#An Unwanted Inheritance | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ceoofglytchell · 2 months ago

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A Monster‘s Bride

Summary: In the middle of the war, you are urgently called to Harrenhal to finally fulfill your duty and wed the Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen. However, you have heard what man he has become and the haunted halls of the ancient castle are not the only thing you are afraid of.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Baratheon!Reader

Word count: 5737 words

Warnings: MDNI, Angst, brief dubcon, Reader has Baratheon features, unwanted touch, mean!Aemond (at first), arranged marriage, dark fic, brief suicidal thoughts, secret longing, Alys Rivers making a cameo, brief smut at the end, no mention of Y/N

Notes: My first ever solo Aemond fic! I hope you like it! Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Enjoy 💛

The first time Aemond Targaryen kissed you was the night he became a kinslayer.

He was supposed to choose one of the daughters of Lord Borros Baratheon of Storm's End to marry. He looked at all of you, all of your sisters, and leaned down to press a kiss to your lips.

You were the last.

You had watched him kiss each of your four sisters for a few seconds, but he never showed any reaction. Except maybe with Maris, when he grimaced afterwards.

And then he finally leaned toward you and pressed his lips against yours, his hand resting on your cheek. You stood still, not knowing what to do because you had never been kissed before. By no one. Not even by the stableboy you had liked for a while.

But the prince did not lean back as quickly as he had with your sisters. He sighed against your lips and ran his long fingers through your hair. When he finally pulled away and rested his forehead against yours, you could feel that he had found his answer.

"What is your name?" he whispered, out of breath.

You whispered it to him, and only then did he lean back, a small smile playing on his thin lips. It was the first and last time you would see him smile.

"Well, my prince? I hope one of my daughters is to your liking," said your father, who sat on his throne not far from you, scrutinizing you with eagle eyes.

"I want her," he replied simply, placing a hand on your shoulder, whereupon Lord Baratheon laughed softly.

"My youngest. She inherited her mother's beauty. I assure you that she will make a good wife for you."

Prince Aemond leaned back and let his one violet eye roam over your figure. He did not know how your mother had looked like, but she must have been beautiful. You were by far the most beautiful of your sisters. Long, raven-black hair, pale skin, a light blush that spread across his cheeks, and full lips that begged him to kiss them again. You proudly wore the colors of your house—black and yellow—and looked at him like a small, shy fawn.

He knew immediately that he had made the right choice.

"Please, speak to her. Even if she is quiet, I assure you she has a tongue," Lord Borros laughed, making a hand gesture that indicated to your sisters to step back.

Gently—too gently for a man of his status—he took your arm and led you a few steps away from your father's throne.

"Tell me of your interests, my Lady Baratheon," he demanded, but he did it in such a gentle tone that it did not sound like a demand. He gave you the illusion of a choice.

You hesitated, but then gathered your courage: "I enjoy reading, my prince."

Something flashed in his eye, recognition or perhaps interest. "What exactly?"

"Poetry, my prince. History and philosophy I enjoy as well," you answered him, looking down at the ground beneath your feet. The stone was cold and wet, as it often was these days.

"And beyond? Besides literature. What else excites you?" he asked you, his one watchful eye boring into your soul.

You were just opening your lips to answer him when you suddenly heard the sound of armor striding through the door. The guards had arrived, and among them was a young man—a boy.

He was brown-haired, wore a sword at his hip, held a message, and wore the colors black and red.

Your eyebrows furrowed in question, but you immediately noticed the prince's attention shifting completely away from you and his shoulders tensing.

You quickly learned who this boy was. Lucerys Velaryon. The boy who stole the eye of your betrothed. One of the many bastards of Princess Rhaenyra, who now wanted to be called Queen, even though her half-brother Aegon had only been crowned King a few hours ago.

A war was looming on the horizon, and the thunderstorm raging over Storm's End seemed to be only a harbinger.

"Give me your eye or I will take it, bastard!" your betrothed suddenly shouted, rushing toward the boy, but your father's loud voice held him back.

Lucerys disappeared as quickly as a frightened mouse, and Aemond adjusted his eyepatch, which he had apparently ripped off his face while talking to his nephew.

You did not see it because his back was to you.

Arrax flew away over Storm's End, and the One-Eyed Prince hurried off.

There was no goodbye; planning the wedding had not even been a topic of discussion.

It was not until the next morning that you discovered what monster would soon be bound to you.

Your betrothed was a kinslayer and the one responsible for the war that was about to come.

Your sisters repeatedly examined you with pity and sadness. Even in the weeks that followed, when you heard no word from the prince, they all knew that the gentle deer would soon be in the clutches of a bloodthirsty dragon.

You became fearful.

Every time you heard a guard approaching your chambers, you feared that your betrothed had come to finally claim you as his wife.

You did not want to become his wife.

Even though you could not forget the feeling of his lips on yours and longed for a gentle hand to pull you in, you were afraid of the chaos he would bring.

But he did not come.

Not even a letter reached you.

You had started one once, but you simply did not know what to write him. Why are you not coming back? Do you still want me? Has the betrothal been annulled?

You barely knew him.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months.

Your betrothed had now also murdered Princess Rhaenys and her dragon Meleys and now bore the title of Prince Regent. He was now on his way to Harrenhal to face Prince Daemon, who had already been residing there for a few weeks.

"My Lady! My Lady!"

The panicked voice of your handmaiden woke you in the middle of the night, and you sat up straight, your eyes wide and questioning.

"The Prince Regent—he has gone mad! He is burning down the entire Riverlands, and the Blacks have taken King's Landing! The king has fled, Rhaenyra now sits on the throne!" your maid explained to you, grabbing your shoulders as if she were trying to force the news into your body.

"What?" you asked her, not quite registering the words yet.

"Look!" your maid cried, jerking the curtain aside so you could look out the window.

And indeed—there were wisps of smoke in the night sky, and the distant sky was drenched red like blood.

You were the bride of a monster.

The very next morning, you emptied the entire contents of your stomach into the nearest pot at breakfast when a raven arrived with the news that the Prince Regent had slaughtered the entire House Strong.

Neither man, woman, nor child survived the massacre at Harrenhal.

You began to pray every morning, every night, that the Stranger would come for you. To you or your soon-to-be Lord Husband. You did not want to be held by hands soaked in blood.

You refused to carry the heirs of a madman.

Unfortunately, you had no choice.

The raven arrived a week later, just as the sun disappeared over the horizon, making way for the moon. Your father delivered the news to you personally.

"The Prince Regent wants you to join him at Harrenhal immediately," your father said in a monotone voice, your nails digging deeper into the leather cover of the book that lay in your lap.

"Did he write why?" you asked him, and although you tried to keep your voice as emotionless as possible, it still trembled.

"To secure the royal line of House Targaryen," Lord Borros replied, letting the small note that had been in the prince's blood-soaked hands just a few hours earlier fall into your lap.

You flinched. Slowly and carefully, as if his words contained a curse, you opened the note and ran your eyes over the dried ink.

The ink, too, looked like blood under the flickering candlelight.

The words were simple, but you could still hear his voice deep inside your head.

To Lord Borros Baratheon of Storm's End,

I hereby request the immediate presence of your daughter, my betrothed, at Harrenhal. With the pretender seizing the throne, the bloodline of House Targaryen hangs by a thread. Your daughter is needed to secure it. She will want for nothing.

May the Warrior give us strength in these times of war,

Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen

You dropped the note into your lap. Your hands trembled and you felt like you could not breathe.

"I will have your maids pack your things. A carriage will be waiting for you in the morning, daughter. Rest well," your father said before closing the door to your chambers behind him, leaving you alone again.

That night, lying alone in your bed, with the smell of your home spreading around you like a warm blanket, you considered opening the window and jump.

But were the Stranger's arms gentler than the prince's?

You closed your eyes, and in the far distance, in the cold ruins of Harrenhal, a cold-hearted prince did the same.

You dreamed of shadows haunting you. Of blood staining your dress, dripping to the floor, and carrying with every step. In your dream, you screamed when you saw him—his sword raised, flames surrounding him, his silver hair wild, his gaze mad, and his one eye resting on you and you alone.

The prince dreamed of gentle hands resting on his shoulders. Of a warm smile that could banish the cold of these corridors, and of a kiss he could not forget.

But you had one thing in common. You both awaited the morning. You with a heart full of fear, and he with a heart full of longing.

You hugged each of your sisters for several seconds before boarding the carriage. Cassandra waved goodbye to you, Maris turned away, Ellyn cried, and Floris embraced her tightly.

You were sure you would never see them again.

You traveled for thirty days.

After all, it was about seven hundred miles from Storm's End to Harrenhal, and you had to avoid King's Landing at all costs. The route took you and your guards from Storm's End northwest through the Stormlands, then through the southern Riverlands, which were still burning. The carriage passed Blackhaven; in the distance, you could see Tumbleton, from where you had continued southwest to Harrenhal.

The carriage stopped at two taverns along the way. The first was The Weary Traveler Inn, which was near a busy trade route. The food was good, and you were able to refill your water. You could also change and wash there.

On the outskirts of Tumbleton, you stopped at The Golden Stag Inn, which was even friendlier than the one before. You and the four guards who rode in the carriage to protect you stayed one night.

You knew it would be the last time you would see anything but blood and death, which is why you stayed late into the evening talking with some of the women who had sought shelter in the building after their homes burned down in the fire.

The fire your betrothed was responsible for.

You were not him and could not apologize for his actions, but when you finally left, you left behind a sack full of gold, which they would need more than you.

It was more than he would ever give.

The carriage bumped over the uneven ground, its wheels creaking under the weight of the ride and the strain. Thick fog surrounded them, creeping up from the shore of the Gods' Eye, and in the distance, the tall towers of Harrenhal loomed, almost like dark shapes, like the jagged teeth of a long-dead beast. The sun had not quite risen yet, bathing the ruins of the once-magnificent castle in a pale, sickly light.

The high stone walls loomed tall and imposing, while the ever-present whisper of the supposedly cursed place seemed to be carried on the wind. Everyone knew the rumors about this place. The dark expanse that dwelled within. You were sure that whatever dwelled there would quickly take a liking to you.

Hopefully, it would take pity on you and grant you a short stay.

As the carriage approached the gates, even the street seemed to grow colder, prompting you to pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders. The air felt stifling, heavy with the history of the recent atrocity that had begun there and the blood that stained these stones. The mounted guards rode in silence, their eyes scanning the shadows as if waiting for something—or someone—to emerge from them.

The gates of Harrenhal, massive and forged from ancient iron, loomed before you like the maw of a monstrous beast—a dragon. No banners waved here, no sign of life except the dark, watchful eyes that seemed to peer out of the broken windows in the walls. The only sounds were the muffled creak of the carriage and the soft shuffle of the horse's hooves as you reached the courtyard.

Your heart pounded in your chest. In the distance, beyond the walls, the faint call of a raven echoed through the silence. It was almost as if the air sensed something was coming. Or perhaps it was the castle itself—waiting.

No. It was he who was waiting.

You knew he was.

You took a deep breath before finally opening the carriage door and stepping out into the courtyard. The walls dripped, ravens flew over your head, but otherwise it was deathly quiet.

Your gaze wandered over your new home, where you would reside for the rest of the war, and then you saw him.

He stood high up on one of the balconies, engulfed in shadows. His pale hands gripped the railing as he looked at you and the intensity of his gaze gave you goosebumps and a lump formed in your throat. But then you noticed that he was not alone. A woman stood next to him.

You did not know who she was, but apparently he had let her live. The sole survivor of the massacre that took place in this very courtyard just a few weeks ago.

The realization that right where you were standing, people were being murdered in the most brutal of ways made your knees go weak. You stumbled to the side and would have definitely fallen to the ground if one of your guards had not grabbed your arm to steady you.

When you looked up again, the prince was gone, but the woman continued to look at you. Shadows played around her features, and for a brief moment, you thought you were staring into the eyes of death itself.

"Shall we escort you inside, My Lady?" asked the guard holding your arm. There was a hint of concern in his voice, and for a brief moment, you felt some warmth creep back into your bones.

The feeling immediately vanished when you heard hurried footsteps echoing across the stone floor.

"What is the matter with her?" The Prince Regent's sharp voice cut through the air, and when you looked up at him, you could see nothing but coldness in his one eye.

"I an afraid the journey has not been good for her, Your Grace. We have been traveling for a month," one of the guards explained to him in a calm tone.

Your eyes wandered to the sword hanging at his hip. Blackfyre. The sword Aegon the Conqueror once wielded, and which has already taken so many lives.

Vomit rose in your throat, even though you had not eaten anything that morning, and it took all your strength not to double over and empty the contents of your stomach right at the boots of your betrothed.

"Take her inside. She should rest," he instructed the guard, his tone leaving no room for questions, no opportunity for argument.

