#Column Ring Fixing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

velaenam · 2 months ago

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𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

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𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 — non!mc. a princess from a powerful merchant kingdom is thrust into a political marriage with rome’s most feared military emperor—only to catch the eye of a rival sovereign who believes her freedom is worth starting a war. 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 — set during the early imperial period of rome, the story unfolds at the height of political intrigue and military dominance, where empires clash, alliances shift. story will take place between 1st century bce – 2nd century ce, give or take. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 — swearing, nsfw language, political manipulation, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, war and violence, sexual themes, misogyny/patriarchal culture, classism and elitism, culture tensions, xenophobia, racism, non consensual stuff at times.. uhh.. romantic love triangle, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — hey sexies hope ur well. lets get this bread. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 1 of ? | previous chapter / next chapter / playlist — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! if you'd like to read the xavier x reader sequel my good friend @rcvcgers has a story! it's amazing, please check it out!

the northern frontier, outskirts of vindobona, the hills burned with the color of dying fire—deep orange bleeding into bruised purple. smoke still rose in fine trails from blackened trees, and the scent of damp earth, blood, and charred wood hung thick over the landscape. what remained of the last germanic stronghold lay behind them in silence, smoldering into surrender.

the roman banners stirred in the wind—red and gold frayed at the edges, streaked with ash. marching in clean formation behind them, the legions trudged through the cold mud, their armor dulled by days of combat and frost. horses snorted, restless but obedient, hooves sinking with every step.

at the head of the column rode caesar caleb and behind him was the praetoria xiv, his elite guards, headed by prefect praetorio gideon, his close friend and right hand man (but was in rome currently)

caleb looked like a war god carved into motion—his lorica musculata dulled by soot, etched with old dents and new blood, the bronze eagle on his chest tarnished but still proud. his imperial cloak, if it had once been worn, was long since discarded. he bore no laurels. no polished ornament. only steel and weight and silence.

the reins in his gloved hands were wrapped twice around his fingers. he rode without fanfare, but no soldier dared ride ahead of him.

to his left, general septus adjusted in his saddle, old joints aching beneath his plated armor. he had fought in a dozen campaigns, but something about this one had settled deeper in his bones. he glanced toward the emperor, the man who had not stood behind lines—but at the front, through every freezing skirmish, every blood-drenched push.

caleb’s eyes were fixed forward.

“how many?” he asked.

septus cleared his throat. “ninety-three dead. fifteen more expected to fall by nightfall. one hundred and two wounded.” a pause, “and the tribe?”

“their chieftain surrendered when we reached the inner ring. before we even breached the palisade.” a beat. “laid down his own sword. didn’t beg.”

caleb didn’t speak. his jaw flexed once. the leather of his gloves creaked softly. “he was smart,” he said at last. they continued in silence for several strides, the cadence of hooves and boots filling the space between words. crows flapped overhead, circling what little remained of the fires.

“most emperors,” septus said after a moment, “don’t lead charges anymore.” caleb’s gaze didn’t waver. “most emperors,” he said quietly, “have someone left to bury them.” it wasn’t said with bitterness. just truth. cold and clean. septus tilted his head in faint amusement, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

behind them, the legion shifted formation as they approached the stone bridge that would carry them south. the wind picked up—sharp, dry, biting through the fabric of exposed cloaks.

“rumor says you’ll be married by spring,” septus said, half-casual, eyes fixed ahead. caleb didn’t answer right away. then, “the senate confirmed it during the campaign,” he replied. “the offer was made. nabira accepted.”

“a trade agreement with silk and rings.” septus snorted. “practical.”

“they’re always practical until someone bleeds.” septus looked over at him, arching a brow. “is she that sharp?” caleb’s jaw tensed, but his voice remained steady. “so are most blades.”

“you don’t seem thrilled.” – “do i ever?”

“no,” the general said, smiling faintly. “that’s how we know it’s real.”

they rode on, past the tree line, where the grass grew yellow and sparse. the scent of pine gave way to dust.

“will you rule her?” septus asked, his tone quieter now. caleb didn’t answer immediately. his eyes scanned the road, the horizon beyond—miles of land still marked with war. “i don’t know if she can be ruled,” he said finally. “and i haven’t decided if that’s a strength or a threat.”

septus nodded, like a man who understood more than he was willing to say aloud. “you’ll decide,” he murmured. “you always do.”

caleb didn’t reply. he simply kept riding, the fading sun casting long shadows across the earth. soldiers behind him followed in silence—battle-weary, blood-worn, but whole. they did not cheer. they did not call his name. but when he passed, they bowed their heads. not because of the laurels, the throne, but because he bled beside them. because he walked through fire and never once looked back.

the wind is dry but sweet, drifting through the lattice work with the scent of myrrh and honeyed citrus. you sit beneath the acacia tree in the inner garden, tracing idle shapes into the rim of your tea dish. the petals of fallen blossoms scatter across the stone floor like gold dust.

you hear the soft jingle of his jewelry before you see him. “you’re late,” you say without looking up. “you’re sulking,” your brother replies, stepping into the light with his usual casual grace. “so we’re both playing to form.”

you glance up, and despite yourself, despite everything, you feel the tightness in your chest ease. he looks the same: sun-touched skin, robes the color of pomegranate wine, a merchant’s calm in his eyes and a diplomat’s weight on his shoulders. you could only hope you become something of sophistication.

“i brought you saffron,” he says, sitting beside you. “the good kind. and pistachios roasted in salt, not spice annnnd—i remembered this time.” he holds up a bag of the finest pomegranates.

“trying to bribe me with food?” you murmur, taking the pouch from his hand. “always,” he grins. for a while, there’s only the soft hum of bees in the flowering trees. a drowsy peace. a stillness before something inevitable. he exhales. “they told me you’ve been quiet,” he says. “that you’re not sleeping.”

you shrug. “you shouldn’t listen to the staff.” – “i listen to everyone. it’s part of my curse.”

you don’t answer. your hands are still. your heart is not. he watches you for a moment longer, then says, gently, “you’ll be leaving soon.”

the words hang in the air like smoke. you nod “and you’ve met him?” – “briefly,” he says then he goes quiet, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. his rings catch the sun.

“rome is not nabira,” he says quietly. “you know this. but i’ll say it again. you cannot speak as freely there. you cannot carry yourself like you do here. their walls listen. their women are watched.”

you lift your chin slightly. “i know how to move in a cage.” he sighs. “i don’t want you in a cage at all.” you look at him. the man who taught you how to negotiate in three languages before you could hold a blade. the boy who once stole oranges for you from the temple courtyard just to make you laugh.

“what do you know of him?” you ask.

“emperor caleb?” he says, straightening. “he’s cold. brilliant. a man who wears restraint like a second skin. and a man the world would rather kneel for than fight.” you nod, absorbing it all. you’re quiet for a long moment, then: “do you trust him?” his eyes flicker.

“no,” he says. “but that doesn’t mean you’re not strong enough to handle him.”

you glance at the garden walls, at the vines curling along the marble. at the city you are about to leave behind. “i hate this,” you say. “so do i,” he replies. “but sometimes hate is the price of survival.”

he reaches over and presses a small bundle into your hand—another charm, another promise. something sweet to keep close when the walls in rome close too tightly. “i’ll write,” he says.

“you always do,” you murmur. he smiles. and you smile too but only a little. because this is still nabira. and for one more day, you’re still hers.

domina (latin for mistress/lady)

you wake up crying.

not loudly. just tears slipping out before your thoughts can catch up—before the weight of where you are reminds your body to stay still. the silks beneath you are stiff, foreign. the light is wrong. it cuts through thick roman drapery, sharp and pale, not golden and soft like home.

your throat is tight. everything smells like stone. rosewater and crushed fig drift up faintly, and you realize you’re not alone. gentle fingers brush your cheek. a quiet voice follows.

“you’re awake, domina.”

your maids stand nearby. one holds the silver basin. the other holds your favorite gold comb from nabira. both keep their eyes respectfully lowered. you don’t answer. you just sit up, slowly, letting the veil slip from your shoulder. your heart still feels too full. like it doesn’t know where to put all the grief. you were torn away from home—maybe not forever, but long enough for it to feel like exile. rome is not your kingdom. it never will be. and yet here you are.

“would you like your usual perfume, my lady?” the younger maid asks, lifting a small crystal vial.

you pause. then nod once. “yes,” you whisper. “that one.”

the scent is warm. spiced with saffron, cardamom, and something citrus. your mother once said it made you smell like the sun itself. today, it just smells like longing.you close your eyes as they begin the ritual. hair unbound and rebraided. you let them dress you like a statue—silent, polished, distant. “domina you are beautiful.” one of your servants tug your dress down to flatten it, careful not to ruin the intricacies that lie beneath.

“the depart begins soon” the elder maid says quietly.

you say nothing for a moment. then you open your eyes. the silence that follows is thick with understanding.

the gates of rome stood open like the jaws of some ancient, sleeping god—tall and unyielding, carved in triumph and shadow. the sun beat down on white stone and bronze shields, catching every surface until the whole city shimmered with light.

they had been waiting for hours.

crowds pressed in from every street, shoulder to shoulder along the main thoroughfare, stretching all the way to the forum. flower petals littered the cobblestones. laurel branches were tied to banners. children perched on their fathers’ shoulders. even the priests had left their temples to watch.

and when they saw him, the roar started. from the people they hail their great caesar. the victorious one.

“imperator!”

“hail caesar!”

“roma invicta!”

they shouted his name until the air shook with it.

emperor caleb rode beneath the arch on horseback, draped now in imperial blue and orange, the sun catching the gold trim along his shoulders. a newly polished cuirass gleamed across his chest, but it did not hide the scuffs along his arms or the fresh scar at his jawline.

he wore his crown of laurel with the stillness of a statue and the exhaustion of a soldier. and he did not smile. he didn’t need to.

the people loved him not for pageantry, but for presence. for being the emperor who led from the front. who bled in foreign snow and came back standing.

behind him, the standard bearers marched, holding the flags of conquered provinces. his legions followed in perfect formation, but it was him the crowd watched. him they reached for. they called blessings, threw olive branches, wept at the sight of him.

he gave a single nod as he passed through the gates.

inside the city, nobles and senators waited on the steps of the curia, clothed in silk and gold, faces carefully arranged into admiration. among them stood his right hand– gideon, watching from beneath his helmet, saying nothing, but seeing everything.

a voice somewhere near the front cried, “ave, caesar! glory to the great emperor of rome!”

another shouted, “the gods walk with you, imperator!”

and still caleb did not wave. still he did not raise his hand. he looked at his city like a man returning to something heavier than war.

because war was simple. victory was clean. politics was neither.

he dismounted only at the foot of the steps, boots hitting stone with a deep, deliberate sound, and as he ascended toward the curia, flanked by marble and thunder, the crowd quieted just enough to let the weight of him pass.

rome welcomed its son with firelight and silence. and the city remembered why it bowed.

the cheering had faded. the petals were swept. the gates had closed.

now, the marble halls of the imperial residence were quiet—cool with shadow, heavy with gold-trimmed silence. caleb moved without guards. he didn’t need them here. every corridor, every arch, bent to him.

gideon was already waiting in the side chamber when he arrived—standing by the window, arms folded behind his back, his armor still dusted from parade formation. he didn’t bow. he never did.

“you look like hell,” gideon said without turning.

“i just conquered a northern rebellion,” caleb replied, voice full of amusement. “being handsome, is far from my mind right now.”

gideon glanced over his shoulder. “should i tell the sculptors to capture the scar or smooth it over for the statues?”

“leave it,” caleb said. “let them remember i was there.”

he stepped inside, rolling his shoulder until the muscles cracked. his body was beginning to feel the weight of the war—too many nights in tents, too many winters on horseback. the fire pit had been lit. a basin of wine waited.

gideon handed him a scroll. caleb grabs and opens it, before

“senate tried to vote on a grain tariff while you were gone,” he said. “i buried it.” – “good.”

“they also tried to promote senator lucan to ‘imperial advisor on foreign affairs.’ i buried that too.” caleb raised a brow. “how?”

gideon smirked. “i mentioned his taste for married noblewomen and his personal debt to nabiran gold merchants.” a pause. caleb let out a soft exhale—half tired, half impressed.

“i missed you,” he muttered. gideon stifled a laugh as he nods, “i know.”

there was a comfortable silence. one only earned after years of shared blood and silence in the dirt. gideon pulled off his gloves and leaned against the far table, crossing one boot over the other.

“they’re whispering about the marriage,” he said, “i assumed.”

“the princess hasn’t arrived yet, but the court’s already full of opinions. they say she’s clever. stubborn. nabira wrapped in veils and steel.”

caleb nodded once. “sounds accurate.” – “you planning to fall in love with this one?” gideon asked, dry.

caleb gave him a look, “you know i don’t have the luxury of love.”

“no,” gideon said. “but you’ve been known to do stupid things for women before.” caleb didn’t answer. gideon’s expression softened just slightly. “she’s not the same as the last one, is she?”

“no,” caleb said after a long pause. “she’s not.”

they didn’t speak for a while. the fire cracked. outside, the city still rustled—the buzz of rome never truly stopped.

“get some rest,” gideon said eventually, pushing off the table. “tomorrow they’ll be lining up with scrolls and tribute. senators love to circle after blood’s been spilled.”

caleb gave a faint nod. gideon started to walk off, then paused at the door. he glanced over his shoulder.

“for what it’s worth,” he said, quieter now. “i’m glad you came back.” caleb looked at him.

“don’t i always?”

gideon shrugged. “one day you won’t. and we both know it.” and then he was gone. the door closed, and caleb stood alone. just for a moment. just long enough to feel it.

the doors close behind gideon, and caleb stands alone with the quiet. he doesn’t move for a while. the fire crackles. outside, the sky is softening into blue-grey. he loosens the ties of his cloak with one hand, shrugs it from his shoulders, and lets it fall where it lands. the basin of water nearby has gone tepid but he doesn’t care.

he’s halfway through pulling off his gloves when he hears her, his mistress.

the door doesn’t creak. it never does when she enters. he doesn’t look at her—not at first. but he feels it, that shift in the air. her presence presses differently than anyone else’s. not heavy, but familiar. like a hand at his back.

“you came back,” she says softly.

he finally turns.

she looks the same, but a bit more refined. more shadow around the eyes. her gown clings like memory. deep plum silk, loose at the shoulders, gold at the throat. her hair pinned high, but barely. like it didn’t want to stay up.

“barely,” he says, voice low.

she crosses the room in three slow steps and stops just in front of him. doesn’t touch him. not yet.

“i missed you,” she says.

he looks at her for a long moment. then reaches up and brushes his fingers along the side of her face. her cheek is warm. always is.

“did you,” he murmurs. she nods. “enough to hate you for it.” he huffs a breath. something like a laugh. and then he kisses her– not gently.

his hand slips into her hair, fingers tangling in the pins. her mouth meets his with something between hunger and heat—neither of them soft, not anymore. the weeks apart burned too long. they kiss like punishment. like prayer. like people who’ve had to go too long pretending they’re just flesh and not history.

she pulls him by the front of his armor, and he lets her. he always lets her. they move through the room in slow collisions. wine spills. a shoulder hits the edge of the marble table. her bracelets scatter across the floor like coins.

he presses her back against the column. breathes her in. her hands slip under the edge of his cuirass, find the skin just above his waist. he lets out a sound low in his throat.

“caleb,” she whispers.

his name sounds different when she says it. like it belongs to someone before the crown.

he kisses her again. slower this time. more ache than heat. he hasn’t touched anyone since he left.

the room is warm now. not with fire, but with breath. with the kind of quiet that only comes after.

his armor lies discarded beside the bed. her dress is somewhere near the foot of it, silk pooled like spilled wine across the stone. the curtains shift gently in the wind.

he lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’s trying to remember where he is. his hair is still damp at the temples. his jawline shadowed with exhaustion.

she’s curled beside him, thigh draped over his, her fingers tracing the scar at his rib—one she hadn’t seen before.

“this one’s new,” she murmurs. “a spear,” he says quietly. “got too close.”

she doesn’t ask why. she knows he never tells the story unless someone dies from it. instead, she presses a soft kiss over the scar and rests her head against his chest.

“they cheered for you today,” she says after a while, her voice barely above a whisper. “like you were a god.”

he doesn’t respond. “you hate it,” she adds. he nods once. “they forget i bleed,” he says. she traces a slow line along his collarbone. “i don’t.” he turns to look at her then. just for a moment. the candlelight flickers across her bare shoulder, across the curve of her spine. there is a quiet in her gaze that unnerves him more than war ever could.

“you’re tired,” she whispers – “always.” she shifts closer. kisses his throat. not for want, not for hunger—just to remind him he’s still a man beneath the weight.

“rest,” she tells him. “rome will still be here when you wake.” he doesn’t answer. but his hand finds hers under the linen. and he doesn’t let go.

the sun hasn’t risen yet. but the city is already awake.

servants move like ghosts through the palace halls. trunks are being tied to camels. farewell gifts packed into velvet-lined chests. figs, saffron, carved bone combs. nothing too heavy. nothing too sentimental.

your handmaid wraps your wrists in gold thread while another pins your veil into place. everything smells like home and yet nothing feels like it.

your brother stands outside the gate, arms folded. he won’t follow you past this point.

“i had another horse chosen for you,” he says. “the black one you like.”

you nod. “thank you.” he hesitates as his jaw tightens. “rome isn’t kind,” he says. “you don’t have to be either.”

you look at him then, and your eyes say everything your mouth cannot. you are his sister.. you were not meant for cages, but you’ve learned how to walk in them anyway.

when you ride through the gates of nabira, the streets are lined with quiet. there are no crowds. no petals. just silence. your veil catches in the wind. your fingers curl slightly around the edge of your seat.

you do not look back. not even once.

the journey to rome was slow and less than ideal, even in a raeda as lavish as the one they had prepared for you. the spacious wagon was draped with silk sheets and embroidered cushions, the faint scent of rose oil clinging to the fabric, but no amount of finery could soften the ache of so many endless miles. you were not afforded the luxury of true rest; the caravan moved almost without stopping, escorts trading shifts like clockwork, their faces changing each time you pulled the curtain aside. most nights you stayed awake, stretched out among the silks with a shuttered lantern beside you, ink staining your fingers as you wrote in your diary. you watched the world crawl by—crumbling villas swallowed by fields, the broken ribs of aqueducts against the horizon, olive trees twisting like old bones along the ridges. every turn of the wheels carried you further from home and deeper into the mouth of a city you had only ever heard whispered about. and somewhere deep in your chest, you could already feel rome reaching for you.

“domina, we are here.”

one of your guards mutters through silken drapes. your eyes snap open as you shuffle upwards. the city rose before you like a dream drawn in marble and gold. even through the thick curtains of your raeda, you could see it—white stone blazing under the sun, banners rippling in every color you had ever known and a few you hadn't. the gates yawned open, wide enough to swallow a kingdom whole, and your caravan slipped through them like a bead through a thread. for a long moment, you forgot to breathe. fountains danced at every square, spilling crystal water into shallow basins where children and merchants crowded alike. villas clung to the hills in proud terraces, draped in flowers and silk awnings that snapped in the high breeze. the streets shimmered with dust and rose petals crushed into the cobblestones, filling the air with the scent of life—ripe figs, burning incense, spiced wine. laughter and music rose and fell in waves between the towering columns. you had imagined rome as cold, carved, ruthless. and it was. but it was also alive—so terribly, vividly alive it ached to look at. you pressed your hand against the silk at your side, steadying yourself against the rush of color and sound. you had arrived. and the empire was already pulling you into its pulse.

marble pillars soar around the central forum like white sentinels, casting long shadows across the gathered assembly. sounds of glorious trumpet plays as a line of men and women drape the building like a red carpet. rome has spared no expense to welcome you– the princess of nabira, the city crowned in sun, veined with gold.

the raeda slowed as it pulled into the inner courtyard, wheels grinding softly against smooth stone. sunlight spilled over everything—blinding on the white marble, gilding the steps where rows of senators and noblewomen waited, clothed in silks so fine they seemed to shimmer like water. a fountain splashed somewhere close by. you could hear the murmurs already—the shift of sandals, the rustle of robes—as your arrival rippled through the crowd like a dropped stone in a still pool.

a handmaiden unlatched the door and stepped back, bowing low.

you step beneath a silver archway carved with laurels and depictions of battles in their full and autonomous glory. your blue-ivory stola flows like river silk, the color catching sunlight in watery ripples. your veil is thin, pinned with mother-of-pearl. but it's the jewelry– dozens of rings on your slim fingers, bracelets stacked in glimmering rows, gold and lapis earrings dancing at your ears that announces your arrival before your name is ever spoken.

you lifted your chin. you were not here to be appraised. you were here to be remembered.

at the foot of the steps, a man in deep purple robes approached—his face lined with power and the dust of too many years in senate halls.

“princess of nabira,” he said, bowing low with a flourish that was almost mocking in its grandeur. “on behalf of the senate and the people of rome, welcome to the eternal city.”

you inclined your head just slightly. gracious, but unbending.

other nobles followed—introductions you barely heard, names flowing over you like a river you had no wish to swim. you answered when required, smiled when demanded, but your eyes kept lifting past the crush of gold and laurel—

searching. because you could feel it. the space he left open at the top of the stairs. the place where he would stand.

and then—

you saw him.

emperor caleb.

he stood beneath the great arch of the curia, draped in a deep imperial blue that caught the sunlight and set him ablaze with a kind of terrible beauty. his breastplate gleamed, etched with the eagle of rome, but it was his purple gaze that arrested you—sharp, calculating, unreadable even across the span of the courtyard.

he didn’t move he just watched you cross the distance between what you were and what you would now become. your breath caught once—only once. then you began to walk: toward the man who would shape your fate, whether by his hand—or your own.

the courtyard fell into a hush as you crossed the flagstones. the senators parted like cloth before you, the rustle of their robes barely a whisper against the stone. every step you took echoed faintly in the high, golden air.

he waited at the top of the shallow stairs, the imperial standard behind him, rippling bright as fire. caleb did not step forward to meet you. he let you come to him.

you stopped a measured distance away—close enough to show respect, far enough to show pride—and bowed your head, slow, deliberate, letting the sun catch on the jewelry threaded through your hair. when you lifted your gaze again, his eyes were already on you, unblinking.

you opened your mouth to speak first.

"hail, emperor caleb." your voice was calm, low, steady. "i come on behalf of nabira, with respect in my step and iron in my spine."

a murmur rippled through the gathered nobles at your boldness. caleb’s expression did not change. but something in the line of his mouth seemed to tighten, almost imperceptibly.

he answered without hesitation, voice rich and carrying easily across the courtyard.

"hail, princess of nabira," he said, the words formal, but weighted. "daughter of golden kings. steel of the east. rome welcomes you."

you felt the weight of it—not a greeting. a claim.

the senators bowed at his cue. a wave of movement around you, but you stayed still, feeling his gaze pin you in place. he descended the last step toward you, his caligae striking the stone with slow deliberation. when he towered before you, only a breath away, he extended his hand—palm up, not to command, but to offer.

the air between you was thick with expectation. you placed your hand lightly into his. a pulse passed between your skin and his. his fingers closed around yours, firm, but not bruising.

for a heartbeat, the entire city seemed to still.

then he turned, still holding your hand, presenting you to the forum, to the senate, to rome itself.

the crowd roared.

he led you through the arched colonnade, the murmur of the crowd fading behind you like the tide pulling away from shore. the stone beneath your sandals was warm from the afternoon sun, each step echoing softly between the towering marble pillars. servants bowed low as you passed, pressing themselves against the walls to make way, but caleb walked as if he didn’t notice.

you stole a glance at him as you matched your pace to his.

he was taller up close than you remembered from the courtyard, broad through the shoulders, the imperial cloak falling heavy against the sculpted lines of his armor. the crown of laurel sat low against his brow, casting shadows across his sharp features. even in the heat, even after what must have been a grueling march home, he looked composed—untouchable. dangerous. the kind of man carved not by soft court life, but by fire and long winters and the weight of command.

it was unfair, you thought absently, how a man could look like that and still walk as if he carried no burden heavier than a sword. it made your mouth a little too dry. made your heart beat just a little too fast under the thin silk draped against your ribs.

“was the journey long?” his voice broke the quiet, low and rich, filling the space between you with almost casual gravity.

you blinked once, pulling your mind back from the way the sunlight caught against the gold trim of his cuirass.

“longer than it needed to be,” you answered, keeping your tone light, diplomatic. “your roads are fine enough..”

for the first time, you saw it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. not a full smile. but something close. something real.

“rome’s roads outlast kings and conquerors ” he said.

you let out a soft, genuine laugh before you could stop yourself. he glanced sideways at you, as if memorizing the sound.

“we’ll see to it that you are afforded more comfort now that you are here,” he added, voice smoothing back into something more formal, but not unkind.

you nodded, lifting your chin just slightly, fighting the ridiculous urge to trip over your own sandals under the weight of his attention.

“i ask for little,” you said.

he paused at the base of a marble staircase, turning fully toward you. the sunlight caught against the polished planes of his armor, blinding for a moment, and for a heartbeat you thought—no, knew—that whatever promises this man made, he would keep. even if it burned the world to do so.

his gaze held yours.

