassy moonlit waters as you do now, and hear her name in the waves?

When will he learn she is one of the first of many spoils of war?

Your head turns to dip, hands braced against the cold stone bannister; Jacaerys does not speak. He waits for you to come to him, as if he knows in some way, you always do. And when you break the silence, your voice barely carries over a whisper to the wind.

“What good am I,” you wonder, “if I cannot even wield a blade properly?”

His breath curls in the air just above your eyes and you watch it dissipate against the starry sky. “You cannot learn to fight in days,” He insists, your name lilting from his lips in a bitter release of truth.

The words are honest, yet they chafe at you; and in defiance, your eyes flicker skyward and roll with exasperation.

“And that is precisely the problem,” you sigh; along the coast, a flock of small birds circle and dip beneath the glassy shore. “Why did I not, too, grow up with callouses on my palms and steel in my hand?”

He has no words to soothe the bitterness upon your tongue.

The fog ebbs; spare tresses loose from your tied hair flick across your vision – you tame them briskly with a hooked finger.

Along the line of small village shacks far below the castle, there is one torch still lit, casting a tall shadow down the rocky path – and wavering just as its flame, your voice is not as strong as you hope.

“The innocent have already begun to drop like flies, Jacaerys.”

Wind whistles gently. “War is here,” you whisper; A vision of a stirring beast, high above, scorching the papery wings that float just above a raucous sea. War is here, and it looms with ancient breath.

Your words seep into the night, a melted thing that burrows itself into your marrow and twists your heart into a frigid stone.

“You are not the only one who… feels what’s to come,” his voice lacks heat – instead he delivers his position with a rigid sureness that merely gnaws at the guilt in your stomach.

A hand remains curled against the stone, a crimson fist as he leans opposite you on the balcony, “But you’re not helpless, even if you believe so.”

The sea is tamed at this hour; it is quiet and shy, kissing the fog which rolls over it with a tender affection. “Helpless is precisely what I feel,” Your tone leaks a bitterness, “The gods demand so much, yet they do not arm us with the means to meet such expectations.”

And your words are a shadow of that tall tower beaming green and watchful; backlit out on the moonkissed training yard, you stand to Jacaerys and watch with a hopeful dread that he might see past the leaking emerald in your veins.

Jacaerys exhales – his breath curls into the air, his boots scuff softly against the stone. His gaze burns through your visage, and you dare not turn to face him. “Wars are not only fought with swords,” He reminds. “Your strength lies elsewhere.”

You glance at him, your brow furrowing; frustration pricks at you. Your strength. Eyes roll to the heavens once more, lips puffing a plume of breath as you scoff. “–And where is that, exactly? In words? Politics? In being a thorn in your side?”

And though he does not bristle at your childish jab, he also finds no such answer to provide you in the wake of your small outburst besides a sigh. His breath plumes before you, a rosy blush upon his nose and nipping across his cheeks. The cold has seeped through and begun to weary your bones. Your nail carves along the bannister’s rough stone in an unknown pattern.

You are bitter and you are sore – but he stands beside you still, watching you with that amber gaze, patient enough to drive you mad. Your lips purse and puff out a plume of breath. “Or, perhaps it is to stand idly by while others fight and die?”

And you know this stirs him – he, too, itches for the wind on dragonback; for the blade, for blood. It is written into the gold cracking through amber irises – when he cannot provide words in solace, you shake your head.

You glance at him, silvered and bright against a dark yard. Jacaerys stands in some weary beauty, a tragic gift of the gods in a crumbling world – and yet you find that look he’s so often levied and only of recent times attempted to conceal: exasperation.

It bristles you once more, though a small part of you knows well that he is correct.

Your eyes impose upon him a look of similar indignation, crossing your arms across your chest. A scoff comes from your lips. “You’re the heir, Jace. It’s not the same.”

Fingers flex along the stone before you and his signet ring glints in torchlight – Jacaerys does not hesitate when he levies his response to you this time, quiet and intent in the gentle wind.

“And you’re meant to stand beside me,” his eyes meet your own and they permeate that film of worry, that fleeting heartbeat which skips under his slow stare. With a shake of his head, the line of his jaw cuts through the dark of his cloak. “Not as someone waiting idly for orders. The gods know just as well as I that you would not dare surrender to such a thing. Nor would I wish you to,” His voice is that stern cadence you know only superficially; but it permeates you, it strikes you with an understanding that he is the future King, and you are the future Queen.

“We must win not just battles, but the war itself – and it is not with steel alone.”

Though he has not finished, and the words that follow strike you with quiet thought. “Do you think Baela any less strong merely because she can’t wield a sword? Rhaena?” He wonders, lips plump and bitten, “My mother?”

Certainty lies within his words, and you’re struck once more with the weight of the crown not yet placed upon his brow – by the draw of his stare, by the stern curve of lip.

He’s correct, and perhaps this is the most frustrating of all.

A good thing, then, that you’ve a match just as stubborn and ardent as your own spirit; how boring it would be to marry one who shares no similar tenacity for resolve.

And though neither of you dare speak it, the space between you has become a thing of the past – he inches closer still when you turn to face him, ruefully shaking your head and watching his gaze trace the curve of your cheek. You feel his breath and it feels right.

“Winning wars with words,” your voice is a dry attempt to deflect from the growing tension, from the hitch in your breath. But still, your lips twitch. “You make it sound so very romantic.”

And in your small pride, his lips twitch too – a ghost of a smirk, some spectre of the boy he has no such time to be. But he simply leans his forearms against the chilled stone, tilting his head to regard you from this angle and sighs gently, curls straying and caught in the kiss of breeze.

You do not tame them for him, though you watch enviously as his hands manage the task on their own.

“And you make it sound quite tedious,” he counters in a soft timbre, one that vibrates in the wind and settles low within your breast. Your gaze has found the round swell of his bottom lip, and it strikes you that perhaps the conversation has transcended the subject of war and gone to more petrifying territories.

And perhaps in fear of that very fragile thread which holds you together, your faint smile melts, leaning to rest your arms beside his own upon the bannister. “Perhaps because it is,” You murmur, a quiet and lingering whisper.

And he knows this; he, of all, knows it well. A muscle tightens in his jaw – a betrayal of the restlessness that has sewn itself poorly constructed sutures into the still festering wound of Storm’s End; it is in the shift of his shoulders, the flex of hands stained in crimson – haunted, perhaps, by the weight of a sword he is desperate to wield.

It is when the moon shines from behind a measly string of clouds that you jolt in guilt; a puff of breath that leaves almost as a sigh, and Jacaerys’ gaze follows your frame as you turn and stalk away, bending low to retrieve the flagon of water you’d disposed of in your endeavor to wield your iron.

When you are beside Jacaerys again, it is a soft coaxing that guides his wounded palm from the stone and into your own hand, gently unfurling it in your grasp. You pour the water in a heavy silence, intent on ignoring the heat of his stare upon your face – you choose instead to study how the blood cleanses from his hand in a river of pink, falling quietly to the muddied earth.

Thankfully the cuts are shallow, superficial; he ensures you he will visit Maester Gerardys this evening; you insist on attending if only to make sure he keeps true to his word. And though he gives you his eyes rolled to the heavens, you still can see the flush growing upon his visage in the wake of your insistence.

The torches lining the upper bailey walls are burnt low. It approaches an hour unseemly to remain out, if not now; and in the dancing light that fades in the flicker of Jace’s gaze, there lies that same boy who grew too quickly into a man – a burden dragged down by a crown, by a war that neither of you wished for.

And perhaps you would have done something rather reckless in this moment – for his hair is glossy and curled in the nightfall, and his eyes watch yours with such wide reverence; his cheeks are that same rosy red you’ve come to meet in each memory of your shared trysts, his eyes are wanting and warm – his lips pursed and curved with a wishing breath.

Perhaps you would have done something reckless – but when your mouth opens, your gaze hitches upon something rather inconsequential in the foreground and you pause.

A faint flicker of movement along the path leading down to the fishing docks; your visage must reflect the interest you harvest, as Jacaerys too turns to follow your gaze with a blink of interest.

A hooded figure; faint, carrying a freshly lit torch.

A cool breeze brings unease to your stomach as your eyes fight the dark to make out any such shape.

“Who do you suppose walks at such an hour?”

And perhaps it is merely paranoia – the castle walls are not safe as you once thought, and Jacaerys knows this just as well – though his eyes hook onto the figure and their deliberate steps, jaw ticking as he hums shortly. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, voice slow and pondering.

It is quiet for a moment; paranoia is a lingering thing these days, curled in the corners in the shadows, in wait like a starved hound; And though you worry your lip with your teeth, Jacaerys sets his hand to brush your own upon the bannister, and you do not pull away.

Not interlocked, though brushing, you remain – and the hooded figure is swallowed by the foggy outskirts of vision.

Neither of you speak again, your gazes set to the horizon and breaths set in a slow march towards the unknown.

THE NEXT MORNING, THE SKY SWALLOWS ITS SORROW IN SHY BURSTS OF BLUE.

Clotted clouds roll over hills, pregnant with the quiet promise of rain and thunder; though sunshine peeks through gaps and dapples the waves of green around you. The body of wildgrass shifts in its current, swaying around your untamed tresses, arms of yellow and green grasping your ribs, tickling your knees and kissing your cheeks.

Across the cliffside meadow, your curling beast rests in a pocket of sun, her scales glinting, ancient breaths echoing through your lungs. There is an eruption, sudden but silent in the distance, of blackened wings of ravens down the valley near Aegon’s Garden – and soon come the shivering ripple of grass along the cliff, trembling to the rhythmic beating of wings.

Winds shift; smoke and salt come, then, over the cliffside. You’re eclipsed overhead by a great shadow, though you need not look; soon, Vermax’s claws thunder into the ground of the meadow beside his sister.

You squint against the sunshine, watching great chests expand and deflate in unison; a rhythm written into their molten blood – a tether just as strong as the one that binds you to his rider.

The shadow of his frame slips from great wings, and you press your palms to your lids to ease the ache of sun glare.

You should rise – should greet him as propriety dictates, nod your head or at least look up as the Prince crosses to you – but your legs are heavy with the weight of the shy sun, and you instead remain rooted and evergreen in your spot overlooking the great valley of Dragonstone.

The wind whispers into your ears as he approaches, and you stretch your weary limbs softly, a breath puffing through your lips.

The cliffs are steep, and drop off into slates of charcoaled black; gleaming splinters of glass glinting in the splotched sunlight.

It is quiet as Jacaerys lowers himself beside you, cloak pooling against the fabric of your dress.

His lashes are long, lit by the sun that peeks so shyly from the clots of clouds above. He gazes out to the sea, where the waves swell and crash against jagged stone; a flock of gulls take the sky above you, their gray feathers glinting against the morning light.

Vermax has begun to chirp to his sister – it is an easy thing, their companionship – and you breathe into the wildgrass that tickles your arms, shivering slightly in the high breeze, tugging your cloak tighter.

Jacaerys says nothing.

And, still unspoken, there is something between you; lingering in the gaps between words, in the careful way you glance at each other’s countenances when you believe the other is not aware; there is something in the memory of sharp tongues and sharper tempers.

In all honesty, it should be gone, that thing; after all that has happened, the blood and death and memories of years spent in mutual condescension – and yet, it remains.

A hunger, unfulfilled. A flame refusing to die.

You’re unsure as to what drives you to end such silence.

