#Labyrinthine Heirs

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume 11, Number 3

Television Personalities

This month’s batch of short reviews spans free jazz and video-game inspired dungeon synths, field recordings, jangle pop, blackened noise, classical piano music and some long unavailable radio sessions from the late great Television Personalities — something for everyone, we hope.  Contributors this time around included Bill Meyer, Ian Mathers, Tim Clarke, Jonathan Shaw, Alex Johnson, Jennifer Kelly and Andrew Forell. 

C6Fe2KN6 — C6Fe2KN6 (Astral Spirits)

One virtue of small towns is that you get the neighbors. And while Marfa TX is not your average small town in many respects, its population is undeniably modest. This album is an outgrowth of a neighborly hang. Rob Mazurek has received his mail in Marfa for a decade now, and he has made it a point to get to know the painters, sculptors and polymaths who share his zip code. One of them is Nick Terry, who is the other half of the duo C6Fe2KN6. Mazurek plays trumpet and other instruments, most of which mix so harmoniously with Terry’s effects-laden guitar that they’re more felt than heard. The duo’s improvisations mix brass melody and stringed atmospherics in a manner similar to Loren Connors and Daniel Carter’s encounters. But where that New York duo’s music wears the weighty shroud of the city, you can feel the flatland breeze and emptiness in Terry and Mazurek’s.

Bill Meyer

Hollow Peasant — Siege of Tseldora (Self Released)

If you were going to make an album about the intriguingly excellent-but-flawed, cult favorite video game Dark Souls II (and not even the first one in recent years; see Sif’s solo doom metal effort in this Dust from last November), the wonderfully named “dungeon synth” leaps out as one of the more appropriate genres for it. Austin’s Hollow Peasant undergirds these drones and washes with both muted, stately drumbeats and “solidarity with the marginalized, the downtrodden, and all those who suffocate under the archaic laws and the oligarchs that write them.” The result is a 20 minute, mournful yet somehow optimistic processional, ending with the fittingly brighter “A new day in Brightstone Cove.” Siege of Tseldora absolutely feels appropriate to travelling through a dungeon, but (given the resolve on display here) not finding oneself trapped within one.

Ian Mathers

Daniela Huerta — Soplo (Elevator Bath)

Soplo is Spanish for breath. Daniela Huerta, a Mexican-born, Berlin-based sound artist, uses this modestly dimensioned (ten inches across, just shy of 27 minutes long) mini-album to blow perspective-adjusting intimations into the listener’s ear. It opens with the splash and burble of water, a sound that recurs on other tracks, before pulling back to let the insects buzz. A couple tracks in, Huerta’s own breath adds its rhythm to periodic rumbles that might be waves or passing elevated trains. Advance one more and churning electronics evoke a lightless vastness. Move on to side two and the sonic expanses get even more immense. Huerta’s sounds place evident humanity inside something much bigger and not necessarily mindful of human concerns at all, least of all whether that angle comforts you or makes you nervous.

Bill Meyer

Jonathan Personne — Nouveau Monde (Bonsound)

The fourth solo album by Corridor vocalist/guitarist Jonathan Robert comprises songs drawn from different eras in his career to date, brought together into an easy-flowing and addictive whole. The scuzzy centerpiece “Nuage Noir” is a dead-ringer for The Velvet Underground’s “Waiting for My Man,” but with a surprise chord change that launches the song into a transcendent realm. Before that highlight, the first half of this nine-song, 30-minute record is more upbeat and catchier— check out the organ-driven jangle-pop of “Les Jours Heureux,” and the beautiful title track, stripped back to organ and acoustic guitar until the wall-of-sound drum track kicks in. In the second half, “Le Cerf” features thunderous tom-tom work and clanging behind-the-bridge electric guitar tones reminiscent of Women, while “Vision” recalls the windscreen melancholy of The Moody Blues. Overall, Nouveau Monde is understated but rather brilliant.

Tim Clarke

Labyrinthine Heirs — S/T (I, Voidhanger)

Is blackened noise rock a thing? It’s easy to hear this new LP from Labyrinthine Heirs as straight-up Am Rep worship, pining for the prime years of Surgery, Halo of Flies and King Snake Roost. But vocalist Evan Sadler has a throaty growl that shifts the proceedings toward colder, kvlty sonic territory, and the themes of tunes like “Satan’s Domain Is the Liver” (say what?) and “Yaldabaoth Gored to Blindness” suggest more than a passing interest in the occult. Your humble reviewer digs “The Conceited Determination of Nimrod” best, which features lyric disquisitions like the following: “Language and thought as disorder / Language is driving you / Language is using you.” Word. Of course, the same song envisions “drowning in a sea of phlegm” at least three times, which is a pretty specific thing for language to drive at.

Jonathan Shaw

Osgraef — Reveries of the Arcane Eye (Amor Fati)

This first LP from black/death band Osgraef is seriously grim stuff. Osgraef combines the whirling chaos of Teitanblood with the lacerating toughness of the mighty Black Fucking Cancer — but those comparisons are less informative than they might be. The band does its own thing. “Nox Luciferi, Liber Koth,” the longest song on the record, presents a thrilling, compelling variety of black/death, deeply unpleasant and grueling. There’s not a large audience for this sort of thing, which intentionally alienates even as it works its supernatural charms. We might invoke the older, harder sense of the word “spellbinding” to describe Osgraef’s effects: listening to these sounds feels like it may bind you to some arcane compact, involving blood, thunder and the condition of your immortal soul. Yikes.

Jonathan Shaw

Ingrid Schmoliner — I Am Animal (Idyllic Noise)

Ingrid Scholiner is a pianist, vocalist, composer and academic from Vienna, Austria. She has crossed over from classical to more improvisational and experimental modes, but that doesn’t mean she’s forgotten her roots, which come in handy on this album’s two accessibly tuneful and sonically overwhelming pieces. They were recorded at the Dekanatspfarrkirche during festival artacts ’24. Performing in a church means having access to its organ, and church organ and surrounding space are her instruments on this remorselessly onrushing wall of sound. Throughout Schmoliner takes full advantage of the organ’s potential for polyphony, ”Achna” evolves slowly, stretching like a dragon waking from a hundred-year nap, but things really kick into motion on side two. On “Ascella” Schmoliner casts rhythmic cells that roll down the center of the piece like strike-bound bowling balls while massive chords rush overhead like a looming thunderhead. The music’s melodic progress is more patient, but unwavering, contributing another layer of inevitability.

Bill Meyer

Television Personalities — Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out: Radio Sessions 1980-1993 (Fire)

Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out – Radio Sessions 1980-1993, is a gratifying demonstration of Television Personalities’ consistently great songwriting and offers an intimate experience of the music. Whatever the shifting qualities of the band’s formal output, recordings like these present a group excelling at core, in sticky, bratty, grandiose and heartbroken pop. Even accounting for the fuzzy, cover-heavy 1993 WFMU session — see “Why Can’t I Touch It?” for a shaky desperation The Buzzcocks couldn’t muster — the pared clarity of this collection benefits the listener’s ability to focus on the songs. “Look Back in Anger,” recorded in 1980 for John Peel, is tighter, cleaner and, as a result, more impactful than the version that closed the band’s debut, …And Don’t the Kids Just Love It, a year later. The playing is punchier and does more to carry Dan Treacy’s vocals, which sound, for their relative tidiness, angrier and more stirringly resentful. From another angle, “Salvador Dali’s Garden Party,” recorded for the BBC in 1986, lacks the studio effects that crowd the version released on 1989’s Privilege. Out are the wobbling, warbling synthesizers, samples and vocal filters; emergent is the song’s bouncy, demented tunefulness. “Paradise Is for the Blessed” offers an interesting comparison in that the album version (again, Privilege), even with the requisite-to-era splashy drums, lightly rumbling bass and sky-grazing guitar jingle, doesn’t lack for emotional payoff. There, Treacy sounds starry-eyed, sad but at ease, a bit contemplative. Here, the guitar’s jingle is a crinkled jangle, the drums are blunter and the vocal wearier, more wrung out and raw. It’s sympathetic and human, an outpouring from a friend you’re glad you picked up the phone for.

Alex Johnson

Tremosphere — saturated solace

Tremosphere works from a very nocturnal space, its shadowy sonic caverns constructed out of splayed guitar strums, looming synths and a chilled murmur of singing. The singer, Sylvia Solanas, who also plays bass, piano and synths has worked with Michael Serafin-Wells for four albums now, concocting restless, agitated beauty out of unease. These songs slither and creep, insinuating themselves by osmosis. They might remind you, a little, of Elisa Ambrogio’s soft but extreme dream pop or of Dora Blue’s elusive art song or even Leya’s heat-mirage operas dissolving as you hear them. Echo-shrouded “Along the Way” slips by like silk, frictionless and cool, but it comes from mindset of anxiety and alienation; the artists dedicated this track to the trans community, now more than ever under siege.

Jennifer Kelly

Tu M’ — Monochromes Vol. 3 (LINE)

Italian multimedia artists Rossano Polidoro and Emiliano Romanelli were active as Tu M’ between 1998 and 2011, producing site specific audio-visual installations for gallery and museum spaces across Europe. On volume 3 of the Monochromes series, LINE brings together nine previously unreleased tracks recorded in 2008 and 2009. Tu M’s music hangs gently, dispersing in the air like vapor trails. In the interplay of light and shadow and the duo’s painterly attention to detail, there is sense of the ears’ focus altering as the music undulates around them. Tu M’ make aural and spatial environments in which meaning is less important than impression. There’s an eternal presence here, a timeless landscape, an endless sky. Onto that permanence, Polidoro and Romanelli project the evanescent beauty of human creation. Admirers of Eno, Basinski and Biosphere will find much comfort here.

Andrew Forell

Various Artists — Across the Horizon, Volume 1 (Northern Spy)

The first three “drops” from the Across the Horizon series showcase shimmering drones and aching arcs of melody in the instrumental cosmic country genre favored by creator Bob Holmes of SUSS. Each edition is, itself, curated by an established artist, who then selects two other artists they admire (though the compilation doesn’t specify who’s who). In any case, there are some lovely, lingering atmospheres at play in these tracks, whether the hovering auras and sandpaper rhythms of MJ Guider’s “To the Hour” or Pan American’s lucid, liquid “Point Harbor,” an Impressionist painting played on slide guitar. Drop 2 features Nashville pedal steel-ist Luke Schneider, once by himself and once with kindred spirit Marisa Anderson, both waking dreams of soft textures and billowing tone; fellow Nashvillian Kurt Hammett contributes the other cut, letting the twang glide over intricate webs of picking. Drop 3 veers towards the electronic in Dave Harrington’s Kingston-haunted “Cafecito Dub,” then tilts towards jazz in alto saxophonist Nicole McCabe’s evocative “Fixtures.” Eucademix, apparently a Yuka Honda project, closes out this edition of Across the Horizon, in shivering layers of electric keyboard, synths, guitars and jingling percussion.  

Jennifer Kelly

Yves De Mey — Force Over Area (Totalism)

Force over area equals pressure. Belgian producer Yves De Mey exerts his in a series of knotty miniatures that push and probe with deliberate claustrophobic insistence. Irregular beats rain down, odd niggling squiggles gnaw and scrape, nothing quite settles. This is music as virus, replicating and mutating within his machines. The title track weighs heavy upon febrile cells which seek to squirm from beneath the enveloping swell. De Mey delights in queasy juxtapositions, insectoid buzzing, creaking rust ridden metal, the pops and blips of deterioration. He conjures a sense of vegetal rot, of infection and decay, of mortality. Force Over Area could well serve as the soundtrack for dank atmospheres of his fellow Belgian, painter James Ensor, perhaps played on the remains of the harmonium that obsessed Ensor in his later years.

Andrew Forell

[say-al0e]

Hold Tight

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18. Minors, DNI!

Summary: Aemond has long sought comfort in the arms of the madame at his lowest. Now, he has what he's so long craved; a loving wife who is happy to indulge him. Warnings: Pregnant!Reader, lactation kink, PinV, mention of Luke's death and the war, mentions of the madame, Aemond's a little soft. If you notice anything else, let me know and I'll tag it! Pairing: Aemond x pregnant, wife!Reader Word Count: 7.6k HotD Taglist | HotD Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen knew the secrets of the Red Keep better than most.

As a child, he spent his days studying history and philosophy, learning the language of his ancestors or practicing with his blade, preparing himself for the future he knew awaited him. He kept to himself, tired easily of his brother’s torment and Helaena’s bugs - her riddles - and spent much of his idle time wandering the Keep.

Aegon was bold, slipping out of the gates with a command for the guard on watch to allow him and little regard for who knew. He used his power as the King’s eldest son, as the heir to the throne in the eyes of most, and came and went as he pleased. Helaena never left the Keep without supervision - never wanted to leave at all, really. And Aemond, as always, fell somewhere in between.

Many nights, when he found himself searching for sleep that refused to come, Aemond roamed the labyrinthine passages Maegor the Cruel left behind. He learned most of them, slipping in and out of the Keep as he pleased, and found the ones that he could someday use to his advantage.

Most apartments in the Keep contained an alternate entrance - or exit, if need be - that few knew existed. The royal apartments, he found, were most likely to contain them; Aegon’s, Helaena’s, his mother’s, his, yours.

Though, their existence was a secret he had yet to reveal to anyone, including you.

For as long as he could remember, Aemond made use of the passages. It was not often that he visited the city - he’d never been fond of it, never cared for the revelry in the same way Aegon did - nor did he spend much time by the water. The Keep was his home and where he felt safest. But he slipped from his room to the field where Vhagar resided from time to time, or to the Kingswood, just for a moment of peace.

However, after his thirteenth name day - and Aegon’s insistent ‘instruction’ - Aemond found himself returning to the city more than he ever had.

The unmarked door, one he’d grown to need and hate in equal measure, was his destination. It called to him, a siren song in the dead of night, on his darkest days and it seemed as if each day had grown darker than the last. The incident with Lucerys, the bitter sting of his mother’s wrath, the whispers beginning to fill the ears of all who might hear; every bit his fault, and every bit beckoning him closer to that door.

Aemond lingered there for a few long moments, moments he dared not count, as a war raged in his mind. Seconds could have passed, even hours, as he hid in the depths of the shadows. Many and more moons had passed since he last stepped foot into the city, since he last visited this place, but the song drew him closer.

There was comfort to be found inside, one he once craved so desperately, but he now knew better.

Love, affection, eluded him for so long that he saw this place - the woman inside, the gold he paid her - as his only option, the only chance to feel what others took for granted. A gentle hand, a soft word, a kind smile; he wanted little else and knew she would give it to him. 

Inside those walls, the world ceased to exist. There would be no mention of his nephew, his brother, his wife. The woman inside would not ask, would not mention the whispers he knew she’d already heard, and would only listen to whatever he decided to share. There would be no strategy, no attempt to comfort him with words he knew she didn’t mean. Instead, she would hear him confess his gravest sins before attempting to comfort him with the warmth of her mouth around his cock, the pads of her fingers tracing the tense muscle of his shoulder when he curled into her after.

Spending the night there, in her arms - no matter how tempting - would only add to the oppressive weight already crushing his chest. It was a truth he’d come to learn now that he knew real love, true affection, a reality he’d faced.

Despite himself, the tricks his mind played, the comfort he found there had never been real. With his body curled into hers, her fingers carding through his hair and his breath shuddering as he finally allowed himself to feel, he willed it to be a true comfort. He once considered this place, her, the pinnacle of vulnerability, of safety, of comfort.

Now, he knew there was none to be found there.

There was nothing she could say, nothing she could give him, that would provide any comfort at all. The siren song had ended, faded into the din of the city surrounding him, and Aemond could hear a new call. This song was sweeter, gentler, had blown in on a strong wind and erased all other noise the moment he fell in love with you.

Though the marriage was one of convenience at first, an arrangement made by your father and Aemond’s grandsire - his hand for the full strength of your house, when the time came - it had grown into something more.

For much of his life, Aemond refused to entertain the idea that any marriage he found himself in would be one filled with love. Marriage was bound to duty, something done for the good of your house - the good of the realm, in his case - and love meant little. Most lords disliked their wives, took other women to bed at any given chance, and the wives often rejoiced as they were no longer forced to share a bed.

The most he’d ever hoped for was a wife he could tolerate.

Aemond shared little of his mother’s faith, even less of her devotion to prayer and piety, but he often found himself thanking the gods for bringing you to him.

Hidden in the Red Keep, very likely in his own bed as you’d taken to spending more nights with him than alone, he imagined you asleep beneath the soft linen. Very clearly, he could see the white of your nightgown - a beautiful, soft material he found himself clutching between calloused fingers as oft as you would allow, drifting to sleep with the feeling of it soothing his warm skin - as your head rested on his pillow in a desperate bid to surround yourself with his scent.

That image - the picture of you he now saw so clearly, stamped in place of the door he’d been staring at without really seeing - was enough to break the invisible bond that kept him cemented in place. 

Without sparing the door another glance, Aemond turned and began his retreat to the Keep.

Each step through the city was quicker than the last, eager to return to the quiet of home - the solace that awaited him in his chambers. Aemond knew the route by heart now, could find his way back with his remaining eye closed, and breathed a sigh of relief as he wound through the hidden passages that lead back to his comfort.

The moment the door settled in place, clicked shut with a soft gust of cool air, Aemond crossed the expanse of the room carefully. His footsteps were light, a barely there sound in the quiet of the room, and he was glad for his caution as he perched on the arm of a chair. His gaze fell to the bed he’d grown so used to sleeping alone in and he felt the ghost of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth at the sight of another body making itself at home, directly in the middle of the mattress.

Just as he’d expected, you rested there comfortably. The white of your nightgown stood in stark contrast to the deep green of his sheets, a bright spot in the otherwise dim tapestry of his room - his life. 

Aemond sat there for a few long moments, time beginning to slow as he drank in the sight of you. The Keep was quiet, save for the odd shuffle of guards or servants, and he could hear the soft sound of your breathing as you shifted. 

Though you rested near the center of his bed, your head on his pillow and your hand outstretched - reaching for him, despite his absence - your brows furrowed with a discomfort he’d never seen. Beneath the soft bedding, he could see the curve of your body, resting on your side, and the shift of your hand as it lifted to cradle your stomach. The motion set him on edge, drew a sharp breath from him, and earned a fluttering of your lashes as some semblance of wakefulness returned to you.

“Aemond?” you questioned, voice still so soft despite the sleep clinging to you. 

“Mm.” He hummed, voice equally soft in the dim light of the room - the lone candle you’d left burning, a beacon for him to find his way in the dark. There was little doubt where your thoughts had begun to drift, the questions you wanted to ask; where he’d gone, how he felt, what came next? But he could not yet describe his feelings in words.

Before you could so much as part your lips, he sighed. “I went to see about Vhagar.” The lie slipped from his lips easily, believable enough, and his eye fluttered shut in a sort of relief - or, perhaps, shame, guilt - when you made a sympathetic noise. “I did not mean to wake you.”

As he stood, fingers beginning to work at the buttons of his doublet, you hummed. “’Twas not you,” you informed him, a sigh of your own escaping as you sat up against the headboard. “Your babe is restless and will not allow me to find comfort.” Aemond watched for a moment, keen eye following every move you made, as your hand returned to your growing belly. 

The babe you carried was now very visible, obvious to all who spared you a glance, and the sight was one that enraptured him and terrified him in equal measure. Aemond was a proud man, one who was eager to carry on the Targaryen line, but his family was not one of love. There was no comfort, no happiness, to be found in the Keep - none to be found in the arms of his mother, certainly not his father - and he often feared the same fate awaited his own children. But the soft smile that curved the plush of your lips each time you rested your hand on the swell of your belly and the delighted laughter you breathed each time one of Helaena’s babes brought you into their playtime served as another light, shining in the dark; a spot of hope that, perhaps, his children may know a love he never had.

Aemond’s eye finally lifted to yours, met your concerned glance with an even one of his own after a beat of silence that stretched on almost too long, before he shook his head. “My babe? I seem to recall that we both had a hand in his creation,” he reminded you, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he removed his breeches and stood in nothing but his small clothes.

“Mm, perhaps,” you hummed, though the glimmer in your eyes told him you remembered very well. “But her nocturnal nature is solely your own. At this hour, she is yours and yours alone,” you teased, smiling softly as he padded across the stone floor to make his way to bed.

“Still insistent our first babe will be a girl?”

“A mother knows,” you hummed, watching as he slipped into bed beside you. His violet eye raked over your form, still so easily visible in the dim light of the room, and you bit back a sigh as you reached for him. “Come here.”

With little coaxing, Aemond shifted closer to you. The shift of his body was easy, almost as natural as breathing now, and you hummed in encouragement as you pushed away the bedding to allow his head to settle on your plush thighs. His favored position was resting with his head on your chest, face tipped to the crook of your neck, but the swell of your belly and the sensitivity in your breasts left you both with little choice but to find an alternative.

The beat of his heart began to slow when your hand fell from your belly to his hair, fingers softly carding through the silver strands - now free of the tie he kept in it and the lace of his eyepatch. “What happened, my love?”

Silence settled thick over the room and he knew that you weren’t asking where he’d gone. Though you worried, his disappearance was of little concern to you in that moment. The truth would out eventually, he would admit his shame sooner rather than late - as he so often seemed to with you - but this question afforded him a bit more time.

This question was the one he dreaded, the one that truly meant; what happened that night with Lucerys?

“I sincerely regret that business with Luke,” he admitted, voice a whisper in the still of the room. “I… I was angry, but I only meant to scare him. I did not mean to end his life. But Vhagar, my temper; I lost control.” The confession, whispered to you in the only place he’d ever known true safety, felt like a weight off his chest. It left behind a crater, a chasm that he knew would be difficult to fill, but sharing the secret with you made it easier for him to draw his breath. It escaped as a soft sigh, a puff of air blown across your thighs - now exposed, fabric of your nightgown pushed out of the way to allow his own hand to fall to the plush of your thigh. “Aegon is shortsighted. He wishes to throw feasts, to celebrate bloodshed. Mother is angry because she knows what must come next. Peace is no longer an option.”

Aemond’s confession lingered in the air for a long moment. It reverberated in his ears, rang like the bells that tolled on the day of his father’s death, but you calmed the noise with a quiet sigh.

“I don’t believe peace was ever an option,” you confessed, carefully brushing silver strands away from his sapphire eye. “This war started long ago, before you or Aegon or Rhaenyra were even a thought. It will be convenient, for some, to blame you and Vhagar, but this began before you took the sky together. And someday, there will be none who remember what started it or why it was fought. History will only remember the bloodshed that we must now bear the brunt of.”

No response came to him, lost in the thoughts that swept through his mind like a raging storm, but he knew you didn’t expect one. The words were meant to be a balm, soothing the soul he bared only for you, and he took them as such as he allowed his eye to fall closed.

There was something to be said of routine, then, as you followed the familiar dance that started months ago. 

Silence lingered for a beat, long enough for his breathing to even and your own to grow deeper - always so shallow now, he noticed, almost labored as your stomach grew ever rounder - before you spoke again.

“I spent the day with the twins,” you informed him, fingers still softly working through the strands of his hair. “Helaena wanted to take Dreamfyre out so I sat with them and we watched her fly. I think Jaehaerys will love being a dragonrider, like Helaena, but it seems Jaehaera has no interest.”

“And Maelor?” 

Aemond’s question was reflexive, asked without thought, but you took a moment to consider it. “Too young to tell,” you decided, allowing your hand to drift to his cheek and brush the sharp line of his jaw. “He has no reaction to the stink of dragon, unlike his sister, but he may, later on. Aegon wishes to take him flying on Sunfyre but Helaena has forbidden it.” Another moment of quiet, then, before you hummed once more. “Has an egg been chosen for our babe’s cradle? Or do you wish our daughter to be like her father and claim a fearsome old beast?”

The reminder of the babe you swelled with drew a shuddering breath from him as Aemond struggled to keep the grasp he held on your thigh light. “Our son will have an egg,” he promised, “but they do not always hatch. He might try for one of the unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone. Vermithor is nearly as fearsome as Vhagar, nearly as old.”

‘If we can pry Dragonstone from Rhaenyra’s hands,’ went unsaid, though you both allowed the thought to cross your minds.

That thought did not linger, however, as you allowed your hand to drift from his cheek to his shoulder. Soft fingers caressed his skin, warm and strong, and Aemond relaxed into your touch. “How can I help you, my love? I mislike seeing you this way.”

More often than not these days, Aemond found himself here. Many and more nights had been spent curled into the curve of your body, his head resting against your skin as you stroked his hair and spoke softly to him, but they seemed to grow more frequent. Aemond knew that you were observant, that you’d realized he seemed to need your embrace more and more with each passing day, but even he could not articulate why.

Perhaps the weight of his inheritance had finally caught up to him. Or, perhaps it was the knowledge of all he’d done in preparation for his brother’s reign. He even considered it was the possibility that he found himself desiring his brother’s crown, the one Aegon had no desire for.

In truth, he knew that it was you.

The moment you joined hands, the moment you became his wife, Aemond began to feel the walls he’d spent so long building crumble around him. You chipped away at the slowly, almost imperceptibly, but they toppled all the same.

With every moment spent together, with every word of affection you shared or every soft brush of your fingertips across his skin, Aemond felt his world shifting.

Everything he’d ever considered important remained, still mired in the golden glory of his inheritance, only you now loomed over it all. All with the babe you now carried, his babe, alongside you.

“You are with child,” he whispered, shifting to lie on his back and glance up at you.

“I hadn’t noticed,” you returned, drily. When he fixed you with a look, violet eye unamused, you sighed. “I am with child,” you agreed, free hand falling to your belly as you stroked his hair once more. “Our child. That is what we wanted, is it not?”

“It is.” That was always the plan; get married, have children, carry on the Targaryen legacy. Only, the plan had never included losing his eye and spilling the first blood that began a war - killing a child, a nephew.

Aemond could not bring himself to say those words aloud, however, as your fingers carefully carded through his hair, he knew that you understood. There was a fear you both shared, one that had grown heavier since the incident with Lucerys, but he dared not speak it and neither did you. Losing a babe was something that frightened you both - him, nearly as much as losing you in the process - but he willed himself to push that concern to the back of his mind.

Instead, he searched desperately for a thought more pleasant.

Initially, when your betrothal was announced and preparations began for the wedding, he heard murmurs of those who pitied you. It was a shame, they all said, that such a pretty maiden - known for her kindness, her beauty, her wit - would be married to someone like him. He was, after all, noted for his sullen silence and impassive expression.

Everyone wondered how you might fare, locked away in the Keep as your husband-to-be rarely ventured outside its walls, just as Aemond wondered how he might tolerate a highborn lady who doubtlessly believed the whispers.

Those whispers had proven false - just as you’d proven that you never believed any of them.

Love, a curious thing he never hoped to find, bloomed between the two of you. It was not instant, as he learned you had hoped, but slow and cautious. Trust took time, vulnerability even more, but they came, eventually. And with them came a relationship that seemed to stun the whole of the realm into silence.

The pair of you were evenly matched: both highborn, well-educated and eager to continue learning; both fond of the quiet, though you had a natural charm and ability to pretend to enjoy banal chatter that he did not possess; both desperate for a love, a comfort, that you never found at home. There were many similarities, and more differences, but the love that bloomed brought you both a happiness you never knew possible.

And now, as you grew round with the evidence of your love, he discovered another feeling he never thought possible.

Aemond always found you beautiful - he agreed with the whispers of court, that you were much too beautiful to be chained to him for the rest of your life - and he spent the first few weeks of your courtship attempting to ignore his baser urges. There would be time enough for him to indulge in you, for him to see you as no other had ever seen you, but a desperate need for you began to take root then and had yet to release him from its iron grasp.

With every day that passed, Aemond wanted you even more.

Aegon often spoke of the joys of sex, the great pleasure he found in the Streets of Silk, and Aemond never quite believed him. The little experience he had - courtesy of his brother’s goading and gold coin - proved Aegon a liar. However, when Aemond found himself settled between your thighs, he finally believed his brother.

Now, there was little that settled him - anchored him to the moment and cleared his mind of all the noise - quite like losing himself in the throes of pleasure with you.

Since you began to swell with his child, your belly growing round and your tits beginning to spill from your gowns, Aemond found himself even more drawn to you - a feat he hadn’t believed possible. There was something so alluring about the sight of you, wandering the Keep dressed in the color of his house and bearing the most obvious sign that you were his, that it had begun growing maddening.

Luckily, you seemed to be just as desperate for him as he was for you.

The maesters assured you both that there was no harm to be done in satiating your urges and, though he was hesitant in the beginning, soon trusted they spoke nothing but the truth. Now, as he found himself eager for comfort - soft words, loving touches - he allowed himself to seek it in your embrace.

“Are you tired, ābrazyrys?” His question was soft, spoken into the silence that settled easily around you, and met with your hum.

“No.” It was a lie, he knew - could tell by the way your lashes fluttered and your fingers slowly brushed at his skin, the way your lips parted with badly concealed yawns - but you would not be swayed from allowing him whatever he wanted. “I’m here, my love,” you assured him, thumb caressing his cheek. “Take what you need.”

Aemond knew that your body was beginning to grow weary - he’d heard your whispered complaints to Helaena; how your back ached constantly, how your body felt heavier with every step, how even your softest gowns felt too rough on your sensitive skin - and nearly refused you as he had no desire to cause you pain. But the warmth of arousal had already entered his blood, burned beneath his skin, and the shift of your thighs beneath his head indicated that you felt it, too.

Rather than backing away, Aemond moved to sit up and crowded closer to you.

“Gevie,” he whispered, violet eye raking over your face as he lifted his hand to cup your cheek. “Issa gevie ābrazyrys.” Aemond pressed his mouth to yours, then, and you swore you felt his lips curve into a soft smile as you leaned into him.

Aemond had softened some, over the course of your marriage. Though he remained himself, steadfast and strong in who he had become, the edges grew a little more polished. His touch was gentler, his words softer, his kiss less rushed, and you appreciated the effort he’d taken as he tipped his head to deepen the kiss. His hand descended, brushed the soft material of your nightgown as his tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you released a contented sigh.

The large expanse of his hand fell to your ribcage, just beneath the swell of your breast, and though you knew it was coming, you still gasped as his thumb brushed a sensitive nipple.