“princess of nabira,” he said quietly, almost like a vow. “you will not have to ask.”

and then he turned, leading you upward into the palace, leaving you to follow with your heart pounding traitorously against your ribs.

he led you through a narrower corridor now, quieter than the grand halls, the servants peeling away with each turn until it was only the two of you and the soft echo of your steps against polished stone. torchlight flickered against the gold-inlaid mosaics on the walls—scenes of heroes, gods, and conquests, all watching silently as you passed.

the doors he stopped before were carved from dark cedar, bound in bronze. two guards posted at either side bowed low as he approached, then turned their faces away, giving you privacy without needing a word.

he pushed the doors open himself.

you stepped inside—and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

the suite was vast, more a wing than a chamber. vaulted ceilings painted in deep lapis and gold arched overhead. silk-draped couches lined the walls, and in the center, a massive bed waited—its frame carved from dark wood, draped in layers of ivory and deep blue, matching the colors of rome and the desert both. thick rugs cushioned the marble beneath your sandals. a fountain flowed softly from a corner alcove, sweetening the air with the scent of roses and crushed mint.

it was a room fit for a queen. a room meant to impress you. to claim you. your fingers brushed the edge of one of the silken couches without thinking, grounding yourself against the overwhelming opulence.

behind you, you felt him move.

caleb walked past you, slow, deliberate, as if he owned not just the palace, but the air you breathed. he approached the bed, the heavy folds of his imperial cloak trailing behind him and he sat. the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what power looked like when it chose to relax.

his arms rested loosely on his thighs, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you and he looked.

he let his gaze trace the length of you—lingering where the silk of your stola clung against the curve of your waist, where the fall of your veil left the slope of your neck bare. there was nothing hurried or shy in the way he took you in. just slow, heavy acknowledgment, like he was memorizing you before a battle he already knew he meant to win.

your throat tightened. the air between you grew heavier, woven with something thicker than perfume and sweeter than roses.

he sat there, unmoving, one hand resting loosely over his knee, his thumb absently brushing the fabric of his cloak. the silence stretched between you—long, velvet-thick, like the moments before a storm breaks.

**non-consensual scene**

then, his voice, low and unhurried:

"take off your stola."

the words landed like a stone dropped into still water. your breath caught in your throat. you stared at him, half expecting him to smirk, to let it hang there as a jest. but his face was unflinching—serious, intent, his gaze never wavering from yours.

you shifted slightly, the silk whispering against your skin as you crossed your arms tightly over your chest. confusion flickered across your features before you found your voice.

"i... i don’t understand," you said, trying for strength, but it wavered in the air between you. "why would you—" he leaned forward slightly, the chain at his throat catching the firelight, throwing a golden gleam across his breastplate.

"again," he said, softer this time, but no less commanding. "take it off."

your heart hammered against your ribs. you felt rooted to the spot—burning with shame, fear, something else you dared not name. every instinct screamed at you to run, to argue, to defy.

and yet…. your hands moved.

slow, trembling, you reached for the pin at your shoulder. the mother-of-pearl catch slipped free beneath your fingers, and the stola loosened, sliding down your arms in a whisper of silk. it pooled at your feet, leaving you bare, a shift barely meant for public eyes. the cool air kissed your bare skin, and you shivered—not from the chill, but from the unbearable weight of his gaze.

he simply looked. as if you were some sacred thing laid bare at an altar he had no intention of desecrating.

"beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself. "so beautiful."

you stood there, cheeks burning, arms crossed tightly over your chest, unable to meet his eyes.

he rose from the bed and walked. when he reached you, he didn't touch. he only tilted your chin up with two fingers, so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. his other hand gripping your crossed arms, gently— but with the same commanding tone— pulls your arm to your side, so your chest reveals itself to him.

"do not be shy of your body," he said, voice low and devastatingly tender. "the gods made you from fire and light. there is no shame in being seen."

your breath trembled in your throat. you didn't know if you wanted to cry or kiss him. maybe both.

he released your chin gently, his hand falling back to his side.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

the fire crackled low in the hearth, the silk of your discarded stola puddled at your feet like the shed skin of some softer, braver creature. his words still hung in the air—beautiful, worthy, seen—and you could feel them sinking into your skin, deeper than any wound.

you swallowed hard.

your hands moved instinctively, reaching down to gather the loose folds of your stola back into your arms. the silk felt different now—heavier, almost unfamiliar against your fingers, like a second skin you weren’t sure you wanted to wear again.

you kept your eyes lowered as you wrapped the fabric around your shoulders, hiding your bare arms, your trembling hands. pretending you could still be the girl who first stepped into this palace without knowing how quickly it would strip you bare.

he said nothing and he didn’t try to stop you. he only watched, silent as a blade sheathed just before the killing blow, the heat of his gaze never wavering even as you covered yourself again. you adjusted the drape of the stola with trembling fingers, willing your heart to slow, willing your knees not to give out under the sheer weight of what had just passed between you.

you felt his gaze slide over you once more—slow, reverent—and for a moment you hated how much you wanted him to look at you that way again.

how much you wanted to believe the things he said.

"rest," he said at last, his voice lower now, like the dying embers of a fire. "you’ll need it for what’s to come."

then, without another word, he turned and left, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft, decisive thud.

**end of scene**

the fire had burned low by the time you found yourself seated at the small writing table near the window, a wick dipped in tallow situated in the bronze base. the stola hung loose around your shoulders now, your hair undone, your skin still prickling from the memory of him standing so close. you grip the calamus as you take a deep breath, a hand that barely steadied itself, the familiar weight of the diary settling before you like an old, secret friend.

you stared at the blank page for a long time.

the sounds of the city floated faintly from beyond the balcony—distant laughter, the clatter of hooves against stone, the ever-present hum of life that never seemed to sleep here. you closed your eyes for a moment, breathing it in, grounding yourself in the strangeness of it all.

then, slowly, you began to write.

he looked at me like i was made of something holy. not silk. not gold. not treaties or thrones. just… me. i have never been seen like that before. and gods help me, it terrified me more than war ever could.

you paused, ink dripping once onto the corner of the page. you wiped it absently with your thumb, smearing it into a blackened bruise.

he asked me to bare myself. not just my body. my pride. my fear. my armor. and i did. and he did not strike.

you set the quill down gently, folding your hands in your lap as you stared at the words, as if they belonged to someone else.

you weren’t sure if it was love blooming beneath your ribs or the slow, soft beginning of your own undoing.

maybe both.

after you put your diary away you clear your throat, and stand up, adjusting any misplaced pins, and disheveledness, before you set out of your room— to tour yourself.

the morning light flooded the palace halls with a soft, golden haze, catching against the mosaics beneath your sandals and painting the marble columns in pale fire. caleb had left early for the senate, his cloak snapping behind him like a banner as he disappeared down the long corridor lined with statues of forgotten gods. you had been left to your own devices—an invisible suggestion from the chamberlain, a bow too deep to be anything but a dismissal—and so you wandered.

the corridors of the imperial residence stretched endlessly, grander than anything you had seen even in the temples of nabira. domed ceilings soared above you, frescoed with scenes of rome’s triumphs: legions crossing frozen rivers, emperors crowned by winged victories, prisoners kneeling in chains of gold. the walls themselves were art—veined marble from every corner of the empire, gilded friezes depicting battles you had only ever read of in dusty scrolls.

you drifted through them like a shadow.

past courtyards spilling over with citrus trees, the scent of lemon blossoms carried on every breeze. past open galleries where senators and noblemen clustered in whispered knots, robes brushing the floor like the tails of lazy hunting cats. the air smelled of oil and parchment and sun-warmed stone. every surface seemed alive—etched, woven, painted, built not just for function but for legacy, for memory, for fear.

in one chamber, you paused to admire a towering statue of mars—the god of war—his stone eyes forever locked in silent challenge. wreaths of laurel crowned his brow, and offerings of coin and wine pooled at his feet. you wondered briefly if caleb had knelt there once, as a boy, swearing himself to victories not yet earned.

the sound of fountains followed you from hall to hall, low and steady, a heartbeat threaded through the bones of the palace itself. servants moved quietly around you, their eyes averted, their faces carefully blank. even here, in the belly of power, no one spoke freely. you could feel it—the tension humming in the marble, the weight of unseen wars fought in glances and sealed letters.

you crossed a high balcony overlooking the forum and stopped, breath catching.

below, rome unfurled like a living tapestry: streets teeming with merchants shouting their wares, couriers dashing between columns, temples gleaming like crowns on the hillsides. everything moved. everything shone. it was too much, and yet not enough to fill the hollowness blooming quietly inside your chest.

you rested your hands lightly on the railing, feeling the sun warm your skin, watching the empire breathe beneath your fingertips.

you turned a corner near the peristyle garden, the scent of rosemary and crushed thyme thick in the air, when you nearly collided with her.

she was draped in scarlet silk, scandalously cut for the propriety of the palace—shoulders bare, golden chains glinting across her collarbone. dark hair coiled perfectly atop her head, earrings swinging as she tilted her face toward you with a slow, measuring look.

you knew who she was before she spoke.

the mistress.

the one they didn’t dare name at court, but whose presence clung to the halls like expensive perfume.

"princess," she said, voice curling around the title like a snake around a branch. she offered a slow, mocking curtsy—too low to be proper, too languid to be respectful. "i hope rome hasn’t proven too overwhelming for you. it can be… intense for those unaccustomed to civilization."

you lifted your chin, letting your gaze sweep over her—necklace, rings, the cut of her robe. beautiful, yes. polished. but everything about her was just a little too sharpened, too desperate to be seen… like a blade dulled from overuse.

"on the contrary," you said, voice soft but slicing clean as glass, "rome feels very much like the desert. beautiful from a distance. filled with things that bite when you walk too close."

her smile tightened, a flicker of irritation passing through her eyes. she stepped closer, the garden breeze catching the hem of her robe. "careful," she murmured. "the wind carries words here. even queens are not above the weight of a whisper."

you tilted your head slightly, studying her. poor thing. she thought herself as a queen.

"whispers–" you said, folding your hands neatly at your waist, " – do not dethrone those born to rule. they only gnaw at the feet of thrones, until they wear themselves to dust."

you watched the meaning sink into her—the slow, heavy realization that no matter how many nights she spent curled in the emperor’s bed, no matter how many secret smiles she stole, she would always be a shadow. a kept woman in a golden cage.

nothing more.

you inclined your head, gracious in a way that was somehow more cutting than any insult.

"good day," you said, voice like silk dipped in steel, then you turned, your sandals silent against the polished stone, leaving her standing alone among the rosemary, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

you walked away from the garden without looking back, the sting of lavender and crushed rosemary trailing behind you like the ghost of a battle you hadn't needed to draw blood to win. the stone corridor opened into a shaded courtyard, the breeze cooler here, the noise of the palace softened into distant murmurs.

and there, leaning casually against one of the marble columns, arms folded, watching with the faintest glint of amusement in his sharp eyes—

you hadn’t heard him approach. you hadn't seen him among the senators or the guards.

but he had seen you. he straightened slightly as you passed, falling into step beside you without being invited.

"that," he said under his breath, tone dry as the desert winds back home, "was brutal."

you glanced sideways at him, refusing to show the flicker of satisfaction warming your chest.

"i was polite," you said, prim as a temple maiden.

gideon’s mouth twitched.

"polite," he repeated, "if that was polite, i should pray never to see you lose your temper."

you said nothing.

“apologies, your highness, i am gideon. the praetorian prefect of emperor caleb.” his right hand.

you nod, introducing yourself and he gave a low chuckle—brief, rare—and for a moment, you realized something startling: maybe if you play your cards right, the right people will come to you.

he nods towards the front of you, and you follow quietly.

gideon led you through a quieter wing of the palace, the wide halls soft with filtered light where the scent of lemon oil and old stone clung to the air. the noise of the central courts faded behind you, replaced by the low murmur of fountains hidden somewhere beyond the walls. it was almost peaceful here—almost.

you walked a few steps apart, not quite companions yet, but not strangers either.

"it’s quieter here," he said after a long moment, his voice low, almost casual. "the senators don’t bother to climb the north wing unless there’s an audience to impress."

you glanced up at the high vaulted ceiling, frescoed with curling vines and myths you only half-recognized—gods chasing lovers across painted skies, heroes frozen in endless, reaching battles.

"it's beautiful," you said, softer than you meant.

gideon gave a small grunt— a thoughtful one at that.

"beautiful," he echoed. "annnd full of ghosts."

you looked over at him, curious despite yourself. he caught the glance and shrugged lightly, arms loose at his sides.

"this palace," he said, nodding toward the golden-lit walls, "was built on the backs of men who thought they would be remembered. most of them aren't. only the stones remember. only the stones ever last."

there was something in the way he said it—no bitterness. just the resigned wisdom of someone who had seen too much to bother with illusions.

you slowed your steps a little, letting the hush between you stretch comfortably. after a moment, you asked, "how long have you served him?" gideon glanced sideways at you, the corners of his mouth tilting up just slightly—more a twitch than a smile.

"since before he knew how to carry a sword properly," he said. "before he was emperor. before he was anything but a boy with fire in his eyes and too much weight on his back."

you let that sink in. there was no embellishment in his words. no polished court flattery. just simple, quiet loyalty etched into every syllable.

"he must trust you greatly," you said. gideon let out a low sound, somewhere between a breath and a laugh. "he doesn't trust easily," he said. "and he shouldn't. not here."

you turned your gaze back toward the mosaics as you walked, the images blurring softly at the edges of your vision.

"and do you trust him?" you asked, not expecting an answer, not really.

gideon was silent for a long moment.

then— "i trust him more than i trust this city," he said. "more than i trust the men who call themselves his friends."

you glanced at him again and he didn’t look at you. but there was something solid in his voice, something that settled in your chest like a stone dropped into a clear pool. trust wasn’t given lightly here. not by men like him and not to men like caleb.

you walked on together in the golden quiet, the first threads of an unlikely understanding weaving themselves between you—stronger than politics, quieter than loyalty.

something closer to respect.

you walked a few more steps in easy silence, the golden mosaics blurring past, the sounds of the city fading behind thick walls. it felt strangely like breathing freely for the first time since you arrived—no court games, no prying eyes. just the low hum of fountains and the quiet company of a man who owed you nothing, and yet did not seem to despise you for existing.

gideon slowed slightly, glancing toward a smaller archway where a column of ivy had begun to overtake the stone. the palace was ancient, after all. even marble bowed to time eventually.

"you should be careful," he said. you arched a brow, the edges of your veil catching the light.

"careful of what?" you asked. he gave a low grunt, folding his arms again loosely across his chest, gaze flickering over the courtyard as if taking its measure, and yours.

"the palace has teeth," he said "and some of them smile when they bite.." you considered him for a moment—the blunt honesty, the way he spoke not to frighten you, but to prepare you. he owed you no loyalty. not yet. and still…

you offered a small smile, the first genuine one you had worn since crossing the gates of rome. "i know how to deal with beasts." you said. gideon’s mouth twitched, that almost-smile ghosting back across his face, "good," he said. "but even wolves have to sleep sometime." he let the warning hang there a moment longer, then pushed lightly off the column, his armor creaking faintly.

"if you need a guide," he looked over his shoulder as he began to walk away, "find me. not all of us here are waiting to see you fall."

you watched him disappear down the corridor, the heavy hush closing around you again.

the last light of day bled across the marble floor of the curia, the senators’ shadows stretching long and thin against the columns as they murmured and bowed their way out. caleb sat still a moment longer after the hall emptied, the weight of the empire heavy across his shoulders, heavier than the gold stitched into his cloak. the business of governance was never clean; even victory tasted like ash when it was bartered over with words instead of swords.

he rose finally, the sound of his sandals sharp against the stone as he made his way back through the palace corridors, the halls quieter now, dipped in the thick velvet of approaching night. torchlight flickered low in the sconces, casting long ribbons of shadow across the walls. the guards posted along the path bowed but did not speak; they knew better.

his hand pressed to the heavy bronze door of his private quarters, pushing it open with a slow, familiar creak.

she was already there.

his mistress lounged across the low couch near the fire, clad in deep red silk, a cup of wine resting loosely in her hand. she didn’t rise at his entrance—only tilted her head to watch him, a small, knowing smile playing at her painted mouth. the firelight caught against the gold threaded into her hair, the rings heavy on her fingers, the faint scent of spiced oil clinging to the warm air.

waiting..expecting.

he closed the door behind him without a word, the tiredness sinking deeper into his bones with every step across the cool stone floor.

she swirled the wine lazily in her cup, the firelight catching the deep crimson liquid as she watched him shed the weight of his cloak, tossing it across the marble bench with a careless flick of his hand. he was massive, to say the least. like a sculpture from the gods. rippling pectorals, abs that could make mars jealous. he didn’t look at her. not yet. but that never stopped her from talking.

"your desert flower has thorns," she said lightly, voice threading through the room like smoke. "i met her today."

he said nothing, only unbuckled the straps of his armor with slow, methodical precision, the soft scrape of leather filling the heavy silence.

"very proud," she continued, smiling over the rim of her cup. "very sharp-tongued. you would think she already ruled this palace, the way she carries herself."

caleb set the breastplate aside with a soft thud, the muscles of his back rippling as he moved. still silent.

"pretty, i suppose," she added, voice dipping into something sweeter, stickier. "if you like a girl who glares at the world as if daring it to disappoint her."

he turned then, slow and deliberate, leveling her with a look that made the words wither on her tongue.

"i do," he said.

just two words, but they landed heavy between them, cracking the careful artifice she wore like a second skin. she shifted slightly on the couch, the smile tightening, the cup lowering.

"you can dress a merchant’s daughter in silk and jewels," she said, voice tilting harder now, "but it won't make her an empress."

he moved closer, each step measured, like he was deciding if he wanted to waste breath at all.

"she was born to rule long before she crossed my gates," caleb said quietly, the edge of command slipping back into his voice, colder than the marble underfoot. "nabira shaped her. blood shaped her. not rome. not me."

he stopped a few paces away, arms folding loosely across his chest, gaze cutting through the firelight.

"remember your place," he added, voice low, unflinching. "i will not hear another word against her."

for a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire, the distant murmur of rome breathing beyond the palace walls. she looked away first, fingers tightening slightly around the stem of the cup.

he didn’t smile— he didn’t gloat. he simply turned from her, dismissing the conversation as easily as a general dismissing a soldier unfit for the next battle.

the knock was barely more than a brush of knuckles against wood—soft enough you almost thought you imagined it. you were seated near the low table by the window, playing your fingers into your hair.

before you could answer, the door eased open.

caleb stepped inside, the torchlight catching across bare skin, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

he wore only his dark linen trousers, the fabric hanging low across the sharp lines of his hips, secured by a simple leather girdle. his feet were still sandaled, dust from the courtyard clinging faintly to the worn straps. the bronze glint of his signet ring caught the light as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, sealing the two of you into a silence too thick to be casual.

he was stripped of the crown, the cloak, the trappings of empire. no armor now. no laurel leaves. just a man built from war and sun and the slow brutality of expectation.

his skin was tanned gold from years spent under open skies, marred here and there by scars—some pale with age, others still red at the edges. across his chest, the muscles flexed easily with every breath he took, the remnants of long campaigns and harder victories written into the planes of his body. his personal favorite— the scar running down his abs. (kinda proud of this paragraph.. WOOF WOOF)

he didn’t speak at first.

he only looked at you, standing just inside the door, the firelight throwing long shadows across his jaw, his throat, the taut line of his abdomen. his hair was mussed, still damp from a rushed wash, the scent of cedar and smoke clinging faintly to him.

"am i interrupting?" he asked, voice low, rough at the edges like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

you shook your head before you could think better of it. then he crossed the room slowly. he stopped a few feet away, close enough that the heat of him brushed against your skin, prickling up your arms.

he stayed close, but not so close you felt cornered. he simply shifted his weight, sandals whispering against the cool stone as he settled his arms loosely at his sides, the last of the firelight gilding the sharp lines of his collarbone.

for a moment, neither of you spoke, then, almost tentatively, he broke the silence.

"tell me about nabira," he said, voice low, but earnest in a way that didn’t quite fit the armor he usually wore around himself. "i’ve read the reports. the scrolls. heard the merchants brag about your jewels, your caravans."

his gaze lifted, catching yours, and without missing a beat,"but i want to hear it from you." you blinked, startled not by the question, but by the softness of it. by the way he asked—not as an emperor gathering intelligence, but as a man reaching for something real.

you eased down onto the cushioned bench by the window, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders, grounding yourself against the rush of memory.

"nabira," you said slowly, as if tasting the word anew, "is a grand kingdom.."

he tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering across his face, "the desert gives nothing freely," you continued. "every orchard, every fountain, every drop of water….it’s fought for. coaxed from the bones of the earth with patience and prayer. we build with what will not break. we worship the sun because we have learned not to fear it."

you paused, fingers brushing lightly across the embroidery at your sleeve before continuing,"it is a hard place," you said softly, "but it is a beautiful one. the kind of beauty you have to bleed for."

he listened without interrupting, without looking away, as if each word you offered was something rare, something to be stored and guarded.

"i would like to see it," he said finally, voice roughened at the edges by something you couldn’t name. "someday." you smiled small, but real.

"nabira does not bend easily to outsiders," you said, "even emperors." he gave a low, genuine laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest, softening something sharp inside you.

"good," he murmured. "neither do you." the compliment hung between you, heavier than any jewel he could have draped across your throat.

you looked away first, not because you were afraid—but because you could feel yourself beginning to slip, beginning to soften under the weight of something far more dangerous than politics.

he lingered near the window now, resting one hand lightly on the carved frame, his body half-turned toward you. outside, the last colors of sunset had faded into deep blue, the first stars pricking the sky like cautious promises.

for a few heartbeats, he said nothing, only traced the line of a distant constellation with his eyes.

then, quieter: "what was it like… before all this?" you looked up from the slow knot you were twisting into the edge of your sleeve, caught slightly off guard by the question.

"before treaties. before politics. before you had to sit in rooms full of old men weighing your worth in silk and alliances."

you blinked, unsure for a moment what to even say. it felt like another life already.

but something in the way he asked—low, not demanding, not prying—made you answer.

"it was simpler," you said carefully. "i rode across the desert at sunrise. i learned the trade routes by the time i could walk without falling. my brother taught me how to haggle with caravans and how to spot a liar in a court full of gold-tongued men."

you let the smallest smile ghost across your mouth. "i wasn’t always tucked behind veils."

he watched you with an intensity that might have unnerved you if it came from anyone else. but with him, it just pressed heavier against your ribs, making your next breath slower to take.

he opened his mouth again, as if to ask something deeper. but you leaned forward slightly, tilting your head, your voice soft but sharp enough to cut silk.

"why do you want to know these things, caleb?" the way you said his name—without titles, without fanfare—made something flicker across his face. not anger. something closer to being caught off-guard. for a long moment, he said nothing.

then he pushed off the window frame and crossed to you, the space between you narrowing until you could smell the faint traces of cedar and smoke lingering on his skin.

he stopped just short of touching you. his voice was low when he answered, rough with something too raw to be polished into courtier’s words.

"because i need to know," he said. "not just who i’m marrying. but who stands beside me. who might one day stand against me."

you held his gaze, steady as a blade between ribs. you tilted your head just slightly, letting the dim firelight catch against the gold threads embroidered along your stola. you didn’t retreat from him. didn’t stiffen like a frightened court girl desperate to please.

instead, you smiled your face just barely colliding.

"so you wish to map me like a new province," you said, voice soft and amused, like you were indulging the curiosity of a child. "draw my rivers, measure my walls, learn where the ground turns soft beneath your boots."

he didn’t move. he only watched you, every muscle in his body wound tight beneath the surface, as if unsure whether to laugh—or to lunge.

you rose from the bench slowly, the silk of your stola sliding down your frame like water over stone, and stepped closer until you could feel the warmth of him bleeding into your skin.

your fingers lifted—not to touch him, but to hover just over the line of his jaw, tracing the air between you with a feather-light flirtation that never quite made contact.

"you would find me difficult to conquer, emperor," you murmured. "i do not yield to swords."

the ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the first true crack in that perfect imperial mask, "no," he said, voice low, roughened. "you wouldn’t." your smile deepened, sharp as the glint of a knife beneath a silk veil.