Your voice slips from the mountaintop, soft and as whispering as the wind that curls around your skirts, driving waves of the wildgrass to ebb and flow.

“Elina had a lover.”

At your words he turns to you at last. His stare is warm and wary upon your mourning countenance, though he waits for you to continue.

High above, wisps of clouds stir and circle in a rainbow of mist.

“A fisherman. He promised to marry her when the war was won.”

Jacaerys exhales slowly, a thing heavy and knowing. He needs not say anything; for he knows, as well as you, how this tale ends. You wonder if he feels the foreboding in his gut just as you do on your own.

Salt and earth are carried through the wind between you – and a small grace of the incense sticks he favours to burn in his chambers. Jacaerys’ fingers curl into the grass, grasping, dirt smudging over the bandage over his palm.

He does this, sometimes. Allows you the grace of quiet, even when his head is filled with too many thoughts. Your hand drifts towards him on its own – a small hope for comfort under the chasm of the open sky – and with a ghosted touch, you feel the bandage beneath your fingertips.

He does not pull away; instead his gaze anchors once more on your visage, searching as you lift his hand into your own. “So many things left waiting,” you murmur, tracing along the fabric that nurtures the split flesh of his palm – where your sword was grasped just the last eve.

His voice is just as quiet as your own as his fingers flex beneath yours. It seems he knows where your mind is; Perhaps his has been there all along. “War has always taken more than lives.”

Your throat tightens. He does not need to say more.

His shoulder brushes your own, and, without a thought, your hand rises to curl around the fabric of his sleeve, wrapping around his bicep.

And he does not pull away as you rest your head upon his shoulder, curling into the side of him. A slight hitch in breath, perhaps shared by you both; but he breathes slow and long, his head eventually falling to rest against the crown of your own.

So you and your betrothed rest in the morning breeze, choppy sea glinting and winking from far below.

And it happens so very gently — his own hand falls to rest upon the flat of your thigh, precarious but grounding; a heat spreads from it, though there is something so right about his body against yours, about his heart beating just beside your cheek, that you have no mind to pay attention to the guilt of your mother’s voice curling in your breast.

Your dragon takes flight off the cliff – soon, the reflective chartreuse of Vermax leaps in chase, catching the wind and diving in their playful spiral downwards. A gust of smoke and ash, and you watch the water far below ripple as the beating of wings dive in descent.

Your stomach rumbles in a distant reminder of hunger – your lips purse, hand unintentionally tightening around Jace’s arm as you sigh into his doublet. The drag of his jaw against your unruly hair; and lips that press somewhere upon the crown of your head, a faint skip in your heart.

“I dreamt of my father last night,” his whisper leaks into your heart, tugging painfully. “Laenor.”

And it is a thing, you realize – that he clarifies. It is unspoken, that thing that lingers in bad blood and memories of whispers, taunting and cruel from childhood.

Your eyes shut, swallowing back a thick strike of angst. “He was a good man,” You murmur, breath lost to the wind. Jacaerys hums and you feel it against the warm skin of his neck. It is only a moment before his voice comes again, softer than usual.

“I wonder if that is enough, in the end.”

His words bring a quiet; weighted by the shaky breath Jace levies, by the pull you feel, that urge to press against him and never be separated.

You can only provide him that same gift he’s given you – a listening ear. And he accepts it. “Harwin Strong,” he murmurs then – and your heart lurches at the wavering in his voice.

Your betrothed does not name his father; but he does not need to. You know who his father was. And you do not hold him any less tight because of it.

“He was a good man as well,” Jace says weakly, a watery thing.

You pick your head from his shoulder, heart aching with the tremor of loss, of all that has been denied to your betrothed. Your voice comes, and you hope it is enough. “I think he would have liked to see you as you are now,” you whisper, a careful thing as your fingers trace over his tense muscled arm.

Jacaerys’ fingers twitch; your own trail over the veins which trickle over his hand. His smile is bitter. “I think he would have liked to see me at all.”

And that unspoken thing, nestling in the crack of your hearts – your heart aches, mind tumbling down into a chasm of memory and youth. Your hair catches the sunlight when you turn to watch your dragons in the distance, fishing along the gleaming waters and skimming the surface with their claws.

A distant memory – the dragons, not any older than a few years, nearly small enough to be lost at a distance, clamoring to bite at the shores of Blackwater Bay. How you’d loved to watch them, then. Youth, you think bitterly – what an odd thing to share. Your brothers, your sister – they are but echoes of you; reflections, bent and warped and twisted and reshaped, but still an echo of your own longing, your own scarcity in the life of abundance. And Jacaerys – he is the same. Blood, and name, and duty; these things, which mean so much and yet so little.

And in the end, is that enough?

You glance out to the skyline, where the sea warbles and glints against a line of thickened clouds. Out beyond the plane of rolling thunder, there lies a Keep of red, and a throne made of swords.

Is that enough?

Your ruminations are disturbed by a shift in your betrothed’s balance. Withdrawn from his belt comes a pouch – small, velvet; from the kitchens. Your stomach keens at the sight, though your brows furrow, a churning flicker of fear striking your heart. Poison, your mind whispers, tightening your throat and seizing the beats of your heart.

You’ve scarcely entertained the thought in the days since Elina died; it’s a poor thing, you know; but you’ve been unable to bring yourself to do it, in fear of the curling grasp of your brother’s talons even across the bay.

His sentence is punctuated by the opening of the bag; a fragrant smell, roasted and honeyed – almonds, just how you prefer them. Your cheeks are hot, heart thudding in your chest.

“I know you’ve not eaten,” Jacaerys says, offering the candied almonds to you, eyes syrupy pools of amber and honey as they take in the slight lurch in your chest.

“I’ve no appetite,” you counter, hoping he cannot hear the roar of your stomach. He levels you a stare which, in other times, might coax a stifled huff of amusement from you; though your defiance merely grows as you narrow your gaze to him.

“I don’t.” You insist, resisting the urge to cross your arms across your chest.

This bristles him.

Your attitude, you know, is not a favorable one. Just as you were last night, you’re inclined to resist out of some last ditch for self preservation; Though admittedly, you grow weary.

The frustration returns to Jace’s voice just slightly as he sighs, leveling you with a stare that belies his patience, despite the way his eyes roll to the heavens and back. It is not the first time such an action, a mirror of your own attitude, has sent your stomach in flutters – a handsome visage indeed, your heart chides.

His tone is that of a chastising nursemaid as he says your name. “You cannot live on air alone.”

You turn just so with a strike of defiance in your heart, leaning back on an arm as you glare half-heartedly at him. “It is not your concern, Jacaerys.” Your retort is as much a lie as it is childish, though you set your jaw in indignation. “I am not your concern.”

The wind is gentle in the silence, and your cheeks heat under his stare.

He, indeed, does not enjoy the falsities of your words either. It’s only a moment before he closes in – his gaze, darker in the shade of a rolling cloud overhead, and his breath almost kissing your own.

“You are.”

And there is that fire in his stare, that flicker that should have been long lost or doused yet remains burning, hungry. Possessive. He tilts his head to level with your own, and your pulse quickens.

His lips nearly brush against yours; and despite yourself, your breath catches.

Jacaerys’ voice is slow when it meets your ears. “Whether we will it or not. You are.”

The space between you is unbearably small, your cheeks quite hot – and Jacaerys, brow stern, gaze set upon you. His own cheeks are rosy, fingers twitching upon your thigh as if he just realized where they remain, heavy, purchased. The wind has died; the almonds rest still in their velvet pouch.

Your jaw ticks in some half-exasperated, half-hungry way; and it is unmistakable when it happens.

Though it is a quick flicker, you see it: Jacaerys’ gaze, frustrated, insistent – dropping to your lips and flickering with something. A quiet memory of the empty Sept yesterday morning, of the moments stolen in your chambers, of the painted table pressed into your back, his lips upon your own.

And that flame, that thing that remains despite it all – it flickers in your stomach, sparking and igniting as your eyes lock onto his in the soft light of the late morning.

You don’t look away.

The silence is taut as you slowly reach out, still caught in the churning gaze of his stare, still breathing your breath into his own, still ignoring the flutter in your chest.

You take the almonds from his palm, though your jaw is set and your stare is blazing into his own.

The almonds are sweet – a welcomed taste to the bitter guilt that’s kept you petrified for a long time; and Jacaerys watches with heavy eyes, locked upon your own, sending a flip to your stomach.

It takes little time before his contact is broken, his gaze dropping to your lips as you press a handful to them, lashes fluttering as he lets out a nearly imperceptible exhale.

But you certainly hear the tremor, as his gaze hooks on the ease of your tongue across your lips.

A tightened jaw, the flicker of eyes, and you burn.

You break your own stare when the heat becomes too much; your pulse spikes, though perhaps Jacaerys has executed his trick – for the pouch is empty, and your stomach is satiated. Though in its wake grows a new kind of hunger, fresh and yet familiar, and burning much too bright. Perhaps that, too, was a trick – a welcomed one.

A bite of a plush lip, and you no longer attempt to conceal the flames of desire which lick up your throat.

Down below, within the ramparts, the old Sept’s bell begins to chime.

The sun has hit its crest in the sky; you and Jacaerys watch as a flock of dark wings depart from the bell tower and take towards the wooded forest beyond the Dragon Bridge.

The bell chimes once more, and your mind drifts with its toll, wondering if it will sound any different when the chimes are not to signify the apex of daylight, but instead the celebration of a union.

Something stirs in the pit of your stomach, the shadow of dragons passing overhead. “It’s not fair,” you murmur – and as Jace shifts beside you gently, his hand still purchased light and warm upon your thigh.

He hums in that way he often does, his bandaged palm tracing the subtle crease of fabric upon your leg; you feel the heat of him through the fabric and repress a shiver.

A scoff-like sound, almost bitter in its descent, falls from your lips. You shake your head, tresses stray and blowing around your head. Waves crash into the slated walls of the cliffs down below.

“I should have wanted the waiting,” you admit, cheeks hot, heart aching.

He swallows, and you see it in the way his throat moves. The sun kisses his profile, that profile which was drawn in the vision of the gods, in the love of the realms, in the blood of the ancients; a profile which brings a sickening yearning to your heart.

He smiles, and though it is bitter, it is still radiant.

“And I should have had the time to.”

That’s it, you realize quite suddenly; there is no time left. There is a horrible feeling in your gut when you glance from Jacaerys to the horizon, where boats dot the sea like flecks of mud upon boots; where invisible people pull invisible fish onto the docks and ship them to invisible soldiers who will soon march with the banners of your betrothed.

Your lips press together, and you repeat the words you’ve had beat into your spine since the very night that your father departed the realm of the living.

Your lips curl. “War does not wait.”

Jacaerys laughs softly, and though it is humourless, it is soothing to your burning veins. It is a mirror of the passion, the anger in your heart. “No,” he agrees, “It does not.”

His lips are pink. Freckles kiss the slope of his nose, peppering his jaw; The wind brushes his hair from his brow. His eyes seem to take in those delicate and distinct features which make up your own visage, and you are struck with an immense emotion for which you have no name. There is no time left – there never was.

You are hesitant, though the words still fall from your lips as you glance at him, at the soft warm glow glaring right behind the haloed ring of light above his curls. War does not wait.

“So why should we?”

His breath catches with your words, the syrupy blink of long lashes, of searching, willing eyes. You watch back with a fire you see reflected in his own gaze.

A swallow, the slide of his bandaged palm up your thigh, sending a shiver of want through you.