You looked up at him, and for a split second, you thought you saw a flicker of emotion on his face. However, it vanished as quickly as it had come, and you decided you must have been hallucinating.

"We will hold the wedding this afternoon in front of the Weirwood Tree. I will send for you."

A nod. That was all you gave him. Your arms brushed briefly as your guard led you past him and into the castle. You did not know which rooms were habitable or which were haunted by spirits from days long past. Let alone which room you would be sharing with your husband from tonight onward.

The mere thought of it made the fine hairs on your arms stand on end and sent shivers through your body.

"This one looks passable, My Lady," the guard said, giving you a cautious smile. At least there was one friendly person left within these cold walls.

"Thank you, Ser Garrick," you replied gratefully, closing the heavy wooden door behind you after entering the darkened rooms.

You could hear Ser Garrick walking down the corridor, and a soft sigh escaped you. You had never felt so alone in your life. Before, you always had your sisters, who annoyed you, but whom you still loved more than anything. Now you had no one.

You sat down on the bed, which was facing the wall, catapulting a load of dust into the air that made you cough. You slowly lowered your back onto the old mattress and looked up at the ceiling with tired eyes. Some shapes and symbols seemed to be carved into the wood above the bed, but you did not know what they meant. Your eyes suddenly became so heavy.

You blinked and suddenly you fell into a deep sleep.

The journey had probably just tired you out too much.

A sudden noise in the chambers startled you. The woman you had seen standing up on the balcony earlier was now standing not far in front of you. In her hands was a bowl from which steam rose. It smelled of tea, but something inside you doubted that this stranger would bring you tea just like that.

"Who are you?" you finally asked her as you cautiously sat up.

"I am Alys," she replied. She simply reached out and held out the bowl to you. "A tea to combat the tiredness from the long journey."

You hesitated as you accepted the bowl from her. Your fingers touched for a split moment, and not a second later, your hands began to tremble. It had suddenly become so cold.

"I have prepared a bath for you in the prince's chambers. You do not want to show up dirty at your own wedding, do you?"

"Are you his maid?" you asked instead, without answering her concern. The bath could wait. So could the wedding.

"Something like that," she answered, taking a few steps away from the bed you were still sitting on. "Drink. Otherwise, it will get cold and lose its potency."

You did not want to drink it, but for some reason, you did anyway. The liquid left a bitter taste on your tongue and burned its way down your throat. It should have felt soothing, but it did not.

"He let you live. Why?" you asked her, confused. The Prince Regent did not seem like a gracious man to you.

"I cannot say. I do not know what is going on in his head."

You nodded and took another sip from your cup. The tea stained your lips purple.

The woman, Alys, now stood with her back to you. Her hair was even blacker than yours, like the darkest onyx.

"But I told him I was once a wet nurse. Perhaps I can still be of value to you, My Lady," she said suddenly, and your hands immediately tightened around the wood of the bowl.

"It will be so lovely to hear these empty halls filled with children's laughter again."

You placed the bowl, still half full, on the bed next to you and stood up on unsteady legs. She was taller than you and quite a bit older, although you could not say exactly how old she was. She seemed infinitely old, yet young at the same time.

A dark suspicion spread within you, but you did not want to think about it right now.

"Where are his chambers?" you asked her, trying to make your voice sound as authoritative as possible. You were sure the attempt failed miserably because she turned to you with a knowing smile on her thin lips.

"Follow me."

Without another word, she walked past you and out the door, and you followed her with quick steps. The prince's chambers were not far from the rooms you had initially chosen. Alys opened the door, and you were amazed to see how well the room was. In fact, there was even a fire burning in the fireplace.

In the middle of the room stood a large tub, from which white steam rose into the air. The water seemed hot, and a smile crept involuntarily onto your lips. A healing bath was exactly what your muscles needed right now.

"Shall I help you undress?"

"No," you answered a little faster than necessary, to which the woman simply chuckled.

"Very well, My Lady. Your wedding dress is on the bed. Call if you need help getting dressed," she said, and immediately hurried back out of the room. The door closed with a loud bang behind her, before you could ask her how she would hear you if you actually called for her.

But you were now glad she was gone. She was frightening.

Your black dress with the yellow embroidery of little deer and antlers landed on the armchair in front of the fireplace, followed by your thin chemise and stockings.

The bathwater was still hot when you finally stepped in, and you could not help but sigh with relief. It felt a lot better than the tea, and you could immediately feel your muscles relaxing and a weight lifting from your shoulders.

But you were not relaxed. Not when you were about to marry the prince in the not-too-distant future. The white dress spread out in the middle of the bed was a constant reminder of that.

The bed. You did not want to think about what would happen right there later. On those sheets. Right where the dress lay, you would lie later.

At least you would be spared a bedding ceremony, you thought.

You washed yourself as best you could with the single bar of soap that was lying next to the tub. It smelled neither of roses, nor lilacs, nor any other scent you could identify.

You were not sure how long you bathed. All you knew was that as you dried yourself with an old, scratchy towel that smelled of old books, leather, and smoke, the sun was slowly setting outside.

It was almost time.

You quickly dried your naked body and untied your hair, which you had tied back to keep it from getting wet. You slipped into your undergarment, stockings, and shoes, and finally cleared your throat.

You opened the door a little and called for Alys.

She came in a few minutes later, and you were surprised to see that she had also done some tidying up. Her hair seemed more combed, and she was no longer wearing the dirty apron she had been wearing before.

"It has been a long time since I was last able to attend a wedding," she said simply, as she helped you step into the dress and tightened the laces at the back with nimble fingers. The bodice was so tight that you could barely breathe.

"Where did you even get that dress? I doubt there are any seamstresses left around here," you asked her, a hint of curiosity in your tone, trying not to curse as the older woman pulled one of the laces too tight again. It was almost as if she wanted you to suffer.

"It belonged to one of the Strongs. I do not remember which one," she said, smoothing your hair over your shoulders with surprising gentleness, letting it fall in soft waves down your back.

Your stomach lurched. You were wearing the dress of a dead woman.

Alys stood in front of you and placed her hands on her hips, examining her work. "He will like you. He has been waiting for you, you know? Told me about you in the nights while I made him tea."

Your eyes widened and you blinked. You did not know whether to be flattered or even more terrified than you already were. If he was waiting, then he had expectations. What if you could not fulfill them?

"He told you about me?" you asked, adjusting the sleeves of your dress.

The woman in front of you nodded her head, grinning. "He told me about the moment he chose you. He said you tasted the sweetest of all your sisters."

A blush flooded your cheeks and you immediately looked down at the ground. After all these weeks and months, he could still remember the taste of your lips? The feeling he had when he did it?

You could not believe this was the same man whose hands were soaked with the blood of hundreds of innocents.

"Are you ready?" her voice suddenly startled you from your thoughts, and you simply nodded.

Together, you both walked through the cold, empty, and wet halls of Harrenhal. Drops of water fell on your shoulder, you walked past a black billy goat, and you felt like thousands of eyes were staring at you, even though there were hardly any souls left in these halls.

The evening air was cold, but not unpleasant, when you finally stepped out into the courtyard with the older woman. Aemond Targaryen was already standing in front of the Weirwood Tree. The wind gently blew a few strands of his silver hair, and the setting sun cast a golden light on him and the tree, whose leaves shone red.

Only Alys noticed that the tree's face had finally stopped crying.

Next to the prince stood an elderly man dressed like a Septon of the Faith of the Seven. You wanted to ask where this man came from, since there was no Sept in the immediate vicinity, but you bit your tongue.

The Prince Regent seemed to have been waiting for this moment, and you did not want to ruin it. After all, you did not want to taste his wrath.

Alys let go of your arm and stood not far from you. Aemond's eye briefly flicked to the woman, and he gave her a nod- one of gratitude for her service.

"My prince," you greeted him, curtsying slightly to show his respect.

"My lady," he replied, extending a hand, which you hesitantly took.

You both turned to the Septon, who looked at you with an almost fatherly smile on his lips.

"We stand before the Old Gods, under the watchful eye of the Weirwood, to unite your hearts and your destinies. May you remain true to one another, in joy and sorrow, until the end of your days," the Septon began in a solemn tone. The wind in the courtyard began to shift, and it almost felt as if you felt a warm hand on your shoulder.

The older man pulled a red ribbon from his robe, which he carefully and patiently tied around your hands. Compared to the prince's, your hands were small and delicate.

He looked down at you, you looked up at him, and in that moment you thought you could see the ghost of a smile on his lips. Not a malicious smile or a cruel one, but a genuine one.

"You may speak now," said the Septon, once he had finished tying your hands together.

Aemond straightened his back and brought his other hand to your face, cupping your chin with two fingers so that you would not look away from him. He wanted to look you in the eye as he swore this oath to you.

"I am hers and she is mine," he spoke in a firm, confident voice.

For a moment, you just looked at him and swallowed the lump in your throat. A breeze flew over you, rustling the red leaves of the tree. From somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted.

"I am his and he is mine," you finally replied, but unlike his, your voice was soft and quiet.

It was a sound Aemond would call music.

The Septon placed his old, wrinkled hands over both of yours. They were ice cold.

"May the ancient gods watch over you, may your hearts be one, and may your love grow as old as the trees themselves," he announced, and even though you did not want to, you could not help but give your husband the slightest smile.

"You may now kiss the bride."

Your shoulders tensed, and Aemond sensed from the way your delicate hand twitched beneath his ever so slightly that you were nervous. He did not want you to feel that way in his presence. You were now his Lady Wife.

He leaned down slowly, carefully, as if you were a wounded deer that he now had to tend to: "Do not be afraid."

Your eyes moved down to his lips.

"I am not afraid," you whispered, a lie.

"Good. Because I do not want you to be afraid of me. Never, do you hear?"

You nodded your head. His warm breath brushed your cheek, and you instinctively leaned closer to him, seeking his warmth, while he could not wait any longer. Aemond closed the last distance between you two and pressed his lips against yours, while his free hand cupped your face.

Your lips were warm and soft, and you tasted just as sweet as he remembered. Fresh wild berries and something he would associate with you alone.

He sighed into the kiss, and you tentatively kissed him back, but that alone was enough to show him that you accepted him. You wanted him.

He only broke the kiss when he had no more air in his lungs, and even then, he rested his forehead against yours, for he could not bear to be parted from you any longer. Your breath came in short gasps, and your eyes roamed over his face, and for the first time, you saw him.

You did not see the monster that set the Riverlands ablaze, killed his nephew, and wiped out an entire bloodline. You saw the man behind it, and you found that you liked what you saw.

"Come with me."

Not a question, a command.

He untied the band that had been wrapped around your hands until just a moment ago and let it fall to the dirty ground in the shadow of the tree's roots, where the wind would soon carry it away. It would probably land in the Gods' Eye and disappear into the depths of the lake, never to be found.

Your husband intertwined his fingers with yours and led you, guided by his hand, back into the castle, where you already knew what awaited you.

Behind you, the Septon disappeared as if he had never been there.

Alys smiled and stroked her owl.

He was just closing the door to his—your—chambers behind you when his lips were back on yours.

"My prince—" you tried to say. "My husband, please."

"What is it, wife?" he murmured against your lips as he pushed you toward the large canopy bed.

He just could not stop kissing you. It was impossible.

"I need air," you protested, a small laugh escaping you. It was one of the most beautiful sounds his ears had ever heard.

His arms wrapped around your waist as his lips traveled down your neck, exploring every inch. Every single one.

„Better?“ he whispered as the backs of your knees touched the bed.

He gently bit into your warm flesh, eliciting a surprised gasp. No, that was his new favorite sound.

He wondered how sweetly you could else sing for him?

His hands smoothed the fabric of the white dress up your legs, desperate to get the fabric off you. He has been wondering for weeks what you would look like without it. Ever since the first time you kissed and you looked at him like a wounded little deer, he knew he could not resist you.

After arriving at Harrenhal, he had invited the witch into his bed to vent his frustration, but the moment her lips had touched his, he had pushed her away. Instead, he had talked about you.

The witch was a good listener, and that was why he let her live.

But he only wanted you.

Your arms wrapped around his neck and your fingers dug into his silky, silver hair, resembling the light of a full moon. The feeling sent an incredible heat through his chest, making him wonder if it had not been a dragon that had bathed him in flames, like he had the Riverlands.

He took satisfaction in the fact that they were still burning.

He pushed you down onto the bed and immediately climbed over you, his hands roaming up and down your curves, his lips exploring your neck, and you writhing beneath him.

You were about to lose yourself in his kisses and the feeling of his body's warmth when you suddenly felt his dagger pressing into your hip. The dagger he intended to use to attack his nephew, a sign of the violence and storm he carried within him.

Even now when he was laying with you.

The monster might have looked at you with a gaze full of gentleness, but it still slumbered within him.

The same hands that now touched you and ran over your body as if you were something precious had murdered and committed cruel acts just a few weeks ago.