"and would it not be sweeter," you said, tilting your face up so that your breath stirred the space between you, "to have something that chose to stand beside you, rather than something beaten into submission?"

his breath hitched—so subtle most men would have missed it, but you saw, and for a moment, standing there between the dying fire and the cold pull of duty.

you let the space hum between you a moment longer, savoring the tension that coiled in the air like a drawn bow.

then, before he could answer, you dropped a graceful curtsy—a bow both elegant and mocking—and turned from him, a satisfaction placed on your facade as you walked out of the room.

when you were out of sight your eyes widen. staring at your palms you noticed how sweaty it was. you were gasped for air, as you swallowed hard. it took some gracious strength not to cave in front of him, but you sighed— thanking the gods for being able to survive that.

you beelined it outside.

the air outside was sharper, cooler. the courtyard stretched wide beneath the bruised sky, the last hues of twilight sinking into the marble. a low hum of voices floated up from the gates—noblemen, senators, dignitaries stepping down from their raedas, their servants scattering like flies to carry trunks and herald banners.

you lingered in the shadow of a colonnade, drawing a steadying breath, letting the hush of the evening slip against your skin.

and then—you saw him.

tall. robed in deep black that swallowed the light, the embroidery at the edges catching only the faintest glint of silver. a diadem rested low across his forehead, a thin, elegant circlet that gleamed like a sliver of moon. his hair was white, disheveled carelessness that no roman noble would dare wear in public. he moved through the gathered men like a blade slipping between.

your eyes caught his, just for a moment and you froze.

his gaze was a shock—red as coals banked under ash, gleaming with something sharp and knowing. he smirked when he saw you—amused— intrigued?

your heart gave a single hard beat against your ribs. you looked away first, heat prickling up the back of your neck, and turned, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders as you slipped back into the palace’s shadowed halls.

you did not glance back.

but you felt his gaze linger long after you disappeared.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers, @collarteraldamage, @wind-canoe, @unstablemiss, @zaynesdesimc, @r0ckb1n, @pirana10, @miuangel, @cherrywinetuscany, @yourhornysister,

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hellinistical · 21 days ago

Text

God! Xavier x Nymph!Reader PART TWO, PART ONE HERE

synopsis: You are a nymph of Artemis—wild, untouched, and bound to the hush of sacred woods. But peace is a fragile thing beneath the gaze of gods. The swan came first. White as bone. Then the dreams followed—a man with kind, blue eyes and a ring that will not come off. Now the moon grows colder. The swan is gone. But he is not

trigger warnings: obsessive tendencies, non-con, dubious consent, forced marriage, one sided enemies to lovers, pnv, oral (fem and male receiving) fingering, body worship, nipple play (fem receiving), stalking, character deaths, tit sucking, spit, nectar as lube, rimming, drugging, manipulation, gaslighting, xavier probably has a breeding kink what do i know, virgin reader, unprotected, marathons, headlock/choking, fighting ala lovers quarrels, bodily mutilation (not to reader), kidnapping. somno.

word count: 14.6k total: 30k special dedication: @ivohex, @ryoskuna a/n: it's actually bothering me so much that i only recently figured out the color thing and i keep telling myself that ill fix everything so it matches but its just too late for that jdsjfdf ANYWAYS this has been like...a month or more in the process? i really forgot cause of school but yeah! this is the third installment of the mythos and is very loosely based off the myth of daphne and apollo! collection! please enjoy!

The Temple of Artemis was carved into the side of a mountain, kissed by mist and draped in ancient ivy. Wildflowers burst from its marble seams, and at its heart, a colonnade of silver-veined stone rose toward the heavens. Every pillar was inscribed with the names of nymphs long passed—etched in graceful, sweeping script. The wind here carried secrets and the scent of myrrh, tangled with the musk of damp earth and olive leaves. No birds sang too near it, but wolves often sat in quiet vigil, eyes gleaming in the shadows.

Inside, the light was softer—filtered through high, rounded windows. The ceiling was domed, painted with constellations. Bowstrings and quivers lined the altar like relics of war. It was holy, but not gentle. Sacred in the way a knife is—sharp and unwavering.

And she—your lady—sat upon her seat of white stone, carved in the likeness of a running stag. Artemis. Beautiful. Unmoving. Untouched.

A younger nymph knelt behind her, weaving braids into her moonlight hair with practiced ease. Another rested by her side, plucking grapes from a golden dish and pressing them gently between the goddess's lips. They moved like water around her, reverent and silent.

Artemis opened her eyes, moon-pale and cool as river frost.

“So.” Her voice rang like a bell struck with tempered steel.

Artemis tilted her head slightly at your words, eyes narrowing with a grace that felt more like judgment than curiosity. Her hand lifted—not as a command but more like a signal to the nymph braiding her hair, who paused mid-weave.

“My lady,” you had said, and it came out too small. Too brittle.

A pause. Then Artemis leaned back, her posture elegant but firm, the edge of her throne catching the sunlight like a blade. Her lips curled—not in a smile, but something far more unreadable.

“I wonder,” she said slowly, “if you still call me that out of loyalty... or out of guilt.”

She gestured subtly, and the nymph with the grapes withdrew, as if sensing the sharp tension in the air. The silence after her words was cavernous.

“Well?” she asked. “Are you here to confess, or to lie?”

Your throat tightens. The scent of myrrh and burning cedar fills the air, cloying, ancient—watchful. You dare not look at her, not when the temple’s columns seem to lean in closer, not when even the doves have gone still in the rafters.

“My Lady,” you murmur, staring at the marble floor as if it might part and swallow you whole, “I only seek to repent.”

A pause. Then a scoff—small, sharp.

“Repentance,” Artemis echoes, her voice low, but not soft. “How convenient, now that you’ve tasted ambrosia laced with sunfire. Tell me—” her voice rises, barely — “would you still be on your knees if you had enjoyed it a little more?”

“I swear on my honor it did not go to those lengths.”

Artemis rose slowly, the younger nymphs beside her scattering like leaves on the wind. She descended the steps of her dais with the grace of a predator, bare feet silent on the polished stone.

“Your honor,” she repeated, stopping just in front of you.

You could feel her presence like a pressure in your chest—immense, divine, unyielding.

“I have seen nymphs burned for less. Changed for less. What makes you think your honor weighs more than theirs?” Her voice was not cruel, but it was cold—chilled with centuries of betrayal, of wayward girls turned myths and trees.

“I believe you,” she said finally, though her tone left no warmth to cling to. “But belief does not cleanse what’s been touched. Nor does it undo what has been marked.”

Her gaze dropped for just a moment—to your hand, where the ring, however faintly, still shimmered with divine heat.

Your blood ran cold, and your breath caught.

“My Lady-” “I am not your Lady.”

The words struck deeper than any wound Xavier could ever deal. Not your Lady. You had fought for her, wept for her, bled under her moonlight—and yet now, all of it crumbled like ash in the wind.

Your knees nearly gave out beneath you. “But... I swore myself to you,” you whispered, voice raw. “I belonged to you.”

Artemis’s jaw tightened, her eyes reflecting the cold, silver light of her dominion

You shook your head, eyes stinging. “I didn’t mean—he tricked me, it was—”

“Willing or not, you let the sun slip past the trees. You let him brand what was mine.”

Silence fell like snow.

Then softer, quieter: “And I cannot trust what is not wholly mine.” Her eyes did not waver.

Behind her, the younger nymphs stood tense, still, unmoving as statues.

You could feel the judgment not just from Artemis—but from the wild itself.

If Xavier was a god who was always told no, then his sister, Lady- no, just Artemis- was a goddess who had never been told so.

That contrast slices clean—sharp and bitter.

If Xavier was the god who had tasted denial, who grew obsessed with yes because it was withheld… then Artemis was the goddess whose will was law, never challenged, never questioned. She didn’t ask for obedience. She embodied it. Her word was truth. Her silence, condemnation. Her love, possession.

Where Xavier came craving affection warped by longing, Artemis offered belonging forged in severity.

“My Lady!” Phaedra speaks- her voice echoes through the temple.

Artemis rose.

The air changed when she stood—thicker, sharper, as if the world itself bowed under the weight of her divinity. The shadows clung tighter to the temple columns. Even the birds outside seemed to quiet. Her silver gaze cut through Phaedra like the tip of a blade.

“You forget your place,” she said.

Phaedra stiffened. But she did not speak.

“You are not her shield,” Artemis continued, tone icy, clear. “You are not her equal.” She looks at you. “You are not mine.”

That last word came with a thunderous finality.

The goddess turned her attention fully to Phaedra, stepping forward, her robes whispering across the marble floor like drawn silk over skin. “You speak as if you understand loyalty. But tell me—do you think your sisterhood outweighs my will?”

“My Lady—”

“No,” Artemis said sharply, and the single syllable held the weight of storms. “You are a nymph. A creature half-formed. Too close to immortality for mortals, too close to mortality for gods. You forget what that makes you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Disposable.”

The words rang out like an arrow loosed into a still heart.

She turned to you now. “And you,” she said. “You think repentance is enough? You think sorrow absolves the fact that he touched you? That you let him?”

The silence in the room thickened, heavy with judgment.

“You were mine,” she said again, quieter now, but not gentler. “I chose you from the riverbanks and the wild groves. I gave you purpose. And this is how you repay me? With moon-eyed dreams and weakness?”

You couldn’t speak. Not yet.

Artemis exhaled, sharp as winter. “You want pity. But I am not your mother. I am not your friend. I am goddess.”

She turned away. “And if I must remind every nymph in my service what that means, so be it.”

Before anyone could move—

A searing pain bloomed at your finger.

It was sudden, brutal—like molten metal had kissed your skin. You gasped, the sound ragged, stumbling back as your hand shot to your chest, clutching the burning spot beneath your gown.

The ring.

The ring was glowing beneath the fabric, branding your skin with heat so intense your knees buckled. You collapsed onto them with a choked cry.

Phaedra rushed forward—only to be held back by a single lifted hand from Artemis.

The goddess didn’t turn.

“You see?” she said coldly, still facing away. “You bind yourself to gods and wonder why you suffer.”

Your breath came in broken fragments. The pain didn’t stop. The ring pulsed with each beat of your frantic heart, a rhythm that wasn’t yours. It was his. It had always been his.

The gold burned brighter now, as if in defiance.

“Remove it,” Artemis ordered. “Now.”

But your fingers trembled around it. The band was too tight. Too hot. Too fused.

“It won’t—” you choked, voice breaking. “It won’t come off!”

Artemis turned then, slowly, her expression thunderous.

“Then I will cut it off,” she said.

Phaedra stepped in front of you first, her arms spread wide. “Don’t—”

Thea followed without hesitation, her brow furrowed in fierce defiance. “She’s one of us!”

But Artemis was already moving—blade drawn in a blur of silver light.

The world split in a flash.

A sickening thwick.

A scream.

But the pain was not yours.

Blood spattered across your dress—warm, immediate, real.

Thea crumpled to her knees beside you, clutching her hand as it burned- searing with the light of the moon, her breath ragged as blood dripped from the place where her ring finger had once been.

You stared in horror. Your ears rang.

She had taken Thea’s.

The goddess stood still, the blade still humming with divine power, her face unreadable.

The weight of her command crashed down like thunder.

"I said, move."

Her voice held no room for defiance, only decree. And when Phaedra didn’t obey fast enough, Artemis kicked her aside—unceremoniously, cruelly—sending the nymph sprawling with a sharp gasp. Thea whimpered behind her, still clutching her maimed hand, eyes wide with betrayal and pain.

And Artemis strode toward you.

You didn’t think.

You ran.

You turned on instinct, barefoot on stone, stumbling over roots and branches, gown snagging in the underbrush. Behind you, her footsteps—light as air, relentless—followed like a predator through the trees. Like moonlight itself chasing a shadow.

“Y/N!” Phaedra’s voice, distant. “Run! Just run!”

Your lungs burned. Your legs screamed.

And somewhere, somewhere, you could’ve sworn you heard a quiet laugh carried on the breeze, warm as sunlight and laced with gold.

Your breath comes in ragged bursts, sharp and shallow like broken glass sliding down your throat. Your feet pound the earth with a weight that feels like lead, each step a searing brand on your soles, fire licking up your calves. The forest blurs around you—twisting branches, sharp roots threatening to trip you—but you push forward, heart hammering like a war drum, muscles screaming in rebellion.

Behind you, the goddess’s footsteps are a stark contrast: deliberate, almost effortless. Artemis moves with the serene grace of a predator who knows no fatigue, her strides long and unhurried, matching your frantic path without breaking a sweat. The very air seems to bend to her will, cool and still where your heat burns bright.

She’s not chasing—you know that. She’s waiting. Waiting for your strength to falter, for the fire in your legs to turn to ash. The thought stings sharper than any blade.

How could she be so cruel? The thought crashes through your mind like thunder, sharp and unforgiving. She was supposed to protect you — to shield you from harm, not become the storm itself.

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, hot and bitter, threatening to spill over as your feet slam into the dirt with desperate force. The ache in your chest tightens, a fierce, raw ache that matches the burning in your legs and the pounding in your heart. Every breath you draw feels like a battle against the weight of betrayal. Truly, this whole experience had been an ordeal far beyond your strength—an unraveling too vast for you to contain. Each moment had chipped away at the very foundation of who you were, leaving you raw and exposed. You had been thrust into a world of gods and fury, where trust shattered like brittle glass and protection turned to pain. The weight of it all settled heavy in your bones, heavier than the pounding of your feet against the earth.

You duck under a low-hanging branch, breath ragged, heart pounding louder than the thrum of your racing feet. Your boot slips in the mud, a brief, heart-stopping slide — and then a sharp thwack splits the air. An arrow pierces the branch you just slipped beneath, shaking the leaves with the force it landed.

It missed you by a hair’s breadth.

The open field stretches before you, the moonlight casting long shadows across the grass, silver and ghostly. Your breath comes in sharp bursts, legs burning from the run, but the laughter — soft, cruel, and empty — follows you, echoing through the night air.

It’s not amusement you hear. It’s something darker, unhinged. A twisted melody laced with menace.

Artemis’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade, cold and sharp. “I will have the both of your heads, dear brother.” She scoffs, almost like the idea of mercy had once been laughable—once. The ground feels too soft beneath your feet now, as if it too wants to surrender you.

Hands wrap around your waist, and despite your struggling, the arms around you are unyielding—too warm, too steady, too calm in the chaos. Hands drag across your waist, anchor at your knees, and suddenly, the earth is no longer beneath you.

You scream, a raw sound, and thrash wildly—elbows flying, knees kicking, teeth bared.

“Put me down!” you snarl, panicked.

But he doesn’t. The grip only tightens, firm like iron wrapped in sun-warmed silk.

“Easy, dove,” Xavier murmurs into your ear, voice far too composed for the moment. “You’re not dying for her tonight.”

And this—this moment—being cradled like some helpless thing in the arms of the god you’d once cursed, fleeing from the goddess you once called your protector, it all but solidifies it.

Your place is no longer among Artemis’s huntresses.

Not after her blade swung for your throat. Not after she struck down one of your sisters. Not after Xavier, golden and uninvited, became the only hand to reach for you.

Even as you hate it. Even as it burns. Even as you still love her.

Something had struck your leg—hard—a rock, a root, a thrown blade, you don't know. You only know it hurts, sharp and deep and cruel. The pain ricochets through your entire body.

You scream through your teeth, biting down hard into Xavier’s shoulder, the taste of salt and sunlight filling your mouth—an impossible flavor, searing and bright. It burns—not from his skin, but from within you, as if your soul had bitten something forbidden. His blood isn’t mortal. It’s heat and starlight. It singes the inside of your mouth. He hisses through his teeth as your bite sinks deep into his shoulder, and beneath your lips.

You sob, not from shame, not from fear, but from the overwhelming grief. Something had been ripped from you—Artemis, your sisters, your faith. You had never chosen Xavier, but now the Hunt no longer claimed you either. You don’t let go.

Not when your leg is searing. Not when your heart feels torn down the center. Not when your soul screams with a grief you don’t understand.

Because something has been ripped from you. Your place. Your sisterhood. Your Lady.

Xavier doesn’t fight you off. He lets you bite, his breath ragged, voice quiet and rough. “Better to scream,” he murmurs. “Better than silence.”

The world spins. Adrenaline floods your veins. And you realize… you’re crying.

Tears fall hot and angry, scalding your cheeks like wax. There are too many thoughts. Too many feelings.

Loss. Fury. Shame. Mourning.

You had once belonged to the moon.

And now, the sun held you.

And yet, the world goes dark.

As if the sun itself blinked shut. As if Xavier’s grasp could not hold back the crushing tide of exhaustion, or the ache that clung to your very soul. The pain fades—not because it leaves, but because your body begins to shut it out. Your limbs go heavy. Your breath slows. Your grip on his shoulder loosens, teeth slipping away from burned skin slick with blood.

You fall.

Not from his arms, but into something deeper.

Into nothingness.

The last thing you hear is his voice, soft like dusk, threaded with something unreadable.

“Rest now. I’ll keep the night away.”

But you do not believe him.

Not really.

You were born beneath the hush of twilight, when the moon first pierced the canopy of trees and kissed the forest floor in silver.

The petals of your bloom were still soft around your ankles, slick with dew and trembling with newness. The world was impossibly large, impossibly loud—and yet, the hush of it too, the reverence of wind weaving through the leaves, calmed the thunder in your little chest.

Zephyrus, gentle and ever-curious, circled you like a breath of laughter, warm as midsummer. He did not speak, but the way the grasses bent in waves and the way your petals dried told you he had touched you. Chosen you. The west wind had seen you first.

Above, Artemis’s moon glowed proud and pale, casting your reflection into the pool beneath you—your hair like damp moss, your eyes wide and brimming with a light too old for your body. You did not yet have a name. Only longing.

Around you, the forest pulsed with magic. Owls blinked from their branches. Hares stilled in soft underbrush. The wild knew you. You were one of them now.

And when the Lady of the Moon stepped from the shadows, barefoot and radiant, silver bow slung across her shoulder, you knew what worship felt like. She did not smile, not exactly, but she touched your cheek with fingers carved of starlight, and said,

"Another sister to run with the wind."

Your petals fell away, and you rose into the world, unsteady but not alone.

Your gaze lifted, trembling, to meet hers. Moonlight crowned her brow like a halo, and yet her eyes—oh, her eyes—were not cold like stars. They were ancient and aching, as if she had seen a thousand blooming nymphs and would see a thousand more with the same serene sorrow.

Your lips parted, not knowing what to say, what to call her. The forest seemed to hush further, waiting with bated breath.

She stepped closer, her silhouette draped in mist, silver embroidery dancing along her tunic like tiny constellations. One hand reached out—bare, warm, real—and cupped your cheek, tilting your face up.

"I am Artemis," she said softly, voice low and clear, like riverwater over stone. Her smile was gentle, but it did not ask.*

"And you answer to me."

The vow rooted in your bones like an old tree suddenly remembering how to grow. The petals at your feet withered into earth. Somewhere, an owl cried your name for the first time.

And so it was.

When you wake, it's to stillness.

No crackling fire. No singing. No pain gnawing through your skin like rot. No blistering heat licking at the edges of your nerves. The absence of it all is almost more startling than the presence ever was.

You breathe in.

The scent is sweet—wildflowers and sun-warmed grass, faint whiffs of thyme and crushed lavender. Your fingers curl slightly into the bedding beneath you, and only then do you realize what you're lying on: wool. Rams wool. Not coarse, sheared scraps, but impossibly soft, cleaned and combed until it feels like cloud against your bare skin. Like something from myth.

Your limbs don’t scream in protest as they should. No aches. No bruises. No stinging reminders of the arrow or the blade. Only the strange weightlessness of rest. Of being healed… or changed.

You sit up slowly, instinctively covering your chest with one hand—only to find a silken cloth already draped across you, fastened with care.

There’s a light breeze, barely disturbing the veil over the arched window to your left. Through it, sunlight filters in golden and gentle—less like the punishing heat of Xavier’s presence, and more like a memory of summer. You realize then, uneasily, that you’re not in a tent. Not in the woods. Not even anywhere you recognize.

This couldn’t possibly be Elysium.

You weren’t dead. At least, not in the way that counted. You were sure of that—no river Lethe had touched your lips, no ferryman had asked for coin, and your body didn’t hum with the hollow, perfect stillness that haunted the blessed dead. You felt too much.

Still, your surroundings were too pristine. Too untouched. You weren’t used to comfort like this—not without some sort of cost.

Your gaze sweeps downward on instinct, cataloging yourself.

And then it halts. A breath catches. A double take.

The ring is gone.

Your hand flinches as if it’s been burned. The bare finger aches, phantom-like, the skin pale where the gold once bit into you. You turn your hand over and over, searching—was it a trick? Had someone pried it off while you slept? Or—

No.

It’s not there. Truly gone.

The weight that you hadn’t even realized had settled in your chest begins to shift—too heavy to be called relief, but too strange to be despair.

A soft knock at the door echoes through the quiet room—a measured, deliberate sound that carries a false kindness beneath its tone.

"Are you well, little huntress?" The voice is smooth, practiced, a velvet thread laced with something sharp underneath.

Your heart quickens. Every muscle tenses as the weight of the question settles in the air.

You steel your nerves, voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

“What happened to the ring?”

Xavier’s lips curl into a slow, small smile. “I took it off.” He says it like it should answer everything — like that simple act unravels all your questions, your fears, your pain.

The door creaks open softly, and there he is: utterly beautiful, every inch the god — golden hair that catches the light, eyes like molten blue fire, a smile both tempting and cruel.

You hate it. Hate him.

He keeps his distance. “I haven’t touched you, if that’s what you’re wondering.” he looks soft, even as he closes the door behind him, standing before you. “I’ve healed your wounds. You…you won’t have to worry about my sister.”

You narrow your eyes at him, arms wrapped around yourself beneath the wool. “And why would I believe you?”

Xavier exhales through his nose — a soft sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “Because I could’ve done anything while you slept. And yet... here you are. Whole.” He gestures vaguely toward you, his hands open, unthreatening. “I kept my distance.”

He stays near the door, as promised, bathed in the pale morning light. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are alert — watching for a flinch, a breath, anything from you.

“You won’t have to worry about my sister,” he repeats, slower this time. “She’s been... persuaded to turn her gaze elsewhere.”

Your stomach knots at that, and your voice comes quieter. “Persuaded how?”

His lips twitch, and for a moment you see the sun beneath the skin.

Xavier’s smile sharpens, not with joy but with something darker—vindication, maybe. Pride. A flicker of something ancient and vengeful beneath his golden skin.

“She has no choice but to look elsewhere,” he says, the words like silk draped over stone. “She hasn’t much of a face to look with.”

The air stills. You feel it in your gut—that awful truth beneath his calm tone. He had done something. Something irreversible. You think of Artemis, proud and cruel, but still your goddess once. Her hand raised against you, yes—but her hand had also cradled you once, called you hers. Had he—

“What did you do?” The words spill from you like venom.

He tilts his head, eyes unreadable. “I warned her. I asked. I offered peace.” A shrug. “She refused.”

Xavier’s expression doesn't change. He says it like he's commenting on the weather.

“And her face?”

He meets your gaze, unblinking. “It’s gone.”

A terrible silence settles between you, thick as honey and twice as suffocating. There’s no triumph in his voice. No remorse, either. Just a cruel, quiet fact.

Your breath catches. You almost ask how, but part of you already knows.

You stare at him, the words rattling in your skull.

Heat.

You swallow. “You… melted it off.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Xavier’s gaze lifts to the high windows, where sunlight slants in — too warm, too golden, like it knows what it’s done.

"It'll grow back," he murmurs, almost to himself. "She won’t die."

As if that makes it any better. As if peeling the face off a goddess is just a scratch. Just something that grows back.

You blink at him, numb. “And what if she comes for me again?”

Xavier's expression softens, but not with pity — something older, more possessive. “She won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Because this time, I took something from her too. And gods are petty things — she won’t risk what’s left of her pride chasing you.”

A beat.

“She already lost you.”

Your chest twists at that. Not just at his words, but at the quiet truth you’d known all along — that leaving Artemis had never really been a choice. That you’d been slipping from her long before the ring.

There’s a rustle, quiet but undeniable — the sound of shifting weight, a breath held between action and restraint.

Then the bed dips.

You don’t have to look. You already know it’s him.

Xavier slips in beside you, the heat of his body a sunlit pressure against your back. Not touching — not yet — but present, like an orbit pulled too close.

Your breath stutters. "I’m only here to keep you warm," he says softly.

You swallow hard, staring at the ceiling, at the softness of the ramswool covers that swaddle you like a lie. “You said you wouldn’t touch me.” “I’m not.” “But you’re here.” He exhales a quiet breath. “Where else would I be?” A pause. "Anywhere but here," you whisper. But the words fall flat between you — because you’re not sure you believe them either.

His back presses gently against your chest, like he’s always belonged there — like your shape was carved around his presence before you ever realized it.

“I can’t do that… you know that,” Xavier murmurs, the words curling at the shell of your ear, warm and honey-slow. A god’s whisper. Heavy with intention.

Your breath stalls. You hate how your body won’t move. Not out of pain. Not out of injury. But out of something else — something twisted between memory and magic. Between guilt and longing. A spell? Or worse — a truth. “You could try,” you manage to say, though your voice is hollow, brittle at the edges. “You could just try to stay away.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, without turning, he speaks again — velvet laced with steel:

“I did. And you kept dreaming of me.”

You flinch — whether in anger, shame, or something more fragile, you don’t know.

“You said no,” he continues, gently. “And I listened. I backed away. But you... you let me in every night.”

His hand finds yours beneath the covers, and he brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against them. The kiss lingers, almost reverent, like he’s trying to claim something delicate — your consent, your trust — without breaking you. You can feel the quiet weight behind the gesture, the patience and the promise tangled up in it. But still, your body trembles with the tension between wanting to pull away and not being able to.

"Allow me to undo that which woes you, huntress."

The words slither into the quiet space between you like incense smoke, intoxicating and deliberate. He speaks not with urgency, but with conviction—like someone who believes his touch could mend something deeper than skin.

But it’s a dangerous kind of tenderness. The kind that forgets the line between healing and control. Your fingers, still trapped in his, twitch. You don’t pull away—but you don’t grip back either. “You can’t,” you whisper, throat tight. “You are what woes me.” His grip does not tighten, but it lingers—steady, warm, and unwanted. At your words, his lashes lower briefly, eyes shadowed like the briefest eclipse.

“We both know,” he says softly, “that is not all.”

His lips are warm—too warm—against your shoulder, and the ghost of the kiss spreads like heat in your spine. A mimicry of comfort. A manipulation shaped like mercy.

"Let me aid you, then."

The words settle in your ear like silk-laced venom. He's not offering freedom. He's offering surrender, dressed in golden kindness. The splinter in your chest throbs, a quiet reminder that he’s buried deeper than you meant him to be.

You inhale sharply but say nothing.

Because what could you say? That part of you had leaned toward him—not in love, not even in desire—but in exhaustion. In the craving for something to hold onto when your goddess turned her blade and your sisters screamed.