You meet him as eagerly as ever before, your lips pressing to his own with the thirst of the tide.

It is no long-awaited thing; it is no breathless, heart-stopping kiss, but it is you and Jacaerys, alone and together, desperate and hungry and vengefully direct. There is no time for waiting any longer – your body aches to be against his own, and his sings the same song of desire as he presses against you with a small noise.

Against your lips he murmurs your name – barely a breath as he tilts back into you, not gentle nor hesitant. It is urgent, raw – it is written by the words unspoken, by the feelings that draw both of you to tremble in the darkest hours of night; sand, slipping through fingers. His lips are warm, and his tongue is insistent against your own.

The press of his chest, the grasp of your fingers in his curls; a slow and languid slide of his mouth over your own. A thumb strokes at the hinge of your jaw and your stomach flutters as he coaxes your lips open further for him.

His breath shakes with that same fire you saw yesterday – that vengeful look, which drove duty and wrath together and what builds an immense desire within you at his touch.

You take what you want from each other, and you do it willingly.

It does not take long. He shifts, pressing you back into the wildgrass; and the sky yawns wide above you as he comes to hover above you, freckles littering his cheeks and a flush creeping along the slope of a regal throat.

Lips feather over your mouth, down to your jaw, dipping to the hollow of your throat; an overwhelming desire clutches you, your eyes falling to the distance as his teeth graze your pulse; the pale stones worn with wind and weather – the Sept.

You’re struck with the vision of a slipping shadow, looming in the depths of the altar, watching with a hooded visage; watching again in the Great Hall as blood leaks red and warm from an expiring life.

And yet, all you can think of is him – Jacaerys, his hands dragging along your curves, his lips pressing, his breath lingering warm and unsteady against your skin.

Your own hands find him in a hunger unrivaled; tugging him, whispering his name, pressing into the hard line of his body.

He drinks your sighs, inhaling your breaths as you tug him to your own waiting lips as if you are starved.

And still, there is guilt: a familiar thing, that pressure festering below your ribs. The staining of your palms with blood, innocent and spilled.

But there is also anger.

Anger that you will never have the chance to enjoy the pleasures of marriage, to revel in love, or whatever might bloom in its absence, without the looming shadow of war. Anger that your life is not your own; anger at the chains of duty and blood. And so you press into him, taking – because that is all war does, in the end. And you are done waiting.

And he feels it too— you taste it upon his tongue, within his grasp; possessive, hungry, desperate. The meadow is warm in the cool morning, and you let Jacaerys press against you, you let your hand slide up his face, feeling the fresh shaved slope of his jaw, feel his tongue against your own and the soft sigh he lets against your own lips.

You melt into Jacaerys as wings beat high above your heads, as the sea churns below you, as a Usurper sits across the bay on a throne of iron, as arms are gathered leagues away.

The thought festers still, even as Jace’s palm glides up from your calf, catching on the fabric of your skirt and sliding it up with him. A fierce arousal licks up your core at his touch, and you keen – though still the thought lingers, and you have to say it; perhaps in the hopes that he will soothe such fears, that he will assure you that fate does not have such a grip on your bloodline as you dream.

Dreams, dripping with terror and whispers of death, try to grasp at your mind with their spiny talons; but you are warm, now, and your mind as wrapped with Jacaerys. Still, your voice tremors against his lips. “This will change nothing.”

And Jacaerys puffs a breath against your jaw – a grin, one rueful and yet knowing – and his words are whispered low into your ear. Soothing, vengeful, promising.

“Then let it be nothing.”

Gods.

You shudder as his lips find your throat, his hands dragging up the fabric of your dress, skimming along your trembling, wanting skin. The sun is bright. Your fingers slide beneath his tunic, mapping muscle, dragging against warm skin, slowly tracing lines of tension and want.

Let it be nothing.

Let it be ruin.

Let it be whatever it must be.

Fingers trail up your dress skirts, leaving raised goosebumps in their wake as he breathes into your neck. You tug him closer, sighing into his ear as he skims over the aching need that pools between your legs. “Please,” you beg of him, knowing he hears the unspoken words in your voice.

And with a jolt of pleasure, his touch finds your heat. You arch into his fingers, thighs parting wider as he exhales in desire.

The wildgrass billows in waves; Jacaerys cradles you, pressing his lips to your thundering pulse as you suck in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering.

He shushes against your lips faintly, just as two fingers slide slowly into your warmth; you inhale sharply at the pleasure, his breath trembling against your skin.

It is bliss.

A hungry, raw thing – the desire to push him over and crawl onto his lap; to let him have you, to claim him as your own, to let him claim you as his – it strikes need hot within you, and you shiver when he presses his fingers fully into you. Deep, slow, euphoric.

And after just one moment, he begins to move; a slow soothing rhythm to the aching throb of desire that grows when he shifts and nudges you, pressing you flat on the grass below.

He joins you when your palms grasp his shoulders, balanced on one arm with his fingers caressing your hair; and the other between your thighs, slow and intent, driving you closer to the bliss you so chase.

Your hips move against his ministrations, a quiet shutter when he hums against your lips, murmuring your name and crooking his fingers. Your own grasp is tight in his hair, and at your insistence of tugging the curls through your fingers, his lips part in a low groan of his own.

Pleasure is a simple thing, when it is with Jacaerys.

The sun beats down upon his frame, pressed above you, curls kissing your warm cheeks as you shake through your pleasure, pulling him closer, whispering words of need, words of desire.

Let it be nothing, his voice chides in your mind; and a moan of his name from your kiss-bruised lips, head tilting against the grass as his thumb finds you and presses gently. He swallows your sighs with his own, shushing you only once when you whimper into his throat.

Let it be nothing.

Your hips leave the grass below, and he is gentle in the way he pushes you back down, his stare reverent, lips parted, eyes taking in each small expression of pleasure upon your visage. He groans softly, pressing his forehead to yours, breath heavy, ragged. His fingers stroke, tease, and you arch against him, gasping at the slow, torturous pleasure.

The sun climbs behind dappled clouds. His fingers work to unravel you, even as your eyes roll back once more. Even as the wind kicks and ruffles his curls; even as you tug him impossibly close.

Even as the Sept bell begins to ring once more.

Through the haze of desire, both you and Jacaerys falter only slightly – it is unusual to ring the bells after midday; though they strike a third time, and you know.

War Council is called.

Something in you deflates – though the chiming of the heavy bell far below does not seem to phase your betrothed, as he soon resumes his ministrations, bringing a sharp gasp to your lips as a hazy warmth of pleasure stirs once more.

A huff of shock from you curbed by a dreamy sigh, his lips pressing to the soft spot below your ear. A wonderful distraction, he is – you feel yourself dangerously close upon the precipice of bliss as he quirks a small smirk, some flicker of aroused amusement at your quivering thighs.

The bells continue, though so does Jacaerys.

Your hips writhe as you near that very thing you chase; and he holds you tenderly with breaths falling into your ears, the wind gentle as you hold him against you.

“C-c–” you try to spit out the words which wait on your tongue, and Jacaerys watches you with boyish amusement as his fingers do not cease within you, pressing as your eyes roll to the heavens, a short breath falling from your lips.

“Fuck–” You mutter, and you do not miss how such a lewd word brings a shiver to Jace’s spine – you swallow thickly, fighting the rising pleasure as you stutter. Soon enough, though your chest trembles and heat coils so deliciously within you, you finally spit out your words. “Council,” You mutter breathlessly, “We need to go—“ you’re cut off with your own sigh of pleasure and Jacaerys grins.

“—to council?” He finishes for you, tilting his head, gaze flickering over your form slowly. A coil of desire at his teasing lilt, though you sent him a sharp look.

“Yes,” you bite out sharply, though your hands merely pull him closer, willing him to not move away from you.

A flicker of amusement lit in his gaze as he hums, stroking you with his thumb and watching how your hips buck into his touch. “War can wait, princess,” He murmurs into the wind, eyes warm and defiant as they catch yours.

And you grin, then too – in bliss, in wonder, in relief; because yes. War can wait.

A breath leaves you as your fingers tread through the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging him to your lips. His fingers stroke within you and you whisper his name as he brings you to your peak, a tremoring sigh as you gaze hazily into his own stare, reverent, hungry – devoted.

Let it be whatever it must be.

And so you do.

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naffeclipse · 9 months ago

Text

Charm Brought It Back Pt. 2

Reader x Witches!Sun, Moon, & Eclipse

Commission Info

Whoo! The darling @jackofallrabbits has all my thanks for the continuation of the DCA Hocus Pocus AU! The boys want every piece of the historian reader, and they have no time to lose! The sun is rising, and they must prepare the ceremony, and you realize that your dear friend Michael has arrived at the witches' home. Very poor timing, on his part. Enjoy the flirts and curses!

Content Warning: Suggestive themes, heavy kissing, heavy touching, injury, disturbing imagery, and fear.

———

The witch carries you across the room, clasping you tightly within a cage of his claws. You’re frozen in his embrace. His towering height and lithe, long limbs make you feel incredibly small, like a mouse before a hungry cat. His extra set of arms disappears into the shadow of his dark cape. How did he summon them so effortlessly? You tilt your head back to gaze up at Eclipse’s face, the eldest brother of the hanged brothers. They should still be dead—they were for almost four hundred years.

His face is inhuman. The markings and color stain his visage in a midnight-red crescent, and a blackened shadow swallows it. His eyes, bright yellow and predatory, glance down at you. A grin splits his lower face with wicked teeth. He runs his tongue over his bone-white fangs.

Your stomach flip-flips within you.

Candlelight flickers ominous over the colonial home as the cauldron continues to bubble in the fireplace. The other two, Sun and Moon, watch you. Their wide eyes gleam in the firelight: one of pale pools of feverish desire and the other glint in scarlet, roiling with appetite.

You cling tighter to Eclipse’s shoulder. A childish desire to bury your face in the crook of his shoulder almost takes hold of you.

“Where are you taking me?” you whisper into Eclipse’s cape.

“To the parlor,” his voice is soft as dusk, and the vibrations through his chest sink into you with a gentle rumble. “The main hall is hardly a place to hold a ceremony.”

Your eyes widen. He strides past the tables with the many candles aflame in a thick, waxy cluster. His claws flex against your shoulder and around your thigh.

“What ceremony?” your voice climbs into a squeaky pitch.

A chuckle echoes behind Eclipse’s shoulder. You turn your head to catch Sun and Moon following behind, and the latter’s lips curl into a sinister smile as his shoulders shake with amusement—as if he finds you utterly adorable.

“Little mouse, there’s nothing to fear,” Moon soothes, almost in a sing-song voice.

“It will be wonderful,” Sun clasps his hands together. Eagerness streaks through his face like falling stars at sunrise. “You’ll see, sunshine.”

A thickness coats your throat. When Eclipse asked you to stay, did you agree to something far more sinister? Do they intend to use your soul or your life to grant them greater power or something else just as nefarious?

“Wait.” You tremble. “Wait.”

“Little comet, we still need you,” Eclipse says firmly but gently. His yellow eyes narrow in the slightest, glancing at the black ribbons on his wrists. “The bells will ring for us at dawn unless we perform the ceremony. You must be part of it. You must speak the vows.”

Your heart scampers within your rib cage.

“Wait,” you say again, panic slithering up your spine. He continues onward.