“I’m alright,” you assured him, the moment he broke the kiss - before he could ask. Your hand lifted to his cheek, thumb brushing his warm skin as you offered him a smile. “Sensitive, is all. The maesters told me it’s normal,” you explained, watching as his gaze fell to your breasts. “They… they also said stimulation may help,” you continued, fingers returning to his hair as his violet eye returned to meet yours.

“Stimulation?”

Aemond knew he hadn’t been subtle in the attention he paid your swelling breasts, in the way his gaze fell to them every time he found you bare between his sheets, but his skin burned with an embarrassed warmth and an overwhelming lust as he realized what you were offering.

“Mm,” you hummed, not bothering to hide your actions as you lifted the skirt of your nightgown higher up your thighs. “I tried, with my fingers, the way they instructed to no avail. Perhaps you have another idea, my love?”

For a brief moment, Aemond felt his head begin to swim. His thoughts muddled, each one making less sense than the last, but they all seemed to lead in the same direction. It was a desire he’d never dared speak aloud, one he barely allowed himself to consider, but the rounder you grew with his seed - the heavier your breasts grew - the harder it became for him to forget. 

Most nights, Aemond spent his time wrapped in your embrace. He enjoyed exploring your skin, mapping the soft expanse of your body with his hands and mouth, and had committed it all to memory. His words sometimes failed him, never quite capturing just how much you meant to him - just how deeply he loved you - but his touch never did. With a flick of his tongue or a brush of his fingers, with a snap of his hips or a soft press of his hand, he continued to find new ways to express himself. And when he’d gotten his fill of you, of hearing you cry his name and watching your body writhe with an exquisite pleasure only he could provide, he filled you with his seed before sometimes settling at your breast.

While he once feared you might find the act strange, that it might repulse you, you were eager to take him as he was. Any act that offered him comfort was one you allowed and the few times he curled into you, flushed body pressed to yours and mouth pressed to your breast, he felt nothing but your love.

As he swallowed, hesitant, you offered him a smile. “You will not harm me or the babe, my love,” you assured him, fingers caressing his jaw as they began to drift lower. “If anything, you will be helping me.” When he frowned, uncertain - disbelieving - you hummed. “Feel,” you instructed, reaching to guide the hand on your rib cage to your breast. It was engorged, heavy and warm in his palm, and you sighed as his thumb mindlessly brushed the nipple once more. “When the babe is born, she will have a nursemaid and I will be left with swollen, leaking tits.”

Aemond acted without thought in that moment and allowed himself to take what you offered so freely. His hands lifted to the straps of your thin nightgown and brushed them off your shoulders, giving him an opportunity to free you from the confines of the fabric.

Pregnancy had changed your body, in a way that terrified him at first - something so delicate now rested within you, a life he helped create - but now drove him to the brink of madness.

A searing warmth, all encompassing and hotter than any dragon fire, enveloped him. And a single glance at your face proved that you did, too. You felt the heat of him, the warmth of his palms - of his heavy gaze, his lithe body - and feared you were only moments from begging him to act when he took mercy on you. The gift you offered, the act you so willingly encouraged him to indulge in, was one he would never refuse.

His touch had never been exceedingly gentle, nor was it particularly hesitant. Aemond was a man assured, confident. There were moments he could be tender, even teasing, but none compared to the moment at hand.

The press of his hands to your sides, just beneath your rib cage, was soft. It was a featherlight pressure, one you feared you might not have felt were it not for the overwhelming sensitivity of your skin, and you sighed contentedly as your hand returned to the silver strands of his hair.

Slowly, and with a caution you’d never before seen in your husband, Aemond’s hands lifted. 

Aemond was almost tentative, careful, in the way he touched you. His violet eye remained fixed on your face - watching, waiting for any hint of discomfort - and you offered him an encouraging smile as you leaned into his touch. “I am not fragile,” you reminded him, a small grin forming at the words he’d once used to declare his surprise at your steadfastness, your unwavering strength. “I will not break.”

A moment passed, in which you watched your husband gather himself, before his hands lifted to your breasts. He seemed to marvel at the weight of them, the warmth of your skin - usually so cool in the depths of his chambers - and hummed.

As he leaned in, gaze finally dipping to your breasts, you expected him to press his mouth to your skin - bury his face in the crook of your neck, press his lips to your collarbone and work his way down - but you were surprised when he tipped his head to catch your lips in a searing kiss. Though he never left you wanting, never left you doubting his desire for you, this kiss stole your breath.

The kiss was unlike any other; fierce, passionate. It fanned the flames of desire already burning within you and turned it into an uncontrollable blaze. As eager as you always felt for his touch, the fierceness of his kiss left desperate tears pricking at the backs of your eyes.

Calloused hands - toughened by years of swordplay and dragon riding - began to explore in earnest.

Every press of his palm, every swipe of his fingers drew soft noises from your lips, cries that Aemond swallowed eagerly. He relished in them, in the noises only he managed to draw from you, and you felt the evidence of his pleasure press into your thigh.

For a moment, you wondered if he might refuse your offer. However, the thought disappeared with a swipe of his thumb over the sensitive skin of your nipple.

Aemond allowed you to break the kiss, lips parting in a sharp gasp, and wasted little time in pressing his mouth to the curve of your jaw. There seemed to be little hurry in his actions, the way he nipped and kissed the soft skin of your throat, but you could feel the tension in his corded muscles as he crowded into you. He seemed to be nearly vibrating with desire, a tremble that made you lightheaded - an awe that you could produce such a reaction in such a man - and you struggled to catch your breath as he began to descend.

There was a brief worry - a split second thought that never fully formed - that he might avoid your eye in the way he had the very first time, when there was no babe and no real reason to suckle at your breast. However, it was quickly driven away as your husband’s violet eye lifted to meet yours.

Soft kisses were pressed to your skin, across the tops of your breasts and between them - violet eye fluttering as he paused only to marvel at the newfound heat emanating from your skin.

“The maesters told me I would remain warm until the babe is here. They jest it is because I carry the blood of the dragon,” you informed him, hand falling to the back of his head to cradle him close. “I’m not sure I mind. But, tell me, husband; what do you think?”

Though your husband had always been a man of few words, he seemed lost in his own thoughts. The words you spoke meant little to him, it seemed, as he found himself capable of only a simple reply. “I shall keep you warm and full,” he promised.

Already, he could see you swollen with his seed - with the blood of the dragon - again and again. He would see you round with his babe as many times as you would allow and you could see the promise in his eye as he glanced up at you. “Perhaps it is good there will be a nursemaid, then,” you hummed, unable to bite back your grin as Aemond’s mouth pressed just beneath your breast. “So you may spend as much time at my breast as you’d like.”

In the moment, the present mattered little. All that had come to pass ceased to exist and all that might come felt good, sweet. In reality, the future seemed bleak, but in the moment, there was a future. And all either of you wanted was to pretend.

Without sparing another moment, Aemond’s lips wrapped around the sensitive nipple.

The warmth of his mouth, the swirl of his tongue, was cautious at first - desperate to keep from hurting you, to keep from causing any pain - and you hummed contentedly as his eye fluttered shut. Your fingers carded through his hair, touch as delicate as his own, as your free hand fell to his chest.

Aemond’s heart thrummed beneath your fingertips, the beat of it as erratic as you’d ever felt it, and you felt your own beat in time with his. 

No part of you ever imagined you would find yourself here - in bed with your dragon rider, the fierce swordsman and Targaryen prince, suckling at your breast - but there was no dismay in it. The pair of you were two halves of a whole: him, desperate to be wanted, needed, loved; you, desperate to love, to want, to need. There was a balance, an equal give and take, that saw you both offering the other what they desired freely. You understood one another in a way no one ever had and you were grateful for that understanding as Aemond attempted to crowd closer.

“My sweet love,” you whispered, fingers brushing the silver strands from his cheek. “This is what we both needed,” you assured him, voice a quiet lilt in the dim of his chambers. “Feels so much better.”

A pleased hum - proud, soothed by your praise - escaped your husband as his free hand returned to your thigh. His fingers pressed into the plush skin, anchoring himself to you, and you sighed at the touch. His hand was so close to where you wanted him and you asked without sparing it a second thought.

“Aemond,” you whispered, hand reaching for his - fingers clasping around his wrist and dragging it higher. “Touch me, please. Need you.”

Calloused fingers slipped between your thighs, lips curving into a smile at how readily you parted for him. His touch paused only for a moment, as did the gentle pull of his lips at your breast, as he seemed to realize the state you were in.

Slick pooled between your thighs and Aemond readily gave you what you wanted. His fingers swiped through your arousal, gathering your slick, before his thumb found the all-too sensitive bundle of nerves. 

The wet slip of his fingers was self-assured, an action he’d taken a thousand times before, and it seemed as if he knew your own body better than you did. Heat pooled in the pit of your stomach, filled your veins and blazed up your spine, as he rolled the numb beneath his thumb for a moment before abandoning it to press his fingers to your slick opening.

“You enjoy this,” he accused, finally allowing his violet eye to open as he released your nipple and urged you to turn so he could reach the other. “As much as I do,” he continued, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I do,” you promised, sigh escaping your lips as you felt his long fingers press into you - curling, parting, manipulating in the way only he knew. “I have never turned you away,” you reminded him, words ending in a breathless moan. “If you are as depraved as you imagine yourself, then consider me your equal.”

Aemond seemed pleased by your assertion, proud to have found a wife who not only indulged him, but understood him. And you were pleased, as he returned his mouth to your aching breast, that he trusted you enough to allow you this glimpse. 

The press of his mouth to your breast was growing ever eager, desperate for whatever you could give him - and, as it turned out, was not much yet, though you knew he would patiently await the day it would be more. It was soothing, almost, in a way that eased the ache you’d begun growing weary of, and you parted your lips to thank him for it the moment his thumb pressed to your aching clit.

A keening moan escaped, a noise that might’ve brought an embarrassed heat to your skin in the beginning of your marriage, but such noises were familiar now and your husband reveled in them.

Some small part of you wondered if he meant to have you both finish this way, him with his mouth pressed to your breast and you with his fingers curling into your heat. Only, he gave you little time to wonder as he lifted his head to glance at you fully.

“I know your body aches,” he hummed, press of his fingers slowing - thumb stilling on your clit, earning a displeased whine. “Do you think you can take my cock, my love? I have no desire to cause you discomfort.”

“You will,” you huffed, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging - just slightly, “if you do not fuck me.”

Aemond laughed, then, a sound you imagined few others had ever heard, before pulling away from you. You whined at the loss of his touch, the emptiness that filled you and the cool that suddenly chilled you, before your attention was stolen. His lips wrapped around his fingers, capturing the taste of you on his tongue, and you swallowed hard to keep from lunging at him as he settled against the headboard himself.

“Come here,” he beckons, hand already reaching for you hip and hauling you onto his lap. “So fucking perfect.”

Before the babe, before your stomach began to swell, this was a rarity. Aemond preferred you beneath him, pressed into his mattress as he left you seeing stars, but he’d admitted he could see the beauty of the position you now found yourselves in.

As expected, the moment you settled atop him, his gaze returned to your breasts. “One may think you’d never seen tits before,” you teased, not bothering to hide your grin as Aemond rolled his eye. “I jest, my love,” you hummed, reaching out for him - encouraging him to return his mouth to your breast. “It helped,” you assured him. “They no longer ache as they did when I woke. Thank you.”

Aemond lifted a hand to the back of your neck, then, and pressed his lips to yours in a kiss. The kiss was more familiar, something you’d grown to expect - grown to love - and you felt yourself melting into it as he crowded you closer.

The swell of your belly made it difficult to press your body as close to his as you would’ve liked, as close as he would’ve liked - in the privacy of his chambers, beneath the sheets of his bed, Aemond liked you a close as he could have you - but it was enough. His hands explored your warm skin, slick beneath his fingers and no longer aching in the way you’d complained earlier, and you relaxed into his touch as his hand slipped between your spread thighs once more.

Though you expected his fingers to return to your center, Aemond’s hand fell to his cock. You breathed something akin to a sigh of relief as you felt the tip glide through your slick folds, catching on your aching clit and drawing another keening moan that he eagerly swallowed.

The head of his cock nudged your slick opening, nestled there as you rested on your knees, before he lifted his hand to your hip and pulled you down.

A familiar stretch, a familiar warmth, captured the whole of your attention as you sank down onto Aemond’s cock.

Every pulse of him, every twitch of his cock - every ridge, every vein - was heightened by your sensitivity and your eyes nearly rolled back as you sank onto him fully. He filled you wonderfully, perfectly, and reveled in you saying so. Only, he barely allowed you a moment at all to speak before his mouth returned to your breasts.

Each sensation was overwhelming in its own right, every touch more consuming than the last, but the combination of it all had you seeing stars.

The warmth of Aemond’s body pressed to yours, the way his muscles clenched as he rocked his hips up to meet yours, the insistent press of his hand - fingers dimpling your skin as he held you tight - was all magnified by the warmth of his lips pressed to your breast. Even as his hips snapped, pressing his cock in deeper, the press of his mouth remained soft.

Aemond was careful to keep from hurting you, despite his desire to devour you - clear in the lust darkening his violet eye - and you lifted a grateful and to his cheek.

“Feels so good,” you breathed, gaze meeting his. “You make me feel so good, my love.”

The praise he craved, the words he desperately needed to hear but would never ask for, earned you a sharp snap of his hips - driving him deeper, pressing you closer - and you gasped as his teeth carefully nipped at your sensitive nipple. He’d already taken what little your body had produced, would need to wait a little longer for more, but that did nothing to stop him from continuing to suckle at the soft skin as his thumb fell to your clit.

As he so often tried, your husband pressed you on to your pleasure first. His fingers, his mouth, his cock; all working together in an eager attempt to earn your blissful cries. That sharp violet eye watched your face, watched your lips part and your lashes flutter, and you could see the pride in his gaze as you began to quiver in his grasp.

When your release washed over you, heavy and so desperately needed, Aemond allowed himself to let go. He chased his own high for a moment, sinking into the pleasure of you - of your slick cunt, of your swollen breasts.

With a muffled noise, Aemond spilled into you - his spend filling you with a warmth you swore you would never tire of. It was accompanied by a soft gasp, a quiet noise that you wouldn’t have heard over your own heartbeat had you not been paying him such close attention, and you reached for his cheek with a soft smile.

Aemond easily lifted his head, his mouth meeting yours, and gave you the kiss you wanted. It was an assurance for you both, a gesture meant to calm - to serve as a reminder that you were bound, one - and ended with his forehead pressed to yours.

“All of this,” you whispered, the pair of you still struggling to catch your breath, “will end and we will carry on. And when our duty is done, we will be free to live our lives as we wish. You did not start this war, but you will finish it.”

“I will,” he promised, violet eye glimmering with an unscheduled tear as his hand fell to your swollen belly.

It was a promise he couldn’t make in good faith, nor one he could reasonably be expected to keep, but it was enough for the moment. The idea that this is what awaited him - this life, you - made him desperate. He wanted nothing more than to carry on, than to spend the rest of his life right here, and he would do anything in his power to make it happen.

And, if he could not spend the rest of his life here, he would perish in the pursuit.

____________________________________________________

Author's Note: Aemond just. Captivates me. How am I supposed to survive two years without more content?

Taglist: @anaya-rhys, @holypeacecrown, @marvelously-flawed, @travelingmypassion, @letsgotothehop, @reynacrawford, @liannafae, @ffsg0jo

[vasel1ne]

for i cannot forgo your warmth (i will miss it dearly)

✩࿐ summary - physical possessions (both borrowed and gifted) that remind them of your warmth

✩࿐ warnings - mentions of blood, smoking and weapons

✩࿐ pairings - aglaea, fugue, gallagher, boothill, serval x gn!reader

aglaea keeps your golden pocket knife on the strap of her outer left thigh. the handle is a coarse, brown leather but the silver-gold metal of the actual blade shines with a gleam that has not met the squalor taste of blood. she wishes it won’t at all, but she knows it eventually will with her reputation as the “heartless” chrysos heir – although only for her own protection of course, she would not dare damage her dearests’ possessions. aglaea flicks her memories to the countless times she has seen you balance the blade between your nimble, agile fingers, demonstrating a plethora of tricks with the weapon as if it were an extension of your own body – from simply spinning the dagger between your fingers to twirling the sharpened side with your bare hands, she has seen it all.

she remembers the way you placed the blade in the expanse of her palm the night of your departure, the auburn tint of leather a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin. her breath always hitches when she remembers how you made her vow to you that she would protect herself, that she would “be selfish for once” – you held the hand that held your precious dagger as she made such promises to you, further dampening your departure by pressing a kiss to the side of her head. so now, aglaea keeps the blade tucked under carefully crafted robes of silk – just under the leather strap that wraps around her upper thigh.

gifted to her by you, fugue keeps ornamental hair pins in her possession at all times. as much as she may adore her long brunette locks she can admit that – more often than not – it shields her face when she is trying to eat miscellaneous snacks she buys from street vendors. finding this small peeve to dullen her experiences of strolling through the luofu’s streets, she vents her frustrations to you. naturally, a few days later she bids you farewell on your travels and thinks nothing more of her previous vexation. when you return and present her a wrapped crimson cloth, she is convinced that you’ve simply bought her a few more foreign crystals – it's not a bad thing when you do though, in fact she does quite like them, placing them in a straw-woven basket in her room. but this time, she unravels the cloth to reveal a few hairpins, a rich gold tone with intricate weaving of quartz and crimson red detailing – it seems to fit her daily attire almost perfectly.

fugue is initially confused, her head tilting to the side slightly but a small appreciative smile nevertheless. she starts to understand the incentive behind the gift when you recall her previous vexations about her hair getting in the way while she eats, and she claps her hands with glee and slight surprise and adoration that you would remember such a thing, wrapping her arms around you and placing kiss to your cheek. now whenever fugue goes out to stroll the streets of the luofu, she makes sure that she has her hair pins somewhere in her purse.

gallagher is a seemingly put-together man, however in actuality resembles the memory of a goldfish when he forgets yet again to bring a lighter to your smoke break. you’re both sitting in a secluded corner of golden hour, hidden away from his underlings when you reluctantly let him use the flame of your beloved lighter. simple is the last thing to describe the small thing, its iron casing with labyrinthine patterns and silver-gold borders makes it way above both of your guys’ pay grade. the little cherry on top is the rose flower illustrated onto the iron casing, it too also having a silver-gold border. a smirk reaches his face when you toss the lighter to him, “nice lighter you got here,” he whistles, before lighting his cigarette and tossing it over back to you.

it was foolish of you to think that your partner would have the capacity to remember his own lighter the next time you decide to take a smoke break, but alas you find yourselves in the same predicament as last time. you give a pointed glare and a roll of your eyes, handing it over to him as you lean against his side. subtly watching him from the corner of your eyes, you watch the way his calloused fingertips run over the grooved indents and patterns of the iron casing, the smile that graces his broad features when he admires the rose on the front.

the next time you’re both supposed to take your smoke break together, gallagher receives a text message from you that reads, “busy :( sorry dear can’t come” which in response he sends a quick thumbs up emoji. taking a cigarette out of a packet he realizes that he’s forgotten his lighter. again. then he receives another text message, “check your pockets ;)” sliding his hand down his right back pocket, he feels a small hard object. pulling it out to inspect it, a rose-engraved iron cased lighter sits in the palm of his hand and gallagher can’t help but bark a laugh.

boothill gets into scraps, more than often than you’d like, and much to your dismay he doesn’t intend on stopping. nevertheless, you’re always by his side after these little fights, washcloth in hand. at first, he sent you a confused look, eyebrows raised as the cloth wiped the blood off his metal chest. “why clean there – no point when it’s metal,’ he said offhandedly, leaning back with his arms supporting him. you had sighed as you wrung the washcloth in the soapy bucket, the water already turning a translucent pink. “why do we brush our teeth every night? go to bed?” you had asked him, turning your attention to his scratched and bloodied abdomen, “it’s because taking care of our body gives us the opportunity to take care of other things too,” you smiled when the inky colour of his eyes met your own, “and i think that that is one of the best things in the universe,” you said as you wiped the remaining crimson off his stomach, sealing your words with a kiss. 

without you by his side, he launches himself into the battlefield – his fearlessness and relentless nature on the field apparent in the way blood stains the reflective silver of his upper body. but now this time, boothill has a washcloth – tucked away in the pockets of his pants. you’re not there with him, to drag the cloth over his bare chest with a gentility he had never experienced until he had met you, but he can feel those moments when his fingertips graze the fibers of the cloth. so, when he gets into a scrap at golden hour, he finds himself huffing and puffing his way to the rinky-dink bar bathroom, where he braces himself against the sink. taking out the washcloth, he runs it under the tap and starts to dap away at the dirtied spots of his chest, abdomen and arms. all so maybe one day, he could do this for you.

being serval’s partner automatically makes you her involuntary lab assistant. she doesn’t ask you to do anything too hard of course, merely measuring out a few chemicals, finding bits and pieces in her workshop or just standing by her side as she tinkers with a possibly explosive invention. she also doesn’t force you to do anything if she sees you are too tired or stressed, which happens one night after a particularly arduous expedition with the silvermane guards. you’re lounging in serval’s workshop, waiting for her to finish up and your eyes cannot help but stare at your girlfriend as she weaves through her space, fetching various measurement cups and chemicals from her shelves. you watch as she very, very slowly pours in the liquid into one of the cups, eyeing it with such intensity that you worry the glass might shatter from the weight of her gaze. her electrified blue eyes are barely visible now, squinting so hard that you also fear that serval may squint her way into a migraine. 

sighing to yourself, you walk upstairs to retrieve a pair of reading glasses on your bedside table, and unsurprisingly, serval is still pouring the liquid into the beaker. sliding your hands along her shoulders to get her attention, she sets the bottle down on the counter and chirps a “hm?” when she turns to face you. plopping your reading glasses on her face, the glasses actually fit perfectly on her, the simple black rectangular frame reminds you of something akin to the old man at belebog’s museum and you giggle. serval doesn’t think much of it at the time, giving you a peck on the lips and a small “thanks” before continuing her work. you note that this time, she has her eyes open normally, having no problem with pouring the liquid into the beaker.

you also notice that serval asks you less and less to help her out in her workshop, but instead finding your reading glasses more on her face than your bedside table. of course you don’t mind, in fact, you think she looks ten times more dashing and charming with them on, biting the corner of your lip to stop yourself from smiling whenever she has them on. she even sometimes has them perching right above her forrid when talking to her actual assistant molly, and you have to restrain yourself from planting a big fat kiss on her cheek. though, it eventually makes you wonder that all those times when you were her involuntary assistant, you were more her pair of eyes then anything else.

✩࿐ a/n - after intensely staring at character designs for the past few hours i have brought you this! honkai star rail's prettiest right here

thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed !

[doumadono]

IV - THE BUTCHER OF THE DEADLANDS

Summary: Shigaraki and All For One sought answers from the ruthless Overhaul, whose dark experiments and growing influence might threaten Sangreal’s reign, and might hold the key to unraveling the mysteries of the human girl Dabi spared as well. Meanwhile, Hawks, a Sangreal Hunter, suggested a deeper connection between you and Dabi’s potential plans, sparking a new wave of uncertainty within you

Warnings: mentions of blood & experiments, vampires, mentions of vampire Dabi, vampire Shigaraki, vampire AFO, vampire Overhaul, vampire Hawks, Shigaraki despises Overhaul and vice versa

WCT: circa 2.6k

𖥸 SANGREAL - previous chapter 𖥸 chapter V 𖥸 SANGREAL - playlist 𖥸 SANGREAL - masterlist 𖥸 MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

The Deadlands stretched endlessly beyond the shattered ruins of Musutafu, a wasteland of ashen soil and skeletal remains, where the land itself had been scarred beyond repair. The last nuclear blasts had left this place twisted, grotesque, a place where the air was thick with the stench of decay and scorched metal.

The sky, choked by ash, hung low over the ruins, casting everything in an eerie sepia glow. 

Nothing lived here. Nothing human, at least. What was left had been claimed by monsters. And some of those monsters built kingdoms in the dark.

Somewhere within this desolation, carved into the ruins of an abandoned research complex, was a place that Overhaul had carved out his dominion.

The facility was a fortress of steel and suffering, built deep into the husk of an old underground medical research center. The original structure had been swallowed by time, but Overhaul had repurposed it, expanding its depths, reinforcing its walls, and filling its corridors with horrors that should have never existed.

The moment AFO and Shigaraki arrived, the stench of sterilization chemicals, blood, and rotting flesh assaulted their senses.

Tomura’s nose curled. He already wanted to disintegrate this place to the ground. He hated this place. It stank of sterilized, unneeded cruelty, of rotting flesh and antiseptic, of Chisaki’s disgusting attempt at godhood.

The walls were lined with metal pipes, steam hissing through the cracks, condensation pooling beneath flickering overhead lights. The corridors were tight, clinical, but everything here felt wrong. A laboratory built on corpses.

The doors hissed open.

The man waiting for them stood perfectly still, flanked by two masked enforcers, his posture straight, pristine — calculated.

Chisaki Kai. Overhaul.

His golden eyes gleamed with clinical detachment as he stepped forward, his black gloves flexing against the sleeves of his meticulously kept coat. “Welcome,” he said smoothly, though there was no warmth in it. “I wasn’t expecting a personal visit.” His golden eyes flicked toward Shigaraki, lips curling slightly behind his plague mask. “Oh. And you brought your heir.”

Shigaraki’s fingers twitched violently — he already wanted to tear Overhaul’s face off.

Overhaul’s lips twitched slightly, but he ignored him, turning to AFO instead. “To what do I owe the honor, my lord?”

All For One sighed. “Must you always waste time with empty pleasantries, Chisaki?”

Overhaul gave a shallow bow. “Only with those who deserve it.”

Tomura bristled immediately, but All For One raised a hand. Not yet.

They were led inside, deeper into the labyrinthine halls, past observation rooms filled with creatures that barely resembled vampires anymore.

Tomura’s fingers itched to decay the place.

As they moved through the corridors, the creatures imprisoned behind tanks made of glass convulsed, their twisted forms a nightmarish patchwork of flesh — warped, stitched together as if Overhaul had played god with whatever shattered remnants he could salvage. Mutated limbs sprouted where they didn’t belong, some grotesquely fused, others jutting at unnatural angles. Jagged bones pierced through their skin like cruel, organic armor.

No wonder they call him the Butcher of the Deadlands, Tomura thought to himself.

Overhaul walked ahead, hands clasped behind his back. “I take it you’re here for something important.”

“You tell me,” All For One said.

Overhaul paused, turning slightly. His golden eyes were calculating. “I assume this is about the incident in Musutafu.”

Shigaraki clicked his tongue. “Tsk. You mean the mess Dabi left behind?”

Overhaul arched a brow, amused. “A traitor burning some street filth? That’s hardly news.”

Overhaul’s minions pushed a massive iron door open, and Kai shifted aside to let his master and his heir into the chamber.

Tomura stepped through the massive iron doors with utter disdain, heavy boots clicking against the bloodstained floor. All For One, his father, walked beside him.

Overhaul stood at the far end of the chamber, hands clasped behind his back, his golden irises gleaming dully in the dim light.

Shigaraki clicked his tongue, stepping forward with a lazy, slouched stride, his claws dragging over the rusted railing of an abandoned operating table.

“Dabi spared a human female,” All For One stated. “Have you heard of this?”

“Well,” Overhaul mused, “that is interesting.”

Shigaraki rolled his eyes. “Spare us the dramatics.”

Overhaul ignored him. “A former Sangreal Hunter saves a human?” He exhaled, tilting his head. “If it were anyone else, I’d assume he was making a pet out of her, but Dabi?” His voice dipped in something almost thoughtful. “That’s not his style.”

“Do you think she’s of value?” All For One asked. "I had hoped you'd tell me she was one of your little projects — one that somehow defied the odds, slipping through your grasp before you had the chance to tear her apart."

Overhaul exhaled slowly, tilting his head as if considering the possibility. "Sadly, she’s not one of mine," he admitted, his tone laced with a quiet disappointment. "It’s been quite some time since I last had the luxury of a human subject in my laboratory. But I think it would be wise to retrieve her,” Overhaul continued, stepping closer. “If she was spared by Dabi, then there must be a reason. She must be an anomaly,” Overhaul continued, golden eyes gleaming. “And anomalies are meant to be studied.” He straightened, his confidence absolute. “I need that girl. I’ll find out why she was spared.”

Shigaraki didn’t miss the way Overhaul’s fingers flexed slightly, as if anticipation was curling through him like a drug. Tomura bristled. He knew what that meant. Stripped down. Drained. Torn apart. Kai's research didn’t birth miracles — it gave rise to abominations that could one day become a devastating threat to Sangreal.

“This facility has grown,” All For One noted, his voice smooth as silk, yet laced with quiet menace. 

“Indeed,” Kai replied, bowing his head slightly.

“You’re making an army,” Shigaraki muttered, voice low, dark.

“Let’s say I’m preparing for the unexpected future.”

Shigaraki scoffed. “The future?” His fingers twitched. “You mean the one where you stab us all in the back and play king?”

AFO, however, remained neutral. “I do not tolerate insubordination, Kai,” the vampire king reminded.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, my Lord.”

Shigaraki hated him. He hated the calm, collected way Overhaul spoke, as if he wasn’t standing in a mausoleum of his own twisted creations. “Careful,” Shigaraki sneered, voice thick with mockery. “Wouldn’t want you to choke on all that self-importance.”

Kai gave Tomura a brief glance, scoffing under his breath.

AFO was unmoved. “So, what do you propose, Chisaki?”

Overhaul’s voice remained calm. “I’ve been working on a new batch of enhanced hunters. They are stronger, faster, and unshackled by the limitations of lower-class filth.” He gestured to the cages lining the walls. “I will send them into the Dregs. They will retrieve her. Alive.”

Shigaraki exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he turned his gaze toward AFO. “This is a bad idea,” he stated, his tone edged with frustration. “Dabi shall be our main priority now. He’s unpredictable, and he’s had too much time to get comfortable. He should have been eliminated already.” His crimson eyes cut toward Overhaul, filled with disgust. “Going after the girl first gives him leverage — it gives him time. And if we’ve learned anything, it’s that he thrives when he's backed into a corner.”