And now? Now you're just so tired. His lips travel—slow, deliberate. A kiss here…a kiss there. Featherlight, reverent. Almost apologetic.

Up.Up.Up—to your jaw.

His breath ghosts along your skin, and your body hums with tension, dread, something unspoken that simmers beneath your ribs. His fingers curl under your chin, tilting your head up with unbearable gentleness—so gentle it almost feels cruel.

He treats you like glass. Like something sacred. Like something that won’t shatter from this.

You aren’t sure if you’ll cry or scream or lean in.

"Beloved... my love... oh sweet nymph, let me adore you."

Each word is punctuated by a kiss—between your collarbones, the base of your throat, the line of your jaw. Xavier speaks like he’s in a trance, as if worshipping you might burn the sin from his soul. His mouth is warm, so terribly warm, and every syllable he murmurs coats you like syrup: sticky, golden, hard to wash away.

And still, you do not move.

You cannot move.

He presses another kiss just beneath your ear. "You’re trembling."

You are.

Your mind screams—at him, at yourself, at the gods who let this happen. Yet the moment still hangs, suspended, dripping in heat and honeyed devotion. You can smell the sun on him. You can feel the madness beneath his breath.

You remember Artemis’s blade. You remember her rage. You remember your own name.

Your voice comes quiet, but firm: “You mistake obsession for love.”

“It is you who is confused. Not I,” he says, now perched on his knees, towering just above. His eyes gleam, catching every glint of light, as if the sun itself bowed to him. A hand cradles your cheek—not rough, but not tender either. Measured. Possessive. A gesture rehearsed a thousand times in his mind.

His thumb brushes just beneath your eye, a mockery of affection. “You think I don’t know the difference? I know what love is. I choose you. Every day. Even when you fight me.”

His voice is calm, but the madness leaks through the cracks. You see it in the way his jaw clenches ever so slightly. In the way he looks through you, like the idea of you has overtaken the reality.

“You mistake my restraint for confusion,” he adds, quietly. “And still I am gentle.”

Your breath hitches, not from his words—but because you’re still here. Still under his touch. Still waiting.

The bed creaks faintly under the shift of his weight.

"You like the ramswool?" he murmurs, tone far too casual for what hangs in the air between you. His fingers trail down the blankets with a reverence that makes your skin crawl. "It's from one of your hunts."

Your stomach twists.

"Do you remember?" he continues, eyes never leaving yours. "That day the creature charged and you didn't flinch. Not even once. I was watching." He smiles faintly, as if that should be comforting. "I thought—that one, that nymph does not run."

His hand moves again, fingertips ghosting over the blanket. "So I kept it. A token. You should feel honored. Not everyone is wrapped in their own legend."

"You’re turning my victories into trophies for you," you say, barely above a whisper.

He tilts his head, as if curious. “I only wish to surround you with what you’ve already conquered.”

A pause. Then quieter, like he’s slipping something venomous in with honey:

“Isn’t that what your goddess did?”

You look up at him.

At how beautiful Xavier was.

At how sickeningly right he was.

Artemis did showcase your kills, your captures, your triumphs—as though they were hers. Every pelt hung in her temple, every claw and fang mounted like divine offerings. You remembered the way she’d stand before visitors, proudly gesturing toward the spoils of your labor as her silent, perfect huntresses stood behind her like ornaments. Like proof.

And hadn’t you felt proud too? Back then?

Didn’t you smile when she praised you? When she pressed a kiss to your forehead and called you mine?

Your throat tightens.

Xavier is still watching you. Quiet. Careful. Almost... patient. As if he knows he's pried something open.

“You said you wanted to repent,” he murmurs, voice like warm light on skin. “But what if the sin was not yours?”

Your breath hitches. He leans closer, brushing his knuckles along your jaw.

“She used you,” he says softly. “I simply see you.” You don’t answer him. Not with words.

Your eyes flick to his—those same ocean-and-flame irises that have haunted you through fever dreams and stolen moments between blinks—and for the first time, you don’t flinch.

That is all the permission he needs.

Xavier smiles, slow and knowing, as if he’s already seen this moment a hundred times in a hundred dreams. He doesn’t touch you, not right away. Instead, he leans back on his hands, giving you the illusion of space. A courtesy, a trick. “You feel it too,” he says softly, tilting his head. “Don’t you? The silence that followed her blade. The freedom.”

You exhale. It’s shaky.

Your mind, ever-tangled in a web of loyalty, pride, and guilt, claws for purchase. Artemis would say this is betrayal. Phaedra would cry. But Artemis struck you. And Phaedra… she bled for you. And Xavier? He simply watches you. Never punishes. Never demands.

No, not in the way Artemis did.

“You know she saw you as a weapon,” he murmurs, gently, folding his legs beneath him as if he’s settling into a story. “Her favorite spear. Polished. Sharp. Hurled when needed.”

You almost speak. You almost tell him to stop. But he’s not done.

“She never saw your soul,” Xavier continues, his voice low and smooth like honey over wine. “She saw the kills you brought. The obedience. Not the ache in your chest when the moon set. Not the dreams that shook you.”

He leans in just slightly.

“I saw those.”

That cracks something in you. A fissure, hairline and quiet, but there.

“She saved me,” you whisper, unsure if you mean it anymore.

“She saved what was useful,” he replies, no venom in his tone. Just brutal honesty.

His fingers glide down the back of your calf, featherlight, reverent. You twitch at the touch—more from tension than desire—and he notices. He always notices.

Xavier lifts your leg slowly, cradling it like something sacred. He presses a kiss just below your knee, warm breath brushing your skin. It makes you shiver.

“You still don’t believe me,” he says softly, his lips barely parting from your skin. “Even after everything she’s done to you. After she marked you as disposable.”

You say nothing.

Because a part of you does believe him. And that part is loudest when he’s close—when he speaks like this, calm and coaxing, no fire or fury, just truth you don’t want to admit.

He smooths a hand along your shin. “Let me unmake that part of you she built. Let me make something softer. Something real.”

And gods help you, you hesitate.

Not because you trust him. But because for the first time in weeks, someone is treating you like you’re more than a tool. Even if it’s a lie. Even if it’s a cage made of silk.

He reaches into his robes, pulling out something.

You blink, and there it is—gleaming gold and honey-thick, resting in the curve of his fingers. The scent is divine, too rich for the air around it. Ambrosia. The food of the gods. Your stomach aches, cramping in sudden reminder: you haven’t eaten in… you don’t even know how long.

Xavier’s voice is gentle, coaxing. “You’ll feel better. I promise.”

You eye him warily. But the ache in your belly, the fatigue that’s etched itself into your bones, and the warmth of his presence all begin to blur the edges of your resistance. The ambrosia glistens like sunlight caught in syrup.

“You didn’t even realize how starved you were,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your lower lip. “Not just of food. Of kindness. Of care. Of being seen.”

You lean forward without thinking, lips brushing the offered ambrosia. The taste is everything—sweet and strange, soft and eternal, like consuming pure light. Your head swims, your breath catches. For a moment, you forget the ring. The hunt. Artemis. Everything.

Just for a moment.

He watches you with something like triumph, something like tenderness.

“That’s it,” Xavier whispers. “There you are, little huntress.”

It lingers on your tongue—golden, sweet, intoxicating. The ambrosia seeps into your being like a bloom of warmth in winter frost, curling into the hollow spaces of your chest, the ones that grief and doubt had carved out. You can feel it in your marrow now: a low, thrumming pulse that says this is what it is to be seen, to be wanted.

But along with it—regret. Guilt. Your hands tremble as your lips part, the taste still there, eternal.

Why did you take a bite?

You knew. You’d been warned. Mortal mouths aren’t meant to taste divine food. Not unless they wanted to belong—forever. Not unless they wanted to surrender something that could never be returned.

Xavier is watching you, and there’s no smugness in his face—only softness, a worshipful hunger in his eyes.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” he murmurs. “The first time always does. Your heart aches because it’s opening. Because you’re waking up.”

You want to shove him away. You want to cry out. But your limbs are heavy, your chest hot with confusion and shame. You look down at your trembling hands and they don’t feel like yours anymore. They feel like they could belong to something else—something more.

Or less.

“You’ve tasted truth,” he says. “And that truth is this: no goddess, no sisterhood, no forest hymn ever gave you what I just did.”

He leans in. Not touching. Just watching. Your body still hums with the ambrosia, heart drumming so loud it fills your ears. And yet—your voice doesn't rise. Your lips don't move. You want to scream at him. You want to claw your way out of this velvet-lined snare. But the silence has weight. It traps you as effectively as chains.

He sees it. The hesitation. The conflict. The curiosity.

He touches the corner of your lips. "You already let me in." You feel it deep, sickly deep—like something has nested in you. Like you've been marked.

And then— He kisses you.

Not with hunger, but with reverence. As if sealing something ancient. As if your lips were an altar and he the desperate, desperate worshiper.

Your mind flares—hot and cold. A thousand warnings ricochet in your skull. But your body, drugged with ambrosia, confused with need and nausea, does not flinch.

The kiss deepens—not demanding, but knowing. As though he's done this before in a dream. As though this moment was owed to him. His hand remains at your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye. It almost feels…kind.

And that’s what frightens you most. Not the kiss. Not his power. But the ease of it. The way your body doesn’t recoil fast enough. The way your mind flickers between disgust and something perilously close to longing.

He pulls away first.

And smiles. "As I thought," he says, voice low, victorious. “Even Artemis could never teach you how to lie.”

A golden strand of his hair falls forward. His skin glows faintly in the low light. He looks like the sun itself. And you realize—he never needed to chase you. He just needed to wait. Until you were too tired. Too alone. Until the world stripped everything else away.

“Rest now, little nymph,” he murmurs. “The night is still long. And I am so very patient.”

Xavier watches as your eyes flutter shut, lashes kissing your cheeks, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, your body slackens—truly slackens—into rest. Not resistance. Not defiance. Not pleading or praying.

Just quiet.

And it’s that quiet that makes his smile bloom.

Not a grin. Not a smirk. But a slow, creeping, contented smile that seems to radiate from his very bones. The kind that could warm cities—or scorch them to ash.

He reaches out—almost reverently—and brushes a strand of hair from your brow, fingers impossibly light. As if you were spun from smoke. “Finally,” he breathes. “No more running. No more teeth. Just…peace.”

He watches a little longer. Watches the way your chest rises and falls beneath the wool. The same wool spun from your own kill. A trophy he’d reclaimed, reshaped, and now wrapped around you like a promise.

Or a cage.

And still, you sleep.

Golden light pools in his palm as he closes his eyes, not quite praying—but remembering. Recalling all the nights you denied him. All the looks that were too sharp. All the tremors in your voice that still did not beg.

He leans in slowly—so slowly—like the sun slipping over the horizon, inevitable and impossibly tender.

His lips press against your cheek, warm and soft, as though kissing a thing he both reveres and owns. His breath lingers, brushing your skin like a benediction.

Then his hand moves, silent as moonlight, settling over your chest. Right above your heart.

He listens.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

It is not a panicked rhythm anymore. Not thunderous from fleeing. Not trembling with fear.

Just steady. Just alive.

He lowers his head, resting it against that same spot, ear pressed against your ribs like a pilgrim at a sacred altar. His eyes close.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

“Still fighting, even in sleep,” he whispers, as if your heart’s beat were a rebellion he couldn’t bear to crush—yet. “Do you know what a miracle you are, little huntress? That you’ve survived this long? That you’ve held your ground against gods?”

A pause. A beat. A breath.

“But even miracles must rest eventually.”

His hand slides slightly, fingers splayed across your sternum like a seal. Like he could trap the beat beneath it, command it to slow, to match his own rhythm. To beat for him.

The sounds of clothes rustle. The silk slips from your shoulder like a sigh. The wool—once a comfort, once a shroud—is drawn away, peeled back with slow reverence. It pools around your hips, forgotten. Vulnerability glows off your skin like dew kissed by light. Still, you do not wake.

Xavier moves quietly, the way only gods can. Careful, practiced, certain.

Your left hand lies open, relaxed against the mattress—unguarded. He takes it, cradling it in both of his own, as if it were fragile glass, or sacred relic.

Then, from somewhere within the folds of his robes, he withdraws it.

A ring.

Real, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Golden—pure and bright as the morning sun. Set in its center, a sapphire, so blue it nearly hurts to look at. The exact hue of the sky when it is clearest and cruelest, stretching forever, unyielding.

But the gem is caged. Threads of golden filigree curl up around it—delicate, intricate—trapping the sky in a cradle of divine metal.

Like you.

Without a sound, he slides it onto your ring finger.

It fits.

It shouldn’t, but it does—like it’s always belonged there. Like he made you for it.

He exhales slowly, watching the way your fingers twitch once beneath the weight. He doesn’t stop.

Instead, he presses a kiss to the base of your knuckles—soft and solemn, like a vow—and then places your hand gently back against your chest. Over your heart.

Where it rests.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

The ring catches the rising sun, and for a moment, you shine like a bride.

“Mine,” Xavier whispers against your temple. “Now and forever.”

His hand traces along your exposed breasts, nipples soft and in need. He traces down between, following his hand with his lips, kisses here, kisses there.

You're so peaceful when you sleep, he thinks.

Like a dream.

A dream that invites him so, so eagerly.

Leaning in, he opens his mouth, breath fanning over one of your breasts, the nipple perking up.

How cute.

He kisses it. Kisses it tenderly before his lips wrap around it, tongue wrapping around the peak. Gods, were you always this soft? This supple? He didn’t know. Didn’t care to ask, not when he suckled so tenderly, not when he felt his own body thrum with need.

What was a nymph to a god anyways?

No, no, he can’t think like that. You were his wife now- it was indisputable.

One hand holds your waist, the other to your free breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and index. Your lips part, but still you remain asleep. Letting go, a loud pop sounds, wet with purpose as a string of spit connects your nipple to his tongue.

So naturally, he gives the same attention to the other one.

“You have ruined me, do you know that? Ruined me, and selfishly, denied me. Even when I went to such lengths….I am not a violent god. And yet…and yet you made me hurt those people. Hurt my sister.” Xavier’s tone is but a whisper. “You sleep, and when you sleep you take. Tell me, what more do you want from me, nymph?”

He sits up, moving your legs to sit between them, kissing your knees. The dress was bunched around your waist, exposing you to all of him. The sweet smell of the ambrosia that embraced your lips now catered to your entire body.

When your wetness grows, he can’t help the chuckle. “You..you really can’t help yourself, oh sweetness, let me…”

A hand grabbed at the fat of your thighs, and a cheeky laugh left him. It’s followed by a kiss.

He shifts to lay down, groaning as his growing erection pains him, his hands holding your thighs apart as he looks at it. The epitome of sweetness.

“Oh sweet nymph..”

He presses a kiss to your folds, his tongue following with a swipe. Xavier groans, eyes closed as if to press the memory of your taste into his tongue. His nose bumps your clit, and your thighs twitch in your sleep.

Pulling your thighs to further close around his head, he can’t help but let out a breathless moan, your scent overtaking and encompassing him.

“I adore you, oh sweet nymph, how I adore you.”

As if it could hear you, your body grows hot at his words. He kisses your clit before wrapping his lips around it, his hands coming around your waist and to your ass to grab at you. One hand brings two fingers to your folds, spreading them open before oh-so-gently pushing them in.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He starts to move them in and out, in and out, the wet squelches from your cunt a welcoming song. Your walls are tight around his fingers, and the hand on your ass holds you down as he feasts upon your core. Tongue flat and going up, he licks your growing arousal like a kitten thirsty.

Xavier scissors his fingers inside you, stretching your gummy walls. Oh how he thought of this many times. How he wanted to just eat you whole so no one else would ever even think to relish in the thought of you.

A whine leaves your lips. But you don’t wake up.

And by the sky above, he could never be satisfied. Not now, not when he’s tasted something far better than the now-humble nectar of the gods.

You keep moving, he keeps holding you down, restraining you as he eats you, and then- metallic.

The god’s eyes nearly rolled back at the thought.

Of course. Of course you were a virgin.

And of course, he lapped it up, too.

Your body tremors, and skies above your walls don’t let go of his fingers.

“There it is. Give it to me, nymph.”

Your body shakes. The orgasm blows through you, and soon enough, you’ve bloomed, his fingers coated in your arousal.

Xavier’s cheeks are rosy. Rosy as he leads your sleeping form through the orgasm. Rosy as he removes his fingers, only to taste them. And rosy as his tongue, pink as a bunny’s, licks them clean.

He takes a deep breath, covering your body.

“Forgive me, beloved, for I have touched you.”

When you wake, it’s to the weight of heat and the suffocating cling of sweat. Your skin sticks to the sheets, to yourself—clammy, flushed, wrong. The air is heavy with something sweet, something too sweet. Like ripened fruit just before it spoils.

And then there’s him.

Xavier.

His arms are wrapped tightly around your waist, his golden head pressed against your stomach, rising and falling with each unsteady breath you take. He’s humming—low, melodic. A tune that sounds ancient and familiar all at once, like the kind of song the sun itself might sing if it had a voice.

Rays of light spill through the open window and hit his skin just right. Of course they do. They kiss the slope of his shoulders, glide over his back like worshipers. The gold of his hair glows almost white in the light, and for one jarring moment, you understand why mortals carved halos.

He looks like something holy.

But all you can feel is the ring—heavy, suffocating on your finger.

You don't remember falling asleep like this. You don't remember letting him stay.

And yet, here he is.

"Morning, little huntress," he murmurs against your skin, the sound reverberating into your core. "Did you sleep well?"

You lick your lips, but it barely helps—the dryness clings, your tongue thick like ash in your mouth. “I… I feel hot.” The words rasp from your throat, small and raw. You shift, sitting up with sluggish limbs, peeling back the blanket in search of air.

The sheets slip down, the ramswool falling away like silk caught in the breeze. Your skin prickles with the sudden exposure—still damp, still burning from something unseen. From him.

Xavier hums behind you, unbothered, like the heat is a lullaby he’s written just for you. “Of course you do,” he says gently, his voice almost amused.

You don’t need to look to know he’s smiling.

He rises with lazy grace, like he’s been waiting centuries for this moment and has grown too languid to rush it now. His body moves like golden smoke as he pads over to a cabinet—one that wasn’t there before. Not yesterday. Not in any room you remember.

He opens it and pulls out a bottle. The glass glows faintly, like it’s been filled with the heart of a dying star. Liquid the color of molten gold sloshes inside.

You squint. Wine? Liquor?

“I don’t drin—”

“It’s nectar.” His voice cuts you off like a silk-wrapped dagger. He turns, cradling the bottle as if it’s sacred. “You’ll like it. Mortals always do.” His smile is slow and awful, reverent even.

The sunlight around him pulses, and for a moment, you could swear the air itself leans toward him, drawn to his heat.

“You’ve already tasted divinity,” he adds, uncorking the bottle. “What’s one more drop?”

You avert your gaze quickly, heat rising to your cheeks—not from desire, but shame, confusion, the betrayal of your own body. His robe slips slightly at the chest, exposing the fine line of his collarbone, sun-kissed and too perfect. You hate that you noticed. You hate how sore your legs are.

The ache is real. Subtle, but present. Like something lived in your muscles overnight.

You shift uncomfortably, wincing, and that’s when you see it: a glass of golden liquid already in Xavier’s hand, extended to you with the patience of a saint.

His eyes are soft. Or they pretend to be. What do you know?

“I’ve not touched you,” he says again, like reciting a sacred oath. “You were exhausted. You rested.” A pause. “And I—waited.”

But your body aches.

Your mouth is dry. And he smiles that smile.

You take the glass, its stem delicate between your fingers. You look at Xavier—at his maddeningly soft smile, as if he’s proud of you for this small surrender. You say a quiet, fractured prayer under your breath—Lady Artemis, if you still see me…—then bring the rim to your lips.

Xavier’s smile widens just a touch—not smug, not overly pleased, but something subtler, deeper. A quiet satisfaction, the kind only a god could wear. As if all the stars in the sky aligned exactly as he expected them to.

The nectar touches your tongue.

It is sweet—not just honeyed, but layered. It tastes of sun-warmed peaches, of dew on wildflowers at dawn, of the sharp tang of pomegranate seeds crushed between your teeth. It’s heat and balm, fire and silk. It doesn’t coat your mouth—it melts through it, threading its way through your body like golden thread through frayed cloth.

Your vision blurs for half a breath.

Your heartbeat slows, then quickens. Your mouth parts slightly in surprise as your entire body exhales. You feel yourself loosening—unfurling. A dreamlike calm settles over you, warm and heavy. The ache dulls. The soreness...fades. Replaced by an almost unbearable comfort. Like silk wrapping around each muscle, cradling you.

From across the room, Xavier watches you.

You’re not sure if it’s the nectar or something else, but your body sags back into the bed. Warm. Drowsy.

Safe.

Or so it feels.

And Xavier?

He sits beside you, careful, watching. His hand hovers over your wrist—just barely not touching. His smile stays soft.

You’ve accepted the gift. And now, he believes, you will accept him.

"How do you feel?" he murmurs, quiet as dawn breaking over the hills.

His hand cups your cheek with a reverence that borders on worship. His thumb brushes the apple of it, slow, careful. It’s warm—too warm—but your skin leans into the touch before your mind even registers what’s happening.

You blink once. Then again. The room blurs at the edges.

Your pupils dilate, swallowing the color from your irises. But you don’t know. You don’t notice. You’re too busy trying to track the golden halo the sun paints along his collarbone, the faint shimmer of divinity clinging to him like dust.

“Soft,” you breathe, barely aware you’ve spoken at all.

Xavier's smile deepens.

“I hoped you would say that.” His voice is velvet, wrapping around your spine and pressing into your ribs. “It suits you. This peace.”

His thumb stills on your cheek. Your lips part, but no sound comes.

Because how do you feel?

Weightless. Like the field from your childhood dreams. Like all the thorns have fallen away. Like your bones aren’t yours anymore—they belong to something ancient and pulsing and warm. Like—

You find yourself holding his hand, not entirely sure when you reached for it—but now it’s yours, warm and steady in your grasp. As if your body moved before your mind could catch up, you lift it gently and press your lips to the back of it.

Your eyes flutter closed.

It’s a kiss that’s barely there, soft as a breeze over petals. Not bold, not desperate—just tender. Quiet. Like something sacred.

When you look up at him again, there’s a warmth in your chest that rises to your cheeks. A heat not from the sun but from within. Your heart stumbles, because when you meet his eyes—gods, you could almost believe he is the sun. The way his golden skin glows, the way his gaze holds you like gravity, the way your world seems to orbit around him without your permission.

You don’t mean to lean into his palm again, but you do. It feels like safety. Like a home you forgot you longed for.

Xavier’s expression softens into something utterly radiant. His thumb strokes your cheekbone with such care, such reverence, as though you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever held.

“You look at me,” he whispers, voice low and full of wonder, “as if I were worth worship. And I…” His breath catches, “I’d burn the sky for you if it meant you’d look at me like that again.”

"What do you mean?" Your voice is hushed, barely more than a breath, but it cuts the silence between you.

Xavier sits beside you, his movements smooth, unhurried. He takes the glass from your hand and fills it again with that glowing nectar—rich and golden as molten honey. The scent alone is dizzying. He offers it to you wordlessly, and without quite thinking, you take another sip. It's sweeter this time, thicker. A dribble of it escapes your lips. He reaches forward without thinking, thumb catching the trickle of nectar before it can fall further, the touch warm—too warm—and lingering just a second longer than necessary. He doesn't break eye contact.

He sits beside you now, close enough that your knees touch, and slowly refills your glass yet again. The nectar glows faintly in the morning light—thick, golden, sweet. As you sip it, the warmth in your stomach coils upward into your chest, fogging your thoughts with a calm, dizzying bliss. Your head feels lighter. The world feels slower. Him—closer.

“You were made for more than servitude in a goddess’s shadow,” he continues, gently cupping your chin to tilt your face toward his. His touch never loses its softness, but his gaze? His gaze is unwavering. Almost too much to bear.

“She would have let you die,” he murmurs. “But I saved you. I healed you. I’ve given you comfort, haven’t I?”

He leans in. Just a breath away.

“So tell me, little huntress… why do you still look like you're afraid of falling?”

His smile is slow—dangerous in how tender it looks.

"Pretty," you whisper again, quieter this time. Almost like a thought slipping past your lips without permission. Your fingers brush his, uncertain and warm, as your gaze flickers down to his mouth, then back up to those impossibly blue eyes.

"Yeah?" he echoes, barely louder than breath. His nose bumps yours again, a nudge like he’s tasting the moment. “You think so?”

You nod, sluggishly. Dazed. The nectar in your blood has dulled the alarm bells in your head, wrapped your thoughts in silk. Everything feels soft. Golden. Him.

“Then don’t look away,” he says. “I want you to see how much I adore you.”

He leans in further, lips brushing your cheek—then your temple—almost reverent in the way he worships you with each whispering kiss. One hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking along your cheekbone.

"You’ve always been lovely,” he murmurs, as if it's a truth older than the stars. “But like this... flushed, soft, warm in my bed, with my mark on your hand—gods, you're radiant.”

You breathe in, shaky and slow, heart a trapped thing behind your ribs.

And still, the thought lingers like a shadow at the edge of your fogged mind: how did I get here? But it floats away, untethered.

His thumb lingers at your lip, pressing just slightly, just enough to part them. He watches the way your breath catches, the way your eyes flutter half-shut. As if you were waiting.