Eclipse easily unlatches an almost hidden door in the back of the main hall while balancing you in his arms. Cobwebs tear apart as it swings open and he enters a smaller but no less intricate room. A window overlooks part of the road cutting through the thick forest. A few shelves are covered in dusty bottles of glass and woven baskets. Ancient and dried fronds, stems, thorns, and petals are stored on wooden tables.

In the corner of your vision, the white rabbit darts inside the room. The one that spoke with a woman’s voice. She bounds across the space, knocking into a small stand that topples over a jar of powder. Sun curses, his voice growling demonically. The claws holding you tense as Eclipse glowers. You shiver under sharp talons pricking into your sweater.

Moon leaps forward and cuts the rabbit off in her destructive path. His eyes, glinting with bloodlust, follow her like a hound eager to tear apart a fox. He steps across the room, into her path, and forces her to correct her race. Her hind legs kick out. Her fluffy body arches smoothly through the air but she lands too close to the door and clips her front foreleg. She topples over, sliding across the hard floor and back into the main room.

With a flick of his wrist and a dark murmur, Moon casts the door shut without laying a finger upon it. It slams close, rattling the walls and causing you to jump in Eclipse’s arms.

“It’s alright, little comet,” Eclipse purrs.

“We now have privacy,” Moon declares with a rasp. He eyes the door with a branding glare as if daring the rabbit to intervene again.

A faint scratching is heard at the bottom of the door. You clutch your hands into small balls of anxiety.

“I’ll rid us of the little beast after the ceremony,” Sun promises as he steps closer, laying a hand upon your arm. “As for you, my little ray of sunshine, we must get you ready.”

“With haste,” Eclipse speaks, and his brothers listen. You snap your head from one witch to the other. Gently, Eclipse sets you back on your feet. You sway, clutching your chest and twisting your fingers into the knitwork of your sweater.

“This is all happening fast,” you say, breathless. The room spins slightly in your exhilarated state. You start to inch away, back to the door with the soft sound of claws gouging into it.

“We apologize, mouse,” Moon whispers as he steps to a black wood cabinet and pries open one low door. “But necessity calls for it.”

“When we have the luxury of time,” Eclipse speaks while approaching a small table where a stack of books resides. His black claws draw slowly down the spines, “We will have a proper ceremony, with all the decorations you desire and a feast that could gorge a village.”

A shudder falls down your back. The chill sinking into your bones is numbing, and fear creeps deeper into your mind, plucking at every wild and frantic thought. Are they going to cook you up and eat you? Are they going to cast a spell to turn you into a toad? This wasn’t part of the fabled story of their return, was it?

You’re not certain you want to find out any more. Are your questions worth your life? They’re being so cryptid, so rushed.

You shuffle further back, away from the focused witches and their enchantments. What are they capable of? If only you could make them stop for a moment and answer you.

“Sunshine, darling, where are you going?” Hands slip down your arms and over your wrists.

A gasp falls from your mouth, quiet and quick. The hands, pale and yellow, with scarlet ribbons tying golden bells to his wrists, lift your hands into the air. You’re not so different from a little ballerina figurine being posed, forced to dance endlessly in a music box.

“I’m not sure I want to stay,” you breathe, frightened. The rate of your heart picks up in tempo, banging like a drum against your sternum.

He leans over your shoulder. His wicked smile fills the corner of your vision. Eyes, pale and gray like mist, hold you captive.

“There’s so much we can show you,” he says. He trails the tips of his claws down your sleeves, and the layer of separation causes your eyelids to flutter. “There’s so much we can do for you. What would you like, my poppet?”

You’re locked in his spell. Did he cast magic or is it simply his touch? Your arms stay in the air as his hands fall down your sides, rubbing slowly over your ribcage before settling on your waist.

“I want to know.” You stare ahead at Eclipse and Moon as they set a blackwood altar in the center of the room, before the window. “I want to know everything about you and your lives.”

Sun’s teeth graze the curve of your shoulder. His breath is warm against the side of your neck, and the air rattles out of your throat.

“You will have it all,” he answers, and whisks you off your feet in a spin. The room blurs before he stops you, hands holding your own as you’re locked in a dance with the witch. His cape shifts over his shoulder, revealing the deep opening of his flowy, white shirt. Your cheeks burn. Flustered, you jerk your head up, tearing your eyes away, and almost become ablaze as you find his cheeky smile.

“I do mean all,” he winks, coquettish and wicked.

You balk.

He takes your hand and presses it to his chest, right above where his heart would be. His skin is smooth and pale, split into two colors of yellow and off-white down the middle of his torso. You feel a strange hum instead. Not a beat, but a constant buzz of energy. Magic, perhaps.

His footwork guides you around the room in a sweeping circle. As he twirls you, one hand on your waist and the other holding your arm above your head, you catch a glimpse of old and age-stained pages fluttering open. Eclipse sets the book on the altar. He bows over it, his eyes roaming over the archaic writings.

Beside him, Moon holds a silvery veil in his arms. He murmurs something to his elder brother, who dips his head in agreement.

You almost stumble as another shock of fright seizes you.

“What is that?” you ask as Sun reclaims you, pulling you flush against his torso—your middle bubbles at the contact.

He simpers with a low hum.

His mouth opens but before he can speak, bright headlights cut into the room from the window. The diamond-patterned panes slice the room into shapes of light and shadow, and you inhale sharply.

A car. Who’s here? The owner of the property?

“What is that?” Moon hisses, his hood falling deeper over his face as he slinks into an alcove of shadows.

“It’s like the sun.” Eclipse lifts his arm to shield his eyes, peering around the blinding high beams.

“No.” Sun’s brow narrows. His arms lower around you, tightening around your waist until you gasp. “It’s unnatural.”

You peek over Sun’s shoulder, pushing up on your tiptoes to see a familiar build of the vehicle just behind the lights. Michael’s car.

What is he doing here? Did he suspect you would come here alone, against his advice?

What will the witches do when they realize your friend is here?

Your gut clenches. You have to warn him. He has to stay away before they try to throw him into their cauldron or turn him into a fox.

A shiver falls down your back and down to your toes. You turn your head to find Eclipse’s wide eyes cutting into you, and you freeze. He couldn’t know it’s your friend, could he?

“We have an unwelcome visitor,” Eclipse declares. The corners of his mouth tug downwards and he promptly slaps the book close with a heavy, dusty thud. “Brothers, what shall we do with him?”

“Let’s cast him into a carrot and feed him to the rabbit,” Moon suggests.

“No, no, I was of the mind that we could make a new rug out of his skin,” Sun muses, his fingers stroking the small of your back, much to your terror.

Michael’s voice rips through the house. Muffled by the door, his shouts turn quick, frantic. You clamp your mouth shut. A horror so cold slips into your veins, and you tremble. He can’t be here.

Eclipse lifts his hand, a hum filling his throat as he stares down the door. You cry out a soft, “Please, don’t!”

His wide yellow eyes turn back to you, surprised. The next moment, the jarring thud hits the wood of the door and cracks it by the wrought-iron handle. Splinters fly outwards.

Michael shouts your name, then commands, “Don’t make any vows!”

Your mind turns blank. What?

A snarl rips from Moon’s mouth. You flinch, the sound right at your shoulder as you realize the hooded brother has joined you and Sun. His clawed hand falls to your shoulder, talons almost digging into your collarbone.

“Who is that?” Moon’s scarlet eyes flash in demand. “How does he know?”

Another kick flies into the door. The entire house shudders as the wood buckles and a boot chops through it. Immediately, you watch a familiar hand snake its way inside and throw open the mangled frame of the door. In the threshold stands your friend.

“Michael!” You stare, stunned. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes widened upon the scene. His dark jacket catches splinters of wood and his unruly hair is extra ruffled from the effort of breaking the door down. Immediately, a white rabbit darts inside. Michael lands on the witches and their snarling, teeth-bared expressions before finding you. His fists clench at his sides.

“Get away!” He dips a hand into his jacket pocket and hurls a handful of small, dried lavender petals.

As if struck with a blade or bullet, the witches all recoil as the flowers rain down. Sun’s and Moon’s hands disappear from you. Backing away, Eclipse almost stumbles into the altar before he rights himself. A hiss, furious and demonic, roll off his tongue. You flinch. Lavender flowers litter the floor.

The white rabbit rushes for you, stopping only to stand on her hind legs and press a foot to your shin. Her green eyes shine with desperation. “Stop standing there and run!”

There’s no thought but of terror. You reach down and scoop up the rabbit just as Michael steps towards you. He grabs your arm and half dragging, half guiding you through the witch’s house, the three of you rush for the exit.

“Little comet!” Eclipse cries. His voice tugs on your heart, but you twist and refuse to be pulled back into his orbit.

A growl follows from Moon, and a mumbling of something wicked and furious slips from Sun’s mouth, but you can’t look back. Through the candlelit main room and out the door, Michael races. His grip almost crushes your elbow.

“I told you not to come here! I told you not to come here without me!” Michael boils. You shrink slightly as he reaches for the passenger side door, uncaring for the rabbit you clutch against your sweater.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know,” you say quietly, defenselessly.

The rest of your rebuttal doesn’t leave your mouth before a familiar and haunting voice shouts, amplified like a poltergeist screeching into your ear. Michael immediately forces you to duck, pushing your shoulder down until you’re crouched behind the car, him protecting you with his own body. Gravel shifts underneath your shoes.

Michael’s car begins to groan. You lift your head tentatively, then gape. The frame of the vehicle begins to twist and rust, curling at the edges and darkening with burnt-orange marks. You hear a strange, hissing sound, then realize the tire you’re hunched beside is leaking air. As the car withers, glass cracks then pops. You yelp under a shower of shards but Michael’s jacket shields you from the sharp edges. The rabbit in your arms struggles for a moment.

“We have to keep moving! Go to the cemetery,” she demands.

“Right,” Michael mutters. His eyes land on the rabbit you shield in your arms, and his expression only shifts in the slightest at the human voice emerging from the rabbit’s mouth.

Likewise, she stares back at Michael. You pet her fluffy white fur as your fingers tremble. Her hide is soft and her body is warm and comforting.

“You’re an Afton, aren’t you?” she says softly, almost as if she were seeing an old friend.

Your brow furrows. How could she possibly know his last name? Is she a witch too?

“I am.” Michael stares down at her, his grip shifting as he looks forlorn to his car and then back to the house. His mouth twists in a grimace. “I read about you in my ancestor’s journal. You’re Vanessa. I thought… I hoped it wasn’t true.”

“Vanessa?” you echo in your whiplash confusion.

The rabbit’s white ear flops back slightly before she presses a foot to your chest.

“We can’t linger.” Her green eyes flash to you, scathing as she remarks. “The witches want the virgin for their ceremony. We can’t let them complete it.”

Michael’s grip tightens upon you, and you make a sound of discomfort. His nostrils flare, his breath running harsh and heated. You’ve never seen Michael so upset, so close to violence.

“What is going on?” you gasp, clutching Vanessa tighter to your pounding heart.

“I’ll explain later.” Michael moves away, shaking glass from his jacket and jumping to his feet. He surveys the house. You can hear footsteps, curses, and something sweeping the floor. “Follow me. Run as fast as you can.”

“Michael—” you start but he’s already pulling you back to your feet. Vanessa leaps from your arms. She bounds across the road and into the tree line. Michael follows the white rabbit, and you try to catch your breath as the darkness becomes absolute as you try to keep pace.