“The difference between you and me, Tomura,” he said smoothly, “is that I think strategically. I plan every move, carefully considering the outcome before I act.”

Tomura grinned, sharp and jagged. “The difference between us, Chisaki,” he murmured, stepping closer, “is that I don’t need to play god to be dangerous.”

AFO simply raised a hand, silencing them both. “Do what you must,” he looked at Overhaul, his voice final. “And do not fail me.”

Overhaul bowed his head. “I won’t, my lord.”

Two days passed before the results arrived.

Aizawa sat with Recovery Girl in one of the makeshift med-bays, fingers tapping against the surface of the old desk.

The results lay before them.

The girl’s blood was unlike anything they had ever seen. Quirk-carrying. Pure. Unchanged.

And, most importantly — it resisted the infection.

A cure. Possibly.

The Recovery Girl sighed, setting the document down. “Her blood is unlike anything I’ve seen. It’s resisting the virus.”

Aizawa exhaled, rubbing his temples. “We need to keep her safe.”

“Further testing could lead to a cure.” The Recovery Girl nodded. “If Sangreal finds out…”

Aizawa didn’t need to say what would happen. 

Because if they had figured this out — sooner or later — so would Sangreal.

The rebellion’s safe zone was a hollowed-out metro station, its tunnels stretching deep beneath the ruins, carved into a labyrinth of survival. Makeshift shacks, supply stations, and dimly lit corridors breathed with life, filled with refugees, fighters, and those who had nowhere else to go. The air smelled of damp stone, of rusted metal and burning oil, of too many bodies packed into too small a space.

You wandered the tunnels of the rebellion’s hideout. 

You weren’t supposed to leave the infirmary. But you needed to walk to clear your mind. And you needed answers.

That was when you saw him.

And every instinct screamed at you to run.

The scent reached you first. That faint, unmistakable trace of death. It wasn’t the overwhelming, suffocating stench of low-class vampires — or feral ones who reeked of rotting flesh, dried blood, and decay. No, this was something different. Fainter. Sharper. Cleaner.

But unmistakably, it was a vampire’s scent.

You had learned to recognize it. The knowledge had saved you more than once.

Your body locked up, muscles winding tight, your heartbeat kicking against your ribs. Your gaze snapped to the winged man lounging lazily against a stack of crates.

He was handsome. Too handsome. But not in the way that made people comfortable. His features were sharp, lined with an unnatural, effortless beauty that felt almost designed to be disarming. His golden eyes, half-lidded in amusement, glinted like a predator watching its prey.

But it was the details that gave him away.

The massive red wings shifting lazily behind him. The long, clawed fingers, tapping idly against the hilt of a sword that was one of his large, red feathers. And when he smirked — pristine white fangs, sharp and gleaming, flashed on the people that were passing him by. 

A vampire. Undoubtedly. One of them.

And yet — no one reacted. The rebels passing by didn’t scream, didn’t run, didn’t even flinch. Some even greeted him. One woman tossed him an orange — the most luxurious of all goods, which he caught without looking, flashing her a cocky grin.

Your fingers curled into your sleeves, stomach twisting in confusion.

What the hell was a vampire doing here?

More importantly — why wasn’t anyone afraid?

His golden gaze slid toward you. And he grinned. “Well, well.” His voice was smooth, light, laced with amusement as he raised his tone to make sure you could hear him. “Look who finally decided to crawl out of hiding. You’re the girl Aizawa took care of?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to step forward, even though every instinct begged you to stay the hell away. “You’re a vampire,” you pointed out flatly, not bothering to mask your suspicion as you skipped replying to his question.

He let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Yeah, I am.” He tilted his head slightly, flashing his fangs in a mocking little show. “But don’t worry — I don’t drink human blood. Anymore.”

That didn’t make you feel any better. 

Your fingers clenched at your sides. “You must have been a Hunter. What are you even doing here?”

His grin widened. Too sharp. Too knowing. “Still am,” he corrected lazily. "Let’s just say I’m deeply loyal to Aizawa so I am helping around from time to time, and that’s all you need to know for now.”

You swallowed hard. His name clicked in your head. “You're Hawks.”

The vampire gave a slow, mocking bow. “In the flesh.”

A thousand stories surfaced in your mind.

Sangreal’s fastest, deadliest Hunter. The one who could track anything, anywhere. A shadow with wings, a death with golden eyes, as survivors used to call him.

And now, he was standing in front of you, alive, laughing like this was all some kind of joke.

You had no desire to prolong this conversation — exhaustion weighed heavy on you, and the last thing you wanted was to linger in the presence of a vampire who, under different circumstances, wouldn’t hesitate to sink his teeth into your throat. But he was the only one who might have answers you desperately sought. The only one who could tell you about the vampire who had saved you.

The words slipped past your lips before you could stop them. “What do you know about Dabi?”

The shift in Hawks was immediate.

The amusement in his gaze didn’t fade, but something changed beneath it. A flicker of something deeper. 

There was a long pause. Then, a slow chuckle came.

“I know he’s not who he used to be,” Hawks uttered. “But I don’t think even he knows who he is anymore.”

Your brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

Hawks exhaled, tilting his head as if debating how much he wanted to say. “He was the most dangerous of all Sangreal’s Hunters,” he began, his voice low and steady. “Every order from All For One was carried out swiftly, with no room for hesitation or mercy. He was promising. Whispers among the vampires suggested he could one day take the lead of the Court of Obsidian, overthrowing Kurogiri, who had held the position for years. But then, he started to defy Sangreal’s rules. To question their orders.”

He paused, his gaze sharpening as he studied you. “You heard what he did?” He let the silence hang for a moment, then spoke again, his voice a quiet hiss. “He left Sangreal.”

You shook your head, disbelief tightening around your throat. That was impossible.

“And you need to understand that’s like a death sentence.”

A cold dread slithered through your veins, sinking deep into your bones.

Hawks leaned back, stretching with a casual ease, a yawn escaping his lips as his wings shifted behind him, the feathers rustling faintly. “It happened nearly twenty years ago, before the sky was permanently smothered by clouds after the Night of Ash,” he stated, his voice smooth yet cold. “Sangreal passed the death sentence on him. They wanted to make an example of him, to show the other vampires the price of disloyalty. They executed their plan, tying him down on the rooftop of the highest skyscraper in Tokyo, leaving him there to burn under the sun. And yet,” the winged vampire continued, a sly amusement creeping into his tone, “he’s still alive, somehow. Still out there. Stirring up mayhem whenever it suits him. Thumbing his nose at the Sangreal regime like he’s untouchable.” 

Your breath hitched. “You think he has a plan?”

A slow smirk crossed Takami’s face. “I think he’s waiting.”

“For what?”

Another pause.

"No idea. But I start to think—" Hawks flicked his feather sword into the air, the blade spinning, catching the dim light as it tumbled effortlessly before landing back in his grip, snug and sure. His fingers curled around the hilt with unnerving ease, his smirk lazy, his eyes anything but. "—that you might be exactly what he’s been waiting for all this time, girl."

The weight of his words didn’t just settle— it sank, deep and leaden, pressing against your ribs, squeezing the breath from your lungs.

And for the first time since waking in the rebellion’s safe zone, a familiar, icy grip of fear coiled in your gut — sharp, cold, and undeniable.

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[dcdreamblog]

This might be outside your area of expertise, but done know when New Gods started appearing on earth? How did they get caught up in superheroics?

The "New Gods" for those not in the know, are a race of humanoid beings from the twin worlds of New Genesis and Apokolips. Much of their broader culture is unknown to us at this time save the New Genesis defines itself as a world dedicated to prosperity and peace while Apokolips is under the rule of the tyrannical Darkseid, a being I trust needs no introduction assuming you've read the news at least once in this lifetime. The New Gods all seem to hold similar spiritual beliefs surrounding "The Source" a sort of semi-sentient expression of universal energy. One can only imagine the doctrines and dogmas surrounding the source are as complicated and labyrinthine as any human faith and one day maybe an army of theologians will take a whack at it.

The New Gods first became aware of events on Earth due to the actions of Darkseid who was kidnapping human subjects in an attempt to locate the "Anti Life Equation" which as best I can gather is another spiritual concept within their culture. Something to the tune of giving its holder the ability to overwrite free will on a universal scale. The residents of New Genesis became aware of this plan and sent an agent to Earth to root it out.

(The New God known as Orion making an appearance in New York city)

The man, calling himself Orion holds a kind of Superman-esque place in New Genesian culture. Other New Gods most often defer to his judgement in battle as an agent of "Highfather" who seems to be the leader of the New Gods either literally or in a motivational sense. Other heroes have referred to Highfather as Orion's father or parent which to my mind might means 1 of 3 things.

Literally Orion is the son of a being called Highfather who is the leader or ruler of New Genesis, making him heir to the realm in some respect.

Orion holds some responsibility or title that comes with the cultural understanding of him being Highfather's "son". Perhaps a title as the realm's appointed heir or champion

Highfather is some kind of religious or spiritual concept and Orion, as the champion of New Genesis is viewed as his progeny in a ritual sense

While Orion would be the most famous and prominent of the New Gods from their own perspective, the most well known of them in OUR world are probably the superheroic couple Mister Miracle and Big Barda who have served for many cases as members of the Justice League and Justice League International as well as working as solo heroes. We only knew that Orion holds some sort of importance over them BECAUSE they so often defer to him or speak to him with a kind of rank understanding. They talk to him like he's in charge, basically.

Other beings identified as New Gods include Lightray who is often at Orion's right hand. The...group? commune? polycule? called the Forever People and the enigmatic Metron. Basically every time they come around snippets of what they say are incorporated into some new kind of spiritualist philosophy so it's hard to find sources as to what was actually said versus what was inferred from 8 seconds of news footage.

As to how they became involved in superheroism, it's the same way a lot of what are termed "Extranormal personages" are. Something from their world or society placed Earth in the crosshairs, the "good guys" of said society came in for the save and ended up fighting alongside Earth's superheroes against said threats. Bonds are forged, alliances made, many of them serve on the Justice League here and there until eventually their presence is unquestioned and their alliance and enemies are accepted into the wider web of the superhero community. Same thing that happened to the wizards, and the Green Lanterns and god knows what else.

[imagine-darksiders]

Eden's Heir, chapter 6.

Prison break.

Summary: You manage to get your hands on Vulgrim's precious artifact. War is nice to you in his own, strange way, and Strife is his usual self.

------------------------

War has never been one to hide his true motivations behind crooked smiles and sly glances. Their eldest, Death, used to say that of all the Nephilim to be born from the dust of angels and demons, War was always the most forthright. Abnormally so.

Even among his ilk, he was the odd-one-out. Too fair, too just, 'getting to be a little too much like those damned birds.'

Why? Because he doesn't care for lies? As if Angels can't be just as underhanded and amoral as demons. Still, those who threw critique his way usually ended up leaving sadder but wiser, and often sporting broken bones and a new gap between their teeth courtesy of either himself or Fury. Death was more the sort for dolling out verbal degradation, and Strife... Well, Strife wasn't around a lot when War was still a whelp.

Regardless, perhaps it's that very forthrightness that means it doesn’t concern War in the slightest to be staring at you as he is, nor that you’ve been casting several, perturbed glances up at the underside of his chin before snatching your eyes away again every few seconds, evidently rattled by his unwavering attention.

Conversely unashamed and indiscreet, War has absolutely no qualms about frowning down at the small human in his arms, regarding you as one would a piece of mildly interesting trivia he’s never encountered before but is determined to decipher.

Truly, you’re nothing at all like the humans he’s heard about.

Humans aren’t fighters. Eden was a historically peaceful place, the name itself synonymous with Paradise. And yet only moments ago, War had borne witness as one of its prior denizens pulled a tiny blade from out of nowhere, and with a feverous desperation carving lines into your face, you’d plunged that blade into the hand of the gumptious demon who snatched you up.

… Belatedly, War realises he’ll have to tell Strife to be more thorough the next time he goes snooping for hidden weapons.

Humans adapted well to their new home on Earth, faster than anybody thought they would. They’re sturdy and solidly built, well-defined in body, and often ungainly in how they carry and present themselves; perfectly suited to learn the pursuits of agriculture, crafting and gathering.

You, however, stand as a stark contradiction to your entire species.

You’re soft. Graceful in your extravagant raiment, but inarguably fragile, far more-so than your fellow human, which is saying something.

War has felt the jarring give of your skin under his blade.

Strife has not.

War has tested the pressure of his grasp on your limbs and found them astoundingly delicate.

… Strife has not.

It’s why his brother’s actions riled War so fiercely after throwing you across a Creator-forsaken pit of lava onto this stone platform. He’s not certain Strife quite grasps the magnitude of the situation, nor the implications of a human being here in the first place. For you to turn up in the Void, speaking Common, dressed like a pampered Seraphim… it raises a series of rather urgent questions.

But to even have a hope of getting them answered, he and Strife ideally need to keep you alive...

… If only he could figure out how to get that notion through his brother’s thick skull…

Blinking out of his musings, War sees you raise your eyes to peer up at him again, although in this instance, much to his unspoken surprise, you don’t look away. Whilst certainly anxious, there’s a spark of something else tangled within the labyrinthine strands of your unusual irises, something that nearly has an invisible thread tugging at one corner of his mouth.

At last, it seems you’ve rediscovered the same nerve that called you to defend yourself from the demon.

“Put me down,” you utter quietly in a voice that quavers with the effort of keeping it level. You even maintain bold eye contact as you say it.

Again, War almost has to admire your gumption to demand something of one of the Four...

Almost.

If he were a curious Nephilim like his brother, he would probably concede that, yes, there is something about you that invites fascination. Like a mystery that hasn’t yet revealed its secrets.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, merely holds your watery gaze expectantly until you either remember yourself and lower your eyes or-

“Please, put me down?”

And just like that, War’s unspoken admonition is knocked off its tracks.

He hadn’t been expecting… He thought you’d just…

… Oh.

In hindsight, he supposes it was rather foolish of him to expect a human to adhere to the same social rules as another species, and he has to remind himself that just because you’re still meeting his stare, you aren’t being deliberately provocative.

Just… naive.

But why would you know of his reputation? Or of the tall tales whispered by nervous, fledgeling angels who like to try and frighten each other with stories… Stories about what happens to those who are unlucky or unwise enough to look the Horseman, War, in his eye.

Your ‘please’ is foreign to him. He knows of its usage, of course, but to hear it spoken so liberally… It’s as though you assumed ‘please’ was what he was waiting for. Is offering it a human’s way of showing deference?

Curious…

“Ahem…”

The sound of a throat being cleared snaps through War’s thoughts like the crack of a whip.

Quick as a flash, the scowl that had been gradually lifting from his expression slams back into place, and he turns his heated glare onto Strife, who stands in front of him with his arms folded neatly across a silver chest and his helm cocked to one side, eyes narrowed accusingly.

“You done being greedy, or are you gonna share?”

War’s scoff, and your huff occur at the same time, leading the two of you to share a brief glance before the former gives his eyes an exaggerated roll and finally, finally obliges, lowering you to the ground as swiftly as he can while maintaining a strange air of caution that betrays how breakable he thinks you are.

Large, metal gauntlets slide out from underneath your legs, depositing you on a flat piece of stone that’s relatively clean of demon blood.

The very instant you’re free, you only hesitate long enough to squeak out a hurried ‘thanks!’ before tearing yourself away from the gauntlet that hovers behind you and stumble several paces off to the side, putting some much-needed distance between you and the Horsemen. You almost trip over the train of your dress in the process.

Clinging to your elbows, you have to stuff your teeth into your lower lip to stop the sound of despair bursting out through pursed lips.

Your legs may as well be replaced with toothpicks for all the support they’re giving you. Terrible possibilities have begun to swirl across the mire of your brain.

What if you hadn’t found your nail file in time…?

What if Strife had never returned your bag?

You shudder, overwhelmed by the feeling that you’ve landed on the right side of a coin-flip, by no other will than dumb-fucking-luck.

You’ve never come that close to certain death before. You never want to come that close again.

At your back, unseen, Strife gives you a fleeting once-over, only returning his eyes to your veil when he doesn’t spot any immediate damage.

With his typical flair for bad timing and inability to read a room, he stretches his mouth into a hidden, cocksure grin, gives an approving nod and declares, “You did good, kid.”

Giving a harsh sniff, you tip your head towards the ceiling and let out a sharp, brassy laugh, utterly devoid of humour.

“Good?” you echo, rounding on the Horseman, your lungs still feeling two sizes too small when you draw breath, “GOOD!? I could have died! I almost did!”

“Almost!” Strife parrots eagerly, venturing a few steps towards you and spreading his arms out wide, apparently unbothered by your brazen reproach, “You almost died. But you didn’t.”

“That isn’t reassuring, Strife!” you wail.

Shaking fingers lift to try and thread through your hair, only to meet the barrier of your veil. Thwarted, you let your arms flop bonelessly back down against your sides and curl your hands into fists. “I’m not…-!”

But the words won’t come. Instead, you fall silent, realising how redundant it would be to say, ‘I’m not like you,’ out loud.

Christ, what an understatement.

You’re not the type to look at an ‘almost death’ and consider it a triumph. It’s a nightmare. You want to avoid death! That’s the most human instinct of all.

You shouldn’t even be here. You’re not like these two larger-than-life beings from another world. You can’t shoot guns like a master marksman, you can’t swing a sword that’s longer than you are tall, and you certainly can’t make impossible jumps that seem to defy gravity itself.

Hell, you can’t even stand up to your own fiancé and his family…

Sullen, despondent, you allow the adrenaline to seep out of you like water from a leaky pail, leaving you with limbs that feel far too heavy, and a head that’s tired as death.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” you eventually murmur to yourself, resisting the urge to scrub at your eyes lest you spread mascara all over your face. Your heart thunders inside your chest, palms slick with the heat, but more so with the creep of dread that rises in your belly as you picture the demon’s rancid maw in your mind’s eye and grit your teeth, unable to quell the waves of anxiety crashing against you like breakers that pummel a rocky cliff.

All the while, Strife is busy trying to pluck a response from midair, racking his brain for reasons as to why you can’t just ‘get out of here.’

Then, to his surprise and your own, the silence is broken, and it’s War’s stoic voice that brings a pause to the hopelessness dragging your soul down into the pit of your stomach.

“That was a Slag Demon.”

Blinking, you knit your brows into a frown and lift your eyes to the Horseman’s hoodless face. “Excuse me?”

And War, evidently sincere in every aspect, assumes you didn’t hear him, and repeats himself. “That was a Slag Demon.”

Once again, your eyelids flutter in a series of rapid blinks. “Yeah, I… I heard you,” you reply falteringly, “I just-“

“That demon,” he cuts you off, sending you a pointed look, “was forged in the deepest blast furnaces of Hell. They’re deceptively fast, almost invulnerable, and notoriously hard to kill.”

When he falls silent and doesn’t continue for several moments, you shift your weight and awkwardly drawl out, “… Oh-kay~?”

What the Hell is he getting at?

The way he’s peering down at you is… odd, you decide. He still has that perpetual scowl on his face, but the eyes under his furrowed brow seem… brighter, somehow, not quite as piercing and disparaging as they were before.

You’re not sure you like it any better.

Appraising you for a few more seconds, War gives a solemn nod, and states, “You found a weakness. You used what you had at your disposal to gain the upper hand.” Then, after taking a brief moment to consider his next words, he must eventually deem you worthy of them because he averts his gaze and scowls off at the distant stalactites, grunting, “It was a good kill.”

… Your jaw nearly hits the ground.

And judging by the way Strife’s helmeted head snaps around to send a wide-eyed stare at his larger brother, you suppose War must not say this sort of thing very often.

Looking down at yourself, you take in the meringue wedding dress, the ruffled tulle and overall extravagance of your attire.

“But…” Your tongue darts out apprehensively to wet your lips, “But I didn’t even kill it.”

Turning away from you, War begins to march back over to the grate, stopping only long enough to retrieve his enormous sword from the ground.

He barely takes a second to mull over his next answer as he slings the blade into its proper place along his spine. “You created the opening that gave Strife a clear shot,” he tells you, coming to a halt above the iron bars set into the floor and twitching his head towards you, his profile obscured by long, ice-white hair, “It counts.”

And with that, he reaches up to thread large, metal fingers into his hood and flips the crimson fabric up and over his head, once again hiding his face in dark, familiar shadow.

For… quite some time, you’re left speechless, gawping at the back of War’s head, and reeling now from the near-death experience and the unexpected approval of one of the scariest men you’ve ever met. A glance down at your hands confirms they’re still shaking, fingers tight and rigid like the bones under your skin have locked up.

“…Well,” Strife chimes in, heaving his massive shoulders in a shrug, “Good thing I don’t mind sharing.”

Sauntering over to you, he lifts an arm as if he’s about to drape it across your back, but the moment you see him coming, you lurch into motion and start after his brother, following the path War had picked through the dead imps, all the while trying to avoid glancing down at their cold, dead eyes.

Only thrown for a moment, Strife is quick to recover, waltzing after you and continuing, “So! Big day. You killed your first demon, kind of. How d’you feel?”

Your mouth twists up into a grimace. “Like I’m going to pass out, throw up, have a heart attack then die. In that order.”

Which is eerily similar to how you felt walking up the steps to the church.

The panic is… well, it’s definitely still there. The threat of a downward spiral haunts the edge of your mind, always keeping itself in the periphery. But for now, War’s stoic assessment has apparently shocked you so much, it broke the nosedive you were about to take into a total fit of hopelessness.

The Horseman beside you barks out a laugh and takes a few loping steps until he’s swaggering along beside you, the heavy ‘clunk’ of his boots drowning out the ‘clicks’ of your heels. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep a closer eye on you, next time.”

“Next time?” you sputter, brows shooting up towards the top of your veil, “I-I am not planning on doing this again.”

“Eh.” With a dismissive waft of his hand, he replies, “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Now c’mon! Sooner we get the artifact, the sooner we can be outta this heat.”

Well. You suppose you have to agree with him on that front.

The sudden clatter of metal skittering across the ground nearly has you jumping out of your shoes.

At your side, Strife jerks to a halt, his boot lifted halfway off the ground and his helm tipped down to search for the thing he’d inadvertently kicked with the toe of his sabatons. His keen eye latches onto it at once, and he utters a sound of intrigue at the back of his throat.

Following his gaze, you hone in on the little object that’s still skidding several paces away from you before it slides to a stop, laying small and shiny on the dark stone.

Stooping down, Strife reaches out a hand to gather the little object into his palm.

“Huh, guess it was knocked when I shot that big bastard...” he mutters, rising to his full height and unfurling each finger one by one, peering down at his prize, “I thought you didn’t have any weapons in there.”

Turning towards you, he holds up your bloodied nail-file as he jerks his chin at your bag.

Admittedly, you’re surprised to see it again, and even more surprised at the surge of gratitude that courses through you at the prospect of being reunited with something from the real world.

“Technically speaking,” you sniff, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “A nail file isn’t a weapon.”

Bringing it close to his visor, Strife tilts his head and squints at it, humming dubiously as he runs the pad of his finger over the coarse metal, giving the end a testing tap.

“… It looks like a dagger,” he points out, “… A very small dagger.”

“Or a toothpick,” his brother grumbles up ahead.

“Well, it isn’t either of those things… It’s just something I use to keep my nails tidy…” At the incredulous glances you receive – one from Strife and one from War who deigns to cast you a bemused look over his shoulder – you breathe a weary sigh and thrust your hand out towards the former of the pair expectantly. “Look, can I just… have it back?”

In truth, you half expect him to refuse, whether to simply get a rise out of you or to mitigate your temptation to attack them with the nail file – not that you’d be so foolish.

So, when Strife extends an arm and holds your ‘weapon’ out towards you, you can’t help but let your jaw drop open in undisguised shock.

“Sure,” he says breezily, “I ain’t gonna keep it. More of a gun man, myself. And War’d be embarrassed to be seen with a blade this small.”

You don’t know whether you’re supposed to take offence to that or not.

“Here,” Strife offers again, lowering his upturned palm in the private hopes of coaxing you closer when you just continue to gape at his appendage, “Take it.”

Warily, you start inching your hand up towards his, keeping your eye on the silver helm and those piercing, golden eyes that drill right into you with attentive wonder.

Swallowing thickly, you dare to flick your gaze down to the nail-file, still sitting pretty at the centre of his palm… Up this close, you spot something that threatens to turn your stomach inside out.

“Ew! There’s blood all over it!” you exclaim, retracting your outstretched hand like he’s trying to give you a live snake.

Indeed, it isn’t the silvery metal that’s glinting in the firelight, but a coating of thick, shiny blood that’s already begun to dry on the file’s roughly-hewn surface.

Strife – who had given a start at your exclamation – pauses, then blinks and cocks his brow down at the offending blood sticking to your weapon.

“Oh, so-rry, Princess,” he chuckles, lifting the file to his cowl and wiping it several times against the fabric, smearing dark flakes of blood into the wool before he holds it out towards you again, “That better?”

Tipping your nose into the air, you give the file a thorough once over. Deeming it adequately clean, you at last reach up to pluck it from his grip, holding it gingerly between your thumb and forefinger. “Much. Thanks.”

You’ve turned away before you can see his eyes glow brighter, considerably pleased with himself.

By the time he stops sticking out his chest, you’ve already reached his brother, stopping a respectable distance away near the opposite side of the grate.

War doesn’t even spare you a cursory glance. Instead, he stands still and strong as a statue, his frost-blue eyes scrutinising the bars with rigid focus.

You don’t dare ask him why he hasn’t retrieved his ‘artifact’ yet.

“Hey, War. What’s the holdup?”

Apparently, you and Strife are on the same wavelength. How disconcerting.

A metal elbow suddenly brushes against your side as a titanic body disregards your own personal space and sidles up next to you, pulling a gasp from your lips that goes entirely ignored while Strife addresses his brother over the top of your head. “You gonna grab the artifact or what?”

Grumbling under his breath, War raises his eyes to fix his fellow Horseman with a stony scowl.

“The grate,” he retorts darkly, tossing a hand at the ground as if the answer should have already been obvious, “It’s locked.”

“Oh,” Strife answers flatly, though it isn’t long before he plants a decisive fist on his hip and declares, “Well, then we’ll just have to find the key…” Swivelling around in place, he casts an eye around the chamber and adds, “Maybe the demon had it?”

… You hate to point out the obvious, especially when you haven’t been invited to do so, but…

“Um… You mean the demon that just fell over the side?” you venture.

A thick, uncomfortable silence ensues, during which you’re sure you must have offended him somehow, because Strife’s body goes utterly motionless, and War huffs a breath through his nose.

“… I see your point,” the former concedes at last, and you realise he isn’t angry, just... bashful.

Another derisive sound escapes from the larger Horseman’s mouth, prompting Strife’s helm to snap towards his brother. “Well, you’re the strong one,” he gripes, “Just tear out the bars.”

Now it’s War’s turn to stop and ponder. He casts a sideways glance down at you, regarding you briefly from the shadow of his hood. By the time you’ve lifted your eyes to his face, he’s already turned away, cracking his neck with an audible ‘Pop!’

“Very well,” he rumbles.

It’s a little prideful of him – and Creator knows Death would expect better - yet War can’t help but wonder if you’ll be awed by a show of might. Maybe you’ll be afraid... Moreso than at present.

Pounding a fist into his gauntlet, he lowers his immense bulk down onto one knee and slides his fingers around the bars, rolling his shoulders as he prepares to demonstrate the raw, physical strength of the Red Ri-

“-Can’t you just… reach in and grab it?” you ask, cleanly derailing War’s train of thought and knocking the wind from his sails, “I mean, it looks small enough to fit through the bars, right?”

… Well, War supposes that’s a fair suggestion, but for one not-so-small problem.

Without turning to look at you, War simply holds up his gauntlet and flexes the metallic fingers into a fist.  “I would not get my knuckles through,” he states simply, bobbing his head sideways at his brother, “Nor would Strife.”

“Oh,” you falter, shrinking backwards and stuffing a canine into your bottom lip whilst the Horseman curls his hands around the bars once more.

“Um, why don’t I take a crack at it then?”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you find yourself wishing you could snatch them out of the air and stuff them back behind your teeth.

Of all the fool things you could have said, why on Earth would you offer to put your hands anywhere near a stone that’s glowing like raw Uranium?

But it’s too late.

Strife has turned a thoughtful, wide-eyed gaze onto War, who returns it with the slightest parting of his brows.

“… Why didn’t we think of that?” Strife posits.

Before you can verbally – and physically – backtrack, War has already twisted his torso about and wrapped his colossal fist around your forearm, notably aiming for the one he hadn’t sliced open with his sword.

Warm metal engulfs your appendage all the way up to your elbow, and though you try to resist, he hardly seems to notice your efforts as he tugs you towards his side, then lowers his hand, leaving you with no choice but to follow its weight and drop to your knees in front of the grate, wincing as they bump against the hard stone beneath your dress.

“Here,” he says firmly, allowing you to snatch your arm back in favour of pointing his finger down at the glowing crystal, “Reach down and take it.”

Curling your hand into your chest, you give your head a shake and protest, “I can’t!”

“You just said you could!” Strife rebuffs.

That you did… “But-!” Wracking your brain, you add, “But what if it’s like… radioactive or something!?”

Visibly, the Horseman balks. “Ray-dee-oh… what?”

War’s eyes start to roll towards the ceiling as he listens to your back and forth with his brother, and he considers whether it would have been faster to rip the grate out of the stone after all.

You proposed a solution however, and in his frank opinion, you ought to stick by it.

The massive gauntlet enters your peripheral just as you open your mouth to shoot another argument up at Strife, but no sooner have the metal tips of War’s fingers ghosted across your arm than you wrench it away, whipping around to face him with startled eyes.

Hastily, you hold up your hands in surrender.

“Okay! Alright!” you acquiesce, “Jesus, just… give me a second…”

Flicking part of the veil over your shoulder, you lean forwards and brace yourself with one hand on a bar, lowering your torso down to stretch your other hand down and into the pit below, fingers blindly fishing around for the Vulgrim’s precious artifact.

When they brush against a warm, smooth surface, you can’t refrain from yelping and snatching your hand back as if it had moved.

The leathery smack of a gun being drawn from its holster reaches your ears.

“You okay?” Strife demands, shifting his weight restlessly.

Swallowing back your embarrassment, you nod and reply, “Uh, yeah, yeah. It’s just hot!”