His eye met yours, and he looked at you with such intensity that you could not help but lose yourself in him. You were a gentle breeze on a sunny day, he was the thunderstorm that followed.

He was what you were missing.

"Wife?" he asked you, his voice dripping with desire.

"Yes, husband?" you asked him, breathless.

"May I?"

He gave you the choice.

You nodded and he began to rip open the laces of your bodice with a sense of urgency and need.

And shorty after, when he thrusted in and out of you, your legs wrapped around his waist and his cock buried deep inside of your cunt, while he whispered of filling you up with his seed- you realized something.

Perhaps being loved by a monster was not as bad as you had thought.

The Divider is from the wonderful @zaldritzosrose !

Taglist: @bey0nd-1he-stars @sassypain @hisfavegirl @dahaenatargaryen @sylasthegrim @danytar

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x you #ewan mitchell

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doctorho · 6 months ago

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dripping velvet, purring dark

Academy era Viktor x fem! curvy reader, 4.5k, no warnings only love in this house (ok there is a conversation about some people being idiots which can be interpreted as the reader getting unwanted attention at a party but it's nothing graphic or anything i promise and no-one is mean to her) also i made viktor horny and slightly subby because that's what the gremlins in my brain wanted. you're welcome. yeah! hi! not sure what this is, but here you go. the reader is described as she/her here (and curvy, and soft, and she is wearing an evening gown, because i wanted to think about pretty dresses). idk. have a thing. happy friday.

Viktor likes to think of himself as a person who's usually capable of focusing on things pretty well. On the task at hand. Give him a faulty circuit and he'll poke at it long enough to find the broken component, no problem. An error in the calculations? He'll find that missing minus sign or forgotten exponent, easy. He'll strip a wire in his sleep.

The task at hand now, though? The problem?

He had to sit through a whole evening of presentations at the academy end-of-year party, put on a polite face for the investors, and pretend not to care that one idiot after another was lining up to flirt with you while he was watching from the sidelines. You were wearing a dress that felt sinful to look at, and there was something primitive gnawing at the inside of his chest begging to be let out, and he had to just stand there and nod through the conversations, pretend he wasn't slowly boiling from the inside out.

And he was failing miserably.

He’d known he was in trouble from the moment he saw you that night – all expensive fabric covering smooth curves and soft-looking skin, sparkling eyes and easy smiles, and he’d been done for. Before this, it’d been much easier to compartmentalize his feelings; before this, it'd been easier to ignore them.

Before he’d kept his distance, emotionally and physically speaking, because, well, it’d been easier. He'd seen you around the Academy, all bubbling laughs and raw-honest radiant smiles and confident solutions, and he'd known that you looked…appealing, but he wasn't in the habit of holding up any illusions about what you might think of him in return. His place was in the dark dusty corner of the lab, turning over the ever-ticking problems, while you were out there shining like the sun. And sometimes you came by the lab, with new ideas or suggestions or just to borrow some equipment or ask about a shipment, and he had resigned to his role of staying at his desk pretending he wasn't burning to be closer to your orbit.

But when he sees you in the low lighting of the party, leaning to the bar and laughing, something just breaks in him. And then he can’t pretend to ignore it any longer. And sure, maybe he’s a little bit drunk, it was easier to stand these events that way, but it still feels like a solid-honest truth in his bones that he wanted to get closer to you, and suddenly he couldn’t stand the conversation he was in the middle of. Because one of them – the sour idiots he’d catalogued in his head for the whole night, the stupid people trying to impress you with their embellished stories and inherited wealth who weren’t worth your time – one of them was circling you like a hyena again, smiling.

You were wearing a dark, floor-length gown that wasn’t, on a purely technical level, much different from what about 50% of the other guests were wearing. However, it seemed to create a significant caveat that even though there wasn’t anything indecent in the dress itself, seeing it on you made him feel like maybe he shouldn’t look at you for too long or he might spontaneously combust. There was a slit on the side that revealed a more than generous amount of leg when you walked, and his focus kept wandering from that to your silhouette, the soft curve of your hips, your chest, your face – no, that’s worse, don’t stare, she'll notice – and truly, he had to force himself to keep his eyes at least vaguely on the vicinity of the person who was currently talking to him. Something about statistics and return investment. Yes.

He nods, pretending to look interested.

The dress drapes over your hips in soft little cascades, the fabric shimmering lightly as you moved, and something in his brain was itching, begging to run his fingers over it, to know what it feels like, to know what you feel like under it, all soft and warm and pliable under his fingers, and preferably sighing something into the crook of his neck, and–

“We'd like to get our investment back within a year,” the guy that's talking to him says – Viktor can't even remember his name, and he doesn’t really even care – and he just shifts his eyes back to the guy slowly.

“A year?�� he repeats, with the barest amount of feigned interest, and the guy goes off in a whole new tangent. Viktor shifts his posture, and lets his eyes glide over to where you were again.

One of those idiots, one he thankfully doesn’t have the displeasure of knowing personally but who must be the son of some crooked diplomat, says something to you and you scoff through a smile, roll your eyes, and lean further into the counter at the bar. Viktor has to pretend to be present for his own conversation – yes, the new coating material for the wires was more heat-resistant, no, there was still the issue of mechanical stress, they were working on it – and you say something in answer to the current idiot (third of the night, he’d counted), and it is killing him that he doesn’t know what it is.

You’d turned down the first two, from what he could tell. But this latest idiot was still talking to you, like he was in any way entitled to your company. And it's making something inside Viktor raise its hackles, and he doesn’t especially like feeling like that, because he couldn't justify feeling like that to himself in any tangible way, and then it all just boiled down to a resigned even if she deserves better than that i have no business dictating that for her.

He's just about to focus on the conversation he was supposedly participating in again when something happens. He can't make out the details, but imbecile number three seems to lean way too close to you, says something, and smiles in a way that makes something cold creep down the back of Viktor's neck. And your expression coldens, too, and you say something to him, and turn away, more rigid than you'd been the whole evening.

“Excuse me,” Viktor is saying to the Investment Guy before he can fully think it through, his own voice feeling distant in his ears, and then he's walking to the bar.

You're alone – the idiot had had the sense to leave you alone quickly, at least. That's good. Viktor isn't sure what he's doing, but then he's leaning to the bar next to you and ordering another drink and trying to look like he isn't thinking too hard about what to do next.

“Whatever he just proposed to you,” Viktor says slowly, looking over the bar instead of directly at you, “I assure you you can do better.”

He can hear you take a deep breath, shift a little, and sigh it out with what sounded like almost a laugh.

“Yeah,” you agree, “I don't know what it is about people like that that makes them think they can just…” You sigh again, and make a hand gesture towards the room. ”You know.”

“Unfortunately,” he answers, resigned, “yes. I do.”

He gets his drink and thanks the bartender, and then leans to the counter too, mimicking your posture, holding the drink and letting it swirl around in his glass. “Have you talked with anyone actually worth your time tonight?”

You hmm. Then, “there was a little girl earlier that told me some fascinating things about insect metamorphosis.” You say casually.

And Viktor laughs. Without meaning to, he laughs, and you smile in response, visibly relaxing a little.

“I don't think she was on the guest list though.” You continue.

He hums in response, and rearranges his grip on the handle of his cane. “Sounds much more interesting than the conversations I've been in tonight.”

“I know,” you answer, and he can hear the smile in your voice, “you think we could swap out one of the main speakers with her?”

He hmms again, looking over the stage thoughtfully. “I think it would count as a public service,” he nods a little, considering the list of speakers yet to come, “what do you think, who'd be a good target?”

You shift in your place, looking over the same list of speakers, plastered over the walls on both sides of the stage. “The financial talk,” you answer, “Mr. Ross. I'd much rather listen to insect facts than another boring talk about investing.”

Viktor nods. “You distract him, I'll whack him unconscious?” he offers, and you laugh. You laugh, and it warms something in him.

“And then what?” you continue, still smiling, and he has to look away to keep his composure.

He shrugs. “Eh,” he answers, “we drag him to a bathtub somewhere and act like he just passed out there?" He shrugs, "I happen to know three ways to get out of this room that I'm pretty sure we could use unnoticed.”

“Uh-huh,” you answer, “and then we just find the girl and ask her if she wants to talk about bugs for half an hour. Easy.”

“Exactly,” he agrees, “and then we congratulate ourselves for making the evening better for everybody.”

"Except maybe Mr. Ross."

"No," he counters, looking over the crowd, "I think he would prefer a nice little nap. Surely not even he wants to hear himself talk all the time." He takes a sip of his drink, "and I think waking up in a bathtub would be a nice change of pace to the rumors of other places he seems to have a habit of waking up in after events such as these."

“Good point,” you shift in your place, settling to lean to the counter a bit closer to him. “Perfect plan. But why'd you get to whack him unconscious and not me?”

Viktor blinks. Lifts one eyebrow. “Because you are by far more distracting than I am,” he answers, “and I thought the plan could use the distraction.”

“I don't think that's true,” you answer, “I think you're plenty distracting on your own.”

Now, he lets himself look at you. Really, properly look at you, and not even half-trying to hide it. You're smiling now, shoulders relaxed, holding your drink with fingers wrapped loosely around it, and in the warm lights of the bar there's a golden glow on your skin, and something breathless at the bottom of his stomach is aching to get closer to you, to touch you, to see if his hand would fit on your waist as well as he thinks it would, to see how you would react to that, if he could make you smile in a different way, what sounds he could get you to make for him–

“Agree to disagree,” he says, averts his eyes, and takes a sip of his drink.

Tries to tell that wild-hungry purring thing in him to behave.

Someone reasonable comes to talk to you – and it's about work, which is…something, probably, he has to stop himself from thinking it's better than those earlier idiots, because who's he to decide that for you? He gives you a casual wave and a nod as you depart with a smile and get swept up in the conversation about new ideas and solutions and this-new-thing you've been looking at. And he watches as you start talking excitedly, all golden and glittering, easy conversation and confident smiles, and quietly (not-so quietly) he concludes that maybe you hadn't had many worthwhile conversations with any of the guests that night because you were the most worthwhile person in there to talk to.

He stays there sipping his drink and wondering what would be the closest appropriate time to slip out. He'd made an appearance, and technically nothing could be expected from him beyond that point. Sure, Jayce might tell him he could've stayed a bit longer, he could use the support, but nothing dramatic would happen.

The party drones on, and he makes no effort to move – and really, he tries not to think about it too much, but that was at least in part because he wanted to keep looking at you. He promptly ignores this, even when you're laughing at something someone else said and that heavy-dark-purring something at the bottom of his stomach doesn't like it very much.

Someone comes to ask for his opinion on something, and with a tiny sigh, he lets them pull him into the loop of conversations again. Yes, we are trying to simplify the design, no we can't cut back from the materials, they are what they are for a reason.

Somewhere around his third ‘Why would you think that?’ of that particular conversation, he's had enough. People were stupid, and he's had enough. He's just trying to come up with ways to get out of the conversation preferably without starting a scandal of some sort, when he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turns around to look at who it belongs to, and then everything in his head is quiet for a moment.

“Hey,” you say, smiling, “sorry to interrupt, but can I steal you away for a moment?” you ask, slipping your hand feather-light down his arm, and he has to suppress a shiver.

Viktor furrows his brows and opens his mouth, and then, like an idiot, says nothing. But he turns to leave, thankful for the window of opportunity.

“You remember that thing we talked about before?” you continue as you steer him away from the earlier group smoothly, “I found someone who's interested in those three escape routes you had up your sleeve.”

“Who?” he asks, because that's the only thing he can think of. You've linked your arm with his, and you're leaning on him, and you're soft and warm and you smell good, and he doesn’t trust his ability to form a full sentence.

“Me,” you answer, “and judging by how you just looked out there,” you continue, “you.”

Viktor swallows, and something in him purrs at the idea.

“This way,” he says, nodding towards an old stage exit, and honestly, he doesn’t even care why you want to leave, he's just grateful for the distraction and the company and drinking in every warm square inch of skin contact that you're willing to give him, even if it is just walking with your shoulder pressed against his.

If it turned out to be a plot where you actually wanted to whack someone unconscious, he'd worry about that later. For now he was just happy to leave, and happier that you were leaving with him.

It's easy to slip away from the crowd, and into the space between the stage curtain and the wall, if you know where you're going. You effortlessly fall a bit further from his side but keep his hand on yours, letting him pull you along, and quietly he wonders how and why and holy shit. He decides not to question it though, and keeps walking through the dim space between the cold old wall and the cascades of warm heavy velvet curtains.

“Do you want to leave the party,” he asks, voice quiet now that the background buzz of people was muffled by the curtain, “or just get away from it?”