You have to trust him. He and the talking rabbit. You follow, your feet pounding over pavement and then dirt and leaves. Branches scratch at your sleeves; you’ve long forsaken your poor sweater to being snagged and ruined.

Laughter cracks overhead like black lightning. The echo isn’t too far away, and you shudder at the thought of what spells will allow them to catch you. Witchy howls of both amusement and anger snake through the half-dead canopy of trees. The midnight air hangs heavy. Michael bursts through the treeline to an open field of dead grass with you hot on his heels before you spy what he’s running you toward.

An old wrought fence spans the length of a reclusive cemetery. It’s ancient, by the shape and crumbling aspect of a few of the headstones you spy on within the space. Your mind races to date the burial ground but Michael urges you forward just as a breeze cuts overhead.

You turn your eyes skywards just as Michael finds the corner of the overgrown and neglected corner of the graveyard property. A streak of movement interrupts the constellations of the night sky, and you almost stumble in dawning horror.

Flying just above the near leafless and dark trees are the witches. Brooms, elegantly carved and sleek, carry them effortlessly in the air. Their capes and cloaks billow like black manes to dark beasts behind them, and claws clutch tightly at their flying vessels. Teeth sharp, eyes glinting, their gazes meet yours. Eclipse. Sun. Moon.

Under their harrowing eyes, you feel no more than a mouse running from a cat’s pounce.

“Keep going,” Vanessa urges. Her white form dashes onwards, but she comes to a sharp halt and turns back, ears pricked.

Two stone pillars, cracked and faded from years of standing as sentinels mark the entrance to the burial ground. Michael ushers you into the cemetery. For one desperate moment, you wish you could study the history of this place, find out its name, who lies here, but you are torn from your brief musings.

“I know you.” Eclipse’s voice carries over the field. His black cap settles onto his shoulders as he sinks in the air to hover just above the threshold of the graveyard. “Your kind are all the same, witch hunter.”

Michael stands between you and the witch. His gaze is hard, unyielding. You clutch at his jacket, fearing the lack of barriers.

“What did he call you?” you breathe out. “Michael.”

He huffs at Eclipse as Sun and Moon settle on his flanks. Moon turns his hungry eyes upon you, glinting like blood. Sun strums the staff of his broom. His claws catch on starlight.

Eclipse tilts his head and bares his fangs in a taunting smile. “Do you really think you can keep our lovely little virgin from us?”

You shiver violently. What do they want?

“I’ll watch all three of you return to dust and ashes,” he promises. Vanessa slips against your ankle, pressing close as if she were a guard dog instead of a rabbit.

All three of the witches burst into laughter, wicked and harsh before they rise and fly over the gate, deeper into the cemetery.

Michael pushes you further down an unmarked and overgrown path. “It’s alright. They can’t set foot here. I’ll take care of them.”

“Wait,” you gasp. You stumble as Michael urges you onward. “Wait, don’t hurt them!”

“They’re witches,” he snarls so viciously, it makes you jump. He stops, finding a row of headstones with tall and web-cracked faces. “You have no idea how dangerous they truly are. I will explain everything once they’re gone. Stay here. Vanessa?”

The rabbit hops up beside you. Michael again pushes you down by the shoulders until you curl up in the shadow of a colonial headstone. He stands over you, glancing this way and that to the sky. A few large and overgrown trees cut into the skyline through the burial grounds.

Vanessa noses her way onto your lap. You open your arms and she hops on, her small feet pressing on your jeans.

“Listen to him,” she speaks sternly. “He knows what he’s doing.”

“But—how? Michael? Where are you going?” you call, your voice cracking, but he’s already rushing away from the grave you’re hunkered near. He rushes into a flat, open plot of land filled with weeds and dead grass. Michael looks to the midnight sky.

You peer over the headstone. Vanessa hits your shoulder until you slink back down, but you catch a glimpse of Eclipse emerging from behind a black, dead tree and sailing through the air. He bows low upon his broom, eagerly stalking Michael. Your friend withdraws a cylinder from his jacket pocket. Popping it open, Michael quickly sprinkles something white around him—salt.

Your heart climbs into your throat. You long to call out, to beg Eclipse to spare him, but Michael whips out what appears to be an old charm made of leather. Upon it are scratched archaic symbols you have never once glimpsed before in your historical studies. A few small bones dangle from where the leather is tied with cord.

Your eyes widen as Michael holds it high. Eclipse stops, leaning back and tilting the broom away until he comes to hover. Then, he laughs. Michael remains unmoved, though his brow furrows in the slightest.

A disgusted sound leaves Vanessa’s voice.

With a point of Eclipse’s finger, the charm ignites into flames. Michael yelps, dropping it to the ground and clutching at his hand, no doubt burned by the spontaneous combustion.

“Little mouse, where are you hiding?” A low voice calls, rasping out like a lover searching through the dark. Moon.

You stiffen. Vanessa’s ears pin flat against her skull. You press your back against the headstone, hiding yourself in its shadow. A soft breeze touches your hair, tugging strands across your face.

“We can play so many games when it’s only us.” Moon’s broom appears just a row down, scanning the fallen leaves and grave markers. He perches low, his shoulders shifting under his cloak like a tiger ready to leap upon prey. “Come on out. Let me take you home.”

Your blood runs cold. The ghost of his hands is still upon you, and you wonder if it would be so terrible to return with them. They would leave Michael and Vanessa alone, wouldn’t they?

Moon slips slowly through the air, his broom black as night and silent, and his head lifts. He inhales deeply. Under the brim of his hood, his eyelids flutter.

Then his entire head snaps to where you hide. You squeak in fright.

“There you are.” His jaws split into a ravenous grin as he reaches out a hand, flying over a gravestone just to where you kneel on the ground.

“No!” Michael shouts. “Get back!”

You jerk your head to him and watch as he steps away from the salt he just spilled.

“Michael, don’t!” Vanessa warns a moment too late.

Eclipse sneers. Extending his hand, he speaks. His voice becomes of tongues, lapping and overtaking, but mostly devilish. The air turns sharp and tangy, and the wind picks up, twisting leaves around Michael’s feet. His eyes widened at his mistake.

A flash of horror cuts through you just as Eclipse hurls out a curse.

Michael drops to the ground and begins writhing. You can only catch glimpses of him between rocky headstones, his body twisting and his flesh turning dark and rancid. His body convulses.

A scream tears out of your lungs. You jump to your feet, clutching a hand over your mouth as you witness Michael suffer. Eclipse’s eyes immediately snap at you. Close beside you, a hand brushes your sleeve, cool and blue. Moon. You can’t move.

“Oh, how I’ve yearned to curse your ancestor.” Eclipse leans low, lording over Michael’s writhing form with little more than a delighted glint in his gaze. “He forced my brothers and I upon the gallows. He let us hang slowly. We convulsed and gagged for air, and then we died.”

Eclipse leans closer, hanging over Michael in a taunt. “This is the least I can bestow upon you. Never fear, there is far more punishment to be delivered.”

You’re rooted to the spot. Ice water flows in your veins.

“Come here,” Moon murmurs close beside you. His hand begins to circle your wrist.

“Don’t let him take you!” Vanessa’s voice cuts through the hazy terror fogging your mind, and you jerk back to alertness. You shake off Moon’s hand. His sharp breath of frustration follows as you take off over the graveyard towards Michael.

“Stop it! Whatever you’re doing to him, stop!” you cry out, reaching one hand out. You’re not sure who—Eclipse or Michael.

Eclipse straightens upon his broom. His expression brightens into a pleased, unholy smile.

“Little comet,” he purrs, opening his arms.

“Eclipse, please—gah!” Arms grab you from behind. You hear Vanessa’s voice calling out, furious and demanding, but your feet leave the ground and in a heartbeat, you’re airborne.

“Sunshine, there you are!” The cheerful voice falls over you. Sun continues, “The wretched rabbit is getting her fur all over you! I never did like her, not even as a vermin.”

Large hands maneuver over you, pulling you onto his lap and balancing you in his hold while the broom rides faster, racing over the cemetery and away from everyone else. You gasp. You immediately twist and cling tightly to his shoulders. His hands surround you. His palms rub slowly along your back.

“I’ve got you now,” he declares. His breath, warm and misty, tickles your cheek. “One would think a person would be lonely and bored watching our home for all of these years, but that was what she did when she was mortal at her master’s request. So really, isn’t our curse just a lovely gift for her?”

“Sun!” You tremble. The wind tears at your clothes. You watch the ground become a blur underneath you, and a sickness stirs. “Please, set me down.”

“Not yet, sunshine.” The air changes, and the broom gains speed, pressing you deeper against his chest. “I want you for only a moment. You can say ‘I do’ can’t you? I’ll do the rest.”

“What—wait, wait,” your fingernails dig into the fabric of his cape hanging over his shoulders. The flight is far too fast and you feel far too vulnerable, seated upon his legs as your only insurance you won’t fall to your death.

“Although,” Sun’s fingertips slip under your chin and tilt your face up, “it’s not fair that Eclipse kissed you and I haven’t. We can steal one before the ceremony, can’t we?”

Your tongue becomes heavy in your mouth. You can say little, caught in the torrent of the breakneck speed of the broom as well as the Sun’s sultry eyes devouring you whole. He lowers his mouth to your neck. His other hand caresses your thigh, fingertips touching your flesh with reverent want. Heat waterfalls into your middle. He lowers himself to your shoulder and grazes his teeth against your neck.

You inhale, your breath rattling at the touch of a warm and wet tongue dragging over the tips of your collarbones in the hollow of your throat.

“One kiss,” he half pleads, half demands. His lips brush your jawline in their climb upwards.

“Too fast,” you utter. The world spins and blackness swoops in on your vision.

“I can go slow,” he assures, but when he lifts his head, his smile drops from his lips. “Sunshine!”

The world tilts, and you think of very little as hands grasp at you, but the broom rocks and you slide out of Sun’s hold as a curse rips from his throat. A wretched call rattles your darkening visible, and then, you’re falling.

Your eyelids flutter, and you hardly have a second to scream before a second pair of arms catch you and pull you against a cool chest.

“You buffoon!” Moon snarls right beside your ear. “You dropped our virgin!”

A numbness clings to your limbs. You’re still reeling, slumped in his lap as he rides on his broom at a much safer speed.

“I would not have let death take away our chance at happiness and life and love,” Sun shoots back, not unlike a sibling retort in an argument.

“Go help Eclipse deal with the vermin!” Moon demands in a low growl. Sun snarls something back, but his voice fades in the distance.

You feel the wind shift, slowing down until you’re left to hover in the air. Eyes closed against Moon’s chest, you breathe rapidly. Your shaking hands press tight to his white shirt.

“I will keep you safe,” he murmurs softly into your air. “Step here, little mouse. This mausoleum wasn’t blessed, and it lies outside of the cemetery's boundaries.”

“Okay,” you murmur listlessly. You lift your head, trying to stop the spinning from within. Your legs shake like a newborn fawn but you feel dead grass underneath your shoes as Moon holds you up on your feet. His broom lowers gently to the ground and falls still as if there were no magic to the black wood staff at all.

“Breathe.” He moves you slowly, carefully pressing your back to the solid brick of a small, gray mausoleum. “Apologies for my brother. He is eager to make you our bride.”

Perhaps it only houses a small family. What is their history? Your brain churns over senselessly while the oxygen returns to your head.

Did he say bride?

His hands find your shoulders and pin you in place. Chest heaving, you gaze up at the witch now hovering over you. There is no escape. You smell midnight and something herbal and sharp upon him.