“Hot enough to burn you?” War cuts in with a rough growl.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you brave another go, reaching down and brushing your fingertips hesitantly over the surface of the crystal. Though it is disconcertingly warm to the touch – no doubt from the ambient heat in the atmosphere – you realise with a third stroke that it isn’t anywhere near as hot as you feared it would be.

“No,” you sigh, only partially relieved.

The massive presences surrounding you relax slightly.

“Good,” Strife murmurs, raising his voice to add, “Can you get it loose?”

You can, as it turns out. Quite easily in fact. The crystal isn’t being held in any kind of clamp. To your mounting astonishment, it seems to simply float in midair.

“This is so freaky~,” you sing to yourself as you slide your palm down the long side of it, feeling for the pointed base and cupping your fingers around it with an audible gulp.

The whole crystal seems to buzz and hum under your touch, sending an eerie tingle racing up the length of your arm and raising the hairs all the way up to the back of your neck.

According to all sense and reason, this thing is nothing more than a pretty, pink crystal. But here, where sense and reason have been turned on their heads, pulled inside out and shaken up like a vodka martini, the thing in your hand is no more a mere crystal than the Horsemen are mere men.

Trying very hard to ignore how much the fluctuating thrum beneath your fingertips reminds you of a pulse, you clench your jaw tight, close your eyes, and pull… with a little too much force.

It’s lighter than you expected it to be. Nearly weightless. And it slips straight through the bars of its prison without even dinging against the sides.

Letting out an undignified bleat, you teeter backwards and land painfully on your backside, the crystal smacking against your bosom before falling from your trembling fingers and sliding safely into the soft, white fabric of your skirts.

Cracking your eyelids apart, you blink down at your lap, chest stuttering on a breath. “I… I got it?”

That was…decidedly easy…

Well, aside from almost getting eaten by a demon in your quest to find the damn thing.

The soft, pink glow of the crystal lights up your face as you peer down at it, glittering off your wedding dress and bathing the fabric folds in warmth.

“Wow,” you hear yourself whisper.

With cautious awe, your fingers wander towards it and slip gently around your rescued prize.

You’re so busy admiring the smooth, faultless lines that you don’t notice the shadow of a hand falling across your shoulders until War’s gauntlet has slid beneath your arm.

Aside from blurting out a squawk, you helplessly have to let yourself be lifted with unnerving ease onto your feet, still clutching the crystal close to your breast.

“Good job, kid,” Strife declares, slapping a palm on your back.

If War’s fingers hadn’t tightened around your arm at the moment, you’re sure you’d go tumbling over onto your face.

The force of the larger Horseman’s warning growl sends tremors through his gauntlet and down into the toes of your shoes, rattling the teeth in your skull.

Strife, pleasantly unfussed by his brother’s idle threat, leans over your shoulder as War releases you, and together, you all stare down at the crystal in your arms.

“Wonder what this thing’s worth to that soul-sucking ghoul,” Strife remarks after nobody breaks the quiet hush that’s fallen over you, as though he can’t bear to sit in silence for too long. Bringing his gauntlet up to rub at the chin of his helm, he thoughtfully adds, “We could always convince Vulgrim to throw in a little extra…”

At his suggestion, a tiny frown-line blooms to life between your brows. It is a very pretty gem… but while you know next to nothing about demons, you aren’t sure you like the idea of trying to bargain with one, not when your run-in with one of Vulgrim’s ilk had almost ended so disastrously.

You don’t know if it should come as a shock or not when War’s shoulders bristle moments later, and he bares his canines at Strife, his cavernous chest puffing up until you have to lean sideways to avoid getting jostled by it.

“The artifact, in exchange for information,” he snarls dangerously, “We will honour our agreement.”

‘Honour among Horsemen of the Apocalypse?’ you muse privately, ‘Wonders will never cease.’

Though only in War’s case, evidently. Strife just heaves an obnoxious sigh and tosses his helm back, “Ugh, you have no ambition… Why’ve you gotta be such a killjoy?”

War’s lips start to curl even further apart.

“So!” you quickly interrupt the broiling fracas, “We’ve got the… this thing-“ You shrug the crystal in your palms. “-H-how exactly do we get back?”

That, at least, gets the pair of bickering brothers to fall silent and pivot their attention from one another onto you. War’s expression is still as stony as ever, but you consider it a win that he looks marginally less murderous.

“Huh,” Strife says, “That’s a good question.”

Rumbling at the base of his throat, War grunts, "It would be prudent to find a way out of this realm as quickly as possible."

"Oh?" A mischievous glint sparks in his brother's keen gaze. "And here I thought you were.... warming up to the place."

Unbidden, a short puff of laughter is scoffed right off your tongue, more amused by how bad the joke was than the joke itself.

Either way, Strife's chest fills out proudly as his helm quirks towards you, one eyelid flashing closed behind the visor in a wink.

Oblivious, War just grumbles, "You know your humour escapes me."

And quick as a whip, Strife returns, "All humour escapes you."

Giving a brusque shake of his head, the larger Horseman decides it isn't worth getting into this argument for the umpteenth time. Turning his attention down to you and the crystal in your hands, he beckons with a gauntlet for you to step closer.

"Come. If we retrace our steps, we may be able to-"

You never get to hear the end of his sentence.

It isn’t that you’re particularly unlucky, you think… God, you hope. You’ve never thought yourself significant enough that the Universe would have it out for you personally, after all.

But when the ground suddenly disappears from under your feet in a blinding flash of vivid, blue light, and the deafening rush of air buffets your dress and boxes your eardrums, you can’t help wondering if you’ve somehow - in some unwitting way - slighted the powers that be, and now they’re playing their revenge card.

Which is a hassle for you, because you’ve had just about enough of portals and getting whisked off to places unknown for one day.

The last thing you see as you throw your head up and open your mouth to release a scream that’ll be sucked away with you as your atoms once again rearrange themselves to fit through a spatial rip, is Strife’s luminous, golden eyes flaring hotly like bursting stars – a direct contrast to the cool, ethereal blue of his brother’s, who’s own gaze opens up in surprise and, you think, alarm, one gauntlet outstretched in your direction.

And that’s all you manage to glimpse before the light overtakes you, and your body is yanked like a fish on a hook into the luminiferous aether.

[minoulapin]

TEASER (prologue) — Between Giving & Taking — A Yang Jungwon series

Pairing: Demon!Jungwon × Angel!Reader

Genre: Forbidden Love, Fantasy, Romance, Mystery

Teaser (prologue) wc: 1k

Synopsis: A love unspoken, a fate unwritten, An angel and demon, forever forbidden. Bound by the laws of heaven and hell, A story of longing they dare not tell. At the Academy of the Occult, angels and demons coexist under a fragile truce. But when a celestial heir is assassinated, war looms, secrets unravel, and forbidden desires ignite. In a world where their love is a crime, will they defy fate or be consumed by it?

Release date: Soon I guess?!

A/N: Honestly, I never planned on posting anything on Tumblr, but I had this idea, and the buildup of motivation was too strong to ignore—so here I am. Hope you enjoy the ride! -Joe

Tag list: open!!

MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER

Where Heaven and Hell Collide

At the edge of the world, where light and shadow met in uneasy harmony, stood the Academy of the Occult. A fortress of stone and magic, it was carved into the very fabric of existence, suspended between two opposing forces that had never known true peace. The sky above it was neither golden nor dark but an ever-changing twilight, caught between the celestial radiance of the Dominion and the infernal abyss of the Court.

For centuries, the Academy had been the only place where angels and demons coexisted, though coexistence was never the right word. It was tolerance at best, hostility at worst. An agreement forged not out of trust, but necessity. Neither Heaven nor Hell could afford another war, so they had built a school—a place where their future warriors, rulers, and guardians could train under the same roof, study each other's strengths, and keep their enemies close.

The Academy itself was a monument to balance, an uneasy truce reflected in its very foundation. The Twilight Halls, the heart of the institution, shifted between day and night, their enchanted corridors bending to the celestial and infernal magic that pulsed through them. The great archways were inscribed with ancient runes, written in both divine and demonic tongues, each word a promise of order that had barely held for generations.

To the east lay the Sanctum of Radiance, where the angelic students trained beneath towering spires of white marble, their halls echoing with the hum of divine magic. Golden banners adorned the walls, each embroidered with the sigils of Heaven's greatest warriors. The air itself carried the scent of holy incense, laced with the quiet hum of celestial energy, as though the Dominion itself watched over its chosen. It was here that angels learned the art of combat and guardianship, where they mastered the light and studied the texts of the High Council, sworn to uphold the will of Heaven.

To the west stood the Sanctum of Shadows, a labyrinthine stronghold of black stone and crimson fire, where demons honed their power beneath the watchful eyes of their infernal instructors. The walls were carved with sigils of protection and dominance, glowing faintly with the residual heat of magic woven into the foundation. The very atmosphere carried a quiet hum of something potent and ancient, a power that did not belong to the heavens. It was a place of strategy and survival, where demons were not only trained to wield their magic, but to understand control—to be rulers, not just soldiers.

Between these two opposing sanctuaries lay the Rift Chamber, a spiraling vortex of celestial and infernal energy, the only known gateway between Heaven and Hell. It pulsed with unstable magic, flickering between radiance and shadow, a bridge between two worlds that had never truly been connected. The Rift had always been volatile, but lately, it had grown worse—flickering unpredictably, whispering of something neither realm was prepared for.

For years, the Academy had functioned under these rules, this balance. The students knew where they stood, knew the lines they were not meant to cross. They trained separately, but lived under the same roof. They were taught to fight, but forbidden from fighting each other. They spoke in careful words, their rivalries kept beneath thin layers of civility, because peace—no matter how fragile—was still better than war.

But peace had never been easy.

Angelic students walked through the halls with their backs straight, their expressions unreadable, the weight of their celestial duty pressing against them like an invisible chain. They carried themselves as warriors of light, their gazes always watchful, always searching for the first sign of corruption, as though the very walls of the Academy would crumble if they let their guard down.

Demonic students moved through the same halls with quiet amusement, their presence never truly blending with the rigid formality of their celestial counterparts. They were sharper, their smiles edged with something unreadable, their laughter a little too knowing. They spoke in whispers and half-truths, watching their angelic peers with the patience of predators who had been told not to hunt.

Neither side trusted the other. Neither side ever would.

But they had endured. They had trained, studied, and tolerated each other, because they had been told they must. The Academy had stood for centuries as proof that Heaven and Hell could at least exist in the same space, even if they would never belong to the same world.

And then, one night, that illusion shattered.

It began with a scream—sharp, sudden, and unnatural.

By the time the students arrived, it was already too late. The body of the Celestial Heir, the one meant to ascend to the highest seat of the Dominion, lay lifeless in the center of the Twilight Halls. His wings had been torn from his back, his halo shattered into dust. The glow of celestial magic that had once pulsed beneath his skin was gone, drained from his body like a candle snuffed out in the dark.

The angels saw the brutality of the scene and knew.

Only a demon could have done this.

The demons looked upon the body and scoffed.

It was too perfect, too obvious. A trap, a lie—one they refused to answer for.

The balance that had held the Academy together collapsed overnight. The Celestial Dominion demanded justice. The Infernal Court refused to bow. The fragile rules that had governed the students were rewritten in an instant, and now, no one could ignore what had always been lurking beneath the surface.

The Academy was no longer a school. It was a battleground waiting to be claimed.

Classrooms were divided, training grounds split in half. Celestial and infernal students, once forced into reluctant coexistence, were now ordered to avoid each other entirely. It did not matter that the truth had yet to be uncovered. It did not matter that no proof had been found.

Heaven had already declared the guilty. Hell had already refused to repent.

And somewhere deep within the Academy, beneath the weight of history and hatred, the Rift Chamber pulsed erratically—its unstable energy whispering of something neither realm was prepared for.

The Academy had been built to prevent war.

Instead, it had become the place where Heaven and Hell would finally collide.

MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER

🏷️ @whateveridontcaresheesh @stormy1408 (comment to be added)

[theragethatisdesire]

perzītsos - bakugou katsuki x afab!reader, 18+!!

uh....surprise! i really love asoiaf, and i've seen so many posts about barbarian!katsuki, but i wasn't really successful in writing him, so here's my take on a fantasy au with katsuki. this takes place pre-fire and blood, really in the "medieval" days of the targaryen dynasty, with a targaryen heir!reader. i took some creative liberties with targaryen marriage customs, but i think they're sorta fun.

this is a beast of a one-shot, but there's lots of lore preceding this (do i smell a prequel?), including that reader asked for katsuki's hand in marriage, and neither of them were really expecting to wind up in a marriage bed together. i normally don't write virginity loss, but i made an exception for these two, i really do love them!!! fair warning, there's lots of high valyrian in here, which i don't speak fluently either, so i'm going to add some translations at the end :)

"perzītsos" - "little flame"

enjoy <3

pairing: bakugou katsuki x fem!reader

wc: 13.5k (told ya it's a beast)

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut. bakugou is roughly twenty-eight in this fic.

cws: virginity loss, aged-up characters, fingering, oral sex (fem!receiving, male!receiving mentioned), reader has female anatomy, smut, pretentious amounts of high valyrian pet names

𖤓

Leaving the raucous merriment of the great hall behind, its stone walls bursting at the seams with the raunchy, jeering calls of Bakugou’s soldiers and the titters of the ladies of the court, only seems to emphasize the echoing silence of your chambers. The servants had completed the arduous job of transferring your things into your new apartments today; you recognize the tapestries that had decorated your walls since you were a child, now dwarfed by the massive dimensions of your new quarters, and the candelabra you’d been gifted by a nobleman at your seventh name day sits upon a newly constructed ebony desk.

Nearly every hard surface in the room—desks, tables, even small areas of the floor—has been covered in the fat, yellow beeswax candles crafted in the kitchens many stories below your feet, flames dancing and casting shadows this way and that over the stone walls. Many a night have you forgone sleep in favor of losing yourself in the waltz of a small fire on a wick, the sometimes-frantic, sometimes-untroubled rhythm of the flame in the breeze of an open window. Tonight, though, not even the hundreds of flames, these little extensions of the hot, ancient blood that flows through your veins, can distract you from your fate.

“I remember these rooms,” you say offhandedly, bringing one hand to the fine curtains that hang around the tapestry bed, “they were my mother’s.”

Bakugou stays stock still where he stands, letting you examine the marriage bed. The wood was brought into these chambers several weeks ago, alongside a handful of master carpenters. The bed is enormous, easily large enough for three people to get a full night’s sleep without touching each other. It had been built inside of the room so that the intended dimensions could be fulfilled without the worry of actually fitting it through the door, which it would not. The sight of it makes an apprehensive shiver rock through your frame.

“You were born here,” Bakugou says gruffly, catching you by surprise. “I remember.”

You turn to face him, eyebrows raised cautiously at his decision to speak. Considering what lies before you both, the breach in his silence is appreciated, if unexpected. He’s hardly said two words to you all night; two words besides the lengthy wedding vows you’d exchanged before gods and men alike, speaking them practically into each other’s mouths in the purring, labyrinthine cadence of the Old Tongue. The metallic taste of his blood, brushed onto your tongue by his own thumb, is still nestled between your teeth, worryingly permanent.

“You remember?”

“Hardly.” Bakugou diverts his gaze from you to where your marriage bed lies, squinting his eyes as if he’s trying to remember what it had looked like more than twenty years past. “I was three.”

It shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is, given that you’d practically been raised alongside Bakugou, taken your first steps, tasted your first victories, had your first stumbles under his watchful crimson gaze. The required distance had been there, as you’d always been more of an heir than a little girl, and Bakugou had been busy with his training anyhow, but he was a steadfast part of your memories, even if he had been mostly in the blurry peripherals until the most recent years. This confession, that he had stood in the same room as your howling, bloodied form had been brought into the world, makes you feel more exposed than you already do in your thin gown.

Bakugou must take notice of how your shoulders unintentionally tense up, because his lips pull into a small frown, not one of anger, but seemingly guilt. You sigh, rolling your shoulders back and squaring yourself to face him, trying not to let your cheeks burn hot as your nipples peak under the singular layer of fabric hiding the finer details of your body from him. He’s intimidating, and both of you know it, but considering that you’re the reason you two find yourselves in this room, you think that maybe you should be the one to guide him along.

Bakugou approaches you slowly, making a noticeable effort to dull down the soldier’s swagger he normally walks with, holding your gaze with what you surmise is his best attempt to look open and mild-tempered. You notice how he pointedly avoids looking at your body, how it’s silhouetted by the candlelight and showing itself as a dark, shapely shadow in the white fabric of your gown. He’s close enough to touch now, toes only inches from yours. You’re reminded of how close you stood during the ceremony, how he had sworn to give his life for you, to you. Ānogar ānograro.

“They’re waiting,” you say quietly, eyes darting to the four servants in each corner of the room. Bakugou follows your gaze, and his frown grows deeper.

“May I speak freely?” It’s a laughable question coming from him, but it’s a kindhearted gesture, so you bite into your lip and nod your acquiesce.

“You’re my husband,” you say, trying not to feel discouraged at the pink tinge that rises to his cheeks, “I always want you to speak freely.”

Through a stiff nod of understanding, Bakugou lets a deep breath exhale through his nose before pinning you in place with a scrutinizing gaze. “Have you been…kissed, before?”

“Of course I have, Bakugou.” You can’t hide the breathless chuckle that comes fluttering from your lips, the dangerous hint of a relieved smile that begins to carve into your cheeks.

“Katsuki,” he says, the corner of his own mouth curling when his simple request for familiarity wipes the glimmer of smugness straight away from your face. “Your husband, remember?”

“Katsuki,” you repeat, letting the letters make a home for themselves on your tongue. Something flashes in his eyes, and he clears his throat. You can’t make out the shape of what’s flickered across his face, but you can feel the heat thrumming from his eyes to yours.

“What else?”

“What do you mean?” Your nose wrinkles in confusion, entirely lost on what point he’s trying to make. Katsuki narrows his eyes, clears his throat uncomfortably.

“What else do you have…experience with?”

Oh. He wants to know if you’ve been touched, where you’ve been touched, possibly even by whom. It’s your turn to shuffle your bare feet on the cold stone floor, to look solidly ahead at the v in the collar of his loose tunic, the slope of his neck, anywhere but his eyes. Your stomach begins to roil at the implication of this, of baring yourself to him wholly. It won’t be the first time you do it tonight, and certainly not the last.

“I’ve– um, done most things.” You somehow summon the courage to meet his gaze again, staring up defiantly. “I hope that’s not a disappointment to you.”

“You had no obligation to me before today.” Katsuki shakes his head, as if to dispel the very notion that you even have something to refuse to apologize for. It brings a spark of warmth to your heart, a hum of satisfaction pulsing through you that you’d chosen your husband well, at least in this regard. “But you are a virgin?”

You can’t control the way your eyes go wide, blinking hurriedly at him when he asks the question. Your fingertips grow hot, and you aren’t sure which potential answer would be the least mortifying, so you opt to stick with the truth.

“Yes,” you say, so lowly it’s near a whisper, “I’m a virgin.”

Katsuki swears quietly in the Old Tongue, and though you’re more focused on your feet than his face, you can see the awkward repositioning of his feet, how his hands clench and unclench at your confession. He’s your husband, you scold yourself, you have no need for fear. You jerk your head up to look unflinchingly at his face, unapologetic in your stance. Despite the way he had voiced his indifference to your prior experiences, you can see some strange mixture of relief, nerves, and that same undefinable heat rising to his face, coloring his features and darkening his eyes.

His eyes run over your consummation gown, long, loose, and traditional as they come, lovingly hand-stitched by your longest serving lady-in-waiting. Your handmaidens had taken the liberty of freshening you up after the feast, scrubbing most of the heavy, ash-black ceremony makeup from the bridge of your nose, wiping the kohl from your eyes until you were bare. Your elaborate wedding hairstyle had been let down and reworked into a long, singular braid down your back, loosely secured by a knot of cowhide. That, amongst other things, is for him, and only him.

“After this,” Katsuki wets his lips with his tongue, “we won’t share a bed again–”

“Katsuki–”

“Not until you’re ready,” he amends. His fingers twitch by his sides, a boyish gesture for a man of his massive stature.

“I’m your wife,” you say, puzzled and looking up at him, “I may be a virgin now, but I’m no stranger to what that entails.”

A heavy breath shakes through Katsuki’s frame, and his brows knit together in an expression of comfortingly familiar exasperation. You almost want to smile back at him.

“I expected as much,” he says, one hand reaching forward ever so slowly to brush tentatively through your fingers dangling at your side, to pinch at the thin fabric of your gown and rub it between his fingers, “but that’s a matter for the morning.”

You catch the implication in his tone, in the way he’s holding the sheet separating you from him. There’s something to be taken care of. Your palms turn clammy, fingers beginning to tremble by your sides. It takes everything in you to set your jaw and look up at him, shoulders rolled back and expression carefully schooled into something that you can only pray approaches a warm neutrality.

“Would you like to take it off?” Your eyes flit from your gown to his face.

Katsuki considers you, dragging his eyes over your frame at an agonizingly slow rate, still maddeningly rubbing that fabric between his fingers. Suddenly, his face crumples into a scowl.

“You’re shaking,” he says matter-of-factly. Your cheeks warm, wishing he wouldn’t have brought it up. “Are you nervous?”

“Not of you,” you answer him truthfully, willing the tension in your spine to melt into pleasurable anticipation. Katsuki catches your meaning instantly, the concern in his eyes glittering into something more akin to the anger that settles so comfortably into the frown lines on his face, that strikes his sharp features so suddenly and beautifully you almost gasp.

“Turn around,” he barks suddenly, his posture straightening into that of the formidable general you’ve known him as all your life, not the surprisingly gentle husband he’s shown himself to be in the last few minutes. You start in his arms, beginning to spin on your heels to follow his command when his hands catch you by the shoulders, an apology writing its way into the fine features of his face.

“But you said–”

“Them.” Katsuki jerks his head towards the servants posted in each corner who are, miraculously, turned away from the two of you, heads down and poised towards the corner. You look up to Katsuki in amazement, and his eyes soften. “I wouldn’t speak to you that way.”

“Oh.” It’s light and not enough when it falls from your mouth, and you want to apologize, but Katsuki’s already loosening his grip on your shoulders, urging you to spin.

“Now you,” he says gently, “turn around.”

Too stunned by the duality of him to argue, the whetted and wartorn angles of him contrasting with this unbearable softness, you turn your back to him, urging yourself to relax under the weight of his hands. Katsuki’s hands subtly squeeze your shoulders, as if to warn you of their departure, and the next time you feel his touch, it’s on the end of your long braid, his scarred fingers fumbling with the cowhide tie.

You hold your breath as you feel the tension along your scalp go slack; he’s gotten the tie off of your braid. Katsuki’s fingers begin to methodically comb through your long hair, starting at the bottom and working his way up, deftly avoiding knots and keeping the lightly-oiled strands from tangling themselves as he undoes your braid. He’s surprisingly good at it, and an unexpected pang of pain accompanies your curious thought as to whether he’s had much practice undoing a woman’s hair, something so sacred. Before you can ruminate on the hurt beginning to come to a simmer in your chest, Katsuki’s spinning you back around, causing the calming perfume of your hair oil to cloud around your head as your hair fans out. It centers you, gives you the wherewithal to look up into his eyes.

Katsuki’s face is candid, beautifully so, in the way he regards you. Crimson eyes dart over every feature you have to offer him, now so wild and unbidden compared to your usual state of being, and he reaches a tentative hand towards your hair, before flinching and pulling back. You shake your head, bringing a hand out to catch his and pull it back towards the part of you he so clearly wants to touch before you can think better of it. Katsuki’s eyes widen, only momentarily, before his face settles into an expression of quiet approval, and he runs his fingers through your hair again, less purposeful this time and more for the simple pleasure of memorizing the feel of you under his hands. You blink up at him, waiting.

“Gevie,” he mumbles under his breath, watching how his fingers card through your unruly hair. He mistakenly brushes your nipple, still peaked under your consummation gown, and realizes what he’s done when you gasp lightly. 

“It’s okay,” you say hurriedly, surprising yourself when you realize that you mean it. Your back has already begun to arch unwittingly towards him, as if your body has accepted him as your husband while your mind is still trying to wrap itself around the idea. “Touch me.”

You can see the thought cross Katsuki’s face before he even reaches for your gown, pinching it at the hips on either side of you.

“Do you want to take it off, or would you like me to?” Katsuki says, hardly louder than a whisper. You blink, still trying to marry this man with the outspoken, ruthless general you’d invited to the altar with you.

“Traditionally, the man–”

“I know,” Katsuki says, a bit of an agonized bite behind his words. You bite your lip, worried that you’ve finally overstepped, but he sighs, heavy and surrendered. “I know what happens traditionally. I don’t care. We’re doing this on your terms.”

“My terms,” you repeat slowly, trying to gather his meaning.

“Yes,” Katsuki affirms, “your terms. Now, do you want to take your gown off, or do you want me to?”

You want to run to the washroom to realign your expectations, is what you want to do. This is supposed to be quick, you remember your handmaidens preparing you with monstrous stories of being unceremoniously bent over the bed, gown ripped to shreds or simply shoved above your hips instead of carefully pulled between a considerate thumb and finger. You study him, study that freshly sincere affection on his face, his willingness to bring you through this unscathed and…dare you say it, satisfied. Your hand, which, so lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t even noticed drifting, comes up to cup his sharp jaw, plush palm giving against the angle of his face.

“I want you to,” you say, nodding when his eyebrows raise in surprise. “I want you to take it off of me, please.”

Katsuki only answers you with a curt nod of his own, schooling his momentarily bewildered expression back into one of careful concentration, more for your benefit than his, you think. You can feel a slight tremor in his hands when he brings them to the strings that suffice for your gown’s sleeves, little more than strips of fabric tied in loose bows over your shoulder. Despite the painstakingly beautiful embroidery in the stiff linen, curling flames and stars rising from the hem of your gown, everything else about the design of the garment reveals its purpose: to be removed.

You hold your breath while he works at the tied strings, partly because you feel like you should and partly because the slightest brush of his fingers over your skin feels so climactic that you feel that it should make a sound, maybe that of pottery breaking or lightning clapping across a dark sky. It’s silent, the slip of the linen through itself, three cautious pulls and your gown is sagging on one side, the collar falling until your nipple is almost exposed. You gulp and try to look up to Katsuki, but his jaw is set, even grinding a bit in concentration as he keeps his gaze centered firmly on the bow he’s set upon on your right shoulder. You study him, looking for any indication that he’s anxious, or pleased, or disinterested, but he’s an unreadable mask of focus as his large fingers tug on the bow. It slides loose as easily as the first one had, and your gown slips from your body and crumples around your feet on the floor.

Katsuki sucks in a sharp inhale, forced to take in the sight of your naked body now that he’s finished his task. You watch intently as his eyes drag over every part of you, slow and savory, nostrils flaring and pupils dilating. You’re so exhilarated by his wild eyes taking you in, you almost forget to be insecure, to be nervous. This is something you might grow to enjoy, you think; Katsuki’s carefully concealed appetite.

“Am I alright?” You feel your mouth form the words, hear them float into the charged air. You don’t think you meant to ask, but once it’s out, you’re glad you did. It may be a politically-made marriage bed, but as fate would have it, your crown sits upon the head of a young woman, a young woman looking into the eyes of the man that would have her for his own, wanting to be thought of as a thing to be admired. Katsuki’s eyes flicker back to yours, and his brows knit together.

“Alright?” Katsuki’s eyes leave yours once more, and he meets his own gaze with a bold hand on your hip, thumb rubbing circles over your hipbone. “You’re more than alright, but you already know that.”

You feel so small, so silly when you tell him: “I was hoping you’d be the one to remind me.”

Katsuki understands then, meets your fixed look upon his face and lets that molten desire cool into something more digestible, easier to hold, and then he speaks. “Iksā gevie, ñuha ābrazȳrys.”

When you’d learned the Old Tongue as a child, you’d been taught to purr the sounds, to run them together like the slow, controlled flow of ink from the end of a feather. You learned to curl the consonants behind your teeth and let them breathe the same air for a beat, to birth the sounds into the world off of your tongue instead of simply pushing the air out. But when Katsuki speaks the Old Tongue it’s…a growl, forceful and quaking with restrained power. Raw and godlike, the words sound like they were written with his low rasp in mind.

Wife. His beautiful wife. Your breath hitches in your throat at the same time as a vicious swell of desire rips through you, mouth beginning to hang ajar. Katsuki frowns slightly, tilts his head.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Take me, then,” you say, breathless from your own courage. Katsuki’s eyes widen, and if you could see clearly through your own sudden lust, you’d see the corner of his mouth twitching. “Make me your wife.”

“I will,” Katsuki comes closer, speaking not smugly, but matter-of-factly. He slides one hand around your waist, thumbs at your chin with the other. “But there’s an order to these things.”

No sooner have you opened your mouth to protest Katsuki’s condescension than he’s closing the wide gap between his height and your plush, open lips, pressing his mouth to yours, and your mind goes quiet. You’ve been kissed upwards of a dozen times at this point, something you were proud to remind your ladies-in-waiting of this morning while they giggled and squealed about your big night with the general. A few princes, a handful of noblemen’s sons, the expected suspects. All your ladies had said in return was “Those are boys. The general is a man. You’ll see the difference.”

There’s nothing demanding or unkind in the way his fingers are pressing into the plush curve of your hip, but it’s firm, steady in a way you’ve never dreamed about being held. His hand spreads across your jawline, keeping you tilted up and open for him to move his mouth against. There’s none of the hurried pecking, no errant tongue forcing its way between your teeth before you can even offer– Katsuki’s a man. You understand now, understand your handmaidens’ flushed cheeks and the way they fanned themselves theorizing about whether your new husband was as ruthless in bed as he was on the battlefield. Katsuki makes a fire catch behind your ribs, a desperate urge to impress, to keep your now horrifyingly-apparent lack of experience under wraps.