You hmm behind him, clearly through a smile, and he makes the mistake of looking back at you. Surrounded by the dark red velvet curtains and only slivers of light from each side, his head – and the rest of his body – get entirely the wrong idea of what you're doing in there, because you look like a goddess in the small dim space, and he might crumble into ashes if he keeps looking at you, or he might do something stupid like pull you closer and press you into the wall, to see if your eyes would widen, if you'd gasp from the cold wall, if he could find other ways to make you gasp–

so he turns his eyes away and keeps talking.

He quickly finds he has to clear his throat before he can do that. “There is a staff entrance that goes past the kitchen a little ways further,” he says, and motions forwards, “or there is a disused indoor balcony surrounding the stage. You would be able to see the party, but it'd feel…removed.”

You lean closer, close enough that when your voice is muffled by the surrounding velvet, it feels like you're speaking right in his ear, and he has to swallow and remind himself that that's just situational coincidence, nothing more.

“Why do you know so many ways to get out of here?” you ask, “You sneak out a lot?”

“I am a fan of interesting architecture,” he answers, “and not as much a fan of pretentious social gatherings.”

“Fair,” you answer, then lean your chin on his shoulder, and he feels like his spine might spontaneously melt. “In your expertise, what would you recommend?”

“Well,” he says, trying to make it sound casual and like he wasn't breathless at all, “I think the balcony has some fairly interesting architecture.” And the lights of the party would look pretty from there. And you'd both get a breather away from the crowd. And he'd get to keep talking to you a little bit longer. And, as selfish as the thought felt, he couldn't deny it; he'd get to keep having you to himself for a little bit longer.

“Show me the balcony,” you smile, and he obliges. Happily, he obliges. So he pulls you into a narrow staircase, and then, up.

At the end of it there is a room that could, only by technical definition alone, be called a balcony – it was more like a hole carved into the wall, having at some point been used for seating or equipment space at events and concerts, and now just served as half-forgotten extra storage. It had, he supposed, once upon a time looked like the banquet hall did, all smooth surfaces and warm lights and thematically switched-out decorations, but now it was mostly the standard red velvet and dark wood and light marble, forgotten by the party and some of the golden light from the hall spilling into it by pure coincidence. There were velvet curtains on each side of the room, and you drop his hand to go look over the railing, and down at the party.

His hand instantly feels cold without yours in it, but he tries his best to ignore this, and follows you to look down at the party, too.

It looks much smaller from up there. Less chaotic.

“I didn't know there was a space like this here.” You say quietly, “can they see us?”

“Part of the design,” he answers, “you're not supposed to notice these spaces unless people want you to. Good place to hide extra orchestra pieces and make it feel like the sound is coming from nowhere. And–” he looks over at the people, colorful and mingling, “no, they can't. Not unless you want them to.” Then, he smiles, just a little. “But they'll be able to hear us, if we direct our voices upwards and wait for things to quiet down there first.”

You turn to look at him.

“Sloped ceilings,” he explains with a shrug, “again, good for a hidden orchestra accompaniment.”

“But they can't hear us talking?*

“Not over themselves,” he answers, “ironic, I know.”

You hum thoughtfully and turn around, with your back to the railing, and then you look at him and he needs to kick his brain back in line. You were gorgeous in the dim lighting, all relaxed and smiling, and–

He grips the handle of his cane a little tighter.

“Good,” you say, and the way you say it – all quiet and warm and liquid – makes something in him purr again, entirely against his better judgement.

“Why is it good?” he asks, because he has to hold on to some semblance of logic here, because otherwise he might just vaporize out into the atmosphere.

“Why do you think?” you ask, slowly turning to face him, and oh that just isn't fair. You're just there, just a warm breath of space away, all soft and pretty and languid–

He doesn’t know what to say, so he goes with what feels like the safest course of action.

“In case we want to plot any more ways to violently derail the evening's program?”

You exhale a small laugh and lean back.

And then you lift a hand on his chest, and he's pretty sure his heart might be overheating soon.

“Sure,” you answer, “that.” You inch closer, and Viktor is having a hard time remembering how to breathe. “Or anything else we might not want them overhearing.”

“Like?” He exhales, careful not to break the moment, and then you smile, warm and private and for him, and his insides liquify into warm, honey-thick goo, and oh, he’s not going to recover from this.

“Like,” you repeat slowly, and then you push yourself away from the balcony railing, just slightly, into the side of the wall covered by the velvet curtain, and he lets you pull him with you, he's not stupid. His brain – along with the rest of his body – might be in the process of actively melting, but he's not stupid. If you wanted to pull him into a shadowed, velvet-covered corner, he would follow no questions asked, especially on a night like this when his insides were buzzing and you looked like that. When you looked at him like that. You smile again, and stop moving when your back hits a wall, and then you pull him just close enough to whisper into his ear. “...Anything else we might not want them overhearing.” you repeat, and, yeah, Viktor is close to becoming the best documented case of human combustion in recorded history.

In the dim lighting, he searches your eyes into his, and you watch him, waiting, radiating heat between him and the velvet-covered wall. He's not sure why you were acting like this, but all signs were pointing towards you wanting the same thing he did, and he's not sure what he did to get this lucky, but with his every cell buzzing and vibrating and keening over to get closer, he wasn't about to let the opportunity pass.

He wants to ask ‘why me’ or ‘are you sure’ but what comes out is a broken, desperate whisper of a “can I touch you?”, and you answer with a grin and with your fingers tangled to the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

“Yes,” you breathe, “please.”

And really, he wouldn't have thought it would be so simple, but it's the please that does him in – just one whispered word and his brain short-circuits in an overflowing flash of white-hot need. Need to trigger that again, need to please, and need to finally give in to the pleasure waiting to boil. And then it all comes rushing out; the hunger.

His hands are on your waist in an instant, and his cane clatters to the ground as he leans his weight on you and the wall and for a moment, he has the sense to hope the curtains don't come tumbling down, and they don't, which is good enough for him, because then he can let go of that particular worry and focus solely on finding your lips to his and making the most of every second of this that you're willing to give him.

The sensations hit his brain like flashes of bright light; how soft you are under his fingers, like he'd hoped, the fabric smooth and silky, giving away easily under his touch. How warm you are, warm and breathing in a fluttered little gasp, the dusty old velvet mixing in with your sweet scent, and then when he gets his lips on you–

After that it's just golden-dark-velvet-honey-thick bliss. You breathe out a small sound that drips down his spinal cord and goes straight to the purring pit at the bottom of his stomach, and he swallows it with a hungry, greedy, desperate groan that comes from somewhere deep inside his chest, and his head is swimming with warm and real and soft and for me–

He is happily overloading his brain with this, and he doesn’t even care. He presses closer to you and you exhale another sweet little sound that makes him bare his teeth, and then his lips are on your neck and he doesn’t know anything except that he wants you to keep making those sounds and he likes the way your hands tangle in his hair and tug.

“Tell me what you want,” he mutters to the skin of your neck, pulling you closer by the waist, and absolutely relishing in the way your chest rises and falls with short little pants he can hear you take in and out. In and out, and as he tugs at your waist again, just a bit closer, and drags his teeth against your pulse lightly, one of those exhales turns into a sweet little whine.

He grins against your skin.

He doesn’t waste the time or energy pretending he isn't an absolute mess over you, right now – his own breathing ragged and fast and his heart hammering in his ears, his whole body buzzing with want – but that didn't mean seeing you react that way didn't make him want to purr.

Didn't make his insides heat up with I did that. I got her like this. She made that sound for me. For me. It's mine.

You take a breath, slow and rugged, and then you tug him towards one of the velvet-covered seats. And he moves like he's floating, letting you guide him, because what else is he going to do? You tug him into the seat and he sits on it, gladly, and stays there looking up at you with his eyes wide and only half-lidded and his heart hammering, waiting for more.

You give him another one of those small, private, knowing smiles, your eyes hazy, and then you step to stand right in front of him.

And then you hover over him, just waiting for him to pull you into his lap. He does, because he is selfish and greedy and burning, and he's pretty sure he's going to implode if he doesn’t get that delicious pressure on him soon, and his hand fits your waist perfectly, and then when when you do straddle him, your hips pressing down on his, he whines. He lets out a breathless little whine, he can feel it in the base of his spine, and it makes that hunger in him want more.

“Only the voices directed upwards travel down there, right?” you ask, voice quiet and dripping right into his ear and pooling at the bottom of his stomach.

He swallows. “Yes.”

You hum thoughtfully, and press your body closer to his, all soft and warm and perfect, sinking your lips down to his neck and he shivers, instinctually tilting back his head with a sigh, exposing more of his neck to you.

“Better keep quiet, then.”

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor x fem!reader #viktor x female reader

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fernslivers · 1 month ago

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The Marriage Game

As the only child born to your parents, a girl, you were raised as a boy to ensure your parents could pass on their wealth–and so far, the ruse has held. There's one little snag though… you need a wife. Lucky for you, your parents seem to have found the perfect match, the unwanted former wife of a disgraced samurai.

A/N: AHHH, whew! I hope you like this, anon!! It's going to feature a slightly sweeter Mizu, since I'm trying to write her as she was in the flashback. I figured since that bad moment with the betrayal didn't happen, she would be more guarded but not AS broken and jaded as in canon. I hope it translates correctly and not too OOC. It got a little more spiced than anything I've written so far! I know that wasn't included in the ask so I hope that's okay! :,) [Not beta'd so apologies for any errors in spelling!]

Reader is wlw!

TW: Spice, loss of virginity, unpleasant parents all around, internalized self-hate, gratuitous mentions of M*kio being a dick

-----

“It's not going to work–she's not going to want me,” you mumble to your mother as you wait for your new bride to arrive. She hushes you.

You subside obediently, but your doubts persist. Your family might have money, plenty of it, but that hasn't stopped several fathers from looking down their noses at you as a husband. Uncommonly delicate for a man, one has said. Too short, snorted another. And the daughters, while they kept their gazes lowered demurely as they'd been taught, had let you know with one glance that they agreed with their parents’ disdain.

You hadn't wanted them anyway, no more than you wanted a man. There was something missing from them, something blank in their yielding sweetness that did not appeal to you. Is there something broken in you?

–

“This one will be different,” your mother had insisted, when she first brought home the news. “She's already been sent home by one husband for being unfit–too ugly, I heard. But strong. She'll be in no position to complain about your looks, and she'll be able to handle the chores you can't.”

You had flushed, stung by the implied insult. All you've ever really wanted to do was express yourself through art–lingering in front of painters’ displays, tracing your fingers over the wares at a pottery booth. Or perhaps to be let alone with your animals, which never wanted you to be anything but yourself. Both choices were actively discouraged in favor of menial chores that added muscle to your limbs and calluses to your hands. But nothing your parents did could make your frame taller, or your features less feminine.

–

Now, as you give her a reproachful glance, she sighs.

“Oh, don't look like that,” she waves your feelings away, as usual. “Besides, she can't refuse you. Her mother has already agreed on her behalf–this isn't a prospective meeting, it's a wedding. Your wedding. Be glad!”

Even still, that might be worse. Gods above, how humiliating would it be for your bride to walk away from the very wedding itself?

You're not even sure what your parents expect to happen here. Yes, in theory, they have a son to inherit their wealth and status.

Then what?

Again, it wasn't that you wanted a man. To be sure, your budding orientation had been a fortuitous development for your parents. But most brides are expecting you to be something that you are not. You certainly don't have the necessary parts to give your new bride an heir to follow you, and carry on the family name. Are they already assuming she'll grow dismissive of you, and take a lover to put a child in the cradle?

Probably, you think grimly. Why would they care about your feelings on the matter? They know you're too gentle to be angry with her, and they'll be happy to know there's a continuation of their name. After all, they sacrificed your happiness just to keep their wealth in the family.

There’s some commotion outside, and your stomach lurches. She's here.

You follow your parents outside, telling yourself not to trail meekly behind like a daughter; you're a son. You have to be strong, confident. Assertive. Yeah, right. Framed between them on the porch, you know you cut a small, unimposing figure, one arm nervously rubbing the other.

Two women are climbing out of the litter that's touching down in the front yard. One, the shorter one, steps forward, as the other hangs back. You hang back also, staying up on the porch, where maybe you'll look taller.

Between you and the other woman, the older folks all congregate, loudly greeting each other with exaggerated politeness and cheer. They’re happy, chatty–proud of themselves for making a deal that each person thinks benefits them the most.

Above their heads, you and your new bride lock eyes.

Oh.

You are so far out of your depths.

Strong doesn't begin to cover the aura of the woman you're set to marry. All the confidence you’re pretending to have, she truly owns, carried as lightly as a cloak around her shoulders, moving with an easy grace and smooth bearing that you could never hope to manage. Even from a distance, you can tell she's got to be at least a half a head taller than you.

At least in expression, you can tell she isn't much more confident than you are. Her eyes travel from your nervous shifting to the softness in your features, to the large amount of space between the top of your head and the doorframe above you. You both have the same trepidatious look, watching each other with the mutual wariness of cats meeting for the first time.