“The vows,” he says. His eyes hold you captive. “You can say the vows to marry us.”

“Marry?” You’re breathless, but you ask all the same, “Why am I marrying you?”

“To have us,” he says, low and husky. He presses closer, caging you with his body and holding you hostage against the cool stones at your back. “You will know everything soon. There is so little time—the witch hunter and the rabbit are trying to spoil everything. Little mouse, look at me.”

You try to avert your gaze, turning your cheek, but his command causes you to buckle.

“I will begin the vows.” Moon presses in closely. His chest is flush with your own, and you fear he can sense the wild fluttering of your heartbeat. You are not cool and suave, and you are still falling, falling, falling.

“Will you take me to be your husband?”

“Moon,” you whisper. “I… I… I…”

His teeth flash. Then, he leans in, pressing close to your ear. A soft flick of his tongue against your cheek draws out a breath from you, just before he begins nibbling on the soft flesh of your earlobe. You gasp. Your hands find him, clinging tightly as flutters begin in your middle.

He releases your ear from his teeth but his mouth remains pressed close to the shell of it.

“Will you take me, so I will obey, serve, love, honor, and keep you in sickness and in health?”

Your knees sink deeper but he refuses to let you slip out of his grasp. His claw hooks the collar of your sweater and stretches it, exposing your shoulder to the starlight.

His mouth lowers there. The press of his lips is soft and cool like a stone smoothed by a river. Your stomach burns with a flame you cannot name. He slowly opens his jaws, first licking your sensitive flesh until goosebumps run down your arms, then ever so delicately pressing his teeth into your shoulder. The tease of fang marks. The promise of more. He does not break the skin, but you mewl under his controlled bite.

He releases you. His hand cups your cheek as he straightens.

“And forsaking all others,” he rasps, “keep you only unto me and my brothers, so long as we both shall live?”

Your bottom lips tremble from emotion. Confusion spins you.

Can you say ‘I do?’ Should you?

Moon softly caresses your cheek with his thumb. His eyes are gentle like pools in the starlight.

“I swear to love and cherish you,” his voice softens.

Your fingers curl around his wrists. He lowers himself to you, and your eyes flutter as his lips brush against yours—

“Get away, witch!”

Your eyes flash open. Moon’s gaze narrows into slits as he turns his head, pressing harder against you and trapping you against the mausoleum until you squirm.

“Michael?” you gasp, peering over Moon’s shoulder, only to choke on your breath.

Over the slight hill from the true cemetery, a creature shambles. Purple flesh clings to bones, arms extended. Shuffling over the gnarled, dead grass, you watch as flesh splits and hangs by threads across his cheeks, exposing his molars. His nose is little more than a nasal bridge and two dark holes. His hair is dark and greasy, and his eyes are sunken, barely left save for black orbs and a single pinprick of light in each, like a lone flame of candlelight.

“What did Eclipse do to you?” You feel faint. “No, no, no, change him back! Moon, please!”

“No need,” Moon steps forward to face your zombified friend. You almost drop to the ground when Moon’s hands leave you. A cold fury radiates around the witch’s cloak.

Bounding over the top of the hill, Vanessa appears. Her white fur is now smeared with dirt and her breaths are sharp and quick. She hops over to you.

“Get up! Michael’s lavenders won’t keep the other two back for long!” Vanessa pushes against your leg, her tiny bunny body doing little to bring strength back to your limbs.

“Michael,” you whisper, clutching your mouth where the witch almost kissed you. “Eclipse has to take away the curse. He has to.”

“He won’t.” Vanessa’s eyes are dark, and hard. “We have to go.”

Your chest is hollow and your head swims. You watch Moon approach Michael in swift, sure steps. Michael’s arms are stiff and crooked, but his rotten fingers curl into a fist. Moon strikes and gouges his claws into Michael’s throat. You watch in muted horror as Moon rips away purple flesh and sinew. A rancid smell spills into the air. You gag, then scream out Michael’s name. The pale, bony column of his throat is exposed.

“You’re interrupting my wedding,” Moon hisses slowly at Michael before lifting his other hand.

Unphased, Michael throws a punch at the witch, and it hits with a burst of lavender petals. A screech drawls out of Moon. He falls backward. You hear the faintest sounds of Moon’s wretched snarls as Michael then awkwardly runs. His leg drags at the shin as if it were broken. You realize it is. Moon howls, clawing at the petals and trying to remove them from his person.

The witch calls out your name. You look back. His red eyes are furious, then desperate as Michael cuts in between the two of you. He brings his good foot down hard on Moon’s broomstick, and it snaps.

Moon screeches and writhes on the dried grass.

“Go,” Michael croaks. You stare at his gaping open neck but he takes you by the arms and hauls you back up to your feet. The scent of death is thick. “Now!”

You stumble, tears filling your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I’m so sorry. I’ll make them change you back.”

“Just run,” Michael huffs, half decayed and struggling. “We have to get to town. We have to lose them. They only have until sunrise.”

Sunrise.

And a ceremony they wish to perform.

#naff's writing commissions #hehe i had so much writing these witchy boys being just their best (worse) selves!#they just want to do a ceremony :)))#hocus pocus au my beloved #witch!eclipse #witch!sun #witch!moon #charm brought it back #naff writing

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yawnderu · 1 year ago

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Lorelei — Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader | Part VI

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Synopsis: Aware of the way his lifestyle doesn't align with your dream life and unwilling to quit his life as a soldier, Simon breaks things off with you. It isn't until a year later that he sees you again, a tiny carbon copy of him held in your arms.

Simon Riley is, like any other man who has been in the military for long enough and seen the horrors of war, a man who struggles. Struggles with feelings, actions, words, nightmares. The constant reminder that his career—the very same thing that made him grow a pair and go from a scared little boy to a proper lad—was what ultimately cut his family’s life short, weighed heavy on his shoulders, holding him down like Atlas holding the sky.

Despite how much he tried to hide his own feelings from both you and himself, that icy gaze that seemed to be focused on nothing for hours and the lingering silence, along with the tired smiles he forced himself to give you no matter how awful his nightmares were the night before made it clear things were only getting worse.

Whatever was out there was oftentimes merciful enough to give him good dreams every once in a while, his psyche drowned in a sea of what the future could have been. A future with his family, a future with you. No matter how difficult things got in the black, buzzing mess that was his head, he saw his daughter and you like a beacon, a Star of Bethlehem during those dark, cold nights.

The sound of stirring bed sheets is what originally wakes you up, the smell of tobacco and gunpowder that always linger on Simon’s body overwhelms your senses the longer you’re awake, slowly coming back to your senses. A groan, and more shifting from your left.

“Simon.” Your voice is soft and even, hands feeling around the bed sheets until you find his shaking body. In the past, Simon used to sleep on the couch, refusing to go back to his apartment just so he could spend more time with you and your daughter, yet after Johnny’s death, the pain and trauma was always clear in his eyes, ending up with you offering to let him sleep in the same bed.

Simon’s body feels extremely warm, a thin layer of sweat covering his burly frame, seeping through his clothes and into your fingers as you shake him harder, the room dimly lit with the bright moonlight peering from the window. You can see his features scrunching up, his hands balled into fists, the veins in his neck and forehead becoming more prominent as he relives what is likely yet another traumatic moment in his life.

“Simon.” You repeat with more urgency this time, your body shifting closer to his in order to shake him firmly, watching as his eyes flew open, dilated pupils looking around the room before meeting your gaze, a mask of deception quickly taking over his visage as you see him force himself to appear more relaxed despite the fast-drumming of his pulse you can still feel beneath your fingers, his chest rising and falling, nostrils flaring as he forces himself to take a deep breath.

“Did I wake you up?” Despite how awful his nightmares were, Simon’s priority was always you. His kindness isn’t just fake sympathy, it’s the real thing.

“No, I was reading something.” A little white lie that at the very least eased his concerns. Your hand squeezes the tense mass of muscle on his shoulder with such gentleness that he wasn’t used to, not after a year of being alone after breaking up with you.

The corners of his lips tug up into a tight-lipped, tired smile, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows thickly, trying to hold it together for your sake. His eyes examine yours for any hints of disgust, any hints that you may have seen just how disgusting he could be during those nightmares, his mind still fragmented thanks to Roba’s torture, never seeming to heal no matter how many years go by.

Your fingers work overtime on trying to ease the knots formed on his muscles from the strain it takes to hold it together when you’re looking at him with so much trust and concern, not an ounce of disgust in you despite how ashamed he feels. His eyes momentarily drift away from you, focusing on the baby monitor, the tiny screen displaying your sleeping daughter, the living image of innocence, serving as a soothing balm for his broken soul.

“Bad dream?” How lucky he is, that even crushed under the weight of looming grief and enough trauma to last him several lifetimes, he has someone to care about him, to care for him. His exhausted eyes leave the baby monitor, staring up at the ceiling as he finally allows himself the chance to take in your tender touch, the genuine kindness showing through your soft massage and concern, no matter how much of a bastard he was for leaving you.

“Yeah.” You know better than to press him about it, too familiar with him to know if he wants to talk about his issues, he will. You lean closer to him, your head now resting on his pillow and your arm draped over his stomach, your body moving on nothing but pure muscle memory from four years of dating him.

From this short distance, you’re able to admire the man that Simon Riley truly is. His short brown hair, the thin, pale scars adorning his visage, and the wrinkles that are starting to become more prominent as he ages, war and stress making him appear older than he actually is, yet looking as handsome as ever. His rough, calloused hand goes up to hold yours, fingers intertwining with the same muscle memory your body performed.

It has been months since Simon came back into your life, the knowledge of the fact that he now has a daughter always made him stick around, not wanting to miss a single moment from the tiny bundle of joy that seems to adore him, a brave little girl who was as spunky as her mother, and as stubborn as her father.

“‘Bout Roba, again.” He finally admits after seconds of silence. Manuel Roba, a name you’re unfortunately familiar with. The same man who tortured Simon and his mates for months on end, allowing him to escape and to feel a sense of false security, giving him the chance to have a proper family for once with his father out of the picture, just to rip everything that held him together from his hands.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” His head shakes, signaling a no. The pads of your fingers run over his bruised knuckles in a calming fashion, tracing tiny, random patterns before his free arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his chest now that he’s laying on his side. There’s hesitation in his actions, yet his soul is filled with relief the moment you let go of his hand, just to circle his waist with one of your arms.

“‘M sorry.” He’s not even sure what he’s apologizing for. There’s way too many things he needs to atone for, and he will be as patient as they come.

“I’m sorry for leavin’. I was scared, didn’t want to mess you up.” He knows his absence did the opposite, and the idea of you giving birth without him present always shattered his soul. If only he had known about your pregnancy, he wouldn’t have broken up with you, never would have left.

His chapped lips plant a comforting kiss on your forehead, his warm hands running up and down your back, looking to soothe you as he can hear your breath hitch, salty tears already rimming your eyes. Your face is buried against his chest, lightly feeling his fast-beating heart as he holds you even closer, his eyes fluttering shut at finally having you in his arms again.

“I missed you.” The shakiness in your voice breaks his heart even further, his soul being ripped apart by his own selfish, awful decisions.

“I missed you too, sweet girl.” He manages to whisper out despite the way he’s getting choked up, his arms circling your form even more when your shoulders begin to shake. Warm, salty tears bleed through his clothes as he holds you as close as possible, squeezing your frame even tighter before he’s back to rubbing your back up and down, looking into spreading the warmth emanating from his large frame.