Then he leans in—slow, deliberate—and presses a kiss to your cheek. Warm. Possessive. Down the slope of your jaw, his lips trail like soft fire, heat coiling beneath your skin with every ghosting touch. When he finally reaches your lips, he pauses.

There’s a heartbeat between you.

He’s close enough to taste your breath. “You’re so quiet now,” he murmurs. “Does that mean yes?”

He doesn’t wait for the answer.

The kiss is gentle. Not rushed. Not bruising. Just his—like he’s reminding you that you’re here, with him, in this bed, with his ring on your hand and his warmth all around you.

And when he pulls back just slightly, his lips barely brushing yours, his gaze lingers.

“Say it again,” he whispers. “Call me pretty.”

"Pretty..." you murmur again, barely audible. It slips from your lips like a prayer, like an admission, foolish and soft and too full of warmth. You don’t even realize you’re leaning in until your nose brushes his again, until your lips are chasing his in a dazed, desperate little tilt of your head.

Xavier catches the movement, and oh, his smile is sweet. Sweet like honey laced with something dangerous.

He meets your kiss halfway this time, indulging your need with a hum of satisfaction, his hand coming to cradle the back of your head. It’s deeper now—not urgent, but sure. He knows you want it, and worse, he knows you don’t know why.

When he parts from you again, he doesn’t go far. Forehead resting against yours, he looks at you. “That’s my girl,” he whispers, catching your mouth again in another kiss. This one is firmer, deeper, like he’s savoring you.

And gods, you let him.

You melt into it, into him, your fingers curling around the hand still cupping your cheek. The world narrows to the point of his touch, the heat of his mouth, the dizzying taste of nectar still lingering on your tongue.

Everything else fades—duty, fear, Artemis, the pain of running, even your name.

There is only Xavier.

He’s consuming. He presses forward, and your back meets the bed, the soft wool beneath you cradling your weight. His kiss deepens, a pressure that pulls at your very thoughts. Your head swims—not just from the nectar still humming through your veins, but from him, the unbearable presence of him. His lips taste like honey and heat, like something older than the world.

His fingers ghost along your side, over your ribs, as though memorizing the lines of your body. When he finally pulls back, just a fraction, your breath chases his. Your lips are parted, your pulse stuttering in your throat.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs, as if that meant something. “Like you were made for my light.”

You blink slowly, caught somewhere between dream and waking. “I’m not yours,” you say. You think you say it. But your voice is too soft to be sure.

His hand cups your cheek again, and you hate how your face leans into it. How your body, traitorous thing, doesn’t pull away. The ring on your finger is heavier than gold should be.

He takes his robe off with the same deliberate grace he does everything—as if time itself bends to watch him move.

But you— You cover your eyes.

Whether it's modesty, fear, or shame, you're not sure. Maybe it’s all of it. The heat creeps up your neck, stinging the tips of your ears. You feel like a child again, like a nymph newly called into moonlight, unready for the way gods look when they shed their divine skins.

There’s a pause. A beat.

“No need to hide,” Xavier says softly, but it doesn’t sound like kindness. It sounds like certainty—like inevitability.

You keep your hands over your face.

And still, you feel the bed dip under his weight, the sun-warm air around him kissing your skin. He doesn’t touch you yet—only waits, watching.

The silence stretches, heavy and breathless.

“Look at me,” he says finally, quieter this time. Not a command. A prayer.

He takes your hands gently, as if you were spun from starlight and might shatter if handled too roughly.

But he is rough, in the way the sun is—inescapable.

His thumbs glide over your knuckles before he lifts one wrist, then the other, to his mouth. The kisses he places there are unbearably soft. Reverent. As if this were a worship ritual and you were the altar.

Your skin betrays you.

Goosebumps rise in a ripple over your arms, trailing down your chest and legs. You shiver even though the room is warm—no, because the room is warm, thick with golden air and that impossible scent of citrus and embers that always clings to him.

He looks up at you through his lashes, lips brushing your pulse point again. Your heart stammers against his mouth.

“Mine.”

"Xavier, s’too hot... my head feel funny," you slur, breath shallow, pulse fluttering under your skin.

He hums softly, like he's trying to soothe you. "Shh... it’s just the nectar. A touch too much, maybe," he murmurs, brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead. His voice is like velvet soaked in sunlight. "I should’ve diluted it. Mortal bodies aren't made to hold divine pleasure. Not yet."

Your eyes flutter shut for a moment—your skin prickling where his fingers glide. He kisses your pulse point gently again, reverent, almost worshipful. Your heart stammers beneath his mouth.

"You burn so bright already," he whispers. "No wonder the sun itself wants to keep you." “Really?” you murmur, dazed, lips parted as your gaze seeks his.

"Of course, dove," he coos, the endearment slipping off his tongue like honey. His fingers trail down your arm, feather-light, and you feel your skin hum beneath the touch.

He pulls you into him, your body pliant as he settles you on his lap like you belonged nowhere else.

“See this ring?” he whispers, lifting your left hand, displaying the golden band kissed with sapphire. It glints in the light, beautiful—like everything he touches.

“You’re my wife. My queen.”

Your breath catches. “Oh…” It escapes you more as a sigh than a word. Your eyes flicker to the ring, then to his face, so close. Too close. You should feel alarmed.

But instead—

You melt. Against his chest. Against his words. Against the warmth pooling in your chest that shouldn’t be there but is. He presses a kiss to your temple, going down to your jaw. Trailing his heated kisses across and down your shoulder. Tilting your face to face him, he bites your cheek. Moving to her neck, he bites down again- harder, leaving a mark, his tongue swiping over it to soothe the pain. His breath hitches when his hands run over the contours of your curves, mapping out your body. Could hear the hitch of your breath as his fingers danced over the swell of your breasts. His hands cupped the soft mounds, thumbs circling the sensitive nipples to life. They stiffen under his touch, and Xavier relished in the way that they fit perfectly in his palms, as if they were made for him and him alone. His lips grazed the shell of your ear.

“Nothing in Excess.”

Your vision swims as your back hits the bed, and his larger frame looms over you. Hooking your legs over his broad shoulders, the new position leaves you at his mercy. Hands encasing your wrists, Xavier held them above your head, blue eyes boring into your gaze.

His voice trembles like the heat haze rising from stone—almost reverent, almost resentful.

“Do you know,” he whispers, the breath of it tickling your skin, “how long I’ve watched you? How it pained me to witness your shortcomings?”

There’s no mockery in his tone. Just something worse—devotion laced with disappointment. You feel the weight of it settle over your chest, thick as oil, slow as tar. Not quite condemnation, not quite love.

He draws back just enough to meet your gaze. “You were always meant for more. And yet you clung to lesser things. Scraps. Obedience. Hollow praise from a goddess who only saw your light when it suited her vanity.”

Why does he keep saying that? Why does he keep insisting that I am in need of help? Why does everyone keep saying this is my fault?

The thought is fleeting, though.

“They can’t have you- they can’t even begin to know you…and I…i will have 100- no, a thousand laurel trees in your honor alone. Spare me from your indifference, nymph. Please. Spare me from that which burrows hatred into your veins. Drink the nectar and make do with who I am, not who I was.”

His eyes search your face, and his hand rested on the flare of your hips.

“Tell me you’ll never leave me.” he whispered.

And who were you to answer?

Grabbing the opened bottle of nectar, he poured some down your bare body, down your chest, watching it trickle liquid gold through your skin. Xavier watched, enraptured, as your skin glistened. It was breathtaking, surreal, like a painting come to life. You felt glazed over, hazy and unfocused, barely grasping at the senses you still had. Hands itching to touch, he leaned down, his tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop of nectar that had settled in the hollow of your collarbone. The taste exploded on his tongue, sweet and intoxicating. Ands sliding up your sides, his fingers splayed over your ribs.

“Beautiful,” "Beautiful," Xavier murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble. "You're so beautiful, Y/n.”

He punctuated his words with kisses, each press of his mouth against your skin a testament to his yearning.

He could see you- all of you, breath getting caught in his throat as he took in the sight of you laid out, body on full display. Eyes raked over every inch of your skin, now glistening, before settling between your thighs. The evidence of your arousal was unmistakable, folds slick, inviting him in.

Xavier leaned in closer, face mere inches from your most intimate place. Gods. He could smell your arousal, a heady, honeyed scent that made his head spin and his cock throb. Slowly, teasingly, he brought his thumb to your folds, brushing it against them with the lightest of touches.

You gasp, hips jerking up off the bed at the contact. Watching as you instinctively tried to close your thighs around his wrist, seeking more friction, Xavier smiled softly; he could feel the heat radiating off your core, could sense the desperation in your movements.

“Shh…lemme take care of you, sweet.” Xavier murmured, his voice a soothing rumble. His thumb pressed more firmly against your clit, circling the sensitive nub with a steady, relentless pressure. He could feel it swell beneath his touch, could hear the hitch in your breath.

Other hand sliding up your thigh, his long fingers danced over your hip, holding you in place when they splayed out.

“Look at you…so empty. You need me.”

He shrugs off the rest of his robe, revealing his his toned figure. The sunlight played over his chest and abdomen. But it was the sight of his heavy, thick cock in his hands. Long and hard, the thick shaft pulsing with each lazy stroke of his fist. Your gaze couldn’t leave him, too transfixed on the sight of him pleasuring himself.

Xavier’s hand moved slowly, almost languidly, as he stroked his length. His grip was firm, thumb brushing over the sensitive head with each upward motion. The sight of him touching himself, well, it was almost too much for you to bare.

“Like what you see?” Xavier murmured, almost a purr. The feeling of your eyes on him, lord. He moves a little closer, now straddling you, cock close to your lips. He stroked it a little faster now. Your chest heaved, lips parted in silent invitation.

“Truthfully, it wasn’t just the ram. I watched you for years. Do you know that? Not days. Years. Do you know what that kind of wanting does to a god? You were just a nymphling when I first saw you—barely more than dew on skin, laughing like the stars knew your name. I thought… I thought if I just watched, it would be enough. That it would pass." his words are spilling now, just as he’s pressing the leaking tup of his cock against your lips. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through him, a pleasure that had him exhaling. He could feel the sticky bead of pre-cum smearing across your lips.

Warm breath ghosting over his sensitive flesh, it was a plea for more.

“Open your mouth for me, pretty girl,” his voice was low, but a demand now. “Take my cock into your mouth, let me feel your tongue on my skin.” His hips pressed forward, the head of his cock slipping past your lips to rest on your tongue.

The god’s eyes fluttered shut at the sensation, a low groan tearing from his throat. The wet heat of your mouth was incredible, the way your tongue flattened against his flesh too much. He could feel himself leaking more, and you could taste the salty-sweet essence of his arousal on your tongue. He wrapped a hand in your hair, holding you steady.

“Fuck, your mouth feels so good,” Xavier gasped, his grip tightening in your hair. “Gonna fuck this face, hmm? Fill your throat up? Make you choke?” his lips were dry, voice raspy.

His pupils dilated at the way your throat constricted and worked, swallowing around him, how the muscles clenched and moved. A delicate sensation, it made his balls tighten and his cock throb with need.

He rocked forward slowly. “More- more, more- take more.” he urged. “Show me how much you want it, c’mon.” he pours some of the nectar on his shaft, letting out a guttural moan when your tongue laps at his shaft, the slick heat of your mouth and the cool nectar a stark contrast. Feeling the nectar ooze down his length, and the sight of your lips wrapped around his cock, tongue swirling around the tip…

“By the gods- just like that- mmnn- perfect, so perfect.” he adjusts himself, pulling himself from her mouth with a lewd pop, fixing you so that you can really fit all of him in your pretty little mouth. When your mouth returns to his tip, so does his hand to your hair. You add your hand to the base of his shaft, stroking it in time with each bob of your head.

And oh, how he lost it.

Fucking your face in earnest, hus hips snapped forward, cock plunging deep, deep, deep into your throatwit each thrust. Watching your throat bulge around his girth, hearing the obscene sounds of your slurping and sucking filling the room, his eyes damn near rolled back. Cock throbbing, he was close, so close. But hearing yuo whimper, seeing the tears flowing, he had the nerve to mock your cries.

“P-please, please- Xav- look at you, sweet thing,”

How mean.

But his breath comes in a shirt shart gasp when he feels his balls tighten, orgasm fast approaching. The telltale tingle in his spine, the coiling heat in his stomach, signaling the arrival.

Your fingers dig into his thighs, your own rubbing together for any sense of friction to ache your weeping cunt. “M’gonna- m’gonna cum sweet thing. You’re gonna take it, yeah? Take it down that pretty throat?”

And fuck, with the way that last thrust hit, he buried himself into your throat. It makes you gag, crying harder as you looked up at him through wet lashes. His cock jerked and spasmed, balls drawing up tight as he began to cum. Thick, hot ropes sprayed like pretty ribbons down your mouth, and the sun god threw his head back, shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over him, orgasm more intense than any previous experience.

He slumped forward, forehead resting onto yours after he withdrew his weeping, softening cock from your lips. A trickle of his cum dribbled past your lips. His heart raced at the sight: your lips swollen, your hair disheveled, chin glistening with spit, cum, and nectar. Bringing his fingers to your chin, he scooped up the remnants, pushing his coated fingers into your mouth.

"I wanted to rip you away from it all. Hide you. Worship you. I used to imagine what your voice would sound like in my temple. What your body would look like in my silks. I memorized the way you walked, the tilt of your head when you listened, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you thought no one was watching. I was watching. Always."

The sight of your lips wrapped around his fingers…and the way your eyes widened.

You pull away. Your lips feel dry, voice no louder than a breath. The bed feels like its moving beneath you, or maybe its your pulse thudding too loudly in your ears. "You... watched me? All that time...?" “Of course I did,”

His other hand gripping your hip, he flipped you onto your tummy in one swift, fluid motion, drinking in the sight of your ass. Globes a perfect handful, he reached out, squeezing a cheek firmly. And then…

Pushing your face into the pillows, he kissed down your spine before spreading your cheeks apart, pupils blown out when he looked at that tight, tight ring. You tensed, unsure, cold.

"Do you understand now, little huntress? I've wanted you beyond reason. You were made for me." "...for you...?" “Always.” "But... I didn’t... I never said yes..." A blink. You press your hand to your temple, suddenly dizzy. "I don’t... feel right." "That’s just the nectar, dove."

Xavier leans down, and spits, watching the saliva drip down to coat your fluttering hole. His tongue darted out, swiping over their hole in a long, firm lick. The taste of their skin, the faint tang of their arousal, exploded on his tongue and made him groan. "Relax, baby," he murmured, his thumb circling the tight ring of muscle. "Let me make you feel good." With that, he dipped his head lower, his tongue dragging over your hole in a long, slow lick. Xavier took his time, his tongue swirling and circling your entrance, teasing you, taunting you with the promise of more. He could feel you squirming beneath him, hips rocking back against his face, silently begging for more. But he took his time. After long moments of torturous bliss, Xavier pulled back, his thumb pressing firmly against your hole. He could feel it flutter and clench around the digit, trying to draw him in. With his other hand, he uncapped the bottle of nectar once again, pouring a generous amount over your ass, watching as the golden liquid trickled down the cleft of your cheeks to pool around your entrance.

The cool liquid made you gasp, body jerking in surprise at the sudden chill. But before you could protest, Xavier was on you again, tongue delving deep into your hole, lapping at the nectar and replacing it with the heat of his mouth.

‘Wait- no! Not- not there-” you bite down on the sheets, eyes squeezing tight as he devoured you, tongue plunging in and out, fucking your ass with a single minded intensity. Xavier pulls away to bite down at one chee, soothing the sting with a long, sensual lick. His hand reached around to your front, seeking out your dripping cunt, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, rough circles. You were so soaked.

“So wet, little nymph, so ready for me to fill you…and I will,”

He pushed two fingers inside them, feeling their walls clench around the intrusion. "Tell me how badly you need it, nymph. Beg for my cock like a good girl." His thumb pressed harder against their clit, rubbing in tight, fast circles designed to drive them wild. He could feel their hips rocking back against his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction, pumping his fingers faster, harder, his palm slapping against your clit with each thrust. "Gonna fuck this pussy so good, make you scream on my cock. Gonna fill this cunt up until you're dripping with my cum.”He could feel his own arousal growing, his cock throbbing and leaking against your ass. He needed to be inside them, needed to claim them, to make them his. "Tell me, sweet nymph," he demanded, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "Tell me how much you need my cock. His fingers curled inside you, rubbing against that special spot deep within, pushing you closer to the edge.

His mouth returns to your hole while he fingers you, puffy pussy welcoming each plunge of his fingers. The sopping squelch, squelch, squelch as you whine is just…

“G-gods!” The scream is torn from your lips, and when you try to crawl away, he drags you back with one hand, pulling you back to him, not allowing you to buck or move away from his ministrations, grip hard enough to leave bruises. You could feel every lap and swirl of Xavier's tongue, every press of his fingers deep inside you. It was almost too much, too intense, but still to your horror, your body wanted more. Xavier felt your body stiffen and then shudder violently as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your velvety walls clamped down hard around his fingers, rippling and fluttering as you came undone. A flood of your essence gushed out around his hand, mixing with the remnants of the nectar and dripping down your thighs.

Body trembling and shaking, you let out a high, keening cry, hips trying their damndest to buck and jerk, fingers scrambling to grab anything as his fingers slipped out of your pussy, coated in your slick.

“Hot- so hot, Xavier, gods,” your slurring, so exhausted. You can barely register the fact that he’s licking his fingers clean. “Empty, ‘m so empty,”

You didn't mean for him to hear that. And you’ve really done it now.

Well, no matter.

Not like you could form much of a coherent thought anyways.

Not when he wouldn’t let you.

Because what would Phaedra say? Or poor Thea, who your own lady- Who her own Lady attacked? Or any of your other sisters who bloomed and grew with you for the past millennia?

You felt drunk on pleasure, drunk on Xavier, drunk on the idea of finally being filled by his him. In your pillow princess stupor, you managed to gasp out a needy, "Please, Xavier…”

He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your ass as he pulled you back towards him. At the same time, he thrust his hips forward, driving his hard, thick cock deep into your dripping, needy cunt.

Groaning as he felt your slick, gummy walls enveloping his shaft, he paused for a moment, savoring the feeling of being buried to the hilt. Your back arched, feeling every inch bully into you, every ridge and vein rubbing against your walls, stretching you open, filling you.

“Gods- gods, gods, gods-” “Just me,”

He set a steady, deep rhythm, his cock plunging in and out of your tight channel. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your now wanton moans and Xavier's low, breathy groans. Heavy balls slapping against your sensitive clit with each powerful thrust, dribbles of pre and slick dripped onto the sheets, the head kissing your cervix with each snap of his hips, making you see stars. Just as you teetered on the brink of ecstasy, your walls start to flutter and clench around him, but a sudden shift in positions makes his shaft slip out, a string of juices come out. The abrupt emptiness makes you feel a loss, a desperate ache for something more, for the feeling of fullness you had only just grown accustomed to.

“N-no! Don’t pull out! Not yet!” You cover your mouth soon as you said the words, a panicked whimper in your voice. All these sensations- they were too new, too much!. You clench your thighs together, trying to keep his cock trapped inside your needy pussy.

“Please, I need you-” “Shh, dove, I know.” Xavier hummed, pulling you back onto his throbbing cock with a swift, hard thrust. He buried himself to the hilt in one smooth motion, stretching you open around his thick girth once more, pounding into you with renewed vigor. Xavier’s hips slapped against your ass, his hands holding you steady.

“There we go, there-we-go.” His cock throbbed and pulsed as he reached his peak, the thick shaft erupting and painting your inner walls with his hot, sticky seed. Your pussy clamped down like a vice around his throbbing cock, milking him for all he was worth as your own devastating orgasm crashed over you. Wailing, your body convulsed with the force of the shared climax.

As the waves of your intense climax began to subside, you found yourself overwhelmed by sensation. The feeling of Xavier's release painting your insides, the heat of his body pressed against your back, the scent of your coupling filling the air - it was all too much. Your overstimulated body cried out for a moment of respite, and instinctively, you began to crawl forward, trying to ease the intense sensations.

However, Xavier was not ready to let you go. Not yet. He tightened his grip around your waist, his strong arms pulling you back flush against his chest once more. "Stay," he murmured, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "Stay with me, sweet nymph. I'm not done holding you yet." His fingers splayed across your stomach, keeping you in place, preventing you from crawling away.

And somehow, someway…

The nectar no longer burned.

The taste of nectar still lingers—sweet, but cloying now. Your throat is dry, your tongue feels too big in your mouth, and your skin… your skin is fine.

You open your eyes slowly. Xavier is not in the bed, but the impression of him still warps the sheets beside you, like heat rising off sunlit stone. The ring on your finger gleams unnaturally. A perfect band. Too perfect. Your breath catches.

What did you agree to?

Your memories are fuzzy, like smoke in your lungs. Kisses. Whispers. The taste of ambrosia on your lips and his voice in your ear. You'd said yes—but you were starving. You'd said yes—but you - it doesn’t matter.

You sit up. Every joint aches as though you’ve been turned inside out. When you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the room spins. You grip the blanket—no, wool, from one of your own hunts. Yours. Displayed by Artemis. You clutch it tighter and your stomach turns.

Did he plan that? You don’t remember.

A pitcher of water sits on the low table. You crawl to it on trembling limbs and pour a shaky glass. You barely sip. You’re not sure what would come back up.

The door creaks. Light filters in—but it’s wrong. It's golden, but too still. There are no sounds. No birds. No wind.

When you walk, you don’t know how long you wander the chambers. The architecture shifts when you aren’t looking. Doors move. Halls lengthen. You hear whispers through the walls—your name. Always your name.

But not in Xavier’s voice.

You stop at a long mirror, unfamiliar and ancient. The reflection takes a moment too long to mimic you. And when it does—your reflection smiles.

You don’t.

The smile stretches wider.

Laurel trees surrounded you—but only on the other side.

Ever green, perfect, and most worryingly, in uniform.

Your heart lurches.

A voice, not Xavier’s, rasps from behind you, impossibly close, yet nowhere at all.

"𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓽𝓸𝓸𝓴 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓼."

You spin around—nothing. No one.

Just the mirror.

And your reflection…

…still smiling.

©hellinistical 2025 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission,

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accioscarheadthings · 11 months ago

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heyy, i love ur fics and love you so much 💗💗💗💗

can you give us a more of switch! kenji, begging for fem!reader's attention from the ultramine series?

i loved him in the series and wanna see more of him

thank you smm😩💖of courseee, i hope you enjoyy <33

Dirty Monologue

after the events of ultramine series

warning: smut 18+, use of petnames (baby, darling, sweetheart), switch!kenji, breast play, edging, cum eating, slight degradation

summary: post Giants afterparty, you and kenji take a cab home and kenji gets needy for you.

masterlist !

after a big party that was hosted by the baseball team, you and kenji clambered into the backseat of a taxi.

you were wearing a beautiful satin dress with a slit that opened at your thighs, while kenji was in formals, covered from head to toe in black.

you both were giggling and whispering to each other, but the driver was patient and didn't seem to mind the pair of you.

You snuggled closer to Kenji, resting your head on his shoulder as the city lights flickered past the windows.

while you were more quiet and introspective in your drunken state, satisfied with little touches, kenji was the complete opposite.

he was clingy and affectionate, his arm around your shoulders and his body pressed against yours. he nuzzled his face against your neck, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear and occasionally planting sloppy kisses on your cheek.

"you have no idea how much i want you,"

"patience, handsome," you chided, pressing a smooch to his nose, " y'know patience is a virtue,"

kenji scoffed, his face flushing from your tender kiss, "i don't care about virtues when it comes to you," his voice dropped an octave, eyes drooping and raven locks falling all over his forehead.

you brushed them back out of habit, hand caressing his flushed cheeks.

"want you. now. here. please," he mumbled, emphasising each word, leaning closer to your lips.

you met him in the middle, ghosting your open mouth over his as your ring clad fingers cupped his chin.

you pulled back without a word, smirking down at him.

kenji looked like he was splashed in the face with cold water. your teasing had hauled him out of his drunken state.

"prove it, then," you leaned on your seat, eyes fixed ahead on the road.

what you hadn't noticed was kenji's cocky smile spread his face.

you stiffened when you felt his breath on your neck one second; the other, his tongue tracing a drunken path to your ear.

"I want to touch you, to taste you, to make you moan my name,"

one of his hand settled on your bare knee, rubbing circles.

"I want to lose myself in you, to forget the world for a moment, and exist only in this moment, with you,"

kenji's mouth travelled down your collarbone, his hair tickling your skin. you squirmed in place.

"I know what you like," he simpered, sucking on your sweet spot again. "I have every inch of you memorized,"

his hand slid up your thigh through the slit of your dress, squeezing the flesh slightly as he placed kisses along your jawline, his scruff tickling the column of your throat.

you gasped, slapping your hand over his, "kenji,"

"shh, don't interrupt me," he caught your hand and brought them to his lips, kissing each knuckle with such care, "or i'll be forced to punish you," his other hand slipped behind your back, grabbing your ass possessively, "you know i don't have a problems about putting you over my knee and spanking you until you can't sit right for a week,"

"fuck," you whimpered, eyes dazed at it had nothing to do with the alcohol you had consumed.

"all the pretty little sounds that leave these lips," he thumb traced your lips, tugging your bottom one and watching your lips part.

by now your breathing was ragged and came out in gasps.

he withdrew his hands from you, causing you to shrink in your place.

desperate for more, but too prideful to ask for it.

and kenji knew it. that's why he enjoyed getting you all soft in his hands.

kenji pressed the button that closed the blind betwen the driver's seat and back seat, turning back to you with all his attention.