Your mother was wrong about the other thing, though. She certainly is strong, but she is far from ugly. You can feel your breath catch as those startling eyes meet yours… and then your heart sinks as her mouth tightens, and she looks away. Disappointed by you, no doubt. It seems impossible that she could expect you to dislike her. Something inside you folds up in defeat.

This is going to be a disaster.

—

Once again, Mizu finds herself in the position of lying silently, waiting for a husband to arrive to claim his bride. This time, she feels no fear of ravishment; she knows what to expect, physically…and unlike Mikio, you were far from gruff during the ceremony and the dinner afterwards. You had carefully offered her the choicest bits of food, asked respectfully about her interests and her travels to come here. Indeed, you were shockingly kind, compared to her last experience.

In some ways, that makes this wait worse. She expected rejection already, and from you, it seems even more likely than before–and she doesn't want it. Mizu doesn't find you undesirable, not by a long shot. But next to you, she feels even less ladylike than she had with Mikio. You are the prettiest, most delicate man she's ever seen, you look like she could snap you in half one-handed. Not the kind of man that's going to go for someone like her.

No. She fears this time that her previous husband was right to call her unlovable. That you won't want her. The thought of having to go through all of this drama to be rejected again fills her with a deep depression. She recalls with horrible clarity the way Mikio had stared at her coldly when she greeted him in her bridal attire, barely bothering to form the words get out. If Mikio had been horrified by her, how much more so will you be? You're no tough old samurai.

She would love to be able to live happily with a husband as pretty and kind as you, even if it meant giving up on her demon’s path. But to do that, she'll never be able to connect with you.

She'll have to forever guard her true self or run the risk of being sent away yet again. Or worse, she wonders if unlike Mikio, you can't choose for yourself; she saw how your parents stomped all over you during dinner. What if they won't allow you to refuse? If you can't send her away, then you might hate her, leaving you both trapped.

She had argued and fought this marriage for so long; only the heavy guilt trip from her mother brought her here. Her mother… the only person ever to accept her besides Eiji; even with the woman's habits and guilting, Mizu finds it impossible to simply leave her uncared for. It’s her duty; something she would never shirk, even if it hurts.

But what about you? She knows from her mother’s long haggling that you've struggled nearly as much as she has in finding a spouse (though, seeing you, she can't understand why), so perhaps you feel as strong-armed into this marriage as she does. Do you resent being shackled to her by a pair of pushy mothers?

She searches every hint of your behavior today in her memory, looking for some clarity on your opinion. Unlike Mikio, you had made no comments on her appearance, but she could feel your eyes lingering shyly on her when she wasn't looking your way. Were you staring out of interest, or distaste?

The door slides open behind her. Mizu squeezes her eyes shut, biting her lip in prayer even though she feels foolish. She'll never be able to admit to herself how much it means to her that someone out there might want her. You were kind at dinner, that must mean something; please reach for her, please show interest, please let it work out this time…

Your footsteps, her new husband’s footsteps, hesitate, standing a few feet back, as though watching her. Then, with a pit of dread opening in her stomach, she hears the steps turn away, and the shuffling of another mat being set out. Her breath hitches in pain, before anger sets in.

No. Not this time. She can't do this again.

She's not going to lay in the dark like a heartsick girl because a pretty man didn't reach for her in the dark. She wants it laid out here and now. She won't deny her ember for another loveless marriage. Not even for mama.

She rolls over abruptly, brow already furrowed.

You freeze in the middle of laying out the blanket, the whites of your eyes glinting as they widen in the dark. Your heart thumps to see the scowl on your new wife's face when she pushes herself up on one elbow to look at you. You had assumed she would not want your attentions, and would pretend to be asleep to avoid them, so you wanted to accommodate her–not as though you could ever lie with her anyway, not in the way you think she's expecting.

“S-sorry, did I wake y–”

“Am I unappealing to you?”

Her voice is different, somehow, low and raspy–nothing like the softer feminine tones she'd tried to use during the day.

Oh no. You stammer for a moment, frozen, unsure what to say, even as you feel a strange flutter in your lower belly. No. Definitely not… unappealing.

“I…I…What?”

Your eyes dart away from hers; do you dare to turn away and ignore her? Instinctively, you know better than to try and command her to hush, whether you're the “man” or not. The very air of the room tells you that you're not in charge, here.

Mizu sits up, still frowning, as dogged in her pursuit of the topic as she is with every other goal.

“It's our wedding night. Why do you want to sleep over there?” She tells herself she's not afraid of failure or rejection anymore; she already believes herself unlovable. But she's bracing for the words all the same. She wants you to say it, admit it, so she can feel justified in abandoning this duty to pursue her revenge. Tell me, she thinks, her eyes boring into you piercingly. Tell me the truth so I can be set free.

For a moment, there's silence, as you meet her gaze, looking stricken. She thinks–at first–that it’s because you're too kind to want to hurt her with the truth.

Internally, you're panicking. What if the truth makes her leave, and your parents turn on you for ruining this? What if she tells her mother, who spreads it across the region via gossip? What if she simply pounds you into a pulp for deceiving her? You saw her lean, muscled arms as she carried in her luggage–she's more than capable.

You’re about to invent some excuse, some lie to buy yourself another night, when you see the barest hint of a flicker in her eyes. Old pain, buried beneath anger and bold demand. What did her last husband say to her, you wonder. You know the humiliation you felt when the word spread that multiple fathers called you undesirable for their daughters. Did she hear the similar rumors that she was somehow undesirable? You feel suddenly sorry for her, stuck with you– a husband that can't give her what a husband should.

At least you can give her the truth.

You look away, sucking in a deep breath.

“I can't… be a husband to you.” Your voice is hushed, the tone cracking at the edges. She takes it exactly the wrong way.

“Because I am ugly to you.” She says flatly, fighting to conceal the sting of hearing her fears confirmed, but then your head snaps around to meet her gaze. So she has heard the rumors, you think.

You have no idea how often she has.

“No!” You exclaim, and the earnestness in your voice disarms her, makes her believe that you mean it even when it seems impossible. “No. You're… you're not at all… you're very–…any man should be proud to have you as a wife.” Your words are a shock, making her heart speed up rapidly as you stammer. Even in the dark, she can tell that you've started to blush, and the ice building in her chest cracks ever so slightly as her own face warms. She can't meet your eyes, suddenly…but then, you’re looking away, too.

“Don't lie.” But her voice wavers uncertainly. She recalls Mikio’s revulsion, his utter refusal to ever look at her again. You're only saying that because you haven't seen the real her, yet.

You shake your head, hands trembling. She deserves to know the truth. But the confession sticks in your throat.

“You deserve better than this,” you mutter, sinking down on your sleeping mat criss-cross, putting your head in your hands. The strangeness of that response gets her attention again.

Mizu stares at you, confused. She deserves-...? She feels suddenly cold as the thought strikes her that you could be feeling an attack of a guilty conscience. Is this all a setup? Were you going to turn her in, but now you feel badly? Was this all a trap?

You’re looking down between your fingers, so a tiny rustle is all the warning you get. You yelp aloud when a sudden weight tackles you to the mat, and she claps a hand over your mouth to silence the noise, both of your other wrists grasped easily in her other hand. Pinned, you’re left staring up at Mizu’s abruptly fierce expression in shock. Despite your alarm, there's a sudden, illogical stab of something squirmy in your lower belly. Her eyes catch the moonlight through the paper windows, gleaming like clear ice in the dark, all shadows and pale blue. This-... this is what was missing from those other girls, you realize, even if you can't parse exactly what this is. She really is something amazing…you can feel your breath catch in your throat, a sudden twinge of mingled regret and desire choking you. If only you could be what a wife would want… you would be hers in truth if you could.

If she isn't about to kill you.

“Who did you tell that I'm here?” She demands, releasing your mouth to let you answer, ignoring her own mixed feelings at the way she can still feel the imprint of your mouth on her palm. Lying below her, your eyes wide and your hair spread across the pillow, you really are lovely. Almost feminine, with your delicate features and full lips. She feels an instant throb of desire, something that had never come on so suddenly or so fiercely in her last marriage. Damn it, she could have been so happy to be married to someone that looked like you. Why does she have to be who she is?

“What do you mean? Why would that matter?” you stammer, confusion dancing in the wide dark pools of your eyes. You've no idea she's got a bounty–you’re sheltered, your parents are wealthy, and don't concern themselves with tracking criminals.

There's something in your genuinely perplexed tone that makes her believe you. You're no fighter, no warrior, only something soft. She knows she would recognize a lie.

As her anger fades, she looks again from your eyes to the wrists that her fingers are wrapped around. Belatedly, with her heart seizing, she realizes that she's done it again.

Attacked her husband, frightened him. Her hands release their grip as she sits back.

Her eyes are stricken, wide with the remembered fallout; the harsh words, the silent packing up, mama’s unforgiving blame. Her heart begins to pound fast once more, certain she's ruined everything. Again.

You sit up, slowly. Seeing her wide eyes, a flicker of fear is building in your chest, too, for a different reason. Her distress seems almost like shock to you, as though she's seen something… You don't bind at night, did she see–...?

Fearfully, you tug the collar of your sleepwear more tightly together.

Mizu recognizes the motion instantly; recalls her own compulsive tugging… and why. Something clicks, cutting through her panic and steadying her. A suspicion, tiny but impossible to ignore, as she watches you look away, your face tight. Your soft-featured face, with that smooth, delicate throat–

It's not possible. The coincidence would be too…

Her expression shifts from guilt and horror to sudden focus. Again, she shoots out a hand, covering yours against your collar, gripping it tightly. You look up, prey-animal fear in your eyes.

“Don't…lie,” she says again, more softly, and the blue searches over your face like an illuminating shaft of moonlight. Your own eyes are luminous in the dim room, wet enough to reflecting the low light, even if men aren't meant to cry.

But… you aren't that, are you–and now she knows it.

—

You explain it all slowly, with your knees pulled to your chest. An instinctive shield.

“My parents… tried very hard to have a son to carry on the family line,” you whisper at the end. “But… after me…something had gone wrong. My birth made it so that there were no more babies. They only had me.” You hang your head, and Mizu recognizes her own guilt, that of a gaslit child, in your face. It stuns her, to see it in another, clarifying her own mother’s actions with sudden horror. She doesn't resent the freedom she's gained to seek her revenge, but in you, she sees that the disguise only came with more shackles. “So because it was my fault… they felt I had to make up for it.”

Anger curdles in her chest.

“It was the gods’ decision if it was anyone’s,” she says fiercely. “Not yours. You were a child.”

You look up at her, hope and hesitance warring on your face. In the silence, an owl cries outside, the haunting call drifting in through the open window. She stops, shocked by the impact of her own words on herself, hearing them said aloud in her own voice. It wasn't your fault. How long has she waited, without realizing, to hear someone say that to her?

“How do you know?” You ask, your smile growing crooked.

Mizu’s hands clench into fists in her lap. Only moments ago, she had felt certain to find herself rejected yet again, certain she would be slipping away before morning, finally feeling freed of obligation, having truly seen the proof that she could never live a normal life.

Now conflict dogs her conscience.

You see the consternation in her eyes, and though you could never know the reason, you rightly assume the situation is causing her some mixed feelings.

Hesitantly, you reach out, your hand covering hers.

“Don't lie.” You murmur her own words back to her, and she can't find a reason to fight the invitation in your gentle gaze.

—

You're astonished when she explains about her vow, about the similar disguise she adopted.

“But you're so beautiful,” you blurt out, unable to believe she could pass for a man, then flush when she meets your gaze with disbelieving surprise. A little scoff escapes her, but when you hold her gaze steadily, serious, she looks down.

“...I'm sorry,” she replies, stumbling a bit over the honesty. You smile shyly, your turn to be flustered, and she feels her heart turn over. Cute. It startles her to realize her attraction hasn't lessened now that she knows the truth.

“For what?”

“I nearly killed you just now. I frightened you.”

You remember the heart-pounding sight of her above you, her gaze glinting like a blade, teeth bared fiercely. The squirm in your belly has nothing to do with fear.

“You didn't hurt me,” you tell her reassuringly. “Startled me, only. You moved so fast. It was…”--hot–“...impressive.” You give a short laugh. “Perhaps you should be the husband. You're better at it than me.”

Belatedly, you see the flash of pain in her eyes. You have to be a boy, Mizu. Stricken at her expression, you begin to stammer out an apology, but she shakes her head, waving it away as though her moment of vulnerability is too uncomfortable to linger on. All she says is, “Being violent doesn't make a better husband.”

“No,” You agree, apologetically. “But I wish I could protect you the way you seem able to protect yourself.”

“I don't need protection,” she says, more harshly than she meant to. At your flinch, her brow softens. There's a little pause.