You bring a hand to the back of his neck, willing yourself not to tremble, and card your fingers through the close-cropped hair, smiling when Katsuki’s lips stutter against your own. His grip on you tightens, one big hand slipping to the nape of your neck and pulling you flush against him. His tongue slips into your mouth, tasting like ceremonial wine and something mannish and mature; you’re hardly able to swallow the gasp that threatens to reveal how the pit of your stomach is beginning to curl in on itself. Your breasts are pressed tight against his chest, only separated from his skin by his linen tunic. The fabric kisses your sensitive nipples, brushing against the untouched skin, and despite yourself, you whimper pathetically into his waiting mouth, cheeks warming.

Katsuki pulls back, to your disappointment, and you begin to chew at your lip, frantically thinking through the last several minutes to wonder what you’ve done wrong. Had you been too forward, touching him back so quickly? Your fretting dies down quickly when you see that Katsuki’s only stepped back to finger the hem of his tunic, ripping it over his head. You only have a moment to catch a blurry flash of honed muscle and scarred skin before he’s back on you, calloused hands wrapping around your hips. It only takes a few moments of him kissing you, of your fingers dragging absentmindedly up his veiny forearm, before you ask him for what you want, palms pressed flat against his chest and pushing lightly.

His brows knit together, and his eyes flicker over your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. You take a deep inhale, hoping to hide how rapidly you’ve lost your breath to him, steeling yourself to look him in the eye.

“I want to see you.”

Katsuki’s face screws up almost comically, and he tilts his head.

“See me?”

“See you.”

You take a step back, keeping your hands on his arms, holding him just where you want him and– is it a sight. He’s sharper than you would have imagined, deep grooves carving into his skin where his muscles bulge beneath it. You suck in a sharp breath as you let your eyes move slowly from his hardened stomach to his broad chest, little nicks dotting his skin where a stray swordtip had punctured armor, and a particularly nasty gash cutting across his front, stretching from his shoulder to his ribcage. It looks like it should have been fatal. Katsuki crosses his arms over his chest, maybe in an attempt to stop you from ogling him like you are, but it’s counterproductive; all he’s done is give you a golden opportunity to watch the skin of his arms stretch to accommodate the way his biceps swell and shrink with the movement, the twitching and flexing of each individual muscle laid bare for you to see clearly.

When your gaze finally returns to his face, you almost want to snort at his expression: pink cheeks, a scrunched nose, and eyebrows lifted to indicate just how entirely unimpressed he is with your drooling.

“Done ‘seeing’ me?” Katsuki asks, mouth lifting in just the smallest hint at a smile. Your heart flutters lightly in your chest; it’s the first attempt either of you have made at humor since your betrothal, and it’s hugely relieving to have something to smile about.

“It was only fair that I take my turn,” you say, gesturing down at your bare skin. Katsuki’s lips lift a little more until his gaze lowers; his eyes darken as he lets himself take you in. You can see the same thought crossing his mind just as it occurs to you: you belong to each other now, every bit of skin, muscle, heart that you’re bearing to each other isn’t just your own anymore. That scrunch in his nose, the scar across his chest, the way he narrows his eyes to study you. It all belongs to you now.

Katsuki steps forward, letting his hand interlace with yours, fingers hanging in the spaces between your own.

“Are you ready?” His question is no more than a puff of air against your forehead, both of you mercifully standing so close that you aren’t forced to look in his eyes when he asks.

“Yes.” Your voice shakes despite your attempt to be resolute in your answer, and you tighten your fingers around his in apology. It’s all new.

Katsuki kisses you again, slower and warmer than last time. It’s not desperate or hurried, but it is sensual, a promise of what awaits you when he lays you down on your bed. You sigh into his mouth, growing comfortable now with the feel of him on you; so comfortable, even, that you don’t notice he’s been backing you up until your back hits the poster of the bed, effectively pinning you between the hard, ebony wood, and Katsuki’s strong chest.

Your confinement does something to him. It’s immeasurably minute, the way his breath seems to puff out a bit heavier, the sudden jerk of his fingers into your hips, but it’s there.

“When you said you had experience…” Katsuki says, voice gravelly and dangerously close to a pant, “what did you mean by that?”

“I–” you pause, swallowing thickly around the growing lump in your throat, “I’ve been kissed, and I’ve…been touched.” You settle on that, hoping he grasps what you’re suddenly too shy to say.

“Did he make you cum?” He asks it so quietly, you almost wonder if you’ve heard him correctly, but you do hear him, and your chest caves in on itself as the breath leaves your lungs. You’ve snickered over such things with trusted girl friends, your ladies in waiting, but to hear it so gruffly, from the lips of a man—your new husband, no less—is a shock to your system.

“I think so,” you murmur, hardly able to form the words. You can’t see him, his head hunched over your shoulder and his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, but you can practically feel him frown.

“If he had, you would know so.” Katsuki presses a soft kiss on the cartilage of your ear, travels down to bring your earlobe between his lips. He moves farther down, kissing gently down the slope of your neck, so slowly as if not to scare you.

“How would I know?” You can’t believe you’ve even dared to ask the question, not entirely sure you’ve prepared yourself well enough to hear his answer. Katsuki sucks in a sharp breath against your collarbone, pausing his ministrations where he’d begun to lick and suckle at the prominent angle of it. Your face warms as you realize how deeply his faint touches have begun to affect you, how your chest is beginning to swell and sink with heavy breaths, how your skin tingles and sparks in anticipation of the next absentminded swipe of his knuckles, of the light pressure of his mouth.

“I can show you,” he whispers, and the world stops turning for a moment, “if you’d like.”

“Yes,” you breathe out before you can think better of yourself. You trust his hands, the steady way that they graze the curve of your hip and splay out against the small of your back. He’s stable and unwavering, keeping you afloat.

Katsuki nods against your shoulder, almost imperceptibly, and brings one of those strong hands up between your shoulderblades. He spreads his fingers out, forcing your back to arch for him, and brings his free hand up to your chest, pausing when he’s only a hair’s breadth from your breast. His eyes meet yours, a concentrated divot appearing between his eyebrows as he searches your face for any signs of discomfort. You arch into his touch, surprising even yourself with your boldness, and your jaw drops a bit at the sensation of his rough palms on your soft, supple breast.

Your eagerness spurs him to action, and he bends at the waist, scattering a litter of kisses across the top of your chest. You hold your breath as he dips lower, but your attempt to remain silent fails entirely when he closes his lips around your peaked nipple. A horribly broken whimper slips from your lips, and you squirm, though whether your body’s trying to push you into or away from the wet heat of his mouth you can’t tell.

Katsuki’s mouth stretches into a ghost of a smile around your flesh, or so you think, until his teeth graze your nipple properly and a quiet cry bursts from you. He smiles fully with your breast still between his teeth. His hand holds your back firmly in its bowed position as he moves to your other breast, twisting his tongue around your nipple there and kissing gently along the fat curve of the underside. He continues his descent, grazing his lips over your stomach, and you don’t realize he’s on his knees until he’s suckling softly on your hipbone, one hand now sprawled over your stomach. Katsuki rubs his thumb over the top of the thatch of hair between your legs, almost reverently, and it makes you regain your bearings, gulping.

“W-what are you doing?” You nearly cringe at the sound of your own voice, words syrupy and thick on your tongue.

Katsuki raises a cautious eyebrow, pulling back from the slight bruise he’s begun to place upon your hipbone. He’s still moving carefully, ghosting over where he wants to touch you as a warning before pressing his skin fully to yours, unwilling to spook you just yet, but something’s quickly changing in him. His jaw ticks as he considers you, looking down on where he kneels between your legs with wide eyes.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Katsuki asks back, looking genuinely confused. Your cheeks are aflame.

“You’re on your knees.” It sounds too simple as it leaves your mouth, an insult to your own intelligence, and you scowl in frustration, looking off to the side. The quiet chuckle between your legs snaps your attention back to Katsuki.

“I’m on my knees,” Katsuki agrees, leaning in and brushing his lips against your inner thigh, sending a full-body shudder racking through you, “for you. Do you…not like it?”

Your mind, foggy in the places you’re accustomed to using and glaringly sharp in useless departments like, for example, the way Katsuki’s eyes are glinting dangerously in the low light, struggles to find an answer for his question. You do like it, seeing this hulking, powerful man kneeling before you, tucking his chin up to the supple flesh of your thigh and blinking up at you curiously, but not for any reason that you can put your finger on.

“I didn’t say that,” you say carefully, willing your senses to come back to you. “I just…you look like you’re planning something.”

Another cutting half-smirk flashes across his face, gone as soon as it appears. “You’ve never been tasted before, have you?”

“Tasted?” You try to keep your face from showing your shock and confusion; surely he’s not about to do what you think he is. Katsuki hums an affirmative, placing another kiss to the clammy crease of your thigh and your cunt, a gasp ripping from your throat before you can stop it.

“Do you not want me to?” Katsuki tilts his head, expressionless. You try to find the answer to his question on his face, but he’s blank, leaving the decision entirely up to you. “It’ll help with the pain.”

The pain, that’s right. Soon, he would be taking you for his own, stretching your body in a new way that you’d heard the whispers about: bloody bedsheets, sore between the legs, pleading for the end. You chew into your bottom lip, considering your options.

“Do you want to?”

“I do,” Katsuki says, eyes dark and unreadable, “I want to make you feel good. But we’re doing this on–”

“My terms,” you finish for him, nodding, “I remember.”

“Good.” Katsuki nods, and you try desperately to ignore the heat that thrums through you. “So, if you don’t want it, I won’t. Simple as that.”

You think for a brief moment. Katsuki’s admitted to wanting something of you, of your body, perhaps for the first time since you’d gotten him wrapped up with you. You repeat his words over and over in your head, trying to make sense of them. I want to make you feel good.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Katsuki knits his brows.

“I want to try it,” you say, and add with a shaky exhale, “being tasted.”

If you’re not mistaken, Katsuki’s shoulders shiver between your legs, his eyes glazing over a little at your words. You feel pride ringing in your chest, seeing him uncoil, even if it’s only the slightest bit. You’d chosen correctly. Much as he did when you asked him to undress you, Katsuki nods tensely, and he moves deeper between your legs, nudging your knees apart for himself.

“It’ll feel good,” he murmurs quietly, picking up one of your legs and draping it over his shoulder, “but if you want me to stop, tell me, alright?”

You nod down at him, knowing that every bit of your nerves at being so exposed is showing all over your face. Katsuki flits his gaze down to your cunt, glistening in the candlelight and humiliatingly wet from his touch, and you can see him bite into the inside of his cheek, see his eyes flutter closed. Despite your embarrassment, you’re keen on watching, learning from him. Katsuki leans in, and his tongue slides between your wet folds, but even over your choked noise of surprise, one thing rings clear in your mind at the startling new sensation.

Katsuki groans, louder than you’ve ever heard, languid and gratified, face pressed so firmly into your center that you can already feel his shadow of stubble scratching the insides of your thighs. His hand, wrapped around the thigh over his shoulder, suddenly tightens, fingers digging into the meat of your leg much harder than he’s touched you yet. You focus on the muscles of his jaw, tensing and straining on the side of his face, while he licks into you like a man starved.

The way he eats you is such a deviation from his feather-light touches that you almost can’t believe it’s the same man, lewd noises echoing throughout the room as he suckles on something between your legs that you hadn’t even discovered properly for yourself, only swiping at it blindly in the darkest hours in your chambers. Your back curves viciously, breathy moans spilling from your lips, fingernails clawing into the ornately-carved posts of your marriage bed. Katsuki holds you tight against him, eyes hooded in bliss and mouth moving ceaselessly against you.

You’ve snuck a hand down between your legs before, rubbed shyly at the growing wetness, at the swollen skin, and experienced maybe a glimmer of the feeling that’s now glowing hot in the pit of your stomach. You would almost feel panicked at the spiraling, swooping sensation; that is, if you weren’t so wholly consumed by the white-hot pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Katsuki– I, it’s so– oh,” you trail off, losing your words as Katsuki establishes a rhythm of flicking his tongue between your legs right on that damned spot that you wish you’d known about before, maybe you could have prepared– “Oh, Katsuki, it’s– so good.”

Katsuki elicits a sound that’s closer to a snarl than anything else you can think of, tightening his iron grip into your skin. One of your hands absentmindedly fists in his hair, and before you can find the presence of mind to rip it away, he moans, openly and unashamedly, eyes screwing shut. He likes it, your foggy mind realizes, and you dig your fingers in harder, anchoring what’s left of you to the earth using the straight, sandy locks.

The heat, the sparks that are flying around every nerve ending in your body, begins to pick up an overwhelming speed, and all of the sudden, you feel like you need to kick out, to curl in on yourself, to scream so loud the windows blow out.

“Katsuki,” you say desperately, making watery, scared eyes at him. Katsuki’s brow furrows, and he only holds his pace, red eyes glaring into yours. You’re trying to warn him, but no words will form, and you can’t catch your breath, panting and clawing at his hair and almost sobbing until–

Everything peaks. A broken cry comes shooting out of your throat, your standing leg threatening to give out under you, and you writhe and twitch on Katsuki’s face, shamelessly surrendering to the most intense tidal wave of pleasure you’ve experienced in your life. From the fuzzy peripherals of your consciousness, you can hear Katsuki groaning encouragingly into your wet cunt, still dutifully moving his tongue against you and smearing the evidence of your arousal all over his cheeks. When the world comes back into focus, it’s dazzlingly harsh, your muscles weakening as soon as Katsuki’s face clears into its typical arrangement of sharp angles and hard lines.

“Oh–” you gasp, your one good knee finally buckling underneath you. Luckily, Katsuki has already begun to stand, and one of his strong arms darts out, catching you around the waist. You wish he wouldn’t look so smug.

“How do you feel?” Katsuki asks innocently enough, but even in the aftermath of that,  you don’t miss the twitching at the corner of his shining mouth, the expectant arch of his eyebrow.

“Good,” you pant, willing your cheeks to lose even a portion of their heat, “it was– fine.”

“Fine?” Katsuki’s eyebrow raises fully, disbelievingly.

“It was good,” you reaffirm, glaring at him. Katsuki grins brightly, the most light you think you’ve ever seen enter his face. It makes you blush almost as hard as the orgasm he dragged you through. Something wild and wicked flickers in your mind, and you look up at him curiously. “Do you…do you want me to do that to you?”

Katsuki’s smile drops as quickly as it came, and his cheekbones darken, a deep flush spreading over his face. You almost wonder if you’ve misstepped, upset him in some way, until you catch him palming over his pants. Your throat tightens.

“No,” he says, all the mirth drained from his face, “no, you don’t have to– no.”

“Alright,” you acquiesce, transferring your weight from Katsuki’s firm grip around your waist back to your feet, finding your legs weak and shaky beneath you. Your gaze floats over your shoulder, back to the plush sheets of your marriage bed, and Katsuki clears his throat, backing away a step so you have the room to climb into the bed, lay yourself down.

You’d expected to feel shyer, but there’s surprisingly no urge to curl in on yourself, not even Katsuki’s eyes take you in, darkening in the candlelight. The aftershocks of pleasure— white-hot, addictive pleasure he’d introduced you to— are still echoing through your limbs, and you’re just curious enough to bite back your initial trepidation. You want to know what else he has to teach you.

Katsuki begins tugging at the laces keeping his pants snug around his waist, loosening them and shooting you one final look, one last assurance. His eyebrow is cocked questioningly, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think he looks a little nervous. You nod, holding a breath deep enough in your lungs that it aches, and his pants hit the floor.

You’ve seen naked men, here and there, over the course of your life, and your ladies had described enough of the act before you that you can’t find yourself shocked at the sight, but more so at the wanton aching that ricochets through your limbs, chill bumps erupting over your arms and shoulders rolling of their own accord. You don’t have much to go by, but you’re fairly sure he’s big comparatively, so hard that the tip is an angry shade of red. Katsuki climbs over you before you have much chance to look further, but the damage is done; a fresh wave of arousal courses through you, and you widen your knees to let him situate himself.

“I’m going to get you ready,” Katsuki says between chaste kisses to your lips. “Is that alright?”

“But you already–,” you feel frustrated at your own inexperience, knitting your brow at him, “I’m ready.”

“You’re not,” Katsuki assures you, and before you can bite back another retort, his battle-scarred fingers are rubbing softly through the mess between your legs, and your jaw falls slack. Katsuki’s monitoring you for any signs of unease, eyes bright and focused on your face. You’re wet enough that he’s sliding through your folds easily, meeting little resistance as he rubs tight, concentrated circles into that spot that he’d used to make you see stars earlier. “Do you trust me?”

“Mhm.” It’s all you can manage to hum an affirmative, biting back the breathy noises trying to break free of your throat. It’s a wonder, how so little effort from him has your blood molten in your veins, limbs pliant and muscles twitching.

Katsuki’s fierce gaze doesn’t let up, but you understand why when you feel it: a finger, presumably, stretching you in a new, uncomfortable way. You’re unable to contain the gasp that bleats out of you, eyes flying wide, and Katsuki’s hand stills, eyes squinting as he tries to determine the nuances of your reaction. It’s novel, and admittedly, makes you a bit restless, but it isn’t unpleasant, and embarrassingly, your hips cant up into his hand, answering for you. Katsuki works slowly, never ceasing the small circles he’s rubbing into you, letting the discomfort align with the deliberate, savory pleasure that’s now ever-present in your core. When he begins to move his finger in and out of you, working you open, you realize it feels good, more than good, even.

“Alright?” Katsuki asks, distrusting of the whimpers and shaky moans beginning to fall from your lips. “Talk to me.”

“It’s strange,” you admit, words fragile and breathy in the space between your lips, “but I like it, it feels good. Really good.”

Katsuki hums approvingly, teases your entrance with the rough pad of a second finger. He arches his eyebrow at you, the question hanging silent, but clear between you. The prospect is daunting, but you welcome it; he’s already shown you so much, made you feel so much. You trust him, nodding eagerly.

“Please.”

Katsuki works his second finger in, grinding his jaw when you choke on a moan, rolling your hips into his palm. He nods, letting you wriggle your hips around as you need to, to ease the stretch of him inside of you. You can feel the power behind the lightness of his touch, eyes flitting down to the strained, corded muscle of his forearm as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. He’s holding back, and when you think wildly of what might happen the day he doesn’t have to anymore, your body clenches around him.

Katsuki pulls a face at you, amused. “What is it?”

“What?” You pant, feeling that knot begin to tie in on itself tighter and tighter behind your bellybutton.

“Y’liked something, thought of something,” Katsuki studies you, mouth quirking up into a little half-smile, “I could feel it.”

If you were any more present, you’d be mortified, but all you can do is reach a hand to stroke along the bulge of his bicep, dig your teeth into your bottom lip.

“Was thinking about you,” you admit shyly, trying to force your words to come out a little less broken than you know you sound, “you’re strong.”

“I am strong,” Katsuki agrees, curling his fingers against something inside of you that makes you jerk, makes him smirk at you.

“You’re holding back on me.”

“I am,” he says, placing a kiss to your shoulder, “you’re not ready for it. Need to go slow this time.”

“One day you won’t,” you say, mustering all the strength your hazy mind has to offer to look him squarely in the eye, watch his reaction. Katsuki inhales sharply, eyes widening at your boldness, only to narrow at you, predatory and curious. His fingers have stilled momentarily, and you pull your stomach muscles, jerking your hips up against his hand, frustrated. Katsuki only glares down at you, jaw ticking.

“One day I won’t,” he finally answers you, pulling his fingers from where you’re throbbing and needy. You almost whine, but bite into your lip before the admission of desperation flies from you. “If that’s what you want.”

You don’t have the chance to answer before Katsuki’s sucking his own fingers into his mouth, sucking you off of them. Your jaw stutters, and you gape at him as his eyelids flutter, a low groan rumbling in his strong chest.

“Taste good,” Katsuki says, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, “sweet.”

“Can I try?” The question flies from your lips before you can even think to contain it, and your eyes grow even larger, shocked at your own debauchery. You’re seconds away from stuttering out an apology when Katsuki’s massive hand appears in front of your face, fingers glistening in the candlelight.

“Here.” Katsuki offers his fingers to you, eyes dark and hungry. You only stare at him for a moment, trying to discern if you’ve done something horribly wrong, but he’s completely sincere, brushing his wet fingers along your bottom lip. You open your mouth, suck him in. It’s more viscous than you would have imagined, sticky and thick on your tongue, but it’s pleasantly gamey; a little bitter, a little sweet. You don’t realize that you’re suckling on Katsuki’s fingers until he groans again, deep in his throat, gritting his teeth.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, pulling his hand free from your lips.

“What’d you think?” Katsuki regains his composure quickly, tilting his head at you with something impish sparkling in his eye.

You’d chosen your new husband due to his unwavering dedication to the kingdom that he’d sworn his life to protect, his kingly attributes that had set him so far apart from your other, softer suitors. You hadn’t even thought to consider what other sides to him might be lurking beneath the formidable exterior of decorated general; could it be so that the red-cheeked, boyish creature above you, so intent on helping you explore your body, was the fierce warrior that had supposedly cut down over a hundred enemy soldiers entirely on his own?

“I liked it,” you say, biting into the smile starting to grow on your face. The way his eyes light up makes you feel like a vixen, like somehow, you can be a woman after all. “Everything is…it feels good.”

Something virile glints in Katsuki’s eyes, but you don’t shy away, holding his gaze. “Good.”

“I want to…I want you to have me. I want to have you.” You’re not even sure if you’re making sense, tongue heavy and useless in your mouth. Katsuki’s hand has wandered back down between your legs, rubbing lazily at the wetness there, and it’s got that steady heat creeping back through your limbs, setting your nerves on fire.

“You’re sure?” Katsuki asks, raising his eyebrow at you. All the mischief has drained from his face as he examines you, and while you appreciate his caution, the craving for something more is growing uncomfortable.

“Please,” you say, tilting your chin up to press your lips gently to his in reassurance. Katsuki is finally convinced, it seems, because he rolls off of you and settles his back against the headboard, reaching an errant arm over to tug you on top of him.

You hadn’t anticipated this; Katsuki’s set you right on top of his hips, your dripping cunt placed firmly against his hard cock, back ramrod straight from the sudden exposure, nipples peaked in the charged air. The feel of him pressing insistently against where your body needs him most makes your head spin; you hadn’t expected it to be so distinct, hard and thick beneath you.

“What are you–”

“It’ll be easier this way,” Katsuki says, looking very much like he’s putting all his effort into appearing unaffected, but only a moment ago, you felt his hips twitch upwards into yours, “you can control it.”

“I don’t– I don’t know how to do it. Not the right way, I mean.” You’re burning in your humiliation, hot in so many different ways now you aren’t sure if you could even count them, but you’re bared completely to him, and you figure your dignity was left somewhere crumpled on the floor with your consummation gown.

“Don’t worry about that,” Katsuki says sternly, looking so unbelievably flustered that if you were any less preoccupied, it would make you giggle, “not yet. You need to get used to having something inside you, first.”

Something inside you; him, thick and hard and drooling wetness onto his bellybutton. That’s right. You take a deep breath to steady yourself, doing everything in your power to ride the wave of exhilaration going through you. You roll your hips experimentally, once, twice, swallowing the gasp that aches to leave your jaw.

“Just like that,” Katsuki mumbles, so quietly you almost think you hadn’t heard him, “take your time.”

You take his advice, bracing your clammy hands on his neck. You grind down on him again, feeling sparks of pleasure shoot up your body. With each swipe of your hips, you can feel your cunt grow wetter, feel that bottomless want in your stomach open a little more. The growing hunger in you is primordial, some hidden part of your mind directing you. The urge to have something inside of you, to feel full in a way you can’t begin to imagine, is causing you to grow restless, fingers drumming anxiously on Katsuki’s shoulders. When you meet his eyes, a muscle feathers in his jaw, but he stays silent, hands placed gently on your hips as he watches you grow accustomed to his girth, the weight of him between your legs.

“I think I’m ready. Can I?”

Katsuki stays silent, only nods sagely in assent. His grip on your hips grows tighter as you lift yourself up, reaching down blindly to grip him. He sucks in a breath when your fingers wrap around the length of him, and your eyes flit to his in alarm, but he only shakes his head, brow furrowing.

“Go ahead.”

You nod back, wincing at the anticipatory trembling of your thighs on either side of his hips, pulling his cock up from his stomach. You rather like the smooth feel of the skin in your hands, and you think briefly that maybe this will be something to revisit later, having him needy and in the palm of your hand. The swollen head catches, and you almost gasp at the surprise of it, how a dull thud of satisfaction rings through your body. You inhale deeply, and begin to sink down.

Katsuki’s fingers dig into your hips even harder, but you hardly feel it over the incomparable stretch between your legs. You’re sure now that he’s big; he has to be, the way it feels like your very insides are moving to accommodate him. You’re trying not to huff at the feeling, but a whine escapes you, and Katsuki’s tight grip stops you just as you’re nearing the halfway point.

“Okay?” He’s tense, coiled like a snake, all the muscles in his strong body locked, but his eyes are concerned.

“Uh huh,” you manage, wiggling your hips around and dropping yourself down a couple more inches, making you both gasp, “s’just big.”

“Fuck,” Katsuki hisses, throwing his head back. You pause, body contracting around him in your attempt to take him wholly, only a short distance from the blonde hair at the base of his cock.

“Is everything alright?”

“Can’t say shit like that,” Katsuki grits out, voice hoarse. You realize with a slow, muggy blink that you haven’t yet heard him swear, not in the Common Tongue, haven’t yet seen him become so unraveled and yet, at the same time, so rigid. It’s affecting him, that instinctual part of your brain supplies, it feels good for him.

If you were any less dazed, you’d smile. Katsuki Bakugou, High Commander of the fiercest army the world has seen in over a century, famed warrior an ocean over, is practically twitching trying to bite back his own pleasure as you take him inside of you. The rush of adrenaline that thought sends through you gives you the motivation to let yourself go, nestling the entirety of him deep inside yourself and meeting his hips. You choke on a moan, eyes prickling with tears.

“Oh,” you pant, lifting yourself just a bit, trying to squirm away from the discomfort.

“Does it hurt?” Katsuki grunts, eyes running over every bit of your body.

“No, it’s just,” you keen again, interrupting yourself with breathy, whiny little noises, “full.”

Katuski makes a noise that you think was meant to be a hum of agreement, but only comes out as a growl. If the white in his knuckles and the sharp, tense bone of his jaw is anything to go by, his arousal is only barely being held back, restricted to a tight leash. You’re not his first, not the only wet warmth he’s buried himself in, and this isn’t at all the first time he’s experienced this white-hot, carnal pleasure that’s licking up your veins. You find the strength to blink back the budding tears in your eyes, to really look at him.

He’s holding it together well, fingers grounded where they dig into your fleshy hips, crimson eyes looking you up and down, taking you in, but like the quiet snap of embers in the background, ruining the illusion of the room’s heat emanating from you and Katsuki, his body betrays him. His muscles are jumping under his skin, twitching involuntarily like the hide of one of the cavalry’s prize stallions, ready to run. Katsuki’s fucking a princess in his mind, you think, a future queen, and he’s proceeding accordingly, trying to keep his caresses light and his infamous temper in check.

You blink at him, vision watery, and realize suddenly that, for the first time in your life,  you want to be a hot-blooded, wild, mortal. You want only to be a woman with a man inside of her, and you want to be regarded as such.

“Still doin’ alri–” Katsuki cuts himself off with a grunt when you roll your hips, biting back a wince at the unfathomable pressure in your stomach, the depth of him snug inside you. “Wait–”

“I’m fine,” you say, surprising even yourself at your sharpness. Confidence swells in your chest as he squirms under you, kissing away the burn of how he’s worked you open.

“But–”

“Eminna skoros iksis ñuhon,” you say down to him, looking upon your new husband with hooded eyes as you grind your hips down into him, adjusting to the strange stretch that accompanies his body inside of yours. Each movement of your hips into his makes it easier, soothes the slow throb of your body trying to make room for him. Pleasure begins to ignite again along your fingertips, and when you scoot forward a bit, pushing your hips back, his cock nudges something inside of you that makes your jaw drop.

Katsuki’s eyes widen momentarily, but you can see the moment he loosens the leash, succumbs to his baser instincts. His grip on your hips loosens, shoulders slackening, and his eyes darken, lids dropping a bit just to cover the tops of those crimson irises. He’s beautiful, godlike even, planes of hardened muscle at your command, the flames from the candles reflected in his eyes. Katsuki drags his gaze over you, nostrils flaring, bringing one hand up to the back of your neck and pulling you to him, pressing your foreheads together. The shift in him makes you gasp; the calm force with which he chooses to exert his strength.

“Lo emilā nyke, emagon nyke,” Katsuki says against your lips, all trepidation gone. You shudder in his arms, letting pleasure wrack down your spine like fire catching. “Yn eminna ao, hae sȳrī, dārilaros.”

Your blood sings at the low purr of the Old Tongue, poured into your mouth like a fine wine, but you curdle at Dārilaros. Princess. “Eman daor pāletilla skori iksā iemnȳ yno. Iksan iā ābra, iksan aōha ābrazȳrys.”

Katsuki nearly snarls, swears under his breath. “What did I tell you about saying shit like that?”

“You call me your wife,” you say, thoroughly pleased with yourself at his rapid unraveling. It’s never been like you not to have the upper hand. “Treat me as your wife.”

Even a hair’s breadth away from his face, you can see Katsuki’s last shreds of honor, that warrior’s heart, dying out. His eyes flicker over your face as you fruitlessly roll your hips, not able to get to the full extent of your pleasure with him gripping you so tightly. For the first time, you can feel his hands tremble against your skin. He’s only steps away from joining you in your damning mortality, finding the raw, primal humanity deep down inside of him. You rut your hips at him again, useless against his resolute grasp.

“Please,” you sigh against him, not even thinking to be ashamed of the breathy, needy plea you let out, not even wholly sure of what you’re begging him for, “make me feel good again.”

Katsuki groans, low in his chest, and nods, a covenant you’re building in the hot air between your mouths. His hands grab into your hips more fully, and he lifts you, only part of the way, before sliding you back down the length of him. You gasp into his mouth, caught off guard by the punch of him back up into the space he’s carved out for himself. It feels like he’s in your lungs, your breath coming out labored and pinched.

“Move,” Katsuki commands, settling back a bit and forcing you to sit up straight, hands on your ribcage. You’re bared completely to him again, and it’s still horrible, but the arousal dims any humiliation that threatens to rise. “Move.”

You wiggle your hips again, moving shakily along his cock, but Katsuki’s not pleased, evidently, as he digs his hands back into your hips.