“So fuckin’ much.” Another gentle kiss is planted on your forehead, holding you for as long as you need— for as long as he needs, too. You both lose track of time, simply caressing and giving each other much needed comfort, bringing you back to the ways you comforted each other back when you were dating after an awful day, all the crying and warmth coming from his body eventually exhausting you, idly playing with the fabric of his black shirt.

“Can I…” There’s clear doubt in his words, and despite the fact that his exhaustion matches yours, there’s one last thing he wants to do. You lift your head, brown eyes meeting your gaze. You could drown in those eyes— in the way they always seem so loving and kind, so gentle despite how brutal you know he can be as a soldier… and yet that’s Ghost, not Simon, you remind yourself.

His hand comes up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, ultimately pushing himself to cup your cheek, his thumb lightly rubbing your soft, warm skin, still moistened by tears. You get the message almost instantly, yet admiring Simon when he looks so unsure of himself steals your attention for once.

A small nod of affirmation meets his words, and Simon doesn’t waste any time, leaning down until his forehead rests against yours for a few seconds before his lips meet yours in a soft, tender kiss, the hand on your cheek caressing your skin gently, his eyes fluttering shut.

[PREVIOUS]

taglist: @skulfan1 @survivalshxt @ghostslittlegf@yaebaal @thecubanator2 @juliediets @shescabob @kenz-ee @lothiriel9 @dragonstoneshortcake @lunamoonbby @alfie2401 @perfectus-in-morte @mxtokko @cloufie @killergoddess97 @imaracoon @thepurpleaccount @silas-222 @actuallyhiswife @havoc973 @catkatchuck @preeyansha @oreo-cream @vihckg @i-feel-violated @yourdaydreamerfan @kazumiyax @1dead-bunny1 @mcntsee @kodiackwrites @boredfrenchbread @ssc7514 @flameohotpotatooo @aylitgirl @darkangel4121 @blueberrykushlovexoxo-blog

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apod · 1 day ago

Photo

2025 June 26

The Seagull Nebula Image Credit & Copyright: Timothy Martin

Explanation: An interstellar expanse of glowing gas and obscuring dust presents a bird-like visage to astronomers from planet Earth, suggesting its popular moniker, the Seagull Nebula. This broadband portrait of the cosmic bird covers a 3.5-degree wide swath across the plane of the Milky Way, in the direction of Sirius, alpha star of the constellation of the Big Dog (Canis Major). The bright head of the Seagull Nebula is cataloged as IC 2177, a compact, dusty emission and reflection nebula with embedded massive star HD 53367. The larger emission region, encompassing objects with other catalog designations, is Likely part of an extensive shell structure swept up by successive supernova explosions. The notable bluish arc below and right of center is a bow shock from runaway star FN Canis Majoris. Dominated by the reddish glow of atomic hydrogen, this complex of interstellar gas and dust clouds with other stars of the Canis Majoris OB1 association spans over 200 light-years at the Seagull Nebula's estimated 3,800 light-year distance.

∞ Source: apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap250626.html

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corseque · 25 days ago

Text

Clair Obscur spoilers

after my post the other day about the perhaps taboo or unnatural nature of the mirrors, I was wondering if it also applied to Renoir's mirrors too, because it does seem like they also need to overcome Renoir's in order to return to a state of normalcy and move on. But after thinking about it, I wonder if the Renoir mirrors are more productive and help the people who defeat them come to terms with what he was portraying:

Verso overcomes Visages (by the end of the story, Verso's true wishes are made clear, and so he is no longer putting on a mask for others to see - his rage, his sadness and his ephemeral joy are clear on his face)

[redacted] beats the shit out of and completely rejects Sirene (Sirene, which represented how [redacted] only notices things when they're right before her eyes and ignores everything else, dancing in her delusions. As soon as [redacted] confronts/attacks/destroys Sirene, it seems like from that moment onward, she can overcome that tendency and "wake up" with her eyes and face clearly shown)

[redacted] destroys the Hauler with extreme prejudice, and I'm not exactly sure what this might mean metaphorically, because it happened so long before the start of the story, but notably, [redacted] does NOT wish to fight alone, to carry all of Paris on her shoulders alone, and she enters the scene already asking for her father's help. So maybe before she went in and was confronted with the Hauler, she WAS trying to do everything herself, but after she saw and made simon kill the Hauler, she admitted that she shouldn't shoulder the entire burden alone, and started to help her father in hopes that he would be able to help her and shoulder her burden

But that pesky detail of [redacted] not destroying or even attacking the Reacher keeps that reading from me... so instead I maybe keep that reading and then also read it further as a very hopeful sign of the future of the Verso ending, that she doesn't reject her father's tender hopes for her, and she on some level also hopes that one day she can reach the sky with the help of the little green orphan in the top hat who will always build her future and never sabotage it. Regardless, she at least confronts it and comes to terms with it. (Or, more sadly, this can be read that because she doesn't engage with the Reacher enough to kill it, she will never reach the stars)

I was reading a post that called Renoir a hypocrite for painting his family as well, while he disapproved of [redacted] for painting a fake family, but his explanation in the Drafts made me think that he wasn't being a hypocrite - because he specified that he painted for the act of creation and to express his feelings whereas his wife had started to attempt to "paint the unpaintable" which is a very disturbing phrase. I feel also that the family learns and grows from overcoming Renoir's paintings, like his paintings had a metaphorical truth to them that was an attempt to communicate with his real family, rather than Aline's mirrors which seemed like she was trying to block her family out. Like, he was remembering and thinking of the future of his family while she was thinking of only the past, clair and obscur.

I feel like I look on the bright side with Renoir a lot, but I do really admire his determination and his love. And I think that in the story, since he's the one who states the theme most clearly and subbornly, that his nuggets of wisdom and his metaphors are supposed to be helpful and not cruel.

#Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 #Clair Obscur spoilers #Expedition 33 spoilers #spoilers #Renoir Dessendre

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velvetdolor · 2 months ago

Text

a faint signal | choi san

͙͘͡★Genre: Cosmic nostalgia, fantasy, fluff, cosmic deities, 1980's Hong Kong, episodical. Centered around the Chinese myth of “三星” Sanxing, The Three Star Gods

.͙͘͡★Pairings: Cosmic spirit/ Star child! San x Weary soul! childhood friend reader ͙͙͘͡★WC: 3.4k

͙͘͡★Summary: It’s the year 1982–Hong Kong’s once awe-inspiring neon lights are now a dull visage of what it once was for you in your youth. Drained and dreamless, you find yourself bawling in a telephone booth after every unanswered call, until an old imaginary friend visits you at your lowest. You’re then thrusted into a strange and cosmic reality where the dreams of your youth weren’t so imaginary at all. [theme song] city pop playlist for a faint signals night life ambiance.

͙͘͡★ masterlist.

“Mom, please pick up the phone.” You mumble anxiously and the faint click of the tip of your fingernail peeling into your mouth is the only sound you get in reply. A song of evenly paced beeps echo in the telephone booth. Another answered call.

A shaky sigh leaves you as you press your back against the cold metallic and filmy encasing of the telephone both– a beat of silence and then a heart wrenching array of sobs wrack through your body. It’s three AM and you know you shouldn’t be surprised by the lack of company.

Is this what adulthood’s meant to be like? The dulling of bright dreams, a sharp knife to the heart after meeting the end of what once felt like a fated love, or the death of illusions that promised happiness once you got the job? You came to Hong Kong five years ago straight out of high school, leaving the small mountainside village you were raised in with hopes of being beautiful enough to make it big and you did. Just as you’d wanted—your face flashed and scattered itself on the biggest screens of the steadily growing metropolis, all pretty and neon with passing eyes glancing in awe, but there was no one to call who’d answer you.

You couldn’t recall the last time you even called your mom. Over the years her calls dwindled after leaving you enough voicemails that you’d left to stack on your residential phoneline.

For the next thirty minutes all you do is cry, cry, and cry. Small gibberish phrases falling from your mouth hysterically in a flurry, none making sense in their fragments as you descended from a hot air balloon of barely restricted hysteria

‘Ah, Hong Kong!’ You moan sadly.

‘Why, Hong Kong?’ You question sadly.

‘Oh, but my dreams–Hong Kong?’ You accuse sadly. Straining and tugging the word out of your stretched mouth, squished against your palms in sorrow.

‘Oh, my loneliness.’ you drone and pull at the plump of your cheeks as the bottoms of your eyes stretch downwards strangely. All of the “sadly’s”accumulating and falling onto your lap like a landslide. Poor Hong Kong– what a lovely and bright place to blame for your loneliness.

‘Mom hates me.’ You go silent at that one, recognizing that you really didn’t have to say that to yourself. Your body slumps a bit and the previous volume of your fresh blowout seemed to flatten alongside your sadness. God, you needed to get a grip.

A small knock startles you and you quickly spring up to wipe away at the remnants of your tears. You quickly open the door without realizing to see what was standing so close to it. A small ‘oof!’ causes your eyes to widen as you catch the sight of a young man falling back and onto his ass.

You’re frozen for a singular moment, gripping onto the handle until your knuckles were pale before coming back to reality with an array of blubbers.

“Oh Christ! Are you okay?” You flounder to where the man sat as he laughed. The first thing you noticed was how free and kind his laugh sounded.

It seemed to bubble out of him, and he didn’t stop its melody for a while. His dark bangs, which originally obscured his features framed his face boyishly– tousled carelessly and he looked like an absolute dream. A dream that wore a Hawaiian button up under an oversized blazer at least, and he rises from the floor to dust his high waisted blue jeans. “I’m still in good shape.” He reaches a hand up to try and stifle another chuckle. There was something about the glimmer in his eyes that felt so familiar to you, an almost unrealistic light casting and bouncing off you like comets falling from his eyes. His feline features took in your form, almost amusedly. The sharpness of his face made your tummy spark.

He stands in front of you, tucking his hands in his pockets while tilting his head to gaze at you, bangs falling into his eyes. After a couple beats of silence, you shuffle your feet, suddenly a little shy.

“Sorry for hogging the booth. Uh, it’s all yours now.” You almost slap yourself at how you raised your arms to point to the side, bowing a little, feeling a little bit like a flight attendant. He maintains a mischievous and mysterious smile, staying silent as he gazed at you. After a few more awkward shuffles from your end you bubble “Do I know you?”

“I dare to say that I know you much better than you know me.” He instantly replies and a weird sense that it had a double meaning blooms inside of you. At your strange look, he shakes his head and takes a step back, inhaling deeply. What he does next initially complexes you before aghast astonishment replaces it quickly.

The man suddenly bows, right arm tucked elegantly against his lower abdomen, left arm flattening itself against his side before he dances a lonely waltz. He cradles the air as his makeshift companion as he hums a lighthearted tune, glistening with laughter as he whirls around you before stopping to lean towards you at eye level. “Ring a bell?” He quirks another smile, joy filling his gaze.

You’re immediately transported to a flurry of memories from your childhood at the mountain side– of sneaking away on most summer nights to sit and dream by the river that ran its course near your home. These moments were the genesis dreams of love, fame, and big city wonders. You’d talk to yourself often until the day came and you’d created your very own companion: a friend you’d named San, an obvious name for a child to pick when she was raised on the mountain. In San you found a friend, a dreamer, a confidant, and at times– a dance partner. Strangely, at the time you never questioned how vivid he was; despite knowing he was an imaginary friend. At the stroke of a memory, you digest the man’s features, noticing all of the ways he bared matured similarities.