You draw your knees up, hugging them. “I guess you'll want to leave, now?” The thought is depressing, but hearing her speak of her vow, the spark in her eyes, you can't stand the idea of trapping her here as your fake wife.

“What?” She looks up, eyes widening.

“On your quest?” You clarify. “I would not force you to stay here, no matter what our parents say.” When she doesn't reply, only stares openmouthed, you add, “I can get you the things you need. We have money. I can get you a travel pass, a horse… whatever might help you.”

She closes her mouth, opens it–closes it again. She looks genuinely moved, the icy edge of her eyes softening as her hand convulsively grasps yours, gratitude bubbling up inside her; of the tiny number of people she has let past her walls, you are the first to ever offer even a scrap of encouragement towards her goals. To Eiji she was foolish, to her mother–selfish, to Mikio… well, even in the beginning he had laughed skeptically, and it had only gone worse from there.

But…

“I owe it to mama to make this work out,” she says with a sigh, though resentment burns in her heart. A disloyal voice mutters in her heart that Mama only wants her as a meal ticket, but she dismisses it.

“We could keep your mother here, while you get your revenge,” you offer, wanting to please her so badly, trying to hide your reluctance; already, you don't want her to go. Her hand over yours is warm, it feels so strong…it's the first time anyone besides family has touched you in any capacity.

She smiles ever so slightly, a rare moment of humor, tinged with the truth. “I could not leave you with them; you've done nothing to deserve such a fate.”

You smile gratefully, then bite your lip, thinking.

“Maybe you could…pretend to be me?”

Her brow furrows. “What?”

“On the travel pass–it would have my name. We could travel together, the husband and his new wife,” you expand on the thought, speculating as you go. “You can take up your disguise again when you want to, I can take it up when you don't… either way, all anyone would see would be a man and his wife, traveling legally.”

She's staring again. She looks so blankly dumbfounded that you begin to feel like maybe your plan really is that stupid.

“I'm the heir, remember? I can do as I like, technically.” You grin reluctantly, even as you heart thumps at the idea of your parents' reactions. You've never defied them this outrageously before, but since you're meant to be their son, it occurs to you that they can't protest without outing themselves or losing their heir. It's funny; you've never realized how much power you had, that they need you as much as you need them. Not until you had someone you wanted to help.

“I…I can make sure we have money, and I can stay out of the way…if we can afford horses, and places to stay it will be easier for me to stay out of danger. Maybe with bigger bribes, you won't have as much trouble…”

Still, she says nothing.

“...And your mother can stay here! My parents can't say you left me if we go together, not if they want to keep their son, so they will have to…care for her as an in-law…honorably…” her staring is really starting to make you nervous. “Mizu…?”

She lunges forward again and you freeze; only to feel those hands gently cup your face instead of squeezing your wrists. Softly, at odds with the quickness of her movements, she kisses you.

All your life, you had wondered what it would be like to be kissed; you had simply assumed it was a privilege you would never be allowed. You had no desire for men, and surely no wife would want to once she knew your secret…

It's everything you had never thought you would be allowed to have; her lips glide smoothly and sweetly against yours, lighting up nerve endings you didn't know existed, sending cascades of tingles down your spine. Despite the softness of it, there's an easy sense of control in the way she tilts your face with her hands, guiding you where she wants you, one callused palm sliding down to stroke over the skin of your neck, tugging you closer. You shiver at the muted strength behind that easy tug, how it pulls you forwards against her without the slightest effort.

There's a heat coiling in your belly that you've never felt before by the time she pulls back, her eyes searching your face.

There is a pause.

“...I don't want to sleep alone,” she blurts out, cheeks flushed. Your heart, already fluttering, begins to thump hard.

“Neither do I,” You say breathlessly, watching the way she smiles again, shakily.

You stare at each other, lost as to how to proceed.

“I…I don't know how to please a woman,” she says finally, her flush deepening.

“I don't know how to please anyone.” You admit.

You both stutter out a laugh, mutually nervous, but then the laughter fades to a charged silence.

Slowly, as if trying not to scare you away, she reaches out for you again, cupping the back of your head. This time the kiss is only soft for the first moments before it grows heated, hungrier, both of you relaxing into a desire you never expected to be reciprocated.

The swipe of a tongue over your lower lip startles you; it slips between your lips when they part on a gasp. At your tiny noise, you can feel her tense; she rises from sitting, to her knees, shuffling closer to you, her hand sliding down your spine. Without breaking the kiss, she guides you back to lie down on the mat.

This time when she looks down at you, the fire behind the ice has a very different burn to it, still focused like a beam of light all on you; no less of a thrill. Desire is written across your flushed features, easy to read…along with anxiety; this is all so new to you.

Long fingers stroke your cheek. The blue eyes are intent, focused as always, but determined on something more pleasant now. “I will take care of you,” comes the whispered reassurance. She presses another kiss to your lips, then another, pulling back to watch the way your eyes slowly lose their nerves and become hazy. Her gaze roves over your pretty features, down over the smaller frame beneath her. She swallows back her own nerves; she wants to make this good for you, better than what she had.

The neck. She remembers how good that, at least, had felt with-...no. She's not going to think about him anymore–not ever again.

It's easy to redirect her thoughts; the first brush of her lips against the delicate skin beneath your jaw rewards her with the sound of you moaning her name softly, sending a pulse of desire straight down through her core, more potent than she can ever remember feeling. Without thinking, she bites down, reveling in the soft skin yielding beneath her teeth. You grit your teeth to stifle your cry, desire pooling with sudden intensity between your legs at the little spark of pain.

“Too hard?” Oh by the gods, that raspy voice in your ear…

“Mm-mm,” you manage shakily, teeth digging into your lip.

“Tell me if it is,” comes the reply, firm voice breathless, lips already finding your skin again. Your fingers tighten against her shoulders as she buries her head deeper against your neck.

Her fingers are careful when they part your shirt, while you fumble nervously with the many, many layers of her kimono. She isn't exactly helpful, more interested in letting her long fingers map the contours of your body, finding places that make your fingers stumble and your body twitch. She leaves you to puzzle out her clothes, distracted and eager, so that you’re too busy to be shy…up until the moment her hands push your thighs apart.

You freeze with a gasp, your face going deep red so fast that heat prickles behind your eyes. Nobody has ever, ever seen you like this, exposed, openly desirous.

“Mizu…”

She pauses immediately, breathing hard. Her eyes are piercing, hungry. She looks…incredible. You've managed to get her down to her hadagi, with the base layer garment falling off one lean, sharp shoulder, her hair falling in a rich dark curtain around you both. She looks like a wolf crouched above you, a feast waiting within its grasp, predatory in a thrilling way. But then she looks up at you, and you can see that she's waiting–she's used to self denial. She'll wait forever for you to be ready. “We can stop–” she murmurs.

No. You shake your head, but you’re too overwhelmed to speak. I don't want to stop. Feeling desperate to make it clear, you reach out and take her hand, pulling it down to the pulsing ache at the apex of your thighs.

The touch is a shock to you, even self-inflicted. You suck in air sharply at the feeling of her hand, cool fingers against wet heat. Wide eyes meet hers; you see the predator flare again as the blue color darkens. Cute, she can't help but think, flexing her fingers against you and seeing you arch immediately, biting your lip to stifle your cry. So…sweet.

Once she's seen your face crease in ecstasy, she will take the time to disrobe, properly; she'll teach you how to touch her. She can feel herself throb at the thought of your face in flushed, shy concentration as your hands find the places on her body that ache to be touched. For now she straddles your thigh, pressing her heated core against it as her fingers press inside you, burying her grunt of pleasure in your neck as she feels you shift your muscles to press up against her more firmly. Even in the throes of losing your virginity, you respond to her pleasure.

It's nothing like what she knew before; as she brings you forward into submission, everything is soft and slick and easy, and there is nothing but a pleasure that builds on and on. She knows that for you, this is all you know, and she is determined that this is all you will ever know; easy pleasure under her possessive touch.

–

She wakes you before the sun is up, and you gape at the person above you. It’s still Mizu, but dressed as a man, her hair scraped back into a bun, only that one stubborn curl escaping. She looks sharper, more dangerous, and you feel a pulse of delighted attraction. No matter how you dress, you are stunning.

You pack as quietly as possible. By mutual agreement, you'll stay dressed as a man for now; it's easier to ride, and all of her kimonos are at least a foot too long for you. Besides, frankly, you have no idea how to dress or behave as a woman.

She looks over her shoulder at the house, seeming guilty, as you pack up.

“She'll be fine,” you murmur, taking up your reins. Internally, you think with some vindictiveness that the three of them will probably drive each other completely crazy, and they'll deserve it. But Mizu has honor, and duty, on her mind, and you want to save her the conflict.

“We can come back to visit, or stay, when you're done,” you offer, and she turns to you with a grimace. You have to laugh. You agree with the unspoken thought of how unpleasant that could be.

“Then we’ll settle somewhere new, when this is all over,” you promise her, your chest bubbling with happiness at the thought.

“Hm,” she grunts. Something about her male disguise in the light of day seems to make her more taciturn, more guarded from the soft openness you saw last night in the darkness.

But there's still a tiny hint of that same smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she glances sidelong at you from under the brim of her wide hat.

“How do you feel about raising horses?”

You smile. “How do you feel about becoming artists?”

Something about the word artist seems to brighten something in her eyes, even behind the glasses; she looks almost light for a moment at the prospect.

“An artist,” she says, low and contemplative, turning back to face the road, thinking with a pang of her sword father, how much she can't wait for you to meet him. “Perhaps that is my fate.”

#mizu x reader #mizu #bes x reader #mizu blue eye samurai #anon ask #blue eye samurai #bes mizu #bes #mizu bes #mizu x y/n #mizu x you #prose #wlw #bes x you

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inkskinned · 2 years ago

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they keep the silverware in the same place. you forget about it a little bit when you move out, but during the holidays, it comes back. the way you smooth over your life for them, a gentle reckoning.

for a while, you tried to find yourself by being wild. throwing your body at the emergency exit. finding comfort in the sharpness of a held breath. you used to write wake up on the inside of your wrist. you couldn't calculate the weight of your own sorrow, only that nobody was looking at the anchor of it. you tried maladaptive coping mechanisms like catnip. got caught half-in half-out of them. felt, weirdly, like you should be embarrassed of all of it.

but it does get better. mostly it's just that you become a priority to yourself. it turns out that lending yourself the ragged edge is just cutting open more marrow. for a while, it felt good to see a physical representation of inward agony. but who was that punishing? you learned, slowly (so slowly it was almost invisible sometimes) that you could put love into the wound instead. that the floor was comfortable because it was certain - but it was cold, and unwanting. instead there is a warm bed. you learn to treat yourself like a kid again. gentle-parent yourself into the shower and over breakfast and into laughing without effort. you do wake up.

but then you come home again, and it is like everything is a strange kaleidoscope of childhood moments. here is how you inherited your mother's anxiety. there is the same music playing, and you can't sit down without worrying you forgot to do something. your mother's clipped words and hovering hands - are you sure? are you sure? birdlike, you find yourself seeing unwell and still end up repeating.

here is your father's anger. you are 16 again. there was a moment where you remember thinking - holy shit. i am so much more emotionally mature than you. how you have to talk him down from minor inconveniences, how you parent him like an errant and spoiled toddler who can't be told no, and i mean it. you feel the warp of you. why you can't be in the same room as people having a completely normal conflict. why your skin crawls if there's ever a hint of a fight. why you live with your hands up, placating. and god forbid you get angry. you feel that little spoiled kid rage against the iron will of you. not you, not your hands. you would rather cut your own tongue out of your head, no matter how valid her argument is.

and you're so fucking far from where you were as a kid. you've done so much healing. and there's this little sad part of you that can see the shadow of your past, and your hands wrapped into each other so tightly you made your knuckles white. and how much your parents are just people, and haven't changed much, and still keep the spoons in the drawer to the right.

there is a long dark tunnel here, and it has a name, but you haven't learned how to process that kind of speech yet. close the cabinet. make a note to go get more oat milk. close your eyes.

this place was never home, was it.

#spilled ink #writeblr

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brailsthesmolgurl · 1 year ago

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PUPPY LOVE?

Preview: You had always been the apple to their eyes. How would they express their affection towards you in highschool?

Warnings: I had to make it slight-slight-slight angsty hehe, teeth-rotting fluff for comfort for my beloved readers <3 btw readers and the boys are highschool kids in this one-shot so no suggestive or anything!

P.S: This idea came to me in the middle of the night and I knew I had to burn the midnight fuel to squeeze all of my brain juice for this piece :> Enjoyyy!

PART 2 HERE!!!!

RAFAYEL

You lifted your head up when you heard a chair dragged against the tiled flooring. It came to a halt and down sat the lilac haired fellow, right in front of you, his chin propped on the back of his hand as he leaned down to look at you, a smirk hung on his thin lips. Rafayel. "Someone looked like they had a nightmare yesterday."