“Like this,” he says, using his iron grip on you to correct your movements. Katsuki drags you up and down his cock in smooth, fluid motions, and despite the slowly-easing discomfort, your nerve endings come alight, the molten want finding a new peak as he rips a moan out of your throat.

“Oh–”

“Better?” Katsuki huffs, a vicious grin cutting across his face. Your arms flail a bit as he moves you, rolling you along his length as if you’re nothing more than a doll to him. Katsuki notices your awkwardness, takes one of your hands and places it firmly on your breast. You follow his lead, thumbing gently over one hard nipple, and, at the jolt of pleasure, you quickly bring your free hand to match on the other side, letting your head fall back.

“Katsuki,” you pant, quickly losing your composure and falling victim to the sensations devouring you, “it’s– that’s so good.”

“I know,” Katsuki breathes, still pulling you this way and that, “you’re perfect, so soft around me.”

You’ve never gotten to be soft; iron princess on the iron throne, made of embers and scalding steam, but for him? You bloom, pretty as a petal, letting your body meld into his like it was always supposed to be here. You’re not soft like silk, you let yourself be soft like candlelight, like magma, like the crashing of the ocean when you’re far enough away that the waves won’t get you, drag you under. Soft like doom.

“I feel– fuck, I think I– I need more.”

Katsuki’s lips twist at the breathless curse that flies from your lips, so foreign and funny-sounding in your regal mouth. You want to tease him right back, but he slides you off of him, and the loss is so devastating, your bottom lip nearly juts out as it did when you were a child. Before you can protest too much, Katsuki’s laying you on your back, hands sliding along your thighs, and you follow your instincts and bring your legs up to wrap around his waist.

“If it’s too much…” Katsuki trails off, losing his words when he goes to brush your bottom lip with his thumb and you suck him in voraciously, nibbling on his finger.

“I’ll tell you,” you promise, spitting him out and letting your own hand flutter across his cheekbone. He’s almost glaring down at you; so intense is the desire in his eyes that a small part of you wants to shy away, but you don’t. You wiggle your legs that much wider, arch your back, lean into the burn of him. You were born for the heat.

Katuski’s mouth quirks up in a little smile, already so fond it makes your chest ache, and he slides back into you, groaning when your cunt sucks him in greedily. You try to embrace the novelty of it, the dull throb of his cock splitting you wide, digging your nails into his arm by mistake. Katsuki swears in surprise, and you jerk your hand away, until he looks down at you admonishingly.

“Go ahead, perzītsos,” he hums, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your hairline, “I won’t break.”

He pulls back and thrusts back into you, harder than you’d expected, and your nails return to his wrist beside your head, digging half-moons into the pale skin. He’s different from this angle, not so agonizingly deep in you, but nudging against something inside you that renders you incapacitated, fuzzy-minded and pliant in his arms. Katsuki’s not faring any better than you, eyes hooded and little grunts slipping from his lips each time his hips connect with yours.

“What does it feel like?” Katsuki asks, beginning to look out of his mind with need. “Ivestragon nyke.”

“Deep,” you choke out, letting your jaw drop when he leans down to lick into your mouth, “full, I feel– full.”

“Good,” Katsuki mumbles, “good. Doesn’t hurt?”

“No.”

In answer, Katsuki moves his hips faster, snapping them against you with brute force. He’s keeping that ever-cognizant eye on you, monitoring you for any indication of pain or panic, but even through the haze of the tightening knot in the pit of your stomach, you can see him tumbling over the same edge that you have, lost to your baser instincts. You’re soft to him, your warm walls hugging him snug as he chases an end for you both, but sharp in the way your fingers claw into his skin, your teeth nip into his shoulder. Mine. Mine. Ñuhon.

“Katsuki,” you warn him, the balloon of pressure welling in your belly, growing so large you feel as though you might choke on it.

“I know,” he says, leaning down to press his forehead to yours. His voice is broken and ragged and tastes like hot coals, like copper and bronze and prophecy. You drink him down eagerly, so out of your mind with want that you’ve transformed. You’d entered the room as a blushing virgin of the highest, most noble bloodline, and here you are, twisting and keening under him, all molten limbs and whorish pants. Sweat dapples your forehead, drool smeared over your chin, and you’ve never felt more beautiful.

“I’m so– it’s the, the same,” you gasp, familiar words devolving into nonsense, “but it’s not enough, I don’t, I–”

“Here,” Katsuki growls, closing one strong fist around your wrist and sliding your arm between your writhing bodies, “just like I did it, remember?”

You find the same sensitive spot that Katsuki had shown you quickly, swollen and raw with pleasure, and try rubbing shaky circles over it, try to maintain some semblance of a rhythm and imitate his earlier movements. It’s uneven and inconsistent, but the added stimulation rockets through you, and your back pulls taut as a bow, arching off the featherbed.

“Close?”

“Yes,” you gasp, still not grasping what you’re close to, but feeling very much as though you’re teetering on the edge of a cliff, that same rushing building in your ears. You somehow had the presence of mind to register that what’s building inside of you now is different than it was with his mouth between your legs; it’s faster, wetter, fuller, and it feels like it’s choking you.

“Come on,” Katsuki urges you, bordering on a snarl as he pants desperately into your mouth, “want to feel you cum around me, feel this little cunt milkin’ my cock.”

“Kat–” you try to call out for him, so overwhelmed the edges of your vision are going dark. He’s grinding his hips into you forcefully, pinning your fingers to the apex of your cunt, forcing you to rub yourself harder. 

“You can do it, raqiarzy, come on–”

You cut him off with a loud sob of his name, thighs caging him in and the innermost walls of your body clamping down on him. Light bursts behind your eyelids, the white-hot flames of dragonfire and the embers of a burning forest exploding as your body is racked with wave after wave of bliss. Katsuki’s skin breaks under your fingernails, the slight dampness of tearing flesh familiar even in the haze of your orgasm. He works you through it, driving his hips into you despite the vicious tightening of your cunt around him, whispering affirmations into the pallid skin of your shoulder. Every muscle in your body contracts painfully, and you’d feel ashamed of the sounds escaping you if you could find enough wherewithal to care.

“Close,” Katsuki grits out, rolling his hips into your still-contracting cunt as your high begins to dwindle, “you ready for me?”

“Uh-huh, please, I– yes,” you babble nonsensically, interlocked ankles bouncing at the small of his back. As your orgasm drains from your veins, your muscles go lax, zapped of the fervent energy that had overtaken you. You find your body to be pliant and receptive, but your mind solely focused on watching that same ethereal pleasure that had possessed you wash over Katsuki. “Yes, I w-want you to cum.”

“Fuck,” Katsuki swears, hips stuttering, “take it, take it all–”

A guttural groan accompanies a sticky warmth flooding your insides; you squirm in his tight grip and moan at the sensation of being filled, feeling a fresh rush of arousal flow through you as you feel his cock twitching inside of you. You bite deep into his shoulder to muffle the pathetic mewls slipping from you at the feel of both his and your cum leaking out of your body, pooling in a little puddle underneath you. Everything is so earthy and musky; Katsuki’s salty skin between your teeth, his bruising grip into your hips, the stink of sex and sweat permeating the bedsheets.

Katsuki’s chest heaves against yours as his hips rock into you one last time, the thatch of blond hair at the base of him pressing against where you’re swollen and achy hard enough to make you whimper. When you wriggle around underneath him, he seems to snap back into himself, propping his upper body up on his elbows and bringing a hand to your face, thumbing over the arch of your cheekbone.

“Y’alright?” His carmine eyes are still glazed over, words gummy between his teeth, but the tenderness of his hand as he strokes your cheek lets you know he’s there.

“I’m alright,” you say, and you mean it. Something so deep in you that you don’t even have a name for is throbbing, and your body is still clenching and fluttering around where he’s softening inside of you, but your limbs are heavy and your head is in the clouds.

He’s a sight to see, a sight you commit to memory; sweat glistens on his pale skin, his eyes are hooded and sleepy, and a contented, lazy grin is starting to tug at the corner of his mouth. Katsuki pulls his hips back, pressing his lips to your temple in apology when you murmur something unintelligible, but hinting at discontent. You feel empty in a way you had never known you were supposed to, not until you’d learned what it meant to be fulfilled.

“Anything hurt?”

You shake your head, not sure how to verbalize that you’re not feeling any pain, but a deep-seated satiation that hints to the fact that you might never be able to lift yourself from the bed again. Katsuki’s still caging you in, heavy body crushing yours, when a jarringly unwelcome sound floats over his shoulder.

“Ah, um– Princess? I need to confirm–”

“I know,” Katsuki, sliding back into the skin of a general with ease, growls over his shoulder, “that you’re not daring to speak to my wife while she’s naked underneath me.”

Even given everything, your cheeks flare, and you shove at Katsuki weakly, making apologetic eyes at the attendant despite your humiliation. “It’s his job, Katsuki–”

“They can’t send a woman for this shit?” Katsuki cages you in even further, glaring at the servant who’s nearly shaking in his slippers. “Well?”

“I–I can fetch a female servant to confirm the consummation of the–”

“Do that, then.” The attendant’s soft footsteps as he scuttles away are hardly overshadowed by your breathy, tired giggles.

“You didn’t have to terrorize the poor man,” you swat lightly at Katsuki’s chest, “it’s his duty to confirm that the marriage has been consummated. The priests won’t have it any other way.”

“I’m sure he heard enough,” Katsuki grumbles, flopping onto his back beside you. He opens one eye, notices the sheet dragging dangerously close to your nipple, and tugs it up to your chin, closing his eye again and humming contentedly. His arm pauses for a moment, like he wants to stretch it over your shoulders, but he pulls it back by his own side, thinking better of it. You aren’t sure if you want to be held, if the intimacy outside of your duty as his new wife will be too grating against your already-raw nerves.

“My ladies will be here soon,” you say quietly, “to bathe me and help me prepare for bed.”

“Figured,” Katsuki grumbles, sounding entirely displeased at more people disrupting your peace. Something about it warms your heart, some small part of your mind hoping that his displeasure is rooted in a desire to keep you all to himself, hidden beneath the sheets.

“Your own attendants shouldn’t be far behind.”

“My what?” Katsuki sits up on one elbow again, looks down at you disbelievingly. “I don’t need any…ladies.”

“You’ll get used to them,” you tell him offhandedly, wondering if you’re being truthful. You’re just beginning to get acquainted with the intricacies of the man behind the title, but the general seems fiercely independent to you, and the image of him getting his hair scrubbed by a flock of servants is enough to make you chuckle to yourself.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you assure him, “I’m sure you’ll be a perfect royal specimen.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrow in irritation. “You didn’t inform me that ladies would be a part of my duties.”

“We can get men!”

“That’s worse.” Katsuki’s face screws up in an ugly scowl that makes you laugh outright. The lightness of your laughter makes his face fall a little, the hardened exterior giving way to the same man that had kissed reverently up the inside of your thigh, had been so achingly gentle with you when you weren’t sure what you would need to get through the night. A man you think you could love.

You look into each other’s eyes, something like starlight, like candlelight, like true, gods-given warmth buzzing between you, when the door creaks open, a gaggle of ladies and one priestess entering the room. Katsuki groans, tugs the blankets even further up your chests, the moment broken.

Ignoring his grumbles of protest, you pull yourself from the blankets with ease, baring your nude body to your ladies. There’s no shame in front of these women who have raised you, much to Katsuki’s astonishment. You don’t miss the way their eyes catch on the purple blooms on your hipbones, the way they squeal with excitement when you lay back and spread your legs for the priestess, displaying the thin trickle of Katsuki’s seed still steadily leaking from you. The priestess nods solemnly and leaves in the same manner; at least that’s done.

Your ladies do an absolutely dismal job of trying to appear subtle as they stare at Katsuki’s still-heaving chest, his narrowed eyes darting around the room suspiciously, his round biceps– your closest lady, Alanna, whisper-squeals in your ear about how huge your new husband’s arms are, and you have to pinch her cheek harshly to get her to stop, sensing Katsuki’s tangible discomfort from across the room. He behaves well as they bathe you, sitting up in bed and watching silently as you’re preened and fawned over, as your tangled hair has a brush torn through it and is twisted neatly into your nighttime braid.

A group of women hovering silently by the door, eyeing Katsuki nervously, appear to be his newly-appointed handmaids. You do both Katsuki and the women the favor of dismissing them for the night, unsure of how Katsuki, who is still gripping the sheets to his chest like a young, blushing maiden, will react to being pampered and scrubbed by foreign hands. 

“You can dismiss those serving girls for good,” Katsuki says gruffly, clean and ambling over to a looking glass to swipe a brush through his hair. “‘M not a boy, I don’t need any help getting myself to bed.”

You conveniently slide past the omission on the tip of your tongue– before Katsuki’s anxious staff had left, you had requested them to bring a hot bath, all of Katsuki’s bathing things from his old chamber, a freshly-dried sponge from the Narrow Sea for him to wash himself with. It’s enough to keep it to yourself, seeing how content he is in his new living space now, that you could do something for him amongst the chaos you’ve now thrown his life into.

“We’ll see,” you hum, picking at a stray cuticle over the covers and trying not to ogle him too obviously.

He’s still blessedly nude, unabashed in his swagger around the room as he dries himself with the strips of soft, woven cloth your ladies had left behind per your request. When he approaches the bed you’re laying in, you stiffen, unaccustomed still to these small intimacies. Royalty has proven to be a lengthy and lonely existence in your experience, and sharing it with someone is foreign to your solitary nature. Your own parents had had their own separate chambers, as every monarch before them. It was Katsuki’s one condition to accepting your proposal; you were to share bedchambers, like a common husband and wife.

“Princess?” Katsuki is hesitant when he approaches you, as if he already senses your trepidation. You will yourself to unclench your muscles, to relax your shoulders. You have no right to make him feel unwelcome in his own bed– the bed you now share.

“I told you I don’t want you to call me that.” You try to offer him a playful smile, but it only glimmers across your face. This is yet another bridge you need his guidance over.

“You did,” Katsuki nods sagely, the corner of his mouth twitching as he remembers the circumstance of that particular conversation, “I’m sorry, perzītsos.”

“Come to bed.”

“Are you sure?” Katsuki cocks an eyebrow at you, looking down at the huge bed warily.

“It was what you wanted.”

“Only if you want it.” Katsuki sighs deeply at your look of not-quite-belief and sits on the bed a respectable distance away from you. He reaches for your hand, a question, not a demand, and you slide your fingers into his calloused palm, humming contentedly when he runs his large thumb over your knuckles. He stays like that for a moment, contemplative and looking at your hand, bare of all of its usual finery and rings. “What did I say earlier?”

“When?”

“Before.” Katsuki raises his eyebrows enough that you catch his meaning.

“That we were doing things on my terms.” Something in your chest, warm and wet and laden with flowers, swells big and tight enough to pop.

“That didn’t just apply to, ah, earlier,” Katsuki coughs uncomfortably, flicking his eyes up to you, “that’s for all of this. Our…our lives are…the same now, and I don’t want you to think I need you– seven hells, that’s not what I meant–”

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” You interrupt him suddenly, a saccharine smile curling the corner of your lips. Katsuki flushes a vicious red, frowns and shakes his head in confirmation. “Neither am I.”

“No?”

“I haven’t suddenly found myself married before, so no.” It feels silly, all of the sudden, to have guarded yourself at all. Katsuki is many things, but above all, he is steady, a resolute rock against an angry ocean. “But while I feel many things about our…unexpected union, one thing I do not feel is alone. We can do this on our terms, not just mine.”

Katsuki nods again, looks back down to your hand in his, and cracks a wry smile. “This is why you’re the politician.”

“I’m a princess,” you deadpan, “not a politician.”

“But I can’t call you that,” Katsuki scoffs, rolling his eyes. The lightheartedness lifts the atmosphere in your bedchamber, oppressive with marital expectations and the stuffy heat of candles left burning too long, and it gives you the needed weightlessness to have your eyes slowly blinking closed.

“Exactly,” you agree matter-of-factly, stifling a yawn. “Will you call someone in to dispose of the candles?”

Katsuki snorts, pushing himself off the bed without answer. Before you can protest or feel hurt by his sudden abandonment, he crosses the room and bends at the waist, blowing out one of over two dozen candles. You can only watch in growing fondness and amusement as he huffs at each little flame, the room growing darker by the moment. By the time he’s finished, your eyes are hardly open, drifting shut as you sink into the pillows. A satisfied throb echoes through your body as you wriggle down beneath the sheets, the lingering evidence of Katsuki’s presence on and in you bringing a warmth to your cheeks even in the now-dark room.

The last thing you register as you slip into the beginnings of a heavy sleep is the dip of the bed behind you, and a thick, muscled forearm creeping stealthily over your waist.

“This alright?”

All you can muster is a tired mumble of acquiesce, nuzzling into the firm chest behind you. Katsuki chuckles quietly into your hair, a dark, soothing sound that has your mind careening towards sleep, eager to melt into this world of warmth and comfort in his arms.

“Ēdrū sȳrī, ñuha perzītsos.”

───── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ─────

as promised, high valyrian translations here :)

Ānogar ānograro = "Blood of my blood."

Gevie = "Beautiful"

Iksā gevie, ñuha ābrazȳrys. = "You are beautiful, my wife."

Eminna skoros iksis ñuhon. = "I will have what is mine."

Lo emilā nyke, emagon nyke, yn eminna ao, hae sȳrī, dārilaros. = "If you will have me, then have me, but I will have you as well, princess."

Eman daor pāletilla skori iksā iemnȳ yno. Iksan iā ābra, iksan aōha ābrazȳrys. = "I have no crown when you are inside me. I am a woman, I am your wife."

Perzītsos = "Little flame"

Ivestragon nyke. = "Tell me."

Raqiarzy = "Beloved"

Ēdrū sȳrī, ñuha perzītsos. = "Sleep tight, my little flame."

[helvegen-s]

Rage, rage | nine

index

Pairing: Azriel x Hybern!Princess!OC

Summary: Nimue was a gift for the King of Hybern. His shining jewel, the perfect heir. However, she is clear about who the villain of the story is. When she saves her father's enemies from a tragic end, she realizes that now it's the Cauldron who has a gift for her: a mate.

Warnings: i think none...

A/N: im soooooooooo sooooooooo sorry for being gone for almost A YEAR, but I didn't have the inspiration or the time to write it the way I would have liked. I've found my enthusiasm again, so I'll try to continue this fic as much as I can :)

Nimue had spent the last few days navigating the treacherous currents of the Spring Court, observing and analyzing each interaction with a critical eye and attentive ear. She'd ensured that everyone believed her performance—the wounded princess returned to the fold—but she hadn't let her guard down for a moment. A disquieting stillness hung in the air, a persistent dissonance she couldn't ignore, like the ominous calm before a storm.

By day, she played the dutiful daughter, pleasing her cousins and the High Lord with her presence, offering smiles and nods at the appropriate times, all while her mind wove an intricate web of deceit. In the stolen hours, she would slip through the labyrinthine corridors of the mansion, her steps silent as a whisper, a ghost drifting through the halls. She would pause in shadowy corners, her senses heightened, absorbing the conversations of others, the hushed whispers of conspiracies and betrayals. She had eyes and ears everywhere within those walls; nothing escaped her notice: the countless times Lucien had attempted to sway Tamlin from his reckless alliance with Hybern, the equally numerous occasions Tamlin, blinded by his all-consuming hatred for Rhysand, had attempted to reassure Lucien of their inevitable victory, of how they would use Hybern to their advantage to crush the Night Court…

A flicker of contempt danced in Nimue's eyes as she considered Tamlin's naivety. What could he possibly hope to achieve against Rhysand? Against her own father? His thirst for vengeance had clouded his judgment, blinding him to the true extent of the powers he was dealing with. Even Nimue, born of the Cauldron itself, couldn't fully fathom the depths of her father's depravity, the terrifying power he was wielding. It was a dark and ancient magic, one that chilled her to the core.

Seeking respite from the stifling atmosphere of the mansion, Nimue found herself in the gardens, beneath the sprawling branches of a centuries-old oak. The edge of the woods beckoned to her left, a tangible promise of escape, the ancient tree a silent guardian marking the boundary of the Spring Court. It was the perfect sanctuary, close enough for the lingering traces of her magic woven throughout the mansion to allow her to eavesdrop effortlessly, yet far enough from the prying eyes and ears of the soldiers and diplomats that swarmed the court.

She focused her senses, reaching out with her mind to a room deep within the mansion, where her cousins were currently engaged in a heated discussion. Something significant was unfolding, and she was privy to every word. Azriel, Rhysand, the entire Inner Circle—they were all aware of her findings, thanks to their clandestine meetings under the cloak of night. Every evening, she would slip away to the edge of the woods, her shadows merging with Azriel's as they exchanged information and strategized.

Despite her convincing portrayal of the naive princess, a pawn to be used in her father's twisted game, Nimue was playing a dangerous game of her own. While everyone believed her to be a victim, a weapon waiting to be unleashed, she was quietly orchestrating her own rebellion.

Yet, despite her flawless performance, there were those who harbored suspicions.

"Good afternoon," a voice sliced through the stillness, startling her.

Blinking against the sunlight that filtered through the leaves, Nimue reluctantly pulled her attention back to the present. She shielded her eyes, making out the figure of Lucien, his silhouette stark against the golden light.

"I would have thought that with all these politicians and soldiers about, a warrior princess like you would have much more to do," Lucien drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Especially now, when it seems your father's plans are falling into place with such alarming ease. And yet, all you do is smile, nod, and spend your days sitting here as if nothing matters."

Nimue offered him a sweet smile, relishing the unease it clearly evoked in him.

Oh, she knew men like him all too well. They craved knowledge, needing to know everything that was happening, what everyone was thinking, what they were planning. And with that uncanny golden eye, Lucien could see and read the intentions of others before they were even aware of them themselves. But with Nimue, Lucien saw nothing. A void. An enigma.

And it terrified him.

"You see, as you may have noticed, my relatives don't exactly include me in their strategic discussions," Nimue explained patiently, watching as Lucien let out a small snort, acknowledging the truth in her words. "And as for the fathers, brothers, and sons of my father's soldiers who are currently swarming this court... well, let's just say I used to kill them for sport back in Hybern. So, yes, I'm not exactly welcomed with open arms. I spend my time waiting for orders, waiting to be told who I have to kill next."

A heavy silence fell between them, thick with unspoken tension. Lucien had a thousand questions swirling in his mind, yet he voiced none of them. He trusted his instincts implicitly, and something about Nimue didn't sit right. He knew she wasn't the foolish princess she pretended to be. No one escaped from the heart of the Night Court unscathed, no one crossed the continent with faebane coursing through their veins and magically appeared at the perfect moment to be rescued by their family. No one, not even a being forged by the Cauldron itself.

"That, or perhaps..." Nimue's voice dropped to a silken whisper, laced with venom.

In a blink, she was behind him, her movements swift and predatory. Lucien felt the tendrils of a dark magic coil around him, cold and suffocating. He tried to turn, to summon his own powers, but an invisible force held him captive, a puppet in the hands of a cruel master.

"...perhaps I'm here to kill you all," Nimue continued, her voice a chilling whisper against his ear. "Perhaps I'm a spy, conspiring with Rhysand and his ilk to destroy you. Perhaps my plan is to overthrow my father and all the High Lords. Perhaps I want to be the Queen of Hybern, of Prythian. Why not? In my twenty years, I've found no limit to my power. Why stop at Prythian?"

Nimue circled him slowly, deliberately, like a predator toying with its prey. Her expression was that of an avenging angel, a cruel and triumphant smile that promised pain and destruction. Lucien struggled to breathe, to fight against the suffocating magic, but his lungs burned, his chest constricting. Nimue was choking him, crushing his bones with an inhuman strength.

Then, just as abruptly as it began, the magic vanished. Lucien gasped, his body trembling with the shock of reprieve. For a fleeting moment, before the vision faded, he saw fragmented images: dancing shadows, brightly colored candies, the sound of carefree laughter. He clung to these fleeting glimpses, burning them into his memory as reality snapped back into place.

Nimue was back on the ground, leaning against the tree, her eyes closed and her face tilted towards the sun as if nothing had happened. A laugh escaped her lips, a crystalline sound that jarred with the darkness Lucien had just witnessed.

"Just kidding, just kidding!" she exclaimed, her voice dripping with feigned innocence. "You can't blame me for being bored, dear Lucien. It's so easy to play with you..."

Lucien was speechless, his mind reeling. Rarely had he felt so vulnerable, so utterly powerless. Not even at the hands of his own cruel father had he experienced such fear. Under Nimue's power, he had been nothing more than a plaything, his life hanging by a thread. She could have ended him with a flick of her wrist, and he would have been helpless to stop her.

They were playing with forces beyond their comprehension, and Nimue was a wild card. An enigma in a world of black and white, wielding power that dwarfed that of any High Lord he'd ever encountered.

And yet, despite the terror that gripped him, he didn't flee. He didn't cry out for Tamlin, didn't beg to be saved from this creature who held his life in her hands. No, he stood rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on Nimue, replaying those fleeting images: shadows, candies, laughter…

Suddenly, it all made sense. The suspicions, the feigned innocence, the effortless return to the Spring Court…

Lucien finally understood.

A slow smile spread across his face, cold and calculating, devoid of any warmth. Nimue frowned, a prickle of unease running down her spine. Any other male would have fled in terror after that display of power, but Lucien remained, unfazed, that unsettling smile playing on his lips.

Something was very wrong.

Lucien approached Nimue, his hands clasped behind his back, the picture of a harmless diplomat. He let out a heavy sigh, the sound echoing in the stillness of the garden.

"Tell me," he began, his voice deceptively soft, "are they treating Elain well in the Night Court? I do hope they're giving her some of those candies they seem to share with you."

"What?" Nimue felt a chill grip her heart.

"I've got you, Nimue," Lucien said, his voice now as sharp as ice.

Panic surged through her, a suffocating wave threatening to drown her. She scrambled to her feet, her eyes locked on Lucien's, desperately trying to maintain her composure. A nervous giggle escaped her lips, a betrayal that only served to confirm Lucien's suspicions.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Lucien," she stammered, her voice trembling. "I haven't seen Elain. They've kept me locked up, away from everyone, and drugged."

But Lucien's smile didn't waver, and Nimue knew she was caught.

Azriel, help.

The wave of panic that slammed into Azriel was so forceful it nearly knocked him from his chair. Everyone in the dining room turned to stare as he let out a strangled groan, clutching his chest. He knew instantly that something was terribly wrong.

"Azriel?" Feyre's voice reached him, laced with concern. "Are you alright? What's happening?"

Before he could answer, another wave of terror crashed over him, and he surged to his feet, sending his chair skittering across the floor. Nimue's panicked voice echoed in his mind, a desperate plea for help.

Help, help, help, they've caught me, Azriel.

Without hesitation, he let his shadows consume him, surrendering to the primal pull that led him to his mate. He materialized in a forest, his shadows instantly dispersing, searching frantically for Nimue. When he finally located her, he sprinted towards her, his heart pounding with a terrifying premonition.

"So, let me get this straight," Lucien's voice reached him, laced with disbelief. "You've betrayed your father for people you've known for a few weeks?"

"Uh-huh," came Nimue's strained reply.

Azriel slowed his approach, his senses on high alert.

"And you're telling me you're here as a spy, playing both sides?"

"Yes, technically."

"Hm."

Azriel emerged from the shadows, his gaze falling upon Nimue and Lucien standing a few meters from the edge of the woods, engaged in what appeared to be a casual conversation. A primal urge to shield Nimue, to tear Lucien away from her, surged through him.

He forced himself to remain calm, to assess the situation. What was he thinking? What was happening?

"Oh, Azriel!" Nimue's voice held a note of forced lightness, but her eyes betrayed her fear. "You got here so quickly."

A wave of relief washed over Nimue as she saw Azriel emerge from the shadows. But it was short-lived. Lucien's next words sent a fresh wave of panic through her.

"I want in," Lucien declared, his voice firm. "I want to help you defeat Hybern."

Azriel stiffened, his shadows swirling around him menacingly. "You can't be serious," he snarled. "You're with the Spring Court. You're... an enemy."

"Not anymore," Lucien countered, his gaze unwavering. "Tamlin has lost his way. He's allied himself with Hybern, and I won't stand for it. I want to help you stop him, protect Prythian."

"And what about Elain?" Nimue asked suddenly, her voice sharp.

Lucien's golden eye flickered towards her, and for a fleeting moment, Azriel saw a flicker of vulnerability in his expression.

"I want her safe," Lucien said, his voice low and sincere. 

Nimue studied Lucien, searching for any hint of deception in his words or his expression. With her magic, she wove through Lucien's thoughts, searching for any hint of doubt. But all she found was genuine concern for Elain. A surprising wave of empathy washed over her. She, too, knew that yearning she had glimpsed within Lucien, that sense of not belonging, that desperation to find a place, and people, to call home.

"I trust him," she declared, turning to Azriel.

"What?" Azriel stared at her in disbelief. "Nimue, you can't be serious. We can't—"

"I trust him," Nimue repeated, her voice firm. "I see the truth in his eyes. He wants to help."

Azriel looked from Nimue to Lucien, his shadows churning with uncertainty. How could she be so naive? How could she trust a member of the Spring Court after everything that had happened?

"Nimue, this is madness," he argued, trying to reason with her. "We can't—"

"Azriel," Nimue interrupted, her voice soft but resolute. "I know what I'm doing. Trust me."

Azriel met her gaze, and he saw a steely determination he hadn't witnessed before. He realized then that he barely knew her, that he had only glimpsed fragments of the person she truly was. Doubt gnawed at him, whispering insidious questions about whether he was truly doing the right thing by blindly trusting her simply because she was his mate. He felt the sting of their mating bond, a reminder of the promise they had made to each other.

With a sigh of resignation, he conceded. "Fine. But if you betray us—"

"I won't," Lucien interjected, his voice steady. "You have my word."

Azriel nodded, still wary. The situation was precarious, and they needed to tread carefully.

"We need to leave," he said, his voice urgent. "It's not safe to stay here any longer."

"Agreed," Nimue said.

They turned to go, but a voice stopped them in their tracks.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

Nimue and Azriel whirled around to find Dagdan and Brannagh, Nimue's cousins, blocking their path. Their faces were contorted with rage, their eyes burning with hatred.