You were positively floored.

Have you actually, officially lost it? You couldn’t let the name slip out of your mouth, fearing that it’d only confirm your mania. You fought against it, grinding your teeth, and pushing out strangled and strange expressions that only seemed to lighten him before you caved to your own hilarity.

“S-san?” It’s almost as if the lights around you brightened

“Atta girl, I knew you wouldn’t forget.” He smooths out his words, finally breaking away from his comfortable but close stance to your body, hands resting casually in his pockets once more.

Was he real the entire time or did you finally spiral out of control?

San could practically see your thoughts, tsking with a finger wagging at you. “No, no, no– don’t do that. I see you still have that habit hm?”

You exhale in disbelief “San, how are you real? You were a figment of my...” trailing off to gaze at him in bewilderment.

“Not everything’s as it seems. Being here and feeling like this in the Hong Kong you’ve always dreamt of should’ve taught you that, right?” You’re stunted at his words. While he’s not wrong, it still didn’t make sense to you, but you didn’t even know what questions to ask.

Another couple beats of silence.

San breaks it by grabbing your wrist, breaking out into a run, and you try to keep up despite fearing that your kitten heels might get caught in a crack on the sidewalk. “Where are we going?!” You shout at him, huffing for air

San replies simply, laughing with his head pointing to the sky”–We’re going to get noodles!”

You couldn’t find it in yourself to question him anymore. Not with how the wind seemed to curl around his midnight hair like a blanket of stars

Hong Kong is a flurry of buzzing and neon golds, greens, reds, and oranges– girls with big hair and red lips laugh arm in arm, and you hear Anita Mui’s ‘Oh no, Oh yes!’ playing from the patio of an open bar where people drank merrily while eating various street foods, and celebrating life or accomplishments–maybe even the mere ability of existing amongst other people. The colors flash and flow like watercolors as you run with San, suddenly girlish in laughter as you think of how nonsensical this all was.

You pass by a long array of lanterns and plastic coverings of what’s typically a morning fish market and land at a lonely restaurant where an old woman hummed as she shuffled a stack of plates to the kitchen. There’s a dim blue sign buzzing by its entrance, its characters reading out ‘Sanxing’.

The three Star Gods.

You gaze at it for a moment longer as San meanders in, bellowing out “Auntie!”

A loud “Ah?!” is immediately thrown out from the back of the restaurant, the old woman having trouble clearly hearing and recognizing the voice. She shuffles out with a slightly hunched posture, wiping her hands against her apron before brightening. “San!”

She tries to speed up but San practically flutters to where she stood and leaned down so she could hold his cheeks in her hands as she cooed.

“It’s been so long, my little star.” You see their resemblance in the glistening of her eyes– both unbelievably cosmic and you were entranced by their shared beauty. She fleetingly glances behind him to rest her widened eyes on you

“Is that the one you’ve been watching–” She starts, words skittering out of her in comical alarm before she’s interrupted by San’s hand shooting up to gently cover her mouth, pulling her back into the kitchen with a strong whisper “We haven’t gotten to that part yet!”

A strand of hair sticks out directly from your bed of hair, frazzled at the sudden pace of events as you stand alone at the center of the empty restaurant.

Two bowls of piping hot noodles are placed in front of you–fragrant and steaming in the night air as you sit outside of the noodle shop on plastic chairs set beside a lonely and small glass table. San’s aunt grins at the two of you, watching as you gaze excitedly at her plating and listens to the sound of your happy slurping of the knife cut noodles.

“Enjoy, my little stars.” She says as she practically dances away, bowed posture and all.

San’s eyes curl into little moons as he watches you eat. His heart warmed by the fact that he’s finally seeing you eat from this angle and can witness the act in detail versus his typical view of your (adorable) hair whirl. He finally picks up his spoon to gather a bit of broth, unable to stop his eyes from gazing back at you from sheer habit.

As you simmer down and relax, savoring the taste of each deliberate spice and notes of anise resting on your tongue, you finally speak.

“San, if you were… real all this time, where did you go?”

San pauses, eyes unblinking, though he still maintained his gentle candor. He settles down his spoon slowly, deliberating what to say.

You weren’t really sure when it really happened. You never questioned the slow disintegration of your imaginary friend– his existence naturally washed away with time by the idea of outgrowing the age necessary to have one. If San was real, why did he disappear? Why was he there on the mountain and unknown to everyone in such a small village with the exception of you?

“I’ve always watched over you.” He starts, fiddling with his fingers. “You’ve probably picked up on the strangeness of it all. Though I wasn’t imaginary, my being there was a curious situation. I think I can only say it outrightly, since there doesn’t seem to be another way to explain.” His tone is naturally playful, you’ve noticed. Though his eyes told him that the following words weren’t a joke, he couldn’t help the lightness he carried.

“I’m one of the many, many sons of a Star God. In some ways, I’m a spirit and in others– I’m not. It’s a gift I have– the ability to be corporeal is because I’m from his direct lineage. We’re called Cosmic Deities, Spirits, and so on– human’s also call us stars. Our lives are encompassed by a constant playing with the nighttime amongst each other or watching humans in their daily lives.” You listen in fascination. Although there was a fleeting moment when you thought you were eating with an egregiously insane man– you were able to see his earlier mysteries for yourself. Though you chalked it down and gave too much credit to your creative mind before this happened and were instantly humbled by the realization. San smiles at your attentive eyes, glad that there didn’t seem to be much disbelief or concern for his sanity in your eyes (He saw a little, but it wasn’t a concerning amount.)

“I was born around the same time as you were and placed above the mountain you were raised in. My father was always busy, and my older brothers were all placed in other areas of the night sky. Young stars are instructed to stay in one place; else they’d be too wild to contain and keep track of. As lovely as the mountain was, it was so boring to be there on my own, and on one fateful night… I saw a girl around my age talking to herself and the sky. I watched her for a couple of weeks before I broke the rules and snuck down onto the mountain. That’s where I met you–just in time to feed into your delusions.” He laughs when you reach to smack him across the table.

You raise an eyebrow in disbelief “So, you’re a… star that used to watch me?”

He picks his chopsticks back up, stuffing his face with noodles before replying with his mouth full “Yeah, pretty much.” While you’d grimaced at the sight of him talking through noodles, you couldn’t deny there was something about San that inspired adoration from everything. It made sense that he was the literal body of a star.

Slurping up his last noodle, he inhales deeply, cradling his full stomach and patting twice.

“Wanna go somewhere fun?” He asks casually and before you could even reply, a bright chrome light fills your vision.

“What the hell?” You panic a bit, straining the bulge of your eyes at San– astonished that he didn’t even consider if your little human mind could fathom what you’re seeing without passing out.

A shell like and nearly holographic prism surrounds you as different streams of color and light move in different directions and speeds. It’s what was frighteningly below you that floored you above even the beauty of it all– small glimmers and remnants of Hong Kong’s city skyline flicker and ember, except the skyline wasn’t so skyline from how high up you were.

San grins mischeiviously, almost catlike in its curl. His bangs sway a bit in that strangely charming and gamine way “You technically shouldn’t be up here, but I think you needed to get out of there–” He points down at Hong Kong “—for a little bit.”

A stunned silence and a small twitch of your eye ends up morphing into unrestrained laughter. The disbelief was palpable, and you didn’t know you’d end your lonely night in a blanket of stars. San grabs your hand and pulls you towards him before asking “You still remember how to dance, little star?”

In reply, you sway into his arms and allow him to spin you along the prisms of flowing light– the both of you beaming silver with laughter.

A small yawn leaves your body, and San suddenly realizes that humans are usually only awake during the hours of the Sun. He bristles a little at the thought, hating that the Sun got to see you even more than he did. He just hopes the man wasn’t watching you in particular.

He stands there wanting to savor this rare moment of being able to finally envelop you in his arms, and he does, until he tugs you away softly. “It’s time for you to flicker off, Star. It seems to we’ve passed your bedtime.” A boyish smile graces the beauty of his face, and your eyes linger on the dimples of his cheeks, settling like craters on the moon.

Though you were tired, you were scared of this being an official goodbye. Now in finally knowing San, there’d be no way he’d be able to disappear from memory and were lonely at the thought of never seeing him again. Your stomach is gaunt at the idea. “Will I see you again?” You ask, eyes glazing over with a small and hopeful light.

“Oh, I’ll be around. Have no doubt about that.” He turns, still glancing at you with a small and boyish half-smile gracing features, as a chrome light shimmers against his body– all cosmic and God-like before turning back to you after a brief thought. San leans his head down to grin at you with the joy of omnipresent eyes, slowly dimming his lids to place a brief and chaste kiss onto your lips.

He smiles and you swear somewhere a star’s been born before lightly saying “I’ve always wanted to do that.” Before a metallic gleam dressed his body and everything goes black.

You wake up pressed against the cold window outside of a noodle shop close to closing. A few slips of cash were slipped under a blue glass of water, shimmering in a way that reminded you of the mountain side. Despite remembering you’d just left wherever San had taken you in the cosmos now– disbelief ran its course through you.

That couldn’t have been real. There’s no way.

A small loneliness creeps its way up your throat. It wasn’t real and you spent and ended the night alone, just as you’d initially expected–with a cheek sliding embarrassingly down a small noodle shops foggy window with only the blinking of a neon light accompanying you.

Gazing at the cash, you fleetingly wonder if someone had paid the bill as an act of being a good samaritan, until you peered closely. The stray coins looked… strange.

Star shaped pieces of silver, a bit rustic and seemingly chewed on at the edges by the teeth shaped indentations, and under them laid a small scrawled on receipt paper, flapping in the breeze.

Scrunching your brows, you unfold the note and finally notice that an empty bowl of noodles sat directly across your own.

It was simple really but nothing else needed to be said as a smile shuttered onto your face.

‘Look up.’

You do and catch a glimpse of a small flicker from your favorite star, as if it were waving.

siren’s notes/blip: While I could’ve set this story in South Korea, I’ve been feeling a lot of nostalgia for the films I watched growing up that were based in Hong Kong. This was supposed to be a little writing exercise for me and then it just expanded into this little idea. There isn’t necessarily a concrete story line, as that’s not really the intention of this drabble. This was a longer piece since I wanted to set the scene or provide some backstory before it got episodical. I was trying to write chapter two of the thrill of the hunt but struggled with having frustration with plotline stitching and needed to take a break and just started writing this– which was a random idea but will more than likely be going into my short story manuscripts.

I kind of just wanted to write something that felt like sudden magic and plan on writing little episodes about this cosmic pair and the lovely starlight owner of Sanxing. I hope that if you read this, you’d enjoyed it.

Another semi-related fact about my choice of setting the story is that I’m moving overseas next year to attend a university in Bangkok but am planning to travel to another city for a tiny bit before the semester begins. I was stuck between going to Busan/Seoul, Jiufen (Taiwan), and of course– Hong Kong. I wanted to daydream a little and so here we are.

This series was inspired by the instrumental "a faint signal" by infinity frequencies. Let me know how you liked it. :)

p.s as any reoccurring readers could tell—i really like using this photo of san

#ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #kpop fanfiction #ateez x you #san ateez #san fanfic #san x reader #ateez san #ateez fic #ateez #kpop fic #san x you #san x y/n #ateez drabbles #siren's drabbles #a faint signal

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