"It's none of your business." You furrowed your eyebrows, gaze turned towards the classroom door. More classmates are starting to walk in, greeting each other good mornings and immediately getting into their daily routines of catching up or gossiping. You, on the other hand, do not really belong to any 'gangs'. You find solace within your own bubble and occasionally, do hang out with your only friend, Tara.

The purple haired individual in front of you frowned, your answer unappealing to his taste. This young man sitting in front of you is the lucky charm of your school, and almost everyone dotes on him, headmaster, teachers and students alike. Both of his parents are renowned artists, comparable to Van Gogh and many other artists throughout history books and as expected, Rafayel inherited the same talent as his parents. Rich, handsome, charming and talented, he is basically a girl magnet.

"You do not have to be so rude you know." He stood up when he heard his name being called. Reaching into the pockets of his blazer, he took out two cheese sticks and placed it onto your table. "Here, have this. Your frown makes you look like a shriveled up prune. Some cheese sticks would probably do well for you." He chuckled teasingly and stepped out of your personal bubble, heading out of the classroom.

If glares could kill, you would probably be laying on the floor motionless by now. The cheese sticks that sat at your table were attracting unwanted attention from the girls in your class. You had absolutely no idea why Rafayel would always approach you. The attention you are receiving from him does not beat the attention other girls are getting as well, not that you cared but you just find it odd. A lone girl getting so much attention from the school's celebrity, what would the others think of it? Maybe he is just trying to be friendly. That always remains the reason to your question.

Here comes the other question. You do not think you like him, but why does your heart flutter whenever he is near you? Bidding you good morning and goodbye had became a part of a routine for the both of you. Why would your heartstrings tug whenever you find another girl initiating skinship with him? Why?

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

Rinnnggggg. The bell rung, indicating the end of another school day. Students rushed out like ants out of the school premises, flooding the empty hallways. You packed your things, eyeing the time displayed by the clock. 3pm. It is the perfect time for you to go to the art room to practice some drawing. You may not be an artist like the talented Rafayel, but you still do have your own fascination towards drawing and sketching.

You walked in the direction opposite of the flow, passing through the crowd like a fish trying to swim upstream. As you were nearing the art room, someone knocked you over and you fell backwards, with your bagpack being your cushion as you landed back first onto the floor. You still winced upon impact. "Oh look, it's Rafy's pet." The girl that knocked you over crossed her arms, her blond curls tied up in a high ponytail. Oh, it's the school's flower girl, Jarianne, but you guessed it. She is nowhere carrying the aura of a flower.

Sighing, you pushed yourself off of your back, not even having the thought to fight back. "Know your place would you?" Jarianne spoke, studying her oval shaped painted nails. "Rafy might give you cheese sticks every once in a while, but that does not mean anything. Don't get your hopes up, okay sweetie?" Huffing a smile, the mean girl strutted off, leaving you calculating your next steps.

Shrouded with anger, you got up and made your way towards the art room. You are ready to splash some paint onto the canvas, wanting to express your anger in a much more 'healthier' form. She was right. Who are you to be engaged with Rafayel. Someone who is a loner like you should not be in any way associated with someone of such a high status like him. You are halfway at being disappointed at yourself until you slide the door opened and you saw Rafayel in the art room.

He looked ethereal, basked in the warm light of the sun in the midst of a cloudy afternoon, his lilac hair slightly tousled on his head. His back was facing you, but you could tell with the way his paintbrush moved across the canvas with grand gestures, he is painting yet another masterpiece. Part of his uniform, the dark blue blazer and white collared shirt was messily tossed onto one of the desks nearby, and he is left in his black t-shirt. Right when you are about to leave, his head snapped around and he caught sight of you standing in the doorway with beady eyes. "Finally, you're here." Framing himself to be waiting for you this whole time. Well, he was.

"I'm... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you." You consciously tucked a stray strand of your brunette curls behind your ear, your face immediately turning red when you realised that you may have taken a bit longer then usual to be staring at the young man. "I'm gonna go." You turned and immediately started jogging down the hallway.

"Wait! Wait!" Rafayel called out for you, yet, you did not bother to turn back. All you could hear was the sounds of chairs creaking and a loud thud, followed by hurried footsteps.

You turned a corner and slid yourself into an empty classroom to catch your breath. When you sat yourself down, the door slid right open and Rafayel presented himself, huffing and panting as he bent himself down to slow his breaths. You were shocked of course, that he would run down the halls for you. Jarianne's words rang through your head like an alarm and it filled you with more regrets.

"You should stop talking to me." You clenched your fist, standing up, getting ready to leave. "We are not friends to begin with, so we should keep it that way." When you walked past him, he gripped your wrist and you gasped in response. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Do you actually..." He took in a huge breath and straightened his posture, now eyes meeting yours. "Are you actually so naive?"

"Look, I don't know what you are trying to do Rafayel, but I am not interested in whatever you are going to say. Just leave me alone." You pulled your wrist out of his grip but it only prompted him to hold your wrist tighter. "Leave me be!"

You slipped, and he grabbed you by your waist, underestimating the strength of his before he stumbled backwards and you ended up pressing him against the wall. The both of you had the same expression, widened eyes and flushed cheeks. Tension immediately started pumping into the air, causing your body to tense up. "Are you upset?" He broke the silence between you two, leaning down closer to you to inspect your face. "I had never seen you getting so mad before."

MAYBE. JUST MAYBE. A part of you do like him, you liked that he would only greet you in the morning and when you leave home, you liked that he would offer to teach you art anytime you wish, you liked that sometimes he would ditch his friends just to come and sit with you during recess. But, Jarianne was right. You always have this part of you that refused to accept the fact that you do indeed, like Rafayel. Just like all of the other girls out there. It's just that you are nothing special at all. You will be regarded as any other fan girl of his.

Hesitation laced in your voice. "I just don't think someone like you should be spending time with someone like me Rafayel." Your gaze dropped, feet shuffled against the floor beneath, watching the dust particles flying up into the air.

He clicked his tongue, but remained still. "You have not answered my question. Why do you think I go out of my way to talk to you everyday hmm?" Your silence was met with the continuation of his thoughts. "That's because I like you, y/n."

Your breath hitched in your throat when he confessed to you and you nervously took a step back to put more space in between the both of you. "Don't." His arms snaked around your waist and he reeled you in, nose tips almost touching. It took you a while to only realise that Rafayel is red like a tomato, the confession of his happen to be genuine afterall. His blushing expression is a sight to behold. Just like in a watercolour painting, all of the colours are harmonised, his purplish, tousled soft curls that sat on top of his head framed the outline of his carved facial shape well, with scarlet red lightly dabbed across his pale cheeks, giving the illusion of his eyes sticking out like magenta gemstones on a iridescent rubicund-white marble complexion. "I really do like you y/n."

"Why?" That is the only question you can mutter out of your mouth. You sounded dumb for a second but you would like to find out what he deemed special about you.

You can sense his nervousness when his eyes started darting everywhere and his arms withdrew from your waist. "I...You're...Uhm..." He is clearly struggling with his words. "You are different. You do not find the need to please me or to catch my attention." His words were spoken slowly and precisely, calculated even. "I like you because of the way you are, y/n. You are not like the other girls. Sometimes, when I look at you, I wanted to sketch a drawing of you, but I couldn't, because that's how alluring you are to me. No drawings could achieve that."

The way he phrased his affection towards you, was nothing of confidence but only of his vulnerability. Five years throughout his secondary days, you always regarded him to be the embodiment of confidence, carrying himself well has always been a gestalt of his. But today, you do not find that in him, all you see is this young man stumbling over every single word, self-doubt equivalent to yours hinted in his tone. He does not see himself to be worthy of you, just like you do not think you are worthy to him. The thought of it ached your heart.

"Rafayel. I...I never knew you liked me." Reaching your hands up, you patted his shoulders awkwardly, not really knowing where to position your hands. "I thought you just wanted to tease me and push me around like a plaything."

"The audacity to say that." He scoffed, face scrunched up like a shriveled prune he had mentioned to you earlier. "I don't like keeping the people I like as pets or any derogatory words you may think of, you know?" The sight of you holding onto his shoulders, eyes widened made him smile, one of his hand lightly patting the top of your head. Rafayel notices the way your lips would wobble the slightest when you tried to alleviate your own anxiety, convincing him further that you do possess the same feelings as him. He only has to figure out how to make you believe that he is not messing with your feelings and how to not escalate this sweet moment into a dramatic and awkward mess. "I don't want you to be accusing me of something so lowly anymore, yeah? Promise me?"

"But... what would people say when they see..." You gestured between the two of you, head already coming up with all sorts of accusations that would be thrown towards the both of you. "Us together? I don't want to trouble you..."

"They can say anything, but we can treat it as nothing y/n." He ran his hand down to your cheek, cupping your small face in his palm now, your face slowly warming up in his palm. "In the end, I chose you. It is only right for them to be jealous." He smiled leisurely, confidence resurfacing again. "So, would you date me y/n?"

Gnawing onto your lip, you nodded your head and looked down. You had only seen this in romance shows, where lip kisses are supposed to happen after confessions do. But you felt his soft lips collided against your forehead and your heart released sparks of fire uncontrollably. You are screaming internally as if you had won the lottery. As he pulled back, you raised your head up to glance at his facial features. Rafayel is beaming, hand still placed on the side of your cheek. As if it was cued, he managed to answer your question before you could even ask. "I will not kiss your lips until you allow me to, yeah? I will always wait until you're ready, as I respect---"

Wrong question, but does not beat the fact it was relevant to what you were initially going to ask him. Something along the lines of ‘whether are we going in for the kiss’. You decided to act upon your decision. Closing the short distance between you two, you planted your lips onto his, swallowing his uncertainty to fuel your bravery for the upcoming challenges you will have to face for being Rafayel's girl.

ZAYNE

"So, for this experiment, find someone you can pair up with to write a report based on your findings." Miss Akko instructed, placing the chalk onto her large wooden desk and scanning the crowd for any blank slates. "If you have any questions, you can always come and find me for consultations."

You looked towards the guy sitting next to you, Zayne. Ballpoint pen held in between his long fingers, gliding swiftly against the paper to create a neat yet slanted handwriting. Altough the class had ended, you could tell that he is still very much in his zone, jotting down whatever the teacher had mentioned earlier. If he could record it, you believe that would be the most viable way for him to stay on top of his grades all of the time. His posture relaxed when the last bell of the day rung. "Hey." You called out to him and he turned his head to face you. "Would you like to pair up? For the experiment?"

You had paired up with him for a few times for chemistry class. Being with the smartest kid does earn you a few perks, but he is not much of a talker so sometimes doing assignments with him would result in a crow-cawing awkwardness. "Sure." He nodded his head once and started gathering his reading materials into a pile while standing up.

Zayne has always been a man of a few words. Nodding is his most useful reaction whenever you ask him of something that he is borderline interested in. But if he does not agree with you, then he shall give you the stare that would make you question yourself about the absence of an answer from him. "When do you plan to do---"

"I will see you after class tomorrow." He cut you off, zipping his bag up and pulling it over his broad shoulders effortlessly. "Remember to bring your brain." OOF, COLD. It most likely explains why nobody would usually pair up with Zayne. More like he just refuses to.

Zayne was best known for his good looks and big brain but other than that, he does not have an appealing personality that makes him desirable among girls. Good to admire from afar but not good to interact with. Ever heard of the trend 'He is a 10 but...' . Yeah, that is Zayne's title trend. Only to people who has been in close contact with him. Yeah, he could be a dick with how straightforward he is but you find it as an admirable trait of his. He stabs people with his words, with truths that nobody would dare to say and maybe, you do secretly like him for the way he is.

“Come on Zayne, it’s not like I don’t study or help out with the reports for the past few times.” You rebutted, palms faced upwards and eyebrows knitted closely together. Zayne stood in his spot, expressionless face hiding his amusement. “So I do have a brain!”

He turned towards the direction of the door and started making his way out, not without giving his last statement. “Says the one who can’t even score a decent C grade.” There you stood, in the empty classroom, choked onto the curse words that you were about to throw at him when you heard his statement but you are sure with his lanky legs, he would have been out of earshot by now.

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

TAP TAP TAP TAP… Your footsteps echoed in the empty hallways, reverberating through the empty classrooms. You were late for the meeting with Zayne because you had forgotten to bring your lunch to school today so you ended up having to run down to the vending machine to grab some quick bites. The machine however, betrayed your trust, the ultimate cliche move anyone can think of putting into a filler clip for a movie, when the snack gets stuck during the retrieving period purely because of the vending machine error. You could have easily gotten in trouble if anyone were to spot you with your whole arm shoved into the machine just to grab the item you had literally paid for.