"It seems our dear cousin has been keeping secrets from us," Dagdan sneered.

"And it doesn't look like it's anything good," Brannagh added, his voice dripping with venom.

A chill ran down Nimue's spine. They had walked straight into a trap.

Taglist:

@lilah-asteria @agentsofsheilds @leptitlu @just-here-reading @glitterypirateduck @saltedcoffeescotch @krowiathemythologynerd @donttellthecats @annblvck @annamariereads16 @crazylokonugget @smoooothoperator @superspideyparker @bookwormysblog

[wolfstarhaven]

hello!!!! as autumn is beginning i have been craving some fall wolfstar fics so i would love recs :) specifically hogwarts era but honestly anything would be perfect

Hi anon🌸 You are so right for craving that! Here you have some fics to read, sitting under your blanket with a cup of tea🍂

Hogwarts era:

As Red As Hearts And Autumn (47k)

By: Rosie_Rues

It's the autumn of Sixth Year, there's a flu epidemic at Hogwarts, and the Blacks want their heir back.

Themes: Hogwarts era; slow burn; friends to lovers; epidemic (I read this during Covid but it was written in 2005 and that felt sort of wild I remember)

Fall, the Season of Love (14k)

By: IngeniumNoctuam

Fall is a surprising season and also, apparently, the season of love. Remus finds himself caught up in this seasonal parasite, despite his best efforts. An argument and a jumble of, mostly drunken, memories ensue.

Or, an ode to fall.

Themes: Hogwarts era; angst; Sirius is a bit cruel (but it’s done so well I promise!); self-esteem issues; happy ending.

Come In From the Cold (8k)

By: goodboylupin (somebetterwords)

The first Hogsmeade weekend of sixth year. Alternatively: In which Sirius frets and works to keep Remus warm, James argues it’s not that cold, Remus wishes the cold brought something more, and Peter just wishes everyone would get their heads out of their asses.

Themes: Hogwarts era; Hogsmeade date; misunderstanding; pining Remus; oblivious Sirius; meddling James; fluff.

Not hogwarts era:

ten reasons (to go to michigan) (59k)

By: greyeyedmonster18

A story of simple pleasures, love, and home.

Themes: muggle!au; adult!wolfstar; strangers to lovers; slow burn; grief; Sirius raises Harry; found family. (Will break your heart and then glue it back together)

Ullswater (31k)

By: eyra

A winter term at The Ullswater Institute: late-night rehearsals, dormitory karaoke, and secrets, kept in the labyrinthine corridors underneath the cavernous, frescoed auditorium.

Themes: muggle!au; university; music; friends to lovers; jealous Sirius; panic attacks; disabled remus; SO well-written. (Also: eyra has written many more autumnal fics!!)

On Edge (7k)

By: wannnabesuper

Every time they meet, Remus gives Sirius a new ridiculous reason for having been on the cliff where they met.

Themes: muggle!au; strangers to lovers; a misty cliffside; first fluff then some angst.

Harmonicas, Hinky-punks, and Heather (24k)

By: mblematic

Sirius and Remus get stranded in Scotland on Order business, and decide to walk to Hogwarts. Featuring the Brontës, a harmonica, a shrinking tent, and some self-discovery.

Themes: post-Hogwarts; first war era; rain; camping; friends to lovers; no angst.

Liebestraum (101k)

By: lunchbucket

“Do you still have a lot of friends in the area, then?”

“None,” Remus answered simply, which felt much easier than explaining at the level of detail that the question actually deserved.

Themes: muggle!au; post-break up; getting back together; slow burn; NYC; classical piano; musicians!wolfstar; adult!wolfstar; angst. (A classic. But if you’ve already read it, I think it’s time for a reread, don’t you?)

Degrees of Intersection (28k)

By: muse_in_absentia

Sometimes it takes two people who are a little broken coming together, not to heal, but to understand that being broken is okay.

Themes: muggle!au; strangers to lovers; writer!sirius; editor!remus; depression; suicidal thoughts and SH (read the tags!!!); angst with a happy ending. (I THINK this is set it autumn - but mainly it’s the angst in this that gives me autumn vibes)

Love,

Elliot🍂

[fafnir19]

Sailing the other way

Lauritz' sister's fiance Samuel and him were very different. Samuel, the suave and sophisticated heir to a wealthy family, always seemed to have the world at his fingertips.

Lauritz, on the other hand, was a rebellious and free-spirited punker who didn't quite fit in with the conventional lifestyle his family wanted for him.

Despite their differences, Samuel and Lauritz got along surprisingly well. Their interactions were a peculiar blend of class and nonconformity that created a magnetic dynamic between them. It was on the cusp of Samuel's impending wedding that an unconventional idea began to take shape.

"Ey, Sam, let's do something wild before your wedding, mate," Lauritz proposed with a glint of mischief in his eyes. Samuel raised an eyebrow, unsure of what adventure Lauritz had in mind this time. "What did you have in mind, Lauritz? Last time your 'wild' idea led to us spending a night in a police cell in Amsterdam." Lauritz replied: “Vegas would be cool, but at the end of the day it’s your bachelor party. I'll do whatever you want!" Flashing a boyish grin, Samuel draped an arm around Lauritz's shoulders. "I want to take our boat out and sail across the Baltic Sea. It'll be an epic journey filled with freedom and salt-kissed air. You in?" Lauritz, with his unconventional mohawk and punk attire, looked askance at Samuel. "Sailing? That's a bit, you know, bourgeois for my taste," he quipped, adjusting the studded leather jacket slung over his shoulder. Smirking, Samuel continued, "Nonsense! It's summer, and what better way to enjoy some fresh sea air? Besides, it’ll be an adventure, and it'll please the in-laws to see you refining your tastes." Lauritz's parents, along with Samuel's family, were indeed relieved by the prospect. "Better than if you were hanging out with those punkers," his mother had remarked with a grateful smile. With their bags packed and spirits high, Samuel and Lauritz boarded Samuel's family's mahogany sailboat bound for Helsinki.

The sun's golden gaze kissed the cerulean waves, casting a mesmerizing glow upon the Baltic Sea. "Ah, this is the life, isn't it?" Samuel exclaimed, his gaze sweeping over the glittering expanse of the sea. Lauritz nodded, a wry smile playing on his lips. "It's not as terrible as I imagined. But still, wouldn't you rather be planning your wedding festivities than gallivanting with me?" Samuel chuckled, adjusting his nautical cap. "Oh, come now, my dear Lauritz. We have the rest of our lives for all that. Let's revel in the freedom while we can. Besides, you're not so bad to have around, even for a punker." Lauritz feigned offense, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. "You wound me with your words, Samuel," he teased. As the ship cuts through the gentle waves, Samuel took Lauritz under his wing, teaching him the art of sailing. Despite his initial skepticism, Lauritz found himself unexpectedly enjoying the experience, reveling in the salty breeze and the rhythmic lull of the waves against the hull. Their journey led them to the enchanting city of St. Petersburg, where the juxtaposition of baroque architecture and Soviet-era relics offered a feast for the eyes.

As they wandered through the labyrinthine streets, the allure of the city enticed Lauritz to explore the more unconventional facets. "I've been thinking," Lauritz began, his voice laced with determination. "I want an eyelet in my ear, like the punks back home. It's about time I made my mark, don't you think?" he declared, pointing to a trendy piercing found amongst the punk subculture.

Samuel's face turned a shade of pale as he frantically tried to dissuade him, envisioning the cocktail of disapproving glares from his in-laws. "Lauritz, you can't just waltz back to the family estate with a hole in your ear. What would my in-laws think? Besides, piercings can lead to infections. How about something more inconspicuous? Like a nipple piercing?" Lauritz let out a laugh, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Oh, Samuel, always thinking about appearances. But where's the fun in that? I want something that screams independence! Something bold." Their banter was interrupted by a raspy cackle that seemed to echo through the narrow alley they were passing. They turned to see an old woman, draped in shawls and adorned with clinking trinkets. Her eyes glittered with an unsettling intensity as she fixed her gaze on the two friends. "You just have to hold him tight, then we'll circumcise him and I'll make a silver ring out of his foreskin," the old woman mused, her eyes glinting with whimsical certainty. "All you have to do is put this ring on your penis and Lauritz will visually adapt to your taste as long as you wear the ring." Samuel gasped, his mind reeling from the outlandish suggestion. But to his surprise, Lauritz entertained the idea, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "We'll do that, Samuel," Lauritz proclaimed, casting a challenging grin. "After all, you wanted me to do something inconspicuous. What's more inconspicuous than a circumcision?" Despite Samuel's vehement protests, Lauritz remained resolute, and before long, the old woman performed the peculiar ritual, and to their astonishment, the excised foreskin transformed into a shimmering silver ring, which she bestowed upon Lauritz.

Back on the sailboat, Lauritz couldn't contain his mischievous glee as he gazed at the ring. "Now, it's your turn, Samuel. Put the ring over your... You-know-what," he demanded with a sly smirk. Reluctantly, Samuel acquiesced, only to find that, to his bewilderment, nothing seemed to happen.

As the mahogany sailboat gently cut through the azure waves, Samuel and Lauritz lounged on the deck, basking in the warm embrace of the sun. The sea stretched out around them, a shimmering expanse as far as the eye could see, carrying them toward the next port of their Baltic odyssey, the enchanting city of Tallinn. Lauritz sprawled out on the deck, his eyes half-lidded and gazing at the sprawling cityscape of Tallinn ahead, the gentle sea breeze ruffling his hair. Lauritz raised a hand to his shock of green mohawk, only to find something unexpected. Instead of the vibrant strands he had known for years, his fingertips grazed a neat, blonde faded cut with shaved sides.

He let out a surprised chuckle, turning to Samuel with an air of amusement. "Samuel, can you believe it? The old woman's prediction must have come true!" Lauritz proclaimed, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. "This silver ring has really worked its magic. Look at this hair!" Samuel's eyes widened, examining Lauritz's transformed hairstyle with disbelief. "But I saw your green hair this morning. You must have cut it just to fool me," Samuel elucidated, struggling to reconcile the inexplicable transformation before his eyes.

Their banter was interrupted by the sight of Tallinn's spires unfolding on the horizon, a tapestry of architectural marvels rising from the coastline. The allure of the city's winding streets beckoned them, and they eagerly embraced the promise of new adventures. In the heart of Tallinn, the cobblestone streets echoed with the lilt of their footsteps as they wandered through the centuries-old alleys adorned with vibrant blooms. They eventually settled into a quaint street café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the gentle breeze. Lauritz, donning a sailing jacket, leaned back against his chair, relishing the warmth of the sun's embrace. With a casual air, he began unbuttoning his jacket, revealing the absence of his usual body hair, a curious discovery that piqued Samuel's interest.

"Lauritz, your... your hair! It's gone," Samuel exclaimed, his eyes widening in incredulity. Lauritz chuckled, his voice laced with a roguish charm. "The magic strikes again, my friend. Behold the power of belief and a touch of enchantment." Samuel watched in awe as the revelation unfolded before him, unable to completely dismiss the inexplicable occurrences that seemed to dance around Lauritz like a whimsical symphony. "You must've shaved this morning to jest with me," Samuel suggested, his tone tinged with skepticism. "This can't be real." "Ah, always the skeptic," Lauritz teased. "But I assure you, this is the handiwork of the ring. It's brought a dash of transformation to my life, hasn't it?"

As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting hues of amethyst across the sky, they sailed toward Stockholm. The promise of new adventures and unexpected marvels beckoned them as they set sail toward the Swedish capital. The following morning, Lauritz awoke to the gentle lull of the ship, the rays of the rising sun casting a golden glow upon the skyline.

As he prepared for the day's exploration, his reflection in the mirror above the sink evoked a bout of bewilderment. His eccentric punk ensemble had been replaced by an impeccably tailored ensemble—an unbuttoned shirt and sleek olive-colored pants that exuded an air of refinement and sophistication.

"What in the world?" Lauritz muttered, his eyes widening in sheer disbelief. "Samuel, you won't believe this!" Samuel emerged from the cabin, his eyes immediately falling upon Lauritz's stupefying transformation.

"Samuel, it's happened again! This silver ring is truly astounding," Lauritz exclaimed, his spirit alight with unadulterated glee. "Look at these clothes! I didn't expect the magic to work on my outfit too!" Samuel's incredulity was palpable as he regarded the sight before him. "Lauritz, you must have changed into this outfit while I wasn't looking," Samuel reasoned, his tone laced with skepticism. "It's impossible for a ring to cause all this. Whatsoever, I still think it’s good that you dressed more refined today. After all, we want to have breakfast today at the Grand Hotel, where the Nobel Peace Prizes are usually awarded.”

The mahogany sailboat bobbed gently as it sliced ​​through Stockholm's sun-kissed archipelago en route to Visby on Gotland. Samuel manned the helm, while Lauritz was standing at the bow, his gaze trailing horizon. Suddenly Lauritz went through another unexpected transformation. Lauritz's black jeans and baggy T-shirt shifted seamlessly into a wide-open shirt and tight red shorts, his physique now exuding an athleticism that caught Samuel off guard.

Samuel's breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening in disbelief as he beheld the improbable evolution unfurling before him. "Lauritz, what... what in the world is happening? This—this isn't right," Samuel stammered, his voice trembling with an amalgamation of astonishment and concern. "I... I need to put a stop to this. I need to get rid of that ring." Lauritz, amusement dancing in his gaze, placed a supportive hand on Samuel's shoulder. "Come on, Samuel, don't be so quick to stifle the mystery. Embrace the uncertainty," he encouraged, a playful glint in his eyes. "Let's see what more this whimsical journey has in store for us."

As the sailboat glided toward the shores of Gotland, the island exuded an alluring mystique, its ancient ruins and labyrinthine streets promising an adventure both whimsical and enigmatic. Their footsteps echoed through the quaint streets of Visby, framed by structures that stood as timeless testaments to ancient grandeur. The island cast its spell upon them, ensnaring their senses with the echoes of bygone eras and the whimsy of forgotten legends. As they ambled through the cobbled pathways, Lauritz noticed a peculiar shift in the way the islanders regarded him. Warm smiles and nods of acknowledgment replaced the guarded glances that typically followed his punk façade.

"Lauritz, did you notice that?" Samuel inquired, his tone laced with a tinge of wonder. Lauritz nodded, a spark of amazement gleaming in his gaze. "It seems the residents of Visby have taken a shining to me, haven't they? The magic of the ring... it's a wonder indeed." The day waned into a resplendent evening, the sun casting its golden embrace upon the island as a symphony of stars unfurled across the heavens. Samuel and Lauritz reveled in the evening's enchanting tapestry, their thoughts drifting toward the next leg of their Baltic odyssey

The melding of disbelief and marvel lingered in the air, enveloping them in a veil of intrigue, as they embarked on their final leg of the journey toward Copenhagen. Clad in polished tuxedos, they reveled in opulent indulgence. Since Samuel had studied in Copenhagen, he knew how to gain access to the most exclusive establishments with a practiced ease.

Amidst the effervescent allure of the Danish capital, the two friends embraced the revelry of their adventure indulging in the opulence that enveloped them. Their boisterous laughter and animated conversations resounded through the hallowed halls of the city's elite establishments, the allure of upscale soirées and lavish gatherings capturing their spirits in a whirlwind of decadence. "Ah, Copenhagen has a certain allure, doesn't it?" Samuel remarked, a smirk playing on his lips as they strolled through the city's resplendent evening. Lauritz nodded, the vibrant tapestry of revelry and sophistication intoxicating his senses. "It seems your world has its own brand of enchantment, Samuel. I can't deny its appeal."

Samuel watched with an inexplicable mix of astonishment and fascination as the vivacious Lauritz seamlessly embraced the lavish lifestyle that had once appeared incompatible with his punk ethos.

The morning of their departure from Copenhagen arrived, and the sailboat set sail once more, carrying them toward Helsingborg where Samuel will marry Lauritz’ sister. As the sailboat rocked gently over the calm water, Samuel brought up the topic that had been bothering him. “Lauritz, I think it’s time to take the ring off. After all, your sister expects you to look like a punk – even though I prefer your current, charming look,” Samuel announced with solemn weight in his words. Venturing into the cabin, Samuel endeavored to remove the ring, only to be met with an unforeseen predicament.

His fervent words reverberated with unrestrained urgency, "Lauritz, I can't... It won't... It's... I can't remove it! Lauritz, I can't seem to get it off," he called out in distress, his voice wrought with urgency.  "It's stuck, and I don't know what to do." Lauritz sprang into action, his touch eliciting a peculiar sensation in Samuel, who found himself thrown off balance by an unexpected surge of arousal - Samuel sported a boner. Before their bewildered eyes, Lauritz's demeanor underwent a subtle shift, his gaze now infused with an alluring allure that took Samuel by surprise. As the unexpected surge of desire enveloped them, Lauritz dropped his shorts, parting his legs with a provocative air.

"Take this opportunity, Samuel. Let's embrace the unexpected," Lauritz uttered with a newfound confidence, the air thick with unspoken desires that coursed between them. Samuel was drawn by the sight and couldn't resist and took the opportunity to penetrate Lauritz.   After they made love Lauritz turned to Samuel, a solemn glimmer in his eyes, and whispered, "Samuel, I... I want to stay like this. I don’t want to become a sleazy punker again." Samuel’s breath caught in his throat, his gaze locked with Lauritz's. "What are you saying, Lauritz?" In an unexpected twist of fate, the ring tightened around Samuel's cock, seamlessly merging with his flesh. As the transformation took hold, a sense of undeniable euphoria washed over him. Gazing at Lauritz, a knowing smile curled Samuel's lips. "Tomorrow, I will marry my dream girl. And as her dowry, I received her brother to have fun with. I couldn't be happier." Lauritz chuckled and teased, "I guess even a trip to Las Vegas couldn't have been wilder. Seems like your gay sailing trip turned us both bi.”

The following day, as Samuel stood at the altar, he exchanged vows with his beloved, the echoes of a union hitherto unforeseen threading through the tender fabric of his heart.

And in Lauritz, he found a cherished confidant—a companion bound by the threads of an unexpected journey that would endure far beyond the veil of tradition. As the evening unfurled in all its opulent splendor, Samuel orchestrated a future endowed with an unforeseen serenity. With unwavering determination, he ensured that Lauritz was granted a place at an elite university and provided the resources necessary to flourish—a life enraptured by boundless opportunity.

In the wake of unforeseen revelations, Lauritz embraced the life of a typical, self-assured scion, reveling in the embrace of newfound passions and embarking on an uncharted journey tinged with the allure of possibility.

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

A Court of Fire & Masks

Eris x OC Fic

Chapter 11

Summary Penelope enters the glamorous yet treacherous world of Autumn Court life, where appearances are everything, and even the slightest misstep could ruin her families reputation. As the youngest daughter of a noble family, she's expected to smile, nod, and blend in - just like her older sister. But when Penelope's curiosity about inter-court politics leads to a forbidden mention of unrest, she quickly realizes she may not have the weaponry for the brutal battle of social court, especially when she runs up against heir to the court, Eris Vanserra.

Content Warnings:

Emotional manipulation

Verbal and emotional abuse

Power imbalances

Anxiety and panic

Mentions of sexism & misogyny

Dark themes of cruelty

Word Count: 5,780

Master List: A Court of Fire and Masks Master List

Tagged: @mrsjna @lilah-asteria @ambivalence-is-me @rcarbo1 @aaliyahmorielle  @feyrfly

The days that followed passed in a blur of monotony, marked by endless hours spent poring over documents that seemed to serve no discernible purpose. That is, if Penelope had been given any real purpose to begin with. The vague directive to review the papers strewn across Eris’s impossibly large desk had offered little more than a way to occupy her time. Most mornings were spent hunched over the desk, convoluted writing of males who seemed to use twenty words where she could summarize in five. Dust-covered books, untouched for half a century, added to her frustrations as she flipped through their brittle, yellowed pages in search of anything actually useful. 

By the afternoons, her momentum had waned. The words blurred together as her eyes grew heavy, and she found herself staring at the same sentences without the slightest notion of comprehension. The stillness of the manor pressed in around her, seeming to grow tighter each day. 

The Autumn Manor itself, vast and wholly unfamiliar, felt less like a home and more like a gilded cage. Seeking some semblance of relief, Penelope had taken to wandering the servants’ quarters. The narrower, utilitarian hallways lacked the opulence of the High Family’s living quarters, and yet she found the simplicity of it to be a strange comfort. Stone corridor after stone corridor often led to doors opening into gardens–or to dead ends, where solid walls marked the abrupt conclusion of her explorations. It was odd, she thought, for a house to have hallways that lead nowhere. Then again, the seeming purposelessness of it all mirrored the seeming purposelessness of the opulence of the Manor altogether. 

The labyrinthine layout did at times disorient her, and more than once, Penelope found herself retracing her steps, certain she’d passed the same ornate portrait at least three times. She often wandered until she felt she might never find her way back, lost in the belly of the Manor, only to be startled by a familiar corridor or landmark that guided her back to her chambers. 

Nights brought little solace. Sleep eluded her more often than not, and she spent countless hours tossing and turning in the too-firm bed, the scratchy woolen blankets offering more discomfort than warmth. The chill of the room settled deeply in her bones despite her efforts to burrow deeply, and she began wearing her heaviest gowns to bed in the futile effort to remain warm.

The wind continued its restless murmuring, slipping through the windows with a persistent hiss. Though she no longer startled at the sound it left her with a deep unease. And then there were the footsteps.

She told herself they were nothing. The house settling, perhaps, or rodents scratching within the ancient walls. But the sound came–faint, deliberate, unmistakably like footsteps–she dared not look at the light beneath her door. The memory of seeing shadows there, unmoving and impossible, was too fresh, too vivid. She wasn’t sure she could bear the sight of them again, the weight of knowing someone–or something–might be right outside the door. 

It was all silly, of course. Mere childish illusions brought on my exhaustion and the unsettling adjustment to a new environment. Foolish. Right?

And yet, the unease lingered in her belly. 

The other advisors remained no more welcoming than they had been during her initial introduction. Penelope had learned their names and roles not through any formal introductions, but through the fragmented pieces of conversation she had overheard and the context she had gleaned from observing them at meals. Gregor, the rotund male whose every word and action seemed designed to provoke disgust, advised the High Lord on military strategy. His manner was as brutish as his appearance, his opinions delivered with a bluntness that left little room for nuance. 

Elias, with his chestnut hair and the faint arrogance of youth, handled economic matters. His purview extended both internally and externally, overseeing trade routes, resource allocation, and financial strategies for court prosperity. Of the three present advisors, he was the least openly hostile, though his sharp remarks and veiled condescension carried their own weight of disdain. 

Alaric, was no less unwelcoming. Tall and spare with silver streaked hair pulled back neatly, he gave the general tone of being perpetually unimpressed and barely seemed to acknowledge Penelope at all. Through snippets of conversation, Alraric was the Autumn Court’s expert in historical affairs, with his knowledge spanning centuries of Prythian’s history. He ensured legacy and tradition remained upheld and advised on everything from diplomatic ceremonies to the proper handling of disputes steeped in ancient precedents.

Then there was Vanderguard, the oldest and most imposing of all three. His hawk-like gaze rarely left her when they were in the same room, and his words–when he chose to speak–cut through the air with the authority of one who had advised Beron Vanserra personally since the beginning of his High Lordship. Vanderguard’s loyalty was clear, his every move calculated to maintain the power and order of the Autumn Court, regardless of who might fall by the wayside. 

The fifth advisor, Pollard, was absent–sent away on what Penelope had pieced together to be a matter of grave importance. Pollard had been Eris’s personal advisor, tasked with guiding the heir into his future role, should he take on the High Lordship. It was no secret that Beron favored Eris as his successor, though his younger brothers vied bitterly for the title, their antics described in tones of disdain during hushed conversations among the staff. The Vanserra family, it seemed, was a storm barely contained within the walls of the manor. Baron’s decision to appoint Pollard as Eris’s mentor had been seen by some as a sign of confidence in his eldest son, though Penelope wondered the truth of that. Beron seemed to care little for anyone but himself and she hazarded a guess that Beron didn’t consider what would happen to his court after his death. Perhaps he didn’t fully believe he could die.

Penelope had heard the rumblings of a rather sinister nature as being the reason for Pollard’s absence–a growing threat beyond Prythian’s borders that required immediate, discreet attention. Whatever Pollard had been sent to address, it was clear from the advisors’ cryptic discussions that the matter was far from trivial. And yet, no one seemed willing to elaborate on what, exactly, was unfolding beyond the Autumn Court’s gilded halls. 

Nearly a week had passed since Madame Alba had informed Penelope of Lord Eris’s delay, and she was beginning to wonder if he would ever return–or if this was all some cruel and unusual plan to humiliate her. The thought gnawed at the edges of her mind. Regardless of her doubts, she kept to her duties, performing them with a quiet diligence that felt more like survival than purpose. 

On the seventh day of her solitude, as the golden light of the late morning filtered weakly through the high windows of Eris’s study, she heard footsteps echoing down the corridor outside. The sound startled her–it had been days since she’d heard anything other than the rustle of pages or the occasional creak of the old manor settling. She froze for a moment, her hand still resting on the edge of a book filled with yellowed, brittle trade maps. Her legs were curled beneath her in the oversized chair behind Eris’s desk, her posture more casual than she would have dared if he were present. 

The footsteps grew closer and stopped outside the study door. A light knock followed. ‘

Penelope glanced up from the faded lines of borders and rivers she hadn’t truly been studying. Her heart gave a faint flutter–of apprehension or relief. She cleared her throat, the sound rasping in the quiet. “Come in,” she called out. 

The brass doorknob turned with a soft click, and the door creaked open just a crack before swinging wider. Standing in the doorway was one of the maids Penelope recognized from the servants’ quarters. The girl’s eyes were wide and youthful, but her rough, calloused hands bore the unmistakable marks of years of hard labor. 

“My apologies for interrupting you, my lady,” the maid said, her voice light and inviting–a stark contrast to the cold formality Penelope had grown accustomed to the last seven days. It was the warmest voice she had heard since her arrival. “But Lord Beron has requested your presence in the council room immediately.” 

Penelope froze, her heart leaping into her throat. Lord Beron? She stared at the maid, her mind scrambling to process the words. The High Lord of the Autumn Court–Beron Vanserra himself–was summoning her? The mere thought sent a jolt of icy panic through her veins. Why? What could he possibly want with her? Did he even know who she was?

The knot in her stomach tightened, but she forced herself to remain calm. “Thank you,” she said, her voice measured. 

The maid bobbed her head in acknowledgement and turned quickly on her heel, leaving the door ajar as she disappeared down the corridor. Her footsteps echoed faintly, fading into the silence of the manor. 

Penelope stood motionless for a moment, staring at the open door as if expecting one of the maids to return and clarify that there had been some sort of mistake. But no one came, and the weight of the summons settled heavily on her shoulders. Lord Beron–the figure whose shadow loomed over every corner of the Autumn court–had called upon her. It wasn’t an honor; it felt like a threat. 

She swallowed hard and set the book she’d been holding onto the desk, her hands trembling slightly as she smoothed her skirts. With a deep, shaking breath, she stepped out of the study and into the dimly lit hall. Of course Beron knows who I am, she told herself firmly. His son–his heir–asked me to come to the manor as an advisor. This is expected. 

But the reasoning felt hollow. The idea of standing before Beron Vanserra himself, without Eris or anyone else present to mediate and provide context, gnawed at her nerves. It felt…wrong. And yet, it couldn’t be wrong. Not when it came from the direct command of the High Lord.

This is fine, she repeated inwardly, her pace steady as she descended the back staircase leading out of the servants’ quarters. I’ve done nothing wrong. There’s no reason to think otherwise. 

The words should have provided some comfort, but the coiling unease in her chest told a very different story. As she stepped into the grand main hall, the walls of the manor began to press down onto her again, the vaulted ceilings amplifying every sound of her quickening footsteps. The polished tile echoed sharply beneath her heels as if the house was announcing her arrival, loudly and rudely. 

The grand doors were slightly ajar, their dark wood towering above her. From within, voices echoed faintly. All male. Her stomach twisted as she recognized the distinct and almost smoky voice of Vanderguard’s voice alongside Beron’s. The realization sent a fresh wave of fear and apprehension crashing over her as she grew ever closer.

This is worse than just Beron himself, she thought, her hands brushing her skirts again in a futile attempt to calm her trembling fingers. If Beron’s command was a fire, Vanderguard’s scrutiny was the blade that followed. 

As the grand double doors swung open, pushed forth by two attending footmen, Penelope stepped into the council room–a space that she had only heard mentions of in passing but had never actually stepped foot in until now. The sight of it struck her immediately. The room was built to intimidate. Its vaulted ceilings stretched high above, the dark wooden beams intricately carved with knotwork that seemed almost alive in the flickering faelight. Massive iron chandeliers, spiked and foreboding, hung from the beams, their candles casting uneven shadows that danced across the vast expanse of the ceiling. 

In the center of the room sat a table of commanding presence–an immense piece of dark oak polished to a mirror-like gleam. Its surface was starkly bare, save for a few scattered documents, an inkwell, and a quill resting near Vanderguard’s place. Ten heavy chairs with high carved backs sat around the edge of the table. All but one was occupied. 

Penelope bit the inside of her cheek, her pulse quickened as her eyes flicked to Vanderguard. He was speaking, his voice sharp and deliberate, though she couldn’t quite make out the words. She hovered in the entryway, uncertain whether to move forward or wait to be acknowledged. Gregor, Elias and Alaric also sat at the table, clearly having also been summoned, but it felt improper to her to approach the table without being beckoned. Her gaze shifted to Beron, seated at the far end of the table, the High Lord’s presence was nearly impossible to ignore. 

Beron Vanserra sat back in his chair, his posture casual yet commanding. He leaned onto the armrest, his sharp, angular face partially obscured by his long fingers as he rested his face against them. His eyes, assessing and unrelenting, remained fixed on Vanderguard as the advisor spoke. Though his demeanor seemed relaxed, there was a tension in the room, and Penelope felt it the moment she stepped foot inside. 

To her right, nearly camouflaged among the towering, thirty-foot tapestries lining the walls, a footman stepped forward. The deep reds and golds of the woven images cast him in muted hues and she barely had noticed he was there. He moved to the single empty chair near the end of the table, pulling it out with a faint scrape of wood against stone. Turning toward Penelope, he gestured silently for her to take her seat. 

Her chest tightened as she forced her feet to move. As she neared the table, Vanderguard’s voice paused mid-sentence, and she felt weight of every gaze around the table shift toward her. Sharp, assessing eyes bore into her. 

She prayed no one noticed as she swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that had collected in the back of her throat. The footman stepped back as she eased into the empty chair, her hands smoothing her skirts beneath the table in a vain attempt to steady herself. Still, the eyes lingered, watching, waiting. 

After what felt like an eternity, Vanderguard’s voice resumed. Apparently, she thought, I’m supposed to be at this table. 

She glanced around the table, her gaze flitting over the faces surrounding her. Four advisors, each one stoic and sharp, Beron at the head of the table, two of his sons seated beside him–faces she had only recognized in passing. And then, directly across from her, Eris. 

He was almost lounging in his chair. When their eyes met, a faint, amused grin curved his lips and he let out a soft, almost noiseless chuckle. Penelope furrowed her brows as she tried to decipher the source of his amusement. But Eris offered nothing, merely pressing his bottom lip between his teeth as though to stifle further laughter. His amber eyes seemed to dance briefly before he turned his attention back to the conversation at the head of the table. 

Penelope’s ears still rang faintly from the rush of the blood pounding in them, but as the voices of Vanderguard and Beron filled the room once more, the tension in her chest began to ease.

“My lord,” Vanderguard continued as Penelope finally managed to pick up the thread in the conversation, “she was at one time an enemy to our court. And now, simply because the bloodshed has ended, there’s no reason to start letting those who were enemies back within our borders.” 

Beron Vanserra shifted slightly in his seat, lifting his brows. With a small sigh, his hand dropped to the table, his fingertips tracing the intricate carved patterns in the polished oak absentmindedly. “But would it not be detrimental to lose out on an opportunity such as this one?” he countered. “Imports from other courts have been lacking, and it seems that outsourcing to further lands would be strategic.” His amber eyes, the same as his sons flicked to Elias, his expression expectant. 

Elias, caught in the debilitating gaze of the High Lord, straightened in his seat, his hands flattening against the table as he gathered himself. He stammered slightly before finding the right words. “I will admit,” he began cautiously, “that trade within Prythian has not been as prosperous as it once was. Biodiversity from other continents could–potentially–bring new economic growth.” 

Beron inclined his head slightly and gestured back to Vanderguard. “So it seems as though this isn’t something we should simply dismiss.” 

Before Vangerguard could respond, Gregor cleared his throat, the grating sound making Penelope cringe. Everything about the male–his mannerisms, his tone, his mere presence–seemed to have that effect on her. “The war we fought has long since passed,” he said. “And from everything I’ve gathered, their armies are disbanded, their ranks in shambles.” He paused, his eyes scanning the table. “At this point, if they’re looking to make amends, I’d wager it’s because they’re struggling to rebuild after the war’s end.” 

Penelope noticed Vanderguard’s expression hardened as he turned his gaze toward Gregor, skeptical. The two locked eyes. Gregor might have held authority in matters of war and military, but Vanderguard’s influence wasn’t far behind.

The stalemate was broken by Eris–his voice calm and measured. “From the little communication I’ve received from Pollard,” he said, “they’ve been more than accommodating. From what I can tell, they seem genuine in their desire to restart trade.” 

Penelope turned to him, watching as his amber eyes remained focused on his father. She had imagined Eris sitting quietly in these meetings, meant to observe his fathers machinations, perhaps offering a question here or there to learn. But now, hearing him speak with such confidence, caught her off guard. He wasn’t a mere student–he was a participant.

Beron nodded at his son’s comment, then turned toward Alaric, seated further down the table. “And what of the other courts? Are they opening their borders?” 

Alaric responded quickly. “I believe they are engaging in the same conversations we are. The Spring Court, however, has been notably accommodating. Their High Lord has even gone so far as to bring his son to court events hosted by them.”

Beron scoffed, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn’t put much stock in the decisions of a brute as large and unsubtle as he,” he muttered, his words dripping with disdain.

A ripple of low chuckling worked its way around the table, the faintest smiles breaking through some of the advisors' more composed expressions. Penelope noticed, however, that Eris remained mostly silent, his focus still fixed on his father. 

“So it’s decided, then. We reopen trade,” Beron stated, carrying an air of finality. 

Alaric shifted in his seat, his mouth opening slightly as though he were about to protest, but he quickly thought better of it and held his tongue. Elias offered a tight-lipped smile, though the incredulity of it was unmistakable. Strange, Penelope thought. For the advisor in charge of trade, he didn’t look particularly enthusiastic about the new opportunities this decision would bring. 

It was Vanderguard who seemed the most perturbed. His long fingers rubbed together slowly, and his shoulders sagged as if he were releasing a silent, reluctant sight. Beron, oblivious–or perhaps uncaring–clapping his large hand down on the table, the sound echoing through the chamber like a thunderclap. The reverberation made Penelope flinch slightly in her chair. 

“I expect to see a drawing of trade routes and actionable plans before the end of the week,” Beron bellowed. “And send word to their trade masters that we will set up a formal meeting to discuss next steps.”

Vanderguard bent over the parchment in front of him, his quill scratching hastily across the surface. Penelope guessed he was making a detailed list of tasks, likely to assign to the others. The sound of the quill’s movements was oddly loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Hazarding a glance toward Eris, Penelope noted his outward composure, calm and collected as always. But her eyes lingered on his hands. His knuckles were growing paler with each passing moment as his thumb rubbed slowly over them, as though he was restraining himself. 

Beron scanned the room, his gaze sweeping across the table. “Is this going to be an issue for anyone?” he asked. It wasn’t a question–it was a challenge. 

No one spoke. No one dared. 

Penelope found it peculiar, unsettling even, that this group of advisors–assembled to guide the High Lord, to make decisions in the best interest of the Autumn Court–seemed to fall into silence so easily when faced with his preconceived notions. For all their supposed expertise, their collective deference to Beron’s dominance struck her as both troubling and calculating. 

The silence lingered a beat longer, punctuated only by the faint scratching of Vanderguard’s quill. Penelope kept her gaze steady, careful not to draw attention to herself as Beron’s eyes finally hit her. They lingered, and it seemed as though he locked his jaw slightly before moving on from her. She felt herself breathe relief.

“Well,” Beron said, his eyes widening, “I’m not sure what you all are sitting around for. It seems you have plenty to do.” 

The words were laced with hint of amusement, but the underlying command was unmistakable. Chairs scraped against the stone floor as the advisors scrambled to rise, their movements bordering on desperation. Vanderguard was the first to gather his parchment, tucking it neatly under one arm as he strode briskly toward the door. Gregor followed close behind, his boots clunking heavily as he muttered something under his breath. Elias and Alaric both seemed to hesitate for a second, catching each other's eye from across the table before casting a glance at Beron before hurrying after the others. 

Penelope rose more slowly, encumbered by her skirts. Her gaze drifted across the table, landing on Eris. Unlike the others, he hadn’t made a move to leave. He remained seated, his posture unchanged, leaning back slightly in his chair with one arm perched on the table. His eyes were still fixed on his father as though dissecting him. 

For a moment, Penelope hesitated, unsure whether to follow the exodus of other advisors or remain behind. The room felt heavier now, as if the departure of the others had left a vacuum that pressed down on her. She cleared her throat softly, but Eris didn’t seem to notice at first. 

Beron had turned away, leaning slightly toward one of his sons as he spoke in low tones that Penelope couldn’t quite catch. Whatever was being said was clearly not for the ears of the room. She shifted her gaze back to Eris, who still hadn’t moved, his attention locked on his father. 

Clearing her throat slightly, Penelope tried again, the sound barely audible over the faint murmur of Beron’s conversation. This time, it seemed to pull Eris from whatever trance he’d fallen into. His attention snapped to her, his amber eyes narrowing slightly as though he’d forgotten she was still there. After a beat, his lips curved into a faint smile–a polite gesture more than anything else, entirely devoid of warmth. 

“Lady Penelope,” he said at last in his low, smooth voice. 

“My lord,” she replied, dipping into a small curtsey. 

Eris rose from the table then, the scrape of his chair loud in the cavernous room and he buttoned his jacket. There was something unreadable in his expression as he cast one final glance towards his father, who was still enveloped in the quiet conversation at the end fo the table. 

Then, Eris turned to her fully, straightening, though his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than expected. “Let’s chat,” she said simply. 

Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the door. Penelope hesitated for a fraction of a second before following, her footsteps quickening to match his as they passed through the grand doors of the advising hall. 

The two walked in silence, their footsteps echoing faintly against the stones as they ascended the steps and made their way down the corridor to Eris’s study. Penelope waited for Eris to say anything, though he remained silent. 

Once they were inside the confines of his study, Eris let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders dropping as his hands curled over the edge of the doors. He leaned against them for a moment before shutting them with a soft click. 

Penelope stood awkwardly in the center of the room, unsure whether to sit or remain standing. Eris turned to face her, clapping his hands together with a smile that was surprisingly warm. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he remarked, crossing the room before settling into the chair behind his desk. As he settled in, he immediately began shuffling through the scattered documents on his desk, seemingly mildly confused. Without hesitation, he picked up a few and tossed them unceremoniously into the wastebasket at his side. 

Penelope’s heart sank as she recognized the parchment–maps and records she had painstakingly reviewed for days, trying to make sense of their contents. Her mouth opened slightly, the beginning of a protest forming on her lips before she swallowed them, the words dying in her throat. 

Eris picked up another piece of paper, glanced at it briefly, and made a similar judgement, his hand moving towards the wastebasket. Just as Penelope was resummoning the courage to say something, his eyes flicked up to meet hers, a faint, annoying smug tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You can sit down, you know,” he said. 

Penelope hesitated for a moment before stepping forwards and easing into the chair opposite Eris. 

The heir continued rifling through documents, his attention flicking briefly to each page before discarding them into the wastebasket without a second thought. Each sound of crumbled paper hitting the bin caused the rage simmering in Penelope’s stomach to churn higher. It was like the discarded pages were stoking the fire. 

Eris peeked up at her then. He raised a brow. “Are you going to say anything? Or are we going to just sit in silence?” 

Penelope’s jaw tightened as the pang of frustration and anger rose, traveling from her chest to her throat. “What would you like me to say?” She asked, her voice laced with restrained irritation. 

Eris paused, curling the edge of the paper in his hand to see her better over it, his expression shifted as he studied her. “What?” he asked.

Penelope shrugged, her voice more pointed now. “What would you like me to say, my lord?”

Eris exhaled, the sound halfway between a sigh and a groan as he leaned back in his chair, the paper dangling loosely from his fingers. His head tilted slightly as he regarded her with a look of mild annoyance. “Come now, Penelope,” he said, “Let’s not start all of this.” 

“All of what, my lord?” she shot back, her brows furrowing. Her anger bubbled right beneath the surface. His title, though delivered politely, came out with barbs. 

Eris lowered the paper, gesturing vaguely toward her with a flick of his hand. “All of this,” he said. “All this formality.” He paused, searching for the right word. “It’s exhausting.” 

Penelope’s lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at him. The audacity. 

“Then tell me how you would like me to be, my lord,” she shot back. 

Eris let out a louder, more theatrical groan this time, dragging a hand down his face. “Stop it with the ‘my lord’ shit,” he said bluntly. 

The unexpected profanity caught her off guard, her brows lifting slightly as the word hung in the air. 

“It’s pandering,” he continued, leaning forward slightly in his chair, narrowing his eyes at her. “Annoying, even. I’ve been hearing it all week–every second of every damn day. If you address me with ‘my lord’ every time you open your mouth, it’s taking at least a century off both my life and yours.” 

He was clearly annoyed, his patience fraying, though Penelope couldn’t begin to guess the length of rope he was at the end of. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. 

Eris rolled his eyes slightly. The irritation in his expression didn’t waver. “What now?” he asked.

Penelope peered up at him from beneath her brows, her fingers tightening slightly against her skirts. “Nothing,” she replied, her words clipped. 

Eris leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he fixed her with a pointed stare. “Why are you acting like a brat?” 

Her mouth dropped open, her shock and offence immediately flaring to life. “Excuse me?” she demanded, her voice sharper now, her hands going to grip the arm leans of the chair. 

“You heard me,” he said bluntly. “You’re acting like a brat and I have no idea why.” 

Penelope’s pulse thundered in her ears, the audacity of his words igniting something in her. “Brat?” She repeated, the word was almost a hiss. “I don’t believe I’ve done or said anything to warrant being called that, my lord.” 

Eris didn’t flinch and he met her glare head on. “We’ve seen each other for, what? Five minutes? And you’re already acting like I’ve done something wrong. So what is it?” His voice remained calm, but there was a notable sharpness in it that sent Penelope into a rage. 

“Maybe I’m acting like this because I’ve been sitting in this house for a week with no direction, no support, and no idea why I’m here in the first place,” she snapped. “And now you show up and toss aside the only work I’ve done like it’s nothing. So forgive me, my lord, if I’m not brimming with joy.” 

Her words hung in the air. Eris blinked slightly and glanced down to the table strewn with papers and books, his expression shifting slightly, though it was hard to tell if it was surprise, guilt, or annoyance that flickered across his face. 

“Well,” he said finally, leaning back in his chair. “At least we’re being honest with one another.” 

Penelope wasn’t finished. “And I think brat was completely uncalled for,” she said. “Frankly, it was immature.”

Eris chuckled low, and faintly mocking. “I’m being immature?” he said, raising a brow. “You’re the one pouting.” 

Her hands shot up in frustration. “What am I doing?” she asked with exasperation. “I’m just sitting here! I haven’t done anything!” 

Eris leaned back in his chair, gesturing vaguely toward her with a flick of his hand. “Your face is pouty,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. 

Penelope’s jaw dropped, her hands clenching in her lap. “My face is–what?!” she sputtered. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not pouting, I’m–” She cut herself off, realizing how defensive she was being, which only made her cheeks burn hotter. 

Eris shrugged nonchalantly, though the mischievous glint still sat in his eyes. “You don’t have to admit it,” she said smoothly, tilting his head slightly as if assessing her. “But it’s written all over you. Sulking, sighing, your quiet glare.” 

Penelope huffed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t walked in here acting like everything I’ve done is worthless, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation and I would have acted like a ‘brat.’”

Eris’s smile faltered and he blinked at her. “What?” 

She gestured sharply to the documents strewn about the table. “All the things you left me to read over and review?” 

Eris’s brow furrowed, genuine confusion flickering across his face as he glanced at the pages. “What documents?” he asked in disbelief. 

Penelope leaned forwards, her hands pressing against the desk as her sharp gaze pinned him in place. “The documents you left me to look over,” she said deliberately.

“I didn’t leave you anything,” Eris shot back, his voice rising slightly, though the confusion in his expression seemed genuine. 

Her mouth opened, but she closed it quickly, her mind scrambling. “Madame Alba told me they were from you,” she said after a beat, her voice firmer now, as if stating it aloud might make it irrefutable. “She said you wanted me to review them while you were away.” 

Eris shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he examined the documents again. “I didn’t leave anything,” he repeated firmly, his tone laced with disbelief. He gestured toward the papers with a faint scoff. “I haven’t seen half of these before, and most of them are useless—worthless documents that aren’t worth the ink they’re written with.”

The knot in Penelope’s stomach tightened, unease curling in her chest as confusion morphed into something sharper. “Then… whose idea was it for me to waste a week of my time going through all of this?” she demanded, her voice rising slightly as her frustration seeped through.

Eris leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking faintly as he relaxed into it. He chuckled softly, his gaze drifting downward to his hands, where he rubbed his thumb across his knuckles. “I don’t know,” he admitted, the amusement in his tone grating against Penelope’s nerves. “But it’s clear someone wanted to keep you busy.”

Penelope’s chest tightened at his words, and she felt heat rising to her cheeks. “To keep me busy?” she echoed, her tone edged with incredulity. “Why? Why waste my time like that?”

Eris stifled another laugh, though his smirk remained intact. “Maybe to test you,” he said with a casual shrug, as if the thought were inconsequential. “Or maybe to humiliate you.”

His chuckle came again, light and irritatingly unaffected, until Penelope shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. His laughter died in his throat, though the smirk lingered faintly at the corner of his mouth.

“Either way,” he said, his tone softening slightly, “it wasn’t me.”

Penelope stared at him, her anger and embarrassment simmering dangerously close to the surface. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?” she snapped. “That it wasn’t you? That someone deliberately set me up to look like an idiot?”

“Look Penelope,” Eris offered, “What’s done is done. It’s no harm.” 

Penelope fell back in her chair, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as she attempted to temper the growing irritation. She tilted her head slightly onto Eris. “And where have you been the last few days?” she demanded. 

Eris’s faint smirk vanished instantly, his expression hardening into something more serious. His jaw tightened briefly, and the easy, almost teasing feeling between the two of them dissipated entirely. 

“That,” he said, his voice steady and low, “is what we need to talk about.”

A Court of Fire and Masks Master List

[butterflypeachgrove]

The Winter Warren

Royal Portrait featuring Empress Harbell, Lady of the Winter Warren, and Princess Cherrybell, Heir Apparent, The Frosted Flower. Circa: ████

"Beneath the Frozen Wastes of the North, lies the Winter Warren, or, as called by it's inhabitants, simply The Warren. Named as such due to the large amount of leporid beings living there, it is a massive city of labyrinthine tunnels that only the those who dwell there seem to know how to navigate. It is an ever-shifting, ever-changing maze filled with shops, homes, greenhouses, and more. And at the center of this twisting, mind-bending maze of icy tunnels? The Aurorean Palace, a masterpiece of frozen architecture. A palace whose outer walls are built of a mystical ice known for its near indestructibility once set. However, it has another purpose. This ice gives the palace the ability to provide light to the otherwise cold and dark Warren, as each morning, the mystical ice begins to absorb and reflect the light of the great Dawn Crystal embedded deep within the castle, brilliantly glowing soft shades of orange and purple, and filling the frozen tunnels with gentle twilight-shades of light throughout the day. Truly, a wonderous sight to behold in person." - Excerpt for the Journal of a Wandering Artist.

Here she (or rather they) are/is @chibisproductions!

Though, honestly, this might be more "teenager" Cherrybell than "adult" Cherrybell, since her horns haven't fully bloomed yet in this portrait..

(Also: The reason Cherrybell doesn't have horn decorations is because she hasn't debuted in high society yet as of the time this portrait was made. (absolutely not my half-assed excuse not to give her more jewelry because I can't draw jewelry lmao) It's also the reason she's wearing her hair down instead of up, like her mother.)

[seleneprince]

A Court of Shadows and Blood Chapter 4

He’s not accustomed to failure.

He definitely has had his bad moments over the years, specially the last fifty of them, but not even an eternity could've prepared him for this kind of failure.

The iron chains bite into his wrists, bruising him, and the fury that surges through him is an unfamiliar, unwelcome thing. That human filth. It dawns to him he doesn't even know her name, didn't bother to ask. Pets don't need names, after all. They're supposed to go by whatever their masters call them.

But of course, nothing about his pet is remotely conventional. Or predictable.

The improvised cuffs press against his skin when he pulls, an angry growl escaping his throat. ¿When did she learn to do these cursed knots? It's embarrassing that such a simple trap by a mere human has him struggling like this.

It doesn't help her scent is all over the room: fear, anger, desperation. It clings to the air like a mocking reminder of her audacity, mingling with the faint aroma of jasmine that has lingered on her since he found her in the woods. Not even a bath could wash it away, it seems.

Talons grow from his fingers and grip the chains, his body slowly drawing in magic. The iron clatters to the floor in broken pieces, shattering the heavy silence with its sharp, echoing clamor.

He doesn't waste a second in wrenching himself free of the chains she’d dared to shackle him with. He sits up, massaging his wrists as he processes the situation.

A human—a weak, pathetic human—has bested him. A creature so insignificant, so beneath his existence, has somehow outwitted him.

He forces himself to breathe, to quiet the chaos roaring in his chest. He rolls his shoulders, shaking off the phantom ache of the uncomfortable position he's been trapped in, and straightens to his full height. His eyes go to the door, the one she slammed behind her when she escaped.

He's tempted to winnow whenever she is and drag her back by the hair, but he pauses. Her scent has left a faint yet traceable trail, probably not for other faeries, but obvious to him. It's how he usually tracks down people, by following the scent.

His mind conjures a much better idea. His feet move in slow, measured steps to the door, forcing it open with such force the hinges creaked.

Let her think she has won. Let her believe she could actually flee from him. He'll give her some time to rejoice, to harbour some hope, and then he'll appear in front of her like her worst nightmare, and tear her hopes apart.

That human will learn soon enough what it means to defy the High Lord of the Night Court.

Yet…there's something else. Something that gnaws at him as he stalks through the corridors, shadows trailing him like loyal sentries. Her scent still lingers faintly in the air, a whisper of her presence leading him through the labyrinthine halls beneath the mountain. She's clever; he’ll give her that. The chains have been a surprise, a calculated move, but her fear had betrayed her as much as her defiance had fueled her.

What had Amarantha said? 'Humans are awfully predictable.' Rhysand agreed with her then. Now he only wants to laugh at the statement.

As he rounds another corner, his focus sharpens. The shadows whisper to him of faint disturbances in the hidden veins of the mountain. Smart human. She found the passages carved long ago—ones only a very selective group of Fae knew of and used. He smirks, the expression devoid of warmth.

But then the scent shifts. A second trail—familiar, acrid, and infuriating—weaves through the air. His eyes narrow.

Eris Vanserra.

The Autumn heir is many things—conniving, vain, a pain in the ass—but he wouldn’t have pegged him as reckless. For all his posturing, Eris rarely plays games without a clear path to victory. And yet, the fact that the human have vanished toward his direction can’t be coincidence.

He doesn’t bother masking his approach. Let Eris know he's coming. Let him prepare whatever barbs or jests he think can deflect his wrath. It won't matter.

He finds Eris in his chambers, lounging near the fire like a contented cat, his auburn hair gleaming in the flickering light. The scent of blood lingers faintly, though Eris’s immaculate clothing shows no signs of injury.

"Vanserra," He growls, stepping inside without invitation.

Eris glances up, his lips curling into that familiar, insufferable smirk. "Oh my, this is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Lord of the Night?"

The shadows curling around Rhys’s shoulders darken, their edges sharper. "Don’t play games with me, Eris. Where is she?"

Eris tilts his head, feigning confusion. "She? You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve entertained many guests tonight."

Rhys’s temper flares, his power surging in a pulse that rattles the nearby furniture. "Don’t waste my time. You know exactly who I mean. The human. My human."

Eris raises an eyebrow, having the nerve to look at him as if he’s saying something foolish.

"Sorry, but I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about," he replies—slowly, carefully, mockingly—as if speaking to a disgruntled child. "Are you sure you’re not just tired? I know she’s been keeping you busy lately..."

Usually, he reminds himself that Eris is nothing more than a child compared to him. That this male, this brat—no matter the rich silks he now wears or the lethal fire running through his veins—is beneath his notice in terms of age, power and experience. That it's beneath him entertain his games and jabs.

But right now, he has no patience for brats.

"Spare me your bullshit, Vanserra." He relishes the faint flicker of surprise in Eris’ eyes at the growl in his voice. It’s unusual. He shouldn’t be losing control like this, not in front of a Vanserra... but he’s too fucking angry to care. "I can smell her here. Where. Is. She?"

The heir of Autumn blinks at him, expression frustratingly unreadable. But he can still sense the undercurrent of fear just beneath the surface of his mind.

Eris rises to his feet slowly, his eyes locked on the High Lord before him. He moves carefully, like he’s watching a predator poised to strike—or a wounded animal ready to lash out. Clasping his hands in front of him, he tilts his head at the older male.

"Who exactly is 'her'?" His smirk is infuriating. "I don’t understand... Oh!" He chuckles. Oh, how he wishes he could rip that sound out of his throat. "Are you hiding something from us, Lord of the Night? It must be quite important if our queen doesn't know yet."

The shadows curling around his shoulders hiss, their edges growing razor-sharp.

"I’m warning you, Eris," he grits out, fists clenching. "I’m losing my patience here. Tell me where the fuck she is right now, or you can say goodbye to you and your miserable family before tomorrow."

Eris’ smirk vanishes. His voice, when he speaks, is deadly serious. "Keep my family out of your filthy mouth."

The threat in his tone is surprising, but not entirely unexpected. Eris has his own buttons that can be pressed.

"They have nothing to do with your personal messes. If I were you, I’ll be more worried about Amarantha finding out. I wonder what she’ll think of her whore keeping a human pet under her nose—without her permission."

Something snaps.

A guttural growl rips through him as his power surges, lashing out and shattering the furniture around them. His fist slams into the wall beside Eris’s head, cracking the stone. His knuckles ache from the impact, but he barely acknowledges it. The feral darkness inside him roars, swallowing the room whole.

And he doesn't care.

"I'm sick of your games, Vanserra." His voice is low, lethal. The rage dripping off his mouth. "I don't like when people tamper with my things. Tell me where you hid her, or I'll fucking slit your throat right here. How would your mother fare mourning another son?"

For the first time this night, Eris flinches. It’s subtle—just the briefest flicker of something sharp and almost vulnerable flashing through those amber eyes—but Rhys still catches it. The reaction only fuels his bloodthirst, makes the shadows coil tighter around him, hungry, eager to rip the truth from Eris’s throat.

But the heir of Autumn recovers quickly. His lips curl into something that’s not quite a smirk, but not quite a snarl either.

Rhys can feel Eris's pulse quicken, can sense the way his body tenses just slightly, poised between fight and flight. The amusement has drained from his features, replaced by something cold and calculated.

"Careful, High Lord," Eris murmurs, voice dangerously smooth despite the way Rhys has him caged against the wall. "Threatening me is one thing. But bring up my mother again, and we’ll see just how much you enjoy having your insides burned to ashes."

The tension crackles between them, thick and volatile. His patience is razor-thin, but Eris’s tone gives him pause. For all his flaws, he knows the Autumn heir isn't bluffling. He's his father's favourite for a reason, and the land chose him as Heir for the same. The power that runs through his veins is enough to reduce armies to ashes, among other more painful and twisted things. He might not rival his shadows, but he knows better than understimate him.

Eris is a player of the long game. Just like him.

Rhys exhales harshly through his nose. He doesn’t have time for Eris’s dramatics—not when she is still out there, running, slipping further from his grasp with each passing second.

The air shifts subtly, a faint rustle in the shadows. Rhysand freezes, his sharp senses attuned to every nuance of the moment.

The passage. A whisper of movement. A misstep.

His entire body stills.

His eyes snap to the archway just beyond Eris’s shoulder. The scent is faint, barely there beneath the thick autumn spice of Eris's presence, but it’s unmistakable.

It's her. The human. His pet.

She’s close. So close he can almost hear her frantic mortal heartbeat, can almost taste the delicious fear clinging to her skin.

Eris shifts slightly, as if realizing what Rhys has picked up on. The smirk creeps back onto his face, lazy and sharp. "Oops."

Rhys nearly slams him back against the wall again, but it’s too late. The slight rustle of fabric, the near-silent exhale of breath—it’s all he needs. The realisation strucks him.

"You helped her. You kept me distracted so she could escape."

Eris smirks. "Well, after the stunt she pulled to get here, how could I not? She’s impressive—for a mortal. I'd hate to see her wasting away in the hands of a brute like you."

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Poor thing was so terrified you’d find her. It pulled my heartstrings. I couldn't help it."

His blood goes ice-cold.

His fingers twitch, the shadows coiling tighter around his frame, reacting to the fury clawing up his spine. He should be the one toying with her, dragging out the inevitable, savoring her fear. Not Eris. Not Eris fucking Vanserra.

"You shouldn’t have done that," Rhys grits his teeth, voice deathly quiet.

Eris chuckles again, the weakened torchlight casting sharp angles across his smirking face. "Oh? And why is that?"

He takes a slow step backward, each movement controlled, precise. The type of control that still exudes violence. "Because it's none of your damn bussiness, Vanserra. And trust me, you don't want to make this personal. Not with me."

Eris clicks his tongue, rolling his shoulders with an air of infuriating nonchalance, fixing his clothes as if he hadn't been pressed against the wall and threatened to death. "You’re overestimating how much I care for you. I was simply curious. That’s all. Last time I saw a human was...when? A milenia ago, I think." His smirk sharpens, eyes gleaming. "And she was dressed like one of your people. You can't expect me to not be interested."

The shadows creep around his feet.

Eris moves away just as fast, sidestepping them as flames spark at his fingertips. "My my, what a temper. Can't even make jokes anymore." he tuts, the flames licking dangerously close to Rhys’s shadows, just enough for them to feel the challenge. "You really want to do this, Lord of the Night? Start something you can't finish?"

"You think I won’t?" I can squash you like a miserable bug just with a flick of my fingers, brat. Don't test me." He snarls. The air is crackling with raw power. "You think I won’t rip your spine out of your throat for meddling in something that doesn’t concern you?"

Eris only smirks. "Now that," he muses, "would be amusing to watch. But unfortunately, you’re simply wasting time." The mockery in his voice drips like venom. "Because every second you stand here posturing is another second she’s slipping further and further away from you."

That makes him still.

The realization is a blade to the gut.

The human is still running.

She is getting away. From him.

Eris leans against the wall, watching the calculation flicker through Rhys’s eyes with thinly veiled amusement. "You could fight me, of course, and you'll probably win," he says, inspecting his nails. "Or you could go after your little pet before she finds her way into real trouble. The kind that won't be as forgiving and understanding as me." He raises his gaze, amusement melting into something more serious. "Because we both know, Rhys, there are worse things than you lurking in these halls."

He doesn’t need the reminder.

He moves before Eris can utter another word, shoving past him and heading straight for the passage. But then, a thought gnaws at him.

He halts. Turns.

"You just helped her escape. Risked your sorry neck for it. And now you're encouraging me to chase after her again." His voice is low, dangerous. "Why help her in the first place, then?"

Eris just watches him, the flickering torchlight playing over the fine angles of his face. His smirk is still there, but it’s thinner now. Less twisted. Less arrogant.

Rhys tilts his head, waiting. Why help