"now, back to my promise," he loomed over you, one hand caging you between the door and his body.

his other hand slipped betwen your thighs, fingers cold.

hissing at his touch, you clamped your legs around his fingers, our core clenching around nothing.

"ah-ah, none of that," he spread your legs lightly, enough for him to access, "want you all spread for me, baby,"

his fingers circled on your clothed cunt, tracing your puffy lips.

"I want to feel your skin against mine, your body against mine, to be so close to you that I don't know where I end and you begin."

you noticed his hard-on through his pants, and the awkward position he was sitting on.

without thinking, you touched him, cupping roughly.

kenji whined, face settling into the crook of your neck, "darling-"

"keep talking," you cooed into his ears softly, rubbing your palm against his groin.

two can play this game.

"mmph," his voice was muffled against your skin. his teeth caught the strap of your dress and he slipped it down your shoulder, revealing more skin to pay attention to.

kenji kissed all over your shoulder, groaning against your skin when you gripped his length.

"I want to take you to the edge," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, "And then bring you back, again and again, until you're breathless and trembling and unable to form a coherent thought,"

his finger rubbed against your sopping core, catching on your clit with the right pressure.

you hand fell from his crotch, caught off-guard by his actions.

kenji was back in control now.

he cupped one of your breasts, thumbing your nipple and feel it erect under his touch.

"I want to make you mine, to claim you and mark you so that you'll always remember this moment, and always know who you belong to,"

pushing your panties to the side, he pushed two fingers into your pussy.

kenji groaned at how wet your were, "so wet and ready," he shuddered against you, "s'taking everything in me to not fuck you against the window for everyone to see what a needy slut you are," he emphasised with a curl of his fingers.

you gasped aloud, goosebumps rose in your skin as a result of his words.

he felt you clenching around his fingers and added another, "taking me so well, my love," he rasped.

"mine. all mine," he traced his tongue up the column of your throat, licking your sweat, "mine to love, mine to worship,"

he squeezed your breast, palm slipping to your hip, thumb caressing your pudgy stomach.

"mine to fuck," he increased his pace, and when you moaned, he smushed his lips against yours, swallowing your whines.

he increased his pace, pumling his fingers in and out vigoursly. you gripped his hair, kissing him so hard you were sure your lipstick was smudged.

"k-ken," you panted, "m'close," you felt your orgasm build, rising steadily in you.

just before you could come, kenji pulled back.

he withdrew his hands without a words and brought them to his lips, locking eyes with you as he sucked them clean.

he settled into his seat beside you, adjusting his clothes and tugged at his pants to conceal his painfully hard-cock.

you lipstick was smeared all over his mouth, and he brandished them proudly, chin lifting with a grin.

he adjusted your dress and faced forward, leaving you all hot and bothered.

tit for tat

you stared at him in bafflement, eyes wide and blinking, "are you kidding me?"

"patience is a vitrue sweetheart," he parroted your words, "you taught me that,"

you deadpanned at him, "jerk," you turned away with a huff, watching the passing city through the window.

kenji pouted at you teasingly, wrapping his arms around you and pulled you on his lap, "just wait till we get home, my love," his mouth pressed to your ear, sending a shiver down your spine, "gonna ruin you tonight," he thumbed at the lipstick smudged on your mouth.

you turned and gripped his face, squishing his face. his glassy eyes, your lipstick across his mouth and cheeks, his chest rising and falling, his fluffy raven hair...

you could just eat him up.

"you better make it up to me for all the teasing, kenji sato," you spoke in a low voice, eyes demanding.

kenji captured your lips in a soft kiss, conveying his promises for the night, "yes ma'am,"

#ultraman rising #kenji sato x reader #ken sato x reader #ultraman rising x reader #kenji sato #ken sato #kenji sato x reader smut #accioscarheadthings

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darkdemeter · 7 months ago

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☾ phases collection issue #6 THE NEIGHBOUR IS A WEREWOLF!

⚤ Wanda Maximoff x GN/Male/Female Neighbour!Werewolf!Reader mature 18+ — depictions and general fic about two pining neighbours, cute fluffy stuff, some sexual innuendos and undertones, a little bit of sexual themes towards the end — I think that's it? ✎ 2.5k She is the sweetest little thing you could have live right over the fence. Like a... well, dog, you'd been intrigued by her from day one and you've noticed... she has too. Little does she know, her "cute dog in the next yard" is quite literally that. A werewolf.

✎ ———

↳ MASTERLIST | ↳ TAGLISTS ────────────────────────

What would Wanda Maximoff do without you as her neighbour?

“Come on!” Wanda scoffs aloud, huffing with a drastic drop of her shoulders. “Not now… not now, please?”

Her hands ring and strangle tightly around the circlet of her steering wheel. Face scrunched in her annoyance and ire, aware that she’s cutting it close to being late for work.

“There a problem, Wands?” She jumps in her seat with a short gasp, blinking away the blur of mad tears. Fuck, not now. Of all people, please not you.

Your hands rest to curl over the wound-down sill of her window, body hunched down from your taller height and only making the muscles beneath your white shirt bulge. The way they cut off in the rolled coils at your elbows, the slight give of the top’s hem hanging loose at your collarbone, causing a spread of heat to mask her cheeks.

“Y-yeah, uh…” she looks away and down at the radio for a moment. Mindlessly and to distract herself, she plays with the buttons. “My car just suddenly shit itself and I’m going to be late for work.”

Tongue poked into your cheek, you give the hood a once over look with a sharpened appraisal. Fuck, how she could stare into your eyes for hours without growing tired. Their the most beautiful shade, sometimes catching in the light and she swears she catches this honey, amber shine in them for a second.

“I can take you to work if you’d like,” you offer calmly with a shrug, “can fix her up for you while you're out at work.”

“O-oh, I—” Is she burning up? Wanda clears her throat, tempted to fan her face of its flush. “I’d appreciate it, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”

You shrug again, cheeks pulling back into a toothy grin. She swears that with a small squint of her eyes she can make out the very faint way that your canines are a little sharper than anyone she’s ever met. Animalistically so.

You’ve already pulled her door open and she quickly gathers her bag and gets out. Following alongside you, you lead her into your front yard and towards the open mouth of your garage. You pop open the passenger door of your car and she gets in, easing herself against the column seat of leather and doesn’t wait long until you get into the driver’s seat. It’s a very nice car, nothing too modern. A tan, light roof 1967 Chevrolet Impala with fine workings of white strips and restored wooden interiors. She can tell just how much love went into every detail.

“Alright, ready, sweetheart?” you tease with that sly grin and she nods, unable to trust in her words.

From day one you have been a top neighbour. Welcoming and friendly, when she began to move her boxes into her new house, you were there at the truck’s side asking if she needed a helping hand. Of course, she took note of the scrap of metal sitting in your driveway that screamed for help more than her, but something about that charm you have made her accept instead.

Eager, you began to haul in several boxes at a time, saving her at least an hour’s more work.

She could never forget such kindness. It was scary to move somewhere completely new, heavy with doubt that she’d make any close friends so soon. Yet there you were, like a dog in the yard wagging your tail and hopeful, puppy eyes as you introduced yourself.

From then on, you were always around in a way. Every morning when she’d make herself a cup of coffee and some breakfast, she’d see you out in your yard going about whatever it was you were doing that day. Touching up some of the broken pitches in the fence, weeding the hedges or— how she’d go bright red in seeing you in the farther corner of the backyard chopping logs of wood.

She would quickly duck out of sight behind the floral pattern of her curtains just as you walked past, huffing, sweaty and carrying a load of wood that would take two men combined to haul.

It was always a marvel and mystery of the things you could do, the small and sort of oddities she found. But it mattered little the moment she came home from work to find you half beneath the body of a car you were working on in your driveway, stereo turned up on full blast playing older music dated to the sixties at least. The way your stained jeans hug the muscle of your legs, knees spread to reveal the sturdy space of your lap and the junction between your legs.

She had to think quickly and be smart in order to not get caught ogling at you when you spring out on the wheeled bed, tool in hand and hands covered darkly in car grime. How you always speak to her with that rumbly timbre edged into the vocal range of your voice, it sends tingles down her spine and shooting into her core, leaving her with a dampened spot in her panties that she has to now deal with after she shuts her front door at her heel.

The things she would allow you to do with her if she just had the courage to ask. The things you would gladly do to her if she just gave you a chance. But there were other things that you’re better off keeping to yourself and those chores were often curated around a time when you knew she wasn’t home or when it was late and under the cover of night.

Those same tunes play quietly on the stereo ambience in the car. “You sure like this song,” she says with a short giggle. Humming and eyes flickering to hers for a second, your mouth spreads into a sheepish smile.

“Yeah, it’s a good song. I’ve always enjoyed it.” Your days are fueled by the drone of your old music playing in the background. It keeps you calmer in the more rather… intense moments.

“I like it.” Wanda now grins, toothy and bright and you can’t explain why, but it fills you with a sense of relief – maybe even pride - that Wanda has taken a liking. Ever since she moved in, this song has become more of a nail in the coffin for you, finally able to see her as at the edge of your own reality.

‘Thank you, Elvis.’

Your arm reaches down and shifts the gears and speed off down the road.

Just as you promised, you worked on Wanda’s car throughout the day. Tinkering away with the engine, ensuring that the oil was done and changed and wiping your hands over and over messily with the stained rag tucked into your belt.

“Fucking Hell, Wanda. You live next door to that? And you haven’t pounced on them yet?” Wanda feels her face grow hot, blushing with that sore pinkish colour as she attempts to hide in the high collar of her sweater.

Her co-worker remains guilty of staring at you — or at least the lower half of you laying from underneath the car — and Wanda scolds her for drooling all over her pants.

“I’m just saying, if you need a roommate—”

“Oh no,” Wanda quickly interjects, gathering her bag, “I will not become the proxy of a creepy, perv neighbour.”

“Wanda, please, I’m begging you! Just one night to sleep over. Huh, my car has curiously stopped working, do you think that they could uhm… see what the problem is?”

Wanda rolls her eyes with a loud sigh. “You’re so bad, and I mean that in a: ‘get home and have a cold shower’ way.”

Her co-worker shakes her head, her lips sinking inward. “Uh uh. I’m using my vibrator all night long for this one.”

Wanda’s nose scrunches but she fails to conceal her laughter. “Ew!”

She gets out of the car and begins to walk up the pavement of her driveway. She watches the allure of you roll yourself out with a finalising sigh only to find her gaze and grin widely. Those sharper fangs in full view.

Those adoring, puppy-like eyes and the ever so slight tilt of your head.

“Hey, Wands.” You scurry outward that bit more and stand, your towering height shadows over her and the afternoon sun paints against your back and shoulders. Your hair is mused and slick, your clothes and smears of your skin in dire need of a wash and your hands are covered to the elbow in a gradient grime.

“Hey, Y/N. Working hard?”

You chuckle lowly and nod. You do your best to wipe yourself clear to no altering difference. But Wanda finds the charm in the way you look. It’s something she can sense about you that you enjoy a good scalp scratch. She becomes internally greedy and wishful to coddle you and perhaps have an excuse to see you wrapped in nothing but a towel around your waist and skin glowing with the shiny jewels of the dribbling shower water.

Just as you’re about to invite Wanda to finally test out her car’s health, you pick up the rapid pace of heels clapping on the driveway and see another woman who approaches fast. “Who’s this?” you ask. Wanda, stumbling over her words, introduces her co-worker to you.

With a dip of your chin and lashes framing the unsure, almost shy quarter of your gaze ducks away and only relax when able to find Wanda.

“H-hi, I’m having car issues of my own. Could I trouble you to take a quick look?”

One of your brows quirk up. You can smell some form of arousal on this woman and the way she looks up at you, blinking, you already put two and two together. You give a shrug on your shoulders anyhow. “Sure.”

You make your way over to the car that you know is in working order by the smell of the freshly changed oil and the tinge of the hot engine. You pop the hood open and quick as anything, you identify the problem.

Wanda’s entire body grows cold then hot under the stare of your eyes, a little narrowed and pupils raised up to seemingly sink out of view. She thinks she catches that strange anomaly of amber gold flash in your eyes.

“What did you do?” she whispers with a quiet hiss. Her co-worker looks sinfully sheepish and holds up a small object in her hands. She answers quickly with a huff. “I took this thing out.”

Both women go still when your fingers pluck the object out from her hand, a dark smirk crossing your lips as your glare turns to look Wanda up and down, taking her in in her entirety. How did you reach them so quickly without making a single sound?

“Found the problem.”

“O-oh!”

You adjust the stolen piece back into its proper place and push the hood down with a hard, resounding thud and slap your hand down in it, announcing your finished work.

“She’s ready to go. An easy fix.”

Wanda has to shoo and shove her dear, embarrassed co-worker back into her driver’s seat and waves her off, watching the poor girl drive home dejected. No harm, no foul to the woman but she wasn’t the one you were interested in. There was little point in indulging in lesser affairs when the one you truly wanted stood no more than a few inches from you.

“She’s a sweet girl, really. She just…” Wanda’s eyes shy away from yours the moment you snort, smirking down at her and she scratches at the shell of her ear. Was there really an excuse for that kind of behaviour? Maybe not, but Wanda has questioned herself once or twice after a semi mind-blowing orgasm session to her vibrator at the thought of you and why it was that you never appear to be seeing anyone, or bring a single person home for even a one night stand? Plenty of her other neighbours did. And her co-worker’s attempt to try and get her foot in the door couldn’t be blamed fully. You have this roguish appearance, intimidating yet somehow friendly. Wanda never once has had to worry about any sort of trouble such as robbers breaking in because she feels assured and protected that you’re right next door.

Little to her knowledge, you’ve caught the odd robber trying his luck at busting the lock of her front door in the middle of the night. And there you had been, standing with a shovel in one hand, a thick and sturdy chain in the other and hidden behind the picket fence.

All you had to do was let the wolfish glow of amber show and ask with a rumbled tone, “What’d you think you’re doing?”

And the robber high-tailed it, complexion paled in comparison to the dark attire he wore.

Your hands pat and paw at the roughened texture of your jeans. With a cock of your head, you indicate to Wanda to follow you. “Come on. Let’s see if my day’s work paid off.”

Giddy and cheeks finally cooling down, Wanda joins you and she slides in. She puts her keys into the ignition and turns it, the car’s engine purrs to life with a steady rumble and she giggles aloud, hands clapping together.

“Shit, that sounds better than before.”

You lean down until your face appears in the window. “Glad to hear it.”

“How can I repay you?” The question leaves over the plump of her lips before she could even register it.

Would it be wrong to use this as your chance? Your brows line into a considering furrow, lips twisting into a pursed form before you respond. “How about a date tomorrow night?”

You worry you’ve gone too far but when her cheeks fold back into that dimpled, toothy smile and her dark lashes flutter, abashed and her face glowing red, she nods. “Sure, I’d like that.”

The engine purrs low before the rattling kink silences it, shutting it off.

“It’s really beautiful up here,” Wanda sighs with a smile.

“Yeah. I like to come up here when I need to get away from things in the neighbourhood.”

Her eyes finally fall away from the view to find you and you turn your gaze to hers.

“Even me?” she asks smoothly.

Easily in her tone you register the sounded jest but all the same, it pulls a quiet and caught whine from your throat.

You shake your head. “No. You’re the only thing I hate leaving behind when I get away.”

You see the way her creamy green eyes move, flittering up and down from your own eyes to your lips then back up. You cannot help but copy the motion.

She moves in and something inside you, a desperate hunger, meets her halfway and begins to pull her from her passenger seat until she straddles your waist.

#headlinesxcomics publishing #wanda maximoff x reader #werewolf reader #x reader #marvel #wanda maximoff #male reader #wanda x werewolf reader #gn reader #female reader

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ginnsbaker · 1 year ago

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fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (2/?)

Part summary: Leigh goes on a double date with Jules. You reach a tipping point with Leigh's relentless hostility towards you.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 5,072 | Warnings/Tags: None for now... smut eventually, enemies to lovers A/N: So... this turned into more than a two-shot. But it will still be a mini-series. It's also kinda slow burn for a mini series (lol). Also, this isn't canon compliant at all. Meaning, I took a lot of liberties and added stuff to Leigh and Matt's relationship, and it doesn't follow the timeline of the show. With that said, enjoy!

Masterlist | Part I | Next Part

The vet bills hit Leigh's bank account way harder than she’s willing to admit.

She knew taking care of pets could get pricey, but she thought that was just for those on their last leg, like Matt's dog, Rogue. Facing those steep costs made her think twice about turning down Drew's offer a while back to bring back her advice column. So, she calls him up as soon as she pays up a quarter of the charges on her credit card for Visitor's medical expenses.

Drew answers on the second ring. “Hey Leigh, what's up?”

Leigh doesn’t beat around the bush. She never has to with her best friend. “Can we meet at the cafe? I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure. Be there in 20,” Drew replies right away.

The coffee shop they frequent is a small local business that specializes in cold brews. Leigh’s favorite thing about it is not the coffee though, but its interior: mismatched chairs, bookshelves lining the wall, and the temperature that’s always just right. Leigh arrives first, securing their favorite table near the window. Drew walks in a few minutes later, coffee already in hand, and greets her with a warm smile.

“Okay, spill. What's going on?” Drew asks as he takes a seat.

“I've been thinking... about the column. I was wrong to turn it down. I want back in.”

The look of utter surprise on his face tells Leigh this was the last thing he expected. She senses his response won't be a straightforward yes.

“I'd be thrilled to have you back, Leigh, I really would—”

“But?” Leigh cuts in. She doesn’t need to hear a bullshit ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ excuse. She wishes Drew would just be as direct with her as she is with him.

Drew lets out a sigh. Under different circumstances, saying no to Leigh would be as easy as declining an upsell from a McDonald's cashier. However, ever since Leigh became a widow, rejecting her feels significantly harder, even though he's well aware that Leigh values honesty over pity.

“But the thing is, the new writer’s really hitting it off with our audience. She's had a string of articles go viral lately.”

Leigh doesn’t look at all impressed by that. “Yeah, I heard.”

Personally, Drew’s not a fan of the new writer's style, and honestly, he still prefers Leigh. It would just be a hard sell if he brought this up to management. As the saying goes: if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

“Look, I still think you have a unique voice. You know I’d still take advice from you over the new girl.”

Leigh scoffs a little at that, shaking her head. Drew rolls his eyes; it’s typical of Leigh to never know how to take a compliment. He continues, “How would you feel about guest writing? Maybe for the first couple of weeks, we could find a way to incorporate your insights into a series or a special feature.”

It’s not what she hoped for, but she recognizes the olive branch for what it is.

And she’ll take it.

“I... yeah, I think that could work, Drew. I've got a ton of new ideas, and this... this could be great,” Leigh says. “Uhm, thanks.”

Drew grins. “I thought you'd like that. Let's kick off with a couple of guest pieces, see how it goes.”

Leigh half-heartedly returns his enthusiasm just as her order of cheeseburger and affogato are served.

“Anything new with you?” Drew asks, his voice taking on that tone he reserves for the really good gossip. Knowing Drew's helping her out, Leigh figures a little life update wouldn't hurt as a form of thanks.

That update is about you. And the moment Leigh spills the beans, Drew's face lights up like a Christmas tree. But his excitement fizzles out just as fast when he figures out Leigh's got nothing scandalous to say. All she mentions is how you might've missed the mark by not doing your homework on the guy you were seeing.

“What’s your plan then?”

“Seems like everyone’s asking me that,” Leigh says flatly.

“You took your stray to her place, right? So, there must be some sort of plan. I mean, you could've gone to any other vet if you wanted to avoid her.”

“Yeah, but her clinic's location is so convenient, and I didn't want to shrink my world just for her.”

Drew hums in response. Leigh admits she’s been unusually passive with you. Normally, she'd confront issues head-on, but even almost half a year later, she still hasn’t fully processed Matt’s death, let alone his cheating. She's been trying a new tactic, almost as if by ignoring her problems, she hopes they'll fade away on their own. She seems to be betting on the idea that if she pretends long enough, maybe one day she'll wake up and find those issues have lost their grip on her.

“I don’t know Leigh, the whole thing’s weird,” Drew says, scrunching up his face a bit.

“It’s not like I’m trying to make a friend or enemy out of her,” Leigh replies with a shrug. “I’m just using her services as a doctor, and she’s getting paid for it. That’s all there is to it.”

“Oh, so that’s why you need your old job back. She’s draining your purse,” he says, smirking as he adds, “Bitch.”

“You don’t have to call her that,” Leigh chides, though the corner of her mouth twitches in amusement. Deep down, she understands the twisted satisfaction in disliking someone without having to justify it.

“The funniest thing that can happen is if you two actually end up being friends,” Drew quips, picking up an accidental curly from Leigh’s plate.

Leigh finds that scenario hard to imagine, almost impossible. She doesn’t think she can be friends with someone Matt liked more than her.

Leigh is hunched over her laptop, with sheets of paper and colorful markers spread out on the table, meticulously designing missing dog posters for Visitor.

Jules, leaning against the doorframe with a mug of coffee in hand, watches Leigh for a moment before speaking up. “You know, you should've done that the second you decided to take Visitor in.”

Leigh doesn't look up from her screen. “His leg needed to be taken care of first,” she reasons.

Jules rolls her eyes, pushing off from the doorframe to come closer. “And? How did it go at the clinic?”

Leigh pauses, then lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I already told you about the tests Visitor had to go through. They said he’ll be fine.”

“I mean with the doctor, not the patient,” Jules clarifies with a smirk.

There's a beat of silence before Leigh quips, “No cat fights happened, I promise,” her eyes going back to her laptop.

“Any chance she knocked off a bit of the bill?” Jules asks, moving to sit behind Leigh to take a peek of her work. It looks like an 8th grader’s art project, but she bites back any criticisms.

“Nope.”

“Told you she’s a bitch,” Jules murmurs under her breath.

“It's not like anyone's doing charity work these days, especially not in this economy,” Leigh argues weakly.

“Yeah, right. Like she needs your money, Leigh. Veterinarians are loaded, if you didn’t know.”

“If you say so.”

Jules decides to drop the subject, and Leigh can hear her shuffling and thinking behind her.

“Hey, there's something I've been wanting to ask you. Don't get mad, okay?”

“Prefacing like that? I'm bracing myself to be utterly scandalized,” Leigh says before smiling and sneaking a glance at Jules.

“Great, you’re cracking jokes again. That’s a good sign,” Jules deadpans but a second later, she’s smiling too.

“Ask away,” Leigh prods.

Jules takes a deep breath, and then:

“Do you think you’re ready to meet someone new?”

Leigh suddenly stops, her fingers just hanging there above the keyboard, unsure of what to do next. What’s the protocol here? If three months is usually the cooling period after a break-up before one can start dating other people, then what's the deal when it's about a husband who's not only passed away but was also cheating? How does that work?

Before Leigh can come up with an answer, she realizes she's already saying no.

Jules groans. “Come on, it's just a double date. It'll be fun. You and me and—”

“I’m really not in the mood to meet other people, Jules.”

Jules cuts in, laying it on thick. “Leigh, seriously, when was the last time you went out and had a little fun? You're practically turning into a recluse. I won't stand by and watch my sister morph into the neighborhood's infamous dog lady.”

“Dog lady? Really?”

“I'm just saying, it's either try something new or start knitting dog sweaters for fun. Your choice.”

Jules can be a real pest sometimes; it’s an endearing quality except when they seem ready to go for each other's throats.

“You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?” Leigh rests her chin on her hand, seriously considering the invitation for a second. “I don’t know how to meet people, Jules. I stopped meeting people when I met Matt. He was my entire world, you know?”

Jules softens, throwing her arms around Leigh’s shoulders. “I know. And I wouldn't push if I didn't think it could be good for you. Plus, I promise, if it's awful, I'll personally escort you out and we can ditch them for ice cream. How's that?”

Leigh senses that Jules won't give up until she gets a yes, so she decides to concede just this time and get it over with.

“Okay, okay, you win. I'll go on your stupid double date. But if this ends in disaster, you're buying me the biggest tub of ice cream you can find,” Leigh says, shrugging her sister off her.

Jules pumps her fist in victory. “Deal! You won't regret this, Leigh. And who knows? It might actually be fun.”

The double date goes surprisingly smoothly, except for the occasional touches coming from her date. To be fair, they are typical for a date and are executed with respect. However, for some reason, Leigh finds herself unusually conscious of every physical contact, making her anxious to move things along and call it a night.

As they step out of the restaurant, Leigh mentally scrambles to remember her date's name. She's bracing for the goodbyes, ready to retreat into the comfort of her room, when Tommy, Jules' girlfriend, suggests they cap the night off at a new bar. It turns out Leigh's date has an investment in the place. He jumps at the suggestion, clearly eager to flaunt this detail, perhaps hoping to impress her.

He does earn a sincere, “That’s cool,” from Leigh, just before she slides into the backseat of his car. Tommy quickly calls dibs on the front seat, leaving the siblings sitting next to each other in the back.

The new bar clearly wants to be the town’s next hotspot, but it seems to be trying too hard. It's got this odd vibe where you're not sure if you should be dancing or just looking around, wondering what it really wants you to do. But Leigh agreed to this, and she won’t embarrass Jules by ditching.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

She stiffens a bit as he draws near, the heat of Patrick's breath—Jules had reminded her of his name during the car ride—making her uncomfortably aware of how close he is. She shifts, trying to put a polite distance between them without seeming too obvious about it. “Um, just a gin and tonic, please,” she says.