The door slammed open with force and you were greeted with the sight of Zayne in the classroom. With a girl bent halfway down right next to him. You recognised her immediately, the long blond hair with forest green eyes, milky pale skin with a smile that could make anyone faint upon seeing it. She is the school’s student president, Nyla. The both of them perked their heads up, reacting to the sound of the door being slammed opened only to see you standing in the doorway, face flushed from the heat, holding onto your snacks in your hand. “Hey y/n.” The student president grinned, her pearly whites nearly blinded you. “Do you mind giving us some time? We have some personal matters to settle.” Not only does she look pretty, she has a pleasing attitude too? Just great. Pursing your lips, you nodded and went out the same way you came in, sliding the door closed behind you in a more polite manner this time.

“I still can’t believe that you are working on an assignment with her.” Nyla huffed, pushing her hair back with her fingers as she bent down next to Zayne again, staring at his notebook. Nyla had initially wanted to meet up with Zayne regarding the discussion for the upcoming school festival that will be held but eventually, she turned it into her personal chat session with Zayne. “Is she a freeloader most of the time?”

“No.” Zayne replied. “She does her part as I do for mine.” Zayne, at this point had already caught note on what Nyla is trying to do. Provoking a conversation out of him when he is late for the initial assignment arrangement with you bothers him. “I think you had already gotten all of the answers you needed for the school festival.”

“But, I would like to get to know you too.” Nyla sat herself onto the side of his desk, manicured fingers fanned herself in an attempt to cool herself down. “Say, how about we try to go out for a little bit hmm?”

The raven haired young man did not even spared her a glance, eyes focused on his handwritings. “Zayne, come on. Smarty pants with a cute face like you dating me would be the talk of the school for weeks to come.” The pitch of her voice heightens at the end of her sentence and Zayne sighed in frustration. Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath and exhaled.

“I am not interested in being your pawn.” He glanced at her and her smile faltered, alongside her confidence. “Nor do I find the necessity to feed into the delusions of yours.” The indifference shown on his body language gave her the conclusion she did not expected from him. Her pretentious ‘girl-next-door’ attitude no longer on display. The anger of a spoiled child who gets whatever they want seeped through and she raised her palm, ready to land it onto his cheek but he caught it right before it touches his cheek. “I wouldn’t do it to someone who believes in gender equality.”

Nyla withdrew her hand, strings of curse words falling out of her lips as to save herself from embarrassment and she left the classroom. The young man sat in the room, staring at the new page he had just flipped over on his notebook and he noticed the drawing of a stick man next to the page number. The stick man appeared to be holding onto the number 6 like a hockey stick and the 0 being reimagined as a puck. His lips pulled into a small smile, flashing back to the time when you tried to be sneaky when he was out of the classroom during one of your past assignment pairings, conducting this tomfoolery on his notebook and quickly returning everything back to its original position. But he saw it all, from the crack of the door when he was about to enter the empty classroom. He finds your childlike behaviour amusing after all.

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

“We are done talking.” You stared up, the blinding sunlight immediately getting shielded by Zayne’s opaque outline. You squinted your eyes narrower only to find that Zayne has his hand stretched out to you, given you are in a seated position. “We should get started on our assignment.” You took his hand and he pulled you up, the sheer size of his palm wrapped around your whole hand easily.

“Here.” You reached your hand into the pocket of your uniform and pulled out a small box of chocolate cookies. “This is for you. It fell out when I was trying to grapple for my sandwich.”

Zayne took the box into his hands, contemplating on the way you got it. “Did the vending machine got stuck again?” Your nod made him smiled a little. “If it gets stuck again next time, you can just ask me to get it for you.”

His sudden suggestion nearly made you choked on the last bite of your egg and cheese sandwich. It is hard to believe he would come out all of the way here to find you, let alone making small talk and telling you that you can ask him to solve your troubles whenever you please? But your dumb brain only believe that he was only trying to be helpful and he is merely thanking you for bringing him a snack. “So what did you guys talk about?” You could not help but to ask as the both of you slowed down your steps to be in sync with one another.

“She wanted me to go out on a date with her.” You were lucky you had finished your sandwich, or else this sentence would have sent you into full on choking mode. You did expect Nyla to ask him out to a certain extent given his popularity, but you were caught off guard that he was even willing to share the details about what had went on behind those closed doors earlier. “I told her that there is not a need to waste her time.”

Hm? You stopped in your footsteps and turned to look at him. “What do you mean?” Your lips had blurted out the sentence before your mind is in control and you swallowed the instant regret of the question. Zayne too, stopped in his footsteps and he looked at you, his hazel green orbs stood out more like a lush forest under the blazing sun above your head. When he took a step towards you, your heart lurched, eyes scanning the surroundings for anyone present.

“I already have someone on my mind.” Zayne closed the distance between the both of you. Within arms length, Zayne reached his right hand outwards and held your cheek. An immediate gasp could be heard, the pace of your heartbeat quickened, so as your breath. You could hear your own heartbeat in your head. It does not take a genius for one to unravel who he likes. You stood in front of him, drinking in his gaze that had softened for one of the very few times, and this time he did not snap his head away immediately. His thumb moved back and forth on your cheek, soothing the spreading redness that is a result of your realisation regarding his point.

Your eyes lit up and your jaw slacked, eyes frantically searching for a joke within his eyes but when you found no ill intention, you amounted to satisfy your curiosity. “Why…why me?”

His thumb slid down to your jawline, and stopped at your chin. Raising it up just enough for his eyes to be looking into yours and you gulped nervously when he closed the distance between the both of you. He smiled, lips tugged up slightly on both corners because all these while, he knew that the both of you have the same feelings for one another, but he just never really have the opportunity to be alone with you, till now. "You will find out soon enough." Leaning down, Zayne pressed his lips softly against yours to present his confession to you, stealing your first kiss away.

XAVIER

The countdown in your head never fails you. When the minute hand hits 12 on the clock, the bell rung, the teacher looked up from the book he was holding, glasses slid down his nose slightly as he realised his class period had came to an end. "Remember your homework kids. I will see you next week." He announced as the students all got up in sync, bowing and thanking the teacher for his teaching efforts.

As you landed your bum back onto your chair, you heard someone calling your name and your head turned towards the source of the sound. The blond bloke named Xavier sauntered over to you, his eyelids still half closed. "Hey, you going over for the fencing extracurricular later?"

"Yeah I am. Why?" You asked him nonchalantly, all while clearing your items off of the table and placing them into your bagpack. When you do not hear his response, your hands rested on your bag and you looked up at him, squinting your eyes. "Wait. You plan to skip it don't you?"

Xavier's eyes widened and his light eyebrows arched upwards. "What, no. I just..." His right hand reached up to rub the nape of his neck. "I just thought we could walk there together if you'd like."

Sighing in relief you smiled and nodded, pulling your bagpack over your back. You had forgotten to arrange the books you have to bring today hence the load of your bag became a deadweight and it nearly sent you rolling onto the ground. Xavier caught you on time before your face gets planted onto the tiled ground. "Careful. Here, let me help."

"Thanks." The blond young man easily took your bagpack off of your back, slinging it over the side of his shoulder that has his messenger bag hung onto. With the weight of fingerpads pressed against your arm, you flushed red when you realised that he had not released his hold on you. Catching your sight, he trailed it down to your arm and he released his grip, equally embarassed at how long the skinship lasted.

Truth is, you and Xavier are somewhat at the level of best friends. The both of you share the same classes and same taste for food, alongside same extra curricular activities. But recently, you started feeling more and more abashed around him. You would consciously want to look good in front of him; either it be tucking your hair behind your ears, chuckling gently instead of laughing like a troll, ironing your clothes to make it look pressed and neat. You are like becoming a whole different person just for him. But it is not necessarily for the bad.

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

Clank, Clink, Clank Clank. The sounds of the blades grinding against one another created screeches and clinking, which are not the right music for the ears. You sat a couple of meters away from the mat, eyeing Xavier clad in the metallic polyester jacket that is overlain with a thin, interwoven steel strands in between to provide him protection. Lamés is the right term for the protective gear on his torso. Gasps and mutters could be heard echoing in the huge hall, judgements and commentaries thrown around as the showdown between Xavier and his opponent has been relatively entertaining.

The whole nine minutes, both of the fencers has been extremely aggressive, parrying and lunging against one another whenever an opening is spotted. The race to land 15 touches on the opponent make it an extremely fast and deft sport. The both of them had equated to 14 touches each and this last touch would determine the winner. The referee stood in middle, arms raised midway to insinuate the start of the tie-breaker round. "Pret? Allez!"

The blades then ensued, waving in the air. "Halt." It was called out in two seconds and both of the opponents backed up, standing still in their spots. Your heartbeat thumped, the last you saw was the both of their blades touched both of their respective opponent's foil. It is hard to determine who is the winner. The referee was seen walking over to Xavier and he spoke. "Parrying then riposte, point-in-line is perfect and that forward extension of yours is worth the risk." He grabbed Xavier's arm and raised it, everyone in the hall cheered as Xavier removed his headgear and grinned, eyes landing onto you.

You smiled back, proud that he had manage to win the competition. You stood up when he walked off of the platform, wanting to congratulate him but Chiara beat you to it. "Xavier! You did so well!" The girl bounced over, her curls bounced to her footsteps' rhythm as well. "Oh my god, that was such a fight."

"Thanks." Xavier smiled and she grabbed him by his neck, throwing herself into his arms and you were stunned at her boldness. Xavier however, did not seem fazed as his arms raised up to pat her back. Chiara may just be an amiable individual but your mind abnegated that possibility and only opened its chamber doors to jealousy.

In a disconsolate, nervous manner, you turned and proceeded to walk out of the hall. Your heart thumped hard against your chest like booming speakers in an EDM concert. It also caused a lump to form in your throat. It hurts. Something about her just greeting and hugging him so casually made her wonder why did he never told you about his girlfriend before? He is already mysterious enough but at this point, it felt like a betrayal to you. But then again, he does not owe you that favour to tell you about his dating life if he does not wish to say anything.

Finding a cosy corner next to the herb garden that belonged to the Plant Society, you sat down at the side of the curb and amused yourself with the view of butterflies twirling around blooming flower petals. Amongst the weeds, Magnolia blossoms are most of the denizens found within the small patch of ground. Time passed by, perhaps around a couple of minutes and you heard hurried footsteps in the background but you were too engrossed with the butterfly landing onto a magnolia's carpels that you did not bother to turn around.

"Y/n." Xavier called out. "I had been searching everywhere for you." You turned your head slowly, stopping with only half of your face visible to him. "Did you noticed me winning just now?" "Yeah I did." You pushed yourself off of the curb, dusting the dirt off of your dark skirt and you faced him, gaze catching his chest rather than his cerulean orbs. "In fact, I saw Chiara went up to hug you." Your pout although not shown, it was obvious to Xavier. You are jealous.

He stepped forward and wrapped his lanky arms around you, pulling you into his chest. You were bewildered. In his arms, feeling his warmth spreading to your body and his scent swathed you, he smells like clean sheets and a bubble bath. Perhaps from his change of clothes. "I'm sorry." He spoke, breath batting against the nape of your neck. "I should have rejected her hug right then and there."

"It's okay Xavier, I didn't know you have a girlfriend." You were quick to address your hesitation, ready to take a step back from him but his hold around you tightened, not allowing you to leave his arms.

"She isn't. She isn't my girlfriend, y/n." He slowly pulled back, arms now moved to rest on your shoulder. For a moment, a gleam of wary was ready to surface but Xavier was quick to put out that emotion of his. "I don't think of her anything more than a friend. Unlike you."

Confusion clouded you like a misty apparition above your head. "What about me?" Your index finger pointed towards yourself. "What do you mean by 'unlike me'."

"I like you." His gaze unwavering, genuine intentions full on display. "I had liked you for a very long time y/n." Your jaw dropped to the ground almost instantly. You were not expecting this to happen at all but look at how fate has presented itself. Xavier smiled, his angelic smile akin to his divine features. He would have been mistaken to be an angel if you did not know that the halo around his head is the sun peeking out from the back of his head. “And I think I would very much like you to be my girlfriend instead of her.”

Your eyelids blinked rapidly, eyelashes just a few more blinks away to cool down the redness in your cheeks. As a reflex, your hands flew up to your mouth to mask your excitement, your lips probably pulled into a grin that stretches to both ears. “I…I…” Your stammering further betrayed your feelings and Xavier leaned down, supple hands held onto your wrist and he pulled your hands down, finally being able to see your shyful expression.

“Seeing you like this makes me very happy y/n.” He cupped your cheeks softly, tediously brushing the pads of his thumb across your cheek and he leaned in, planting a kiss onto your lips to officially make you his girlfriend.

Hope this fluff makes your day my lovelies! <3

PART TWO HERE!

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #rafayel love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #lnds #xavier love and deepspace #fluffy #rafayel x reader #zayne x reader #xavier x reader

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