She practically sighs in relief as Patrick heads off to order, her eyes darting around the bar. The 90s R&B background gets her head bopping, but all she’s thinking about is her couch and an episode of Parks and Recreation waiting for her at home. Jules and Tommy are in their own little world, giggling and looking all cozy. Leigh never thought she could feel like a third wheel on a double date.

Patrick is taking his time, and when Leigh cranes her neck to peer over the bar, she catches him striking up a conversation with a blonde. Her eyes narrow into slits as she watches, both of them obviously charmed by the other as Patrick laughs at something she said, enjoying himself in a way he hadn’t all night.

Leigh feels a prick of irritation. Sure, she hasn’t been giving him the time of his life, but they’re still on a date. Isn’t there some unwritten rule about not flirting with other people when you're supposed to be with someone?

She waits a bit longer, hoping Patrick would remember he was supposed to be getting her a drink and come back. However, he hasn't moved an inch from his spot and is even passing Leigh's drink to the woman as they keep chatting. Leigh’s mind races. She knows she isn’t into Patrick, has been giving him nothing but the bare minimum, yet she can't shake off the feeling of being slighted. It's not like she wanted his undivided attention, but this... this just seems rude.

She catches Jules looking at her, a questioning eyebrow raised. Leigh just shrugs, not sure how to explain the jumble of feelings she's experiencing without sounding petty or jealous.

When Patrick finally comes back with her drink, the mood has already turned sour for Leigh. She musters a polite smile, accepts the gin and tonic with a thank you, but then heads to the bar on her own without saying anything more. At this point, she's indifferent to what Patrick, Tommy, or Jules might think or say of her; she's finished playing nice for the day.

Leigh slams her gin and tonic like it's water, the sting barely registering. She signals for another without missing a beat and strangers start sliding over drinks with cheeky grins. She toasts to nothing, to no one, letting the conversations slip away before they can get even one word out.

By drink number six—or was it seven?—everything's spinning, laughter too loud, lights too bright. Leigh’s clinging to the bar for dear life when she thinks she sees you. But as quickly as the figure appears, it's lost again, leaving her questioning her ability to handle her alcohol. Back in her college days, Leigh could hold her liquor like a champ, thanks to endless nights of partying. But now, staring down at her drink, she realizes she might've overestimated her current tolerance. The alcohol hits harder than she remembers, making her head swim more than she'd like to admit. It's been a while since she's gone this hard, and her body isn't shy about reminding her.

The worst part of it though is why, of all the faces her mind could conjure up, it's choosing yours.

Just as she tries to shake off the bizarre vision, your face appears again, this time on the dance floor, writhing in a sea of thick, sweating bodies. You're dancing closely with a man, and it’s—

It’s Matt.

Leigh blinks rapidly, attempting to dispel the hallucination because it's impossible; Matt is dead—this can't be real.

But the image of you and Matt refuses to go away. She continues to see the way your grind against him, the way you caress his face as you pull it further into your neck. Anger surges through her, hot and uncontrollable, and before she knows it, her last shot of tequila crashes to the floor. Before the bartender or anyone else can even figure out what's happening, Leigh storms through the crowd, pushing her way to what she believes is you and her husband, and shoves the couple hard. The moment she does it, the fog in her brain finally clears.

She saw wrong. They’re just a random couple, looking as shocked as she feels mortified.

Humiliated and more drunk than she's willing to admit, Leigh doesn't stick around to apologize. Tears start to well up as she pushes through the crowd, dodging empty faces while Jules' calls fade into the background. She shoves through the last of the mob, bursts through the doors into the night, and freedom feels just a breath away. But that breath catches, twists into a violent churn in her gut, and she can barely stagger a few desperate steps away from the entrance before her knees are on the cold pavement, and she’s spilling out onto the ground in front of her. A few groans of disgusts from the people around her doesn’t register as she succumbs to the consequences of her indulgence. Shortly after, she remembers why she’s cut back on alcohol, apart from the fact that Matt abhors it, turns him off more than anything.

“Leigh?”

The voice is familiar, even if she’s heard it only a few times. Her head's spinning as she looks up, the chilly air slapping her face after the stuffiness of the club. She blinks, trying to clear the blur of tears and the aftereffects of one too many drinks, squinting at the figure stepping out from under the streetlights.

Your face, more clearly now under the lamp post is kind of sobering her up a bit.

So, were you actually there in the club, or is Leigh so haunted by thoughts of you and Matt—thoughts she's tried so hard to ignore and bury—that she managed to conjure you as a way to finally confront her true feelings about the entire situation? It’s always the battles with herself she never wins.

“Hey, you alright?” you ask, lowering yourself to get a better look at her but keeping back a bit—just enough space for her to catch her breath or in case she needs to throw up again.

Leigh doesn't respond, doesn't even seem to see you're there. You rummage through your crossbody bag, pulling out some wet wipes and offering them to her. She still doesn't look up, but grabs what you’re offering with a little force.

She proceeds to wipe her mouth and then her entire face as you continue talking, words tumbling out in a nervous stream.

“I saw you back there, in the club. I wasn't sure if I should come up to you, you know, with everything that's happened... with me being... well, the person I am in all of this,” you explain softly. “And then I saw what happened, how upset you got. Sorry I followed you here, I…I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Leigh abruptly gets to her feet, and you instinctively step back, giving her more room than probably needed.

“Why?” Leigh fires at you, her tone so icy it almost makes you regret coming after her. You're taken aback, eyebrows scrunching up in confusion.

Why what?

“Why do you even care?” she clarifies, eyeing you as if you're the densest person on the planet.

You grasp for something, anything that sounds like you're not just here out of guilt. “Anyone who knows you would be worried,” you say before you can think twice about what it could mean.

Leigh's laugh is sharp, cutting. “You don't know me,” she throws back.

“Yeah, I don’t,” you mumble to yourself. You wish you did, so you could fix this.

Leigh’s anger doesn’t let up. “You know what I think? You're playing the good Samaritan to scrub off your guilt. But not knowing Matt was married? That's on you. I bet you never asked too many questions because you wanted him to be Mr. Perfect—single, ready to mingle, the dream guy.”

Opening your mouth to argue, you find yourself at a loss. Leigh’s not entirely wrong. With Matt, you were in a bubble, caught up in the thrill of meeting someone who seemed so right, so honest. You clung to his every word, wanting to believe in this image of him you'd built up.

The truth is, you never wanted to meet Leigh Shaw; you wanted to believe Matt's only fault was how he ended things with you, by disappearing.

But before you can admit to all of that, Leigh is already storming off. You think about chasing after her, but she spins around so fast at your footsteps, shooting you a threatening look and a low, “Stop following me,” that nails you to the ground.

You keep staring at the spot she disappeared from, long after she's gone, wondering why Matt felt the need to find love elsewhere.

Leigh goes home, but not to an empty house. The second she opens the door, Visitor bounds into her arms, full of wiggles and wet nose kisses. Her mom's off somewhere, doing who knows what—Leigh's stopped trying to figure out where or why. Meanwhile, her phone buzzes with a string of voicemails from Jules, but Leigh's not in the mood to dive into those just yet. She decides they can wait till morning, along with the other missed calls and unread messages from strangers, asking for more information on Visitor.

For now, she peels off her socks and pants, leaving them scattered carelessly up the stairs before passing out on her bed.

Visitor’s follow-up check-up rolls around way too quickly for comfort. The moment Leigh steps through the clinic door with the dog in tow, you can practically cut the tension with a knife. Leigh's trying to keep it together, but her attempts at civility are imbued with a coldness that can’t be ignored.

With only a small ‘good morning’ from you and a nod from Leigh, you start the consultation, knowing you’d be doing her a favor if you just get right to it.

“How's Visitor been eating?” you ask as you work your stethoscope.

“He eats fine,” Leigh drawls.

You nod, jotting down a note before moving on, “And his activity levels? Any changes there?”

Leigh’s response comes laced with sarcasm.

“Oh, he's just peachy. Running marathons every morning.”

You clear your throat, trying to rein in your mounting annoyance at her childish behavior. “I'm just trying to get a complete picture,” you say.

But Leigh's not having any of it. Her comments grow sharper, her patience thinning, and it's clear she's more interested in taking jabs at you than discussing her dog's health.

Her last sarcastic remark has you drawing the line. “Leigh, you can be upset with me all you want outside of this clinic, but I won't tolerate disrespect while I'm trying to do my job,” you say evenly. “You're welcome to find another vet if you can't keep this professional. I have every right to refuse service if this continues. It's not what I want, but I'm not about to let you treat me any less professionally.”

Leigh goes quiet, yet she keeps her eyes locked on yours, decidedly not backing down. Then, after a tense moment, she mutters a single word, “Sorry.” It's not much, but it's something, and you decide to take it and move on.

“You mentioned something about a blood sample?” Leigh says, steering the conversation back to the reason she came in, and you're all for following her lead on this.

“Yeah, we need to check if his platelets are up and his infections are down, see if the meds are doing their job,” you explain. Then, veering a bit from standard procedure, you add, “Since this is a follow-up visit, I'm going to cut the lab test price in half for you.”

The discount evidently lifts her mood. It's not a perfect truce, but it's enough to get through the examination without any more barbs.

A while later, you're back with Visitor's CBC results in hand. “The infection's gone down, but it's still borderline,” you report, showing her the numbers. “We'll need to keep him on the medication for another week. And I'm adding some multivitamins and a specific diet to his regimen.”

You scribble down the details, then note at the bottom of the pad about the discount—not just for the lab test, but for the prescriptions too.

Leigh takes the paper, scanning the details before her eyes finally meet yours. “Thank you,” she says, her voice softer than it's been.

“You’re welcome,” you reply with a smile before going back to your notebook, looking deep in thought.

Leigh feels like you're back to your usual, friendly self. Yet she thinks she prefers the more raw, unfiltered version of you. The version that called her out earlier. These days, she's starving for that kind of honesty. Because having her as your client can’t be all that pleasurable. She's aware of how challenging she's been, and the straightforwardness somehow makes her feel more understood, more seen.

She wishes people would stop seeing her as Leigh: the one with the dead husband.

Then, out of nowhere, she asks, “When did you start working here?”

It's a seemingly insignificant question, yet coming from Leigh, it prompts you to close your notebook and focus entirely on her.

“I—”

“Because a year ago, I remember meeting a different doctor,” Leigh adds, absentmindedly running her fingers through Visitor’s coarse hair as he sleeps on her lap.

“You’ve been here before?”

It’s a painful memory—one that still sometimes brings tears to her eyes whenever it crosses her mind. Back then, the clinic bore a different name, and she and Matt had come together to say goodbye to Rogue.

“I have when it was still called Palm Coast,” she says.

You nod, understanding the context now. “Yeah, that was before my time. I bought this clinic on a whim after spending a few years practicing in Dubai.”

While most would latch onto the tidbit about your intriguing career history, Leigh zeros in on something else entirely, asking directly, “When did Matt start coming here?”

You shift uncomfortably at her question, and Leigh immediately regrets pushing too hard. She’s about to backtrack when you halt her apologies. “It’s okay. I’m open to talking about it, just not here,” you suggest. “How about over coffee?”

Leigh hesitates, then says, “Okay, let me just text my boss that I won't be able to lead the yoga class this morning.”

“It doesn’t have to be now. Tomorrow works,” you say.

Realizing her assumption, Leigh’s cheeks color slightly. “What time?”

Now it's your turn to feel a bit awkward. “Would 7 work? It's the only time I have before the clinic opens.”

“In the morning?” Leigh says again, making sure she heard you right.

You nod sheepishly in reply.

“Or we could maybe—”

“No, it's okay,” Leigh interrupts quickly. She's usually up before sunrise anyway; the only change would be trimming her morning run a bit. And for a one-time chat to get the answers she's after, she figures she can make such a small sacrifice.

–

“Are you sure you want to return Visitor to his real family?”

True to form, it's Jules who breaks the two-day-long sibling spat. It's usually her who tries to smooth things over with an apology, even on days when Leigh isn't exactly the easiest person to deal with. Her therapist keeps telling her not to always be the one to buckle, especially when she's the one who's been hurt, that Leigh should be the one to step up and make things right for a change.

But here she is, reaching out first, just like always—because waiting for Leigh to make the first move feels like waiting for snow in July.

“Oh, so you’re talking to me again?” Leigh says as if she's gearing up for another round of conflict rather than welcoming peace.

Jules ignores her and continues, “Have you actually tried to find Visitor's owners, or have you just kinda... kept him because it feels good to have him around?”

“So what if it feels good to have a dog who loves you and is loyal to you?”

Jules shakes her head in a condescending manner, which only serves to irritate Leigh further. As soon as her popcorn is done, she heads out of the kitchen, flops onto the couch, flips on the TV, and kicks her feet up on the coffee table. Jules follows her, opting to stand next to the TV, poised to yank the plug out if necessary.

“Leigh, you do understand that taking care of a dog isn't something to take lightly, right?” Jules starts, but she breaks off when the dog in question trots over, tail wagging, trying to coax Jules into picking him up.

Leigh acts like she hasn't heard a word, her eyes glued to the TV screen.

“I thought you'd learned something from what happened with Rogue—”

That hits a nerve. Leigh's quick to fire back, “Oh, and jumping into a serious relationship is super responsible, right? Especially when staying sober is part of the deal.”

Right after the words leave her mouth, Leigh regrets them deeply. She's painfully aware of Jules' long battle with alcoholism, a struggle that began in college and required more than a couple of tries before Jules could claim any sort of victory over her addiction. Leigh knows it's still a sore subject for Jules, still fighting her demons, making her comment unfairly harsh.

Though the retaliation didn’t come out of nowhere. Leigh caught Jules at the club, discreetly sipping a drink she swore off, and chose to keep quiet then to avoid causing a scene in front of Tommy. She had plans to bring it up later, but then her own slip-up with drinking, bailing on her date, and the fallout with Jules spiraled into one of their nastiest rows in a long while.

“Jules, I’m sorr—”

“Just save it, Leigh.”

Jules heads for the door, her hand clenched tight, barely hanging onto her emotions. Leigh feels the situation slipping further downhill, and she can't just stand back and watch things crumble even more. She's about to chase after Jules when the doorbell rings, stopping both of them cold.

But Jules doesn’t even bother with the door; instead, she veers off, storming upstairs with that telltale slam of her bedroom door echoing down. Leigh sighs, stuck in the aftermath, while Visitor starts barking at the door. Dragging her feet, Leigh heads over to open it, half-expecting another problem but hoping for a distraction.

Leigh definitely wasn't expecting Danny, and seeing him there, she gets the sinking feeling that this storm swirling around her isn’t going to blow over just yet.

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

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puck-luck · 6 months ago

Note

Can you do Cole caufield, clubs, and 5?

warnings: dom!cole, choking, exhibitionism, unprotected p in v

wc: 382

“Shh-shh-shh,” Cole coos in your ear. His light touch on the front of your neck is in direct contrast with the brutal clap of his hips against your behind. He’s got you bent over the sink in the bathroom of the bar, fucking into you from the back and gripping your throat to keep you close. “Be quiet, baby. I can’t have everyone hearing you.”

You whimper at the thought. When you’d first started dating Cole, you’d loved how sweet and genuine and goofy he seemed. He still is sweet, genuine, and goofy, but you had been surprised by how dominant and outgoing he can be in bed.

He was the first to bring up exhibition. He was supportive when you’d admitted that you’d been thinking about choking, but you’d never done it before. Cole had been careful to see what you like before he started pushing at your boundaries, like he is doing now. He’s teasing you so much that you want to take his wrist and fix his hand securely on the column of your throat. You want to curl his fingers around your windpipe and leave them there until you’re seeing stars.

But, if he does, you’ll lose your inhibitions. That’s what Cole says, at least– when he chokes you, noises will fall from your lips for everyone to hear. You never recall the noises, if you’re being honest. He might be right, and most likely is, because you always get nice and hazy when Cole deprives you of your breath.

“Sweet girl, do you like the sound of that?” Cole teases, angling his hips up as he continues thrusting. “You like the idea of everyone hearing how slutty you are for me?”

You moan again, tipping your head back.

Cole cups your chin and draws your body upright, plastering your body against his. His other hand sneaks between your legs, middle and ring fingers circling your clit. “I don’t want them to hear you,” he murmurs with a slight pout to his tone. “You’re mine, baby.” His fingers on your chin inch up to your mouth, finding their way between your lips. “If you’re gonna make noise, you have to moan around my fingers. Get ‘em nice and wet for me while I come in this pretty pussy.”

#puck-luck's 1k celebration #andy writes anything🍄#andy <3s coley🎟️#cole caufield #cole caufield smut #cole caufield fanfiction #cole caufield blurb #cc blurb #cc13 #nhl #nhl smut #nhl fanfiction #nhl blurb #hockey smut #hockey blurb

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tgirltorment · 2 years ago

Text

You awoke slowly. The heaviness of dreaming gradually lifted, little by little, but not fully. It was comfortable. Safe. You didn't want to open your eyes or move. You wanted to stay and dream a little more.

Despite yourself, you began to feel the sensations of the waking world. A warm breeze across bare skin. Soft grass beneath you. Light dancing across your face. Music in the distance. An odd smell in the air. It all felt so *good*.

A pretty voice rang like soft bells in your ears. "Oh poor pet. Are you lost?"

Your eyes opened just a crack. There was a tall, pale, red-haired man above you. Or, you thought it was a man. It was hard to tell. Everything was so fuzzy.

It took a moment before you realized you were supposed to respond, but at the same time, you realized you didn't know how to answer. Were you lost? You couldn't remember, but it didn't feel like you were supposed to be anywhere else. You felt at home.

Where was *here*? you wondered. Opening your eyes just a little more, you saw a sunlit clearing surrounded by odd trees. Colors danced in the air above you, and though it was midday with a bright sun, you saw stars share the blue sky. You couldn't find the source of the music, nor that strange smell.

Then, of course, there was the man. He wore clothes woven from autumnal leaves. You wore nothing, you realized. The man knelt down beside you, his face above yours. His breath smelled sweet, and your mind grew fuzzier.

"You must have stumbled through here," he murmured. "Poor thing. Your kind doesn't adapt well to this place." Hearing him speak filled you with such joy and wonder and *lust* that you couldn't hold back a giggle. His fingers traced your cheek in response. "I can't let you go back to your home, now, can I? You'll not be happy in your world now that you've sipped from mine. It'd be cruel."

You had no idea what your home was, but you didn't want to leave this place. You wanted to stay with this strange man and listen to his voice forever.

His fingers left your cheek and now run along your neck, your shoulders, down your side and around your thigh, and a small gasp escaped you. You wanted him to keep touching you, more than anything else. He stopped then, though, and as his hand left your skin you whined in disappointment.

"Sit up, dear," he said, and so you did. The fuzziness, the colors, the music, everything felt so muffled and blissful and you just *knew* that it would all feel so much better if you did what he said.

He opened his hand to reveal a slender chain, sparkling in every hue and more. He tenderly wrapped it around your neck, hidden clasps locking it tight. "Some choose to walk, some prefer to crawl," he whispered. "It's up to you."

As he walked, holding your chain, you crawled alongside him.

He led you through a sea of trees decorated in more alluring flowers. As you came close to them, the odd scent strengthened and it became harder to think. He led you through gloaming twilight and fiery autumn, until, together, you found a verdant glade ringed with stone columns. Within the circle were others like you, men and women alike, all naked save for a glittering, slender chain, the ends of which were fastened to the pillars. More tall, fair, red-haired creatures filled the ring too, serviced by the mortals within. The sounds of whimpers and gasps filled your mind and you wanted desperately to join them.

The creature behind you tied your chain to a pillar and patted your head. "Here we are, pet. Your new home. The world outside is dangerous, but you'll never feel anything but happiness again."

Your arrival was noticed by the many tall creatures, who paused their fucking and stepped away from their pets, who begged them to return. But the creature's eyes were fixed solely on you, the new addition. "Please," you whined, your first words spoken in this realm. You said nothing after, your mouth wide open as your new owners drew closer.

#monster fucker #monster smut #fae fucker #fae smut #intox kink

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novaursa · 7 months ago

Text

Between Pride and Fire (the tour)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: west

- Next part: heirs of a lion

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

The steady jostle of the carriage wheels against the dirt road was almost hypnotic, though it did little to soothe your temper. For days you had refused the comfort of the carriage Jason insisted on having prepared, preferring to ride alongside him as any Targaryen should. But the morning of your departure from the Tooth, when you’d woken with a pounding headache and nausea that made the very thought of sitting astride a horse unbearable, you had begrudgingly accepted the cushioned seat and drawn curtains of the carriage.

The inside was comfortable enough—lined with velvet, the cushions soft, with sunlight filtering faintly through the curtains. Yet the isolation grated on you. You hated being kept apart from the open air, from the procession of knights and banners that marched steadily through the Westerlands.

Jason, of course, had been insufferably smug when you’d finally climbed into the carriage. “A wise decision, wife,” he’d said with a grin, leaning down to kiss your cheek before riding off on his stallion. You could still hear the laughter in his voice ringing in your ears.

Now you sat with arms crossed, glaring faintly at nothing in particular as the clattering of hooves and faint chatter of guards filtered through the wooden walls. It was only when the carriage began to slow that you sat up, frowning. Outside, the steady rhythm of the procession broke, replaced by murmurs and the distant sound of men shouting.

And then, a roar.

Your heart leapt as the sound echoed across the valley, unmistakable and primal. The ground itself seemed to tremble beneath you as another, louder roar followed—a sound that could only belong to her.

“Morrath,” you breathed, your irritation forgotten. You shoved the curtains aside just in time to see the procession halt completely, horses rearing in their harnesses and guards craning their necks to look skyward.

Above you, Morrath swept into view, her massive wings outstretched, casting an enormous shadow over the road as she descended in lazy, spiraling circles. Her black scales gleamed like polished obsidian in the sunlight, the faint amber undertones catching like fire with every beat of her wings. Her eyes—tawny, molten and alive—scanned the ground below until they found you.

The carriage lurched to a stop as Morrath released another triumphant roar, the sound shaking dust from the road. Men ducked their heads instinctively, though they’d done nothing to earn the dragon’s wrath. Jason, seated at the head of the column, turned sharply in his saddle, his expression unreadable as he watched Morrath’s graceful descent.

You didn’t wait. Throwing the carriage door open, you stepped out onto the road, ignoring the protest of your legs as you stood. Morrath’s shadow passed over you, her wings beating steadily as she slowed and hovered just above the ground. The wind they kicked up sent your cloak whipping behind you, and the horses snorted nervously.

“She came,” Jason called, riding up beside you, his face flushed from the wind and sun. There was no smugness in his tone now—only something between relief and amusement. “The Dragonkeepers must have received my message after all.”

You didn’t look at him, your gaze fixed on the massive creature as Morrath finally landed with a thud that made the earth tremble. She folded her wings against her body, the leather membranes rustling faintly, and lowered her head toward you with a low rumble, her breath warm against your skin.

“I thought you were still sulking in Casterly Rock,” you murmured as you stepped forward, brushing your hand against the smooth scales of her snout. Morrath’s chest rumbled with a sound that might have been affection—or agreement.

Jason dismounted, handing his reins to a nearby squire before approaching you. “It seems she missed you. Or perhaps she missed all of this.” He gestured broadly to the gathered knights and guards who were still recovering from the shock of a dragon suddenly joining their procession.

“She does love a crowd,” you replied, smirking faintly.

“And you doubted I could have her summoned?” Jason teased as he came to stand beside you. “You wound me, wife. When have I ever failed you?”

You turned your head to look at him, arching a brow. “You’ve failed to stop speaking more times than I can count.”

Jason grinned, undeterred. “Fair enough. But look at her. She’s made quite the entrance—no one will forget this tour of the Westerlands now.”

You shook your head, though a faint smile tugged at your lips as Morrath released another low growl, turning her massive head toward Jason. Her eyes narrowed slightly, studying him as though weighing his worth.

“She doesn’t trust you yet,” you murmured with a hint of satisfaction. “Wise of her.”

Jason chuckled, though he eyed the dragon warily. “I’ll earn her favor eventually. Perhaps once she realizes how well I care for her rider.”

You shot him a look, your smile softening slightly despite yourself. “Perhaps.”

Behind you, the guards and lords began to regroup, their voices rising in a mix of awe and trepidation. Morrath, for her part, remained motionless but watchful, her massive tail curling lazily around her.

Jason stepped closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “She’ll follow us the rest of the way. I’ll have the men ensure the road is cleared for her—though I’m not sure how welcome we’ll be with a dragon at our backs.”

You tilted your head, looking up at him with a hint of mischief. “If they fear her, they’ll fear you by association. Isn’t that what you wanted, my lord?”

Jason grinned, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back. “True enough. You see, wife? I told you we’d make a spectacle.”

You shook your head, turning your attention back to Morrath. The dragon shifted slightly, lifting her wings before folding them again, content to remain close. Jason had been right: the message had reached the Dragonkeepers, and Morrath had come as if summoned by instinct alone.

As the procession slowly began to move again, this time with Morrath pacing along the hills above, you allowed yourself to feel a measure of calm. Morrath’s presence, though overwhelming to others, was a comfort to you—a reminder that no matter how far you traveled, you were never alone.

Jason walked beside you as you made your way back toward the carriage, his voice low with amusement. “Admit it—you’re glad you listened to me.”

You glanced sidelong at him, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Jason laughed softly as he helped you back into the carriage, though his gaze lingered on Morrath’s shadow overhead. “Too late for that, wife. Much too late.”

The light of the late afternoon bathed the rolling hills near Ashemark as the procession finally came to a halt. Tents were being raised, banners planted into the earth, and campfires lit, the smoke curling lazily into the clear sky. The horses were being tended to, but all attention had turned toward Morrath, who had perched herself majestically on a rocky outcrop overlooking the camp. Her black scales looked brilliant in the sunlight, her wings tucked neatly against her body as she watched the lords and ladies below like a queen surveying her court.

It didn’t take long for the crowd to gather. Lords, ladies, and their children swarmed closer to the dragon—though not too close—whispering and gawking as they marveled at the creature. Morrath, for her part, seemed to preen under the attention, tilting her great head and letting out a rumbling growl that reverberated through the ground, startling the bolder onlookers.

Jason, ever observant, took note of the distraction and wasted no time. He appeared at your side, his expression both satisfied and conspiratorial. “Your dragon is a show-stealer. She’s giving me a run for my coin.”

You arched a brow at him, though you didn’t miss the glint of amusement in his eyes. “Jealous, are you?”

“Hardly,” Jason scoffed, offering you his arm. “She’s just done me a great favor. Everyone’s too busy worshiping your dragon to notice that I’m stealing you away.”

Before you could protest, Jason was already guiding you through the maze of tents and campfires, moving toward the edge of the camp where the hills dipped into a quiet glade. The air here was cooler, softer, as the sounds of camp began to fade behind you. When you reached a secluded spot under the shade of an old oak tree, Jason finally stopped, turning to face you.

“There,” he said smugly, as though he’d just won a great battle. “Finally, some peace.”

You folded your arms, smirking faintly. “And what exactly are you planning to do with this ‘stolen’ time, my lord? Should I be concerned?”

Jason stepped closer, his green eyes gleaming as he brushed a lock of hair from your face. “I thought I might remind you how nice it is to be far from all those lords and ladies who never stop talking.”

“And what about you?” you shot back, though his touch made you falter. “You never stop talking.”

“Only to keep you entertained,” Jason said smoothly, his hands now resting at your waist. “Admit it—you’d miss me if I didn’t.”

You sighed, feigning exasperation, though your lips curved into a small smile. “You’d have to give me the chance to miss you first.”

Jason grinned, his confidence unshakable. “Perhaps I’ll take that as a challenge.”

You rolled your eyes, though the warmth of his hands and the soft rustle of the leaves above you tugged at something quieter in your chest. Jason, for all his arrogance and endless prattle, had a way of finding these moments—moments where the weight of your title and his pride fell away, leaving just the two of you.

“I thought you were meant to be watching over the camp,” you said softly, tilting your head as you regarded him. “What would your bannermen think if they found you hiding out here?”

Jason leaned closer, his voice dropping to that infuriatingly soft tone he used when he knew he was winning. “They’d think I’m a man who knows where his priorities lie.”

“And where’s that?” you asked, though you already knew the answer.

Jason’s lips quirked into a smile as he bent his head to brush a kiss against your temple. “Right here,” he murmured. “With you.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, enough to still your usual retort. For a moment, you allowed yourself to lean into him, letting the quiet of the glade settle around you like a blanket. Morrath’s distant rumble reached your ears, a reminder that the world hadn’t quite forgotten you yet.

Jason pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb tracing gently along the back of your hand. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his earlier mischief tempered by genuine concern.

“Tired,” you admitted, though there was no bitterness in it. “The tour is more taxing than I expected.”

Jason nodded, brushing his fingers lightly over your knuckles. “Then we’ll slow down. I’m not parading you across the Westerlands just to have you collapse on me.”

“You say that as though you didn’t plan this entire journey as a parade,” you teased, a flicker of your usual wit returning.

Jason laughed softly. “True, but even lions know when to rest.” He tilted his head, his smile softening. “I want you to enjoy this—us. We can see as much or as little as you like.”

For once, you didn’t argue. The steady warmth of his presence, the rustling of the leaves, and the distant murmurs of the camp all conspired to ease the tension you’d been carrying for days.

“I’ll hold you to that,” you murmured, allowing Jason to pull you closer until your head rested against his chest.

“And I’ll hold you to that carriage for the rest of the trip,” Jason replied with a smirk, though his voice was softer now, teasing but tender.

You closed your eyes briefly, letting the quiet of the moment linger as Jason’s arms wrapped around you. For all the demands of the road, for all the expectations weighing on both your shoulders, you realized that Jason, in his own relentless way, was trying to make this life easier for you. And in that quiet, shaded glade, you allowed yourself—for just a little while—to let him.

The space beneath the oak tree felt impossibly still, as though the world itself paused to witness this fleeting intimacy. Jason tilted your chin up gently, his green eyes searching your violet ones with an intensity you were slowly learning to understand.

“You’ve gone quiet,” he said, his voice softer now, the usual teasing edge dulled into something warmer. “What’s on your mind, my fierce dragon?”

Your lips parted, but the words caught somewhere in your throat. He always called you that—my fierce dragon—and it was maddening, arrogant, yet somehow… endearing. You shook your head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Nothing,” you whispered. “Nothing at all.”

Jason’s fingers traced along the side of your face, tucking a lock of silver hair behind your ear before cupping your cheek. “That’s a first. You, quiet. Should I be one concerned now?”

You let out a small laugh, the sound breathless, as Jason stepped closer, his broad frame almost eclipsing the sunlight filtering through the branches. “Perhaps you should, my lord,” you replied, meeting his gaze with a challenge. “Or perhaps you’ve finally stunned me into silence.”

Jason grinned at that, though his voice held a softer weight when he spoke next. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” His thumb brushed against your lower lip, lingering for a moment as he tilted his head. “I’ve been waiting all day for this.”

“For what?” you murmured, though you knew exactly what he meant. The air between you was alive, charged with something urgent and unspoken.

“For a moment where it’s just us,” he said simply, before leaning in to press his lips against yours.

The kiss began gently, deceptively so, as though Jason meant to savor every second of it. His lips were warm, coaxing, and firm, leaving you breathless as he tilted his head to deepen it. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic as the kiss turned more fervent. Jason’s hands, strong and deliberate, slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him.

When he finally broke away, his breathing was uneven, and a wicked grin tugged at his lips. “If you keep kissing me like that, wife, I may have no choice but to scandalize the entire camp.”

You swatted at his chest, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. “Jason,” you warned, glancing over your shoulder toward the distant tents. “Someone could see—”

“Let them,” Jason interjected, his grin softening as he cupped your face with both hands. “Do you know what they’ll see? A man completely mad for his wife.”

“And what would your lords think of that?” you countered, though your voice lacked any real protest.

Jason leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmured, “That I’m a very lucky man.”

You shivered at the low timbre of his voice, your body betraying you as warmth pooled deep within. Before you could respond, Jason’s hands were already tugging at the ties of your cloak and the lower laces of your gown. His movements were unhurried, but there was a purpose to them, a need he didn’t bother hiding.

“Jason,” you said again, your voice breathy, even as you allowed him to undo the fabric pooling around your hips. “This is—”

“Necessary,” he cut you off, his eyes meeting yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. “It’s been days, Y/N. Days of nothing but courtesies and lords who think their words are more important than this.”

You gasped softly as Jason slid his hands beneath your gown, lifting you just enough so your back pressed against the rough bark of the tree. He was careful despite his urgency, his hands supporting you as though you were something precious. The contrast of the solid oak at your back and Jason’s heat pressing against you sent a shiver down your spine.

“Are you certain?” he murmured, his lips brushing against your throat as he held you steady. “I won’t risk hurting you—or the babe.”

“I’m fine,” you said hurriedly, your hands gripping his shoulders as you shifted slightly. “We’re fine. Now, Jason—please.”

Jason groaned at your words, and with your guidance, he pressed himself into you. The sensation made you cry out softly, the sound swallowed by his kiss as he captured your mouth once more. He stilled for a moment, his breathing ragged as his forehead rested against yours.

“Gods,” Jason whispered, his voice rough.

You couldn’t form a reply; all you could do was cling to him as he began to move, each thrust measured at first but quickly growing desperate, needy. The sound of your breaths mingled with the rustle of leaves and the distant crackle of campfires. There was no gentleness now—only fire and longing, days of restraint turned to ash as Jason’s grip on you tightened.

“Tell me,” he rasped against your ear, his voice edged with rough affection, “tell me you want this—me.”

“I do,” you managed between gasps, arching against him as pleasure began to coil deep in your belly. “I want you, Jason.”

His response came in the form of a growl, his pace quickening as he buried his face against your neck, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin there. “Mine,” he murmured fiercely, as though marking you with his words alone. “You’re mine, Y/N.”

Your fingers tangled in his golden hair, pulling him closer as you felt yourself begin to unravel. Jason seemed to sense it, his movements growing even more urgent, his arms bracing you against the tree as though he’d never let you fall.

When release finally came, it was blinding, a wave that stole your breath and left you trembling against him. Jason followed moments later, his body shuddering as he held you close, his breathing ragged in your ear. For a long while, the two of you remained there, tangled together beneath the oak tree, the rest of the world forgotten.

Jason was the first to move, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before gently lowering you back to the ground. He helped you adjust your clothing, his hands lingering at your waist as though reluctant to let you go.

“I’ll never tire of this,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Of you.”

You smiled faintly, though your legs still felt unsteady. “I’ll remind you of that the next time you complain about being married to a Targaryen.”

Jason laughed softly, pressing one last kiss to your lips. “Complain? Never. I’d trade every ounce of gold in Casterly Rock just to keep you here.”

You rolled your eyes, though your heart warmed at the sincerity in his words. As the sounds of camp filtered back into your ears, you sighed, knowing this stolen moment was over.

“Come,” Jason said, offering you his arm once more, his usual smug grin returning. “Let’s get back before they send a search party.”

As you walked together back toward the camp, Jason’s hand never left yours, a silent promise that—for as long as he could manage—he would always find a way to steal you away.

From The Gold Honeymoon in the Westerlands as recounted by Mushroom in The Testimony of Mushroom and later corroborated by Maester Gerardys in The Chronicle of the Lions and Dragons:

Princess Y/N Targaryen, younger sister of Princess Rhaenyra and a daughter of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Aemma Arryn, embarked on a tour of the Westerlands alongside her new husband, Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock. It was a marriage met with no small amount of controversy in its time, for the lion and the dragon were oft too proud to share a single den. Yet if one were to believe the words of Mushroom—and there are many who do, despite his crude tongue and exaggerated claims—it was no political union of convenience, but a match of fierce passion, born of lust and admiration.

The Westerlands had long been a place of splendor and stone, golden cities guarded by silver-clad knights, but never had their castles and halls seen such scandal as was whispered during the tour of Lord Jason and his Targaryen bride. From the Golden Tooth to Ashemark and all the way to Faircastle, the air was thick not only with the banners of Lannister crimson and Targaryen black but with rumors, giggles, and gasps of propriety abandoned.

On the Matter of the Golden Tooth

It was said that within the high walls of the Golden Tooth, Princess Y/N reminded all in attendance of the nature of dragons. Lady Ameline Brax, a foolish young woman with too much wine and too little sense, dared to mockingly inquire whether Lord Jason was “keeping the princess too occupied in her chambers.” Such boldness might have been praised in the courts of Dorne but was met with fire in the West.

The Princess, tall and proud as her Targaryen kin, silenced Ameline with a smile as sharp as a Valyrian blade, saying, “And what gave that away, my lady? Was it the child in my belly that betrayed my fondness for my husband’s company?” The ladies fell into a hush at her words, their mirth turned to murmurs of unease. Mushroom claims that Lady Ameline did not recover her voice for days, while Lady Lefford, the host of the Golden Tooth, quietly scolded her household for their lack of discretion.

Lord Jason, when told of this later (for what wife keeps such a tale secret?), was said to have laughed until tears ran down his face. Mushroom reports that he kissed his bride soundly that evening and declared her “a she-dragon in her own right.”

On the Dragon Morrath at Ashemark

The most thrilling tale of their tour—and one that rippled across the Westerlands for months—came upon the road to Ashemark. At Jason’s summons, the princess’s dragon, Morrath, descended from the skies like the gods’ judgment, a beast of black scales and burning amber eyes. Mushroom, who claimed to have been hiding in a baggage cart to avoid the march, described her arrival thus:

“The air itself grew heavy, the light dimmed, and the sound of wings louder than war drums filled our ears. Men ducked their heads, horses kicked, and carts tipped over. It was as if death itself had come to join us—but the dragon did not roar in anger. She landed with such grace that it seemed unnatural for such a beast of that size. Then came the princess, silver-haired and violet-eyed, stepping from her carriage like a queen returning home. She placed her hand upon Morrath’s snout, calm and unafraid, and the dragon purred like a great cat.”

The sight of the dragon following their procession as they traveled further west—swooping over hills and perching on cliffs—cemented the awe and terror the Westerlands held for their newest lady. While some whispered that Morrath’s presence was unnecessary, others said that Jason Lannister orchestrated the entire affair to remind his bannermen of the power he had wed into his house. If it were so, none could deny it worked.

On Scandals Beneath the Oak Tree

It was at a camp near Ashemark, during the late afternoon when the sun cast its light across the hills, that Mushroom tells of the greatest scandal of all. Lords and knights had gathered to marvel at Morrath’s presence, leaving Jason and the princess conspicuously absent. According to Mushroom (who claimed to have climbed a tree to witness what others did not), the couple had stolen away to a secluded glade beneath a great oak.

“There, amidst the shade, they fell upon one another like starved wolves. Lord Jason pressed her against the tree, his golden hair gleaming as his hands wandered where propriety would scold him. I dare say the Princess was no innocent lamb, either—she clung to him as though they were drowning together. They kissed, they whispered, and then—well, I shan't say it outright, but they ‘renewed their vows’ as passionately as any husband and wife ever did.”

Whether Mushroom’s account is exaggerated or not, the murmurs of their absence spread quickly across camp. What cannot be denied is that the princess returned with leaves tangled in her silver locks, her cheeks flushed, and her gown hastily straightened. Lord Jason, for his part, was far less discreet, striding back with a smug grin that infuriated his knights and amused his squires.

“Let them talk,” Jason reportedly said when questioned about his absence. “It is only fair they know how lucky I am.”

Maester Gerardys, in his more reserved account, wrote diplomatically that “Lord Jason and Princess Y/N were rarely apart for the duration of their tour, much to the scandal of their bannermen and the exasperation of their attendants.”

Of all the tales Mushroom spun regarding the Targaryen honeymoon through the Westerlands, the events at Ashemark, Fair Isle, and Crakehall were the juiciest morsels he brought back to court.

Ashemark – The Wager of the Spear and the Dragon

Ashemark, a proud fortress nestled in the hills of the West, had always been a place of warriors. Lord Marbrand, a man of stern demeanor and strong shoulders, welcomed Lord Jason and his bride with all the pomp expected of his house. Banquets were held, horns were raised, and tourneys were staged in their honor.

It was at one such feast, Mushroom claims, that Lord Marbrand wagered his best spearman could unseat Lord Jason in the joust. Jason, ever the arrogant lion, accepted with the confidence of a man who had never known shame. “A Lannister needs no champion but himself,” he boasted, to which Princess Y/N reportedly quipped, “And what of your wife? Perhaps I’ll ride in your stead.”

This remark, innocently made, was said to have thrown the hall into raucous laughter. Jason, for once, was struck silent. Yet Mushroom swears that later that evening, the princess proved herself a rider of another kind.

“That night, in the stables—aye, the stables—I caught them tangled atop a bed of furs meant for the horses. He lifted her onto his lap like the victor of a joust, calling her his prize, while the princess laughed loud enough to startle the grooms outside. Never has a mare in Ashemark been ridden with such fervor.”

Needless to say, neither Jason nor the spearman would compete the next morning. Jason blamed an injured shoulder from training, though Mushroom says he overheard a stable boy mutter that “Lord Jason looked far too pleased with his bruises to have taken them in combat.”

Fair Isle – A Lion and Dragon in the Waves

Fair Isle, the westernmost jewel of the Westerlands, stood surrounded by the crashing waves of the Sunset Sea. House Farman welcomed Jason and the princess with feasts of fresh oysters, sweet wines, and the music of minstrels whose voices rivaled even those at court.

But what happened at Fair Isle became legend—if only because Jason Lannister himself could not stop boasting of it. According to Mushroom:

“At dawn, the Princess Targaryen demanded a swim, as wild as any dragon might. Jason, drunk on love and wine from the night before, joined her in the surf. Naked as the day they were born, the pair plunged into the sea like seabirds, their laughter carrying on the waves. Fishermen along the cliffs claimed to have seen the princess kiss him in the shallows, as they caught a glimpse of her skin beneath the waves—smooth and pale as milkglass.”

While no one can say how much of this tale is Mushroom’s invention (for he claims to have seen it “from a hole in a fisherman’s net”), the aftermath remains irrefutable. That morning, Jason walked back to Faircastle dripping seawater, a smug grin plastered across his face, his golden hair sticking to his cheeks.

The princess, by contrast, was dry and regal as ever when she emerged—Mushroom speculates Jason carried her to shore, though he grumbled for days about “wet boots and sand in my breeches.” The people of Fair Isle, however, would not soon forget the sight of a dragon and a lion cavorting in the waves like lovers in a ballad.

Crakehall – The Roar of the Bear and the Lion’s Triumph

At Crakehall, the seat of House Crakehall, things took a turn that had even Mushroom blushing (or so he claimed). The Crakehalls were a gruff, hearty family of warriors and hunters, known for their love of the hunt and the drink. It was said the feast held in Jason and the princess’s honor stretched into the wee hours, and more than one lord found himself slumped in a puddle of spilled ale.

Lord Jason, emboldened by the revelry, reportedly challenged his wife to a game of “catch,” whereupon the princess, laughing and flushed, disappeared into the darkened halls of Crakehall. What happened next is said to be a tale Mushroom swore he only overheard:

“Lord Jason chased the princess through those stone halls like a lion after its prey. I could hear the echoes of their laughter—and her shrieks—followed by the unmistakable sound of doors slamming and wine goblets tumbling to the floor. When Jason finally caught her, there was a growl—aye, a growl!—and then silence. I dared to peek through a crack in the door and saw her pinned against a great carved table, her skirts hitched and his breeches halfway to the floor. They were animals in that moment—wild, untamed, and mad for each other.”

Whether or not Mushroom actually saw the princess and Jason in such scandalous embrace, it is known that by morning, the Crakehalls were too embarrassed—or too pleased—to speak of the noise that echoed through their halls the night before. Jason, ever unrepentant, claimed it was “the best hunt Crakehall had seen in a generation.”

Viserys's Joyful Response

When Mushroom finally returned to court with the royal procession, the tales of the Westerlands honeymoon had already flown ahead of him on the lips of merchants, knights, and travelers. King Viserys I Targaryen, for all his struggles and losses, was said to have laughed heartily upon hearing of his daughter’s adventures.

“Jason has done well to love her so,” Viserys reportedly declared, his wine cup raised high. “The girl is happy, and that is worth more to me than a thousand alliances. Let her scandalize the West if she pleases—it will remind them that dragons still breathe fire!”

The court erupted with laughter, though not all approved. Queen Alicent was said to have frowned, muttering that “a princess ought to show restraint befitting her station.” To which Viserys allegedly replied, “If my daughter rides her dragon and her lion with equal vigor, then the realm will be stronger for it.”

Mushroom claims the king later summoned him privately to hear the juicier details firsthand. Viserys listened with rapt attention, roaring with laughter at tales of the stable at Ashemark and the waves at Fair Isle. “I shall have to ask Jason for his secrets,” he joked, “for it seems my daughter is as much in love as she is with child.”

Thus did the honeymoon of Princess Y/N Targaryen and Lord Jason Lannister enter the annals of history—a tale of scandal, passion, and the marriage of dragonfire and gold that set tongues wagging from the Westerlands to King’s Landing. And if Mushroom is to be believed, it was not the last time the couple would shake the halls of castles to their very foundations.

As he so cheekily put it:

“The lion may roar, but only the dragon can make him purr.”

The wind off the Sunset Sea carried a cool bite as it swept through the open windows of Casterly Rock’s solar, tugging gently at the crimson and gold drapes. The chamber was bright with midday sunlight, reflecting off the polished marble floors and the rich accents that adorned every corner. In the center of the room, you sat near the hearth, cradling the gentle swell of your belly, your eyes drifting idly over the fire’s flickering flames.

You were high in your pregnancy now, the once subtle swell having blossomed into a clear and undeniable weight. While Jason had insisted you rest more frequently, you had grown restless in the days since returning from the Westerlands tour. The days were long, filled with a slow calm that seemed at odds with your usual pace. At least from your chair near the fire, you could watch the sun glint off the waves far below, where the sea stretched endless and unbroken.

A knock at the door broke the quiet, sharp and deliberate. Maester Ronnel entered a moment later, a roll of parchment in his hands, tied with the familiar black and red of Targaryen wax. “My lord,” he said, bowing his head toward Jason, who was seated at his desk in the far corner of the chamber. “A raven arrived this morning from King’s Landing.”

Jason, who had been skimming over maps of trade routes, looked up at the Maester with a brow raised in mild curiosity. “Another message? If it’s another request for gold, tell them our coffers are closed until my child is born. I’ll hear no more whining from the capital.”

Maester Ronnel’s thin lips twitched, though he said nothing as he held the letter out. “It comes sealed in Princess Rhaenyra’s name, my lord, and bears the king’s crest.”

At that, Jason straightened slightly and stood, brushing parchment dust from his tunic. He took the letter and examined the seal, his green eyes glinting with interest. “Rhaenyra, is it? Well, she rarely writes.” He shot you a glance, his tone light but teasing. “Your sister must have a great announcement. Perhaps she’s chosen a suitor at last.”

You hummed from your chair, a hand resting against the weight of your abdomen. “I imagine it’s far more important than that to warrant a raven sent to the West.”

Jason smirked as he broke the seal and unfurled the parchment, scanning the contents quickly. His expression shifted—brows rising first with surprise, then twisting into something closer to amusement. He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he folded the letter and turned toward you.

“Well, it seems your sister has made her choice after all.”

“What does it say?” you asked, shifting slightly to sit straighter, though Jason crossed the room before you could rise. He moved to sit on the low stool beside you, offering the letter with an air of dramatic flair.

“Rhaenyra Targaryen,” Jason began, his tone light with mock reverence, “heir to the Iron Throne, will wed Ser Laenor Velaryon of Driftmark. A match forged in the salt and flame of their houses—blah, blah, blah.” He waved his hand dismissively, though his grin betrayed his amusement. “A dull choice, if you ask me.”

Your brows furrowed slightly as you took the letter and skimmed its formal wording. It bore all the signs of courtly approval—prideful yet polite, leaving little doubt that King Viserys had orchestrated this match to secure House Velaryon’s continued allegiance. You sighed, rolling your eyes as you handed the parchment back to Jason.

“Laenor Velaryon,” you murmured, thoughtful but unimpressed. “It was inevitable. My father has always wanted to bind our houses more tightly.”

Jason leaned back slightly, propping one arm on the armrest of your chair as he regarded you with a smirk. “Inevitable, predictable—call it what you will, it is dreadfully boring. Your sister could have chosen anyone, and she settles for the Sea Snake’s son?” He shook his head. “Where’s the fire? The passion? It’s all too convenient.”

“She doesn’t have much choice,” you replied, though a faint smile tugged at your lips as you met his gaze. “A princess must consider her duty, must she not? Or do you forget that already, my lord husband?”

Jason grinned, his green eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, I’ve not forgotten. But I seem to recall a certain Targaryen princess choosing me, and I am neither predictable nor convenient.”

You laughed softly at that, unable to help yourself. “No, you are neither of those things, Jason Lannister. I imagine my father would still prefer you to be so.”

Jason scoffed, running a hand through his golden hair as he leaned forward, his tone conspiratorial. “Let’s see how your sister fares. A match to secure the fleet, no doubt—but what of love? What of laughter? What of scandal?” He grinned wolfishly, teasing you as his voice dropped. “I imagine the Velaryon boy will be far too proper for her. Nothing like you and me.”

“And what are we?” you asked, narrowing your eyes in mock challenge.

Jason’s grin softened into something more genuine as he reached for your hand, curling his fingers around yours. “We, my fierce dragon, are exactly what the world never saw coming—a lion who wed a dragon and doesn’t mind the burns.”

You rolled your eyes, though you squeezed his hand lightly. “You always speak like this when you are amused by others’ choices.”

“And why shouldn’t I be?” Jason replied, his voice light, though his gaze lingered on you with an unmistakable warmth. “Your sister may be the Realm’s Delight, but you…” He reached up to brush a strand of silver hair from your cheek, his touch lingering. “You are a tempest. And I will remind you of that every day.”

You sighed, though your heart swelled at his words. The warmth of his hand, the soft rustle of the sea wind—it grounded you in a way no letter from court ever could. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, though there was no heat in it.

“And you love me for it,” Jason replied smugly to the familiar jab, pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles before standing again. He turned back toward the desk, tucking the letter into his maps. “Come now, wife. I’ll send word of congratulations to your sister and include some wit to keep her entertained.”

“Do try to behave,” you called after him, though the smile lingered on your face long after he had turned away.

As Jason scribbled on a fresh parchment, his golden head bent low, you rested your hand on the swell of your belly again. Perhaps your sister’s match was predictable, but as you sat within the fortress of Casterly Rock, you realized you didn’t envy her in the slightest. Your fire had already been met by Jason Lannister’s—and gods be good, it burned far brighter than you ever could have imagined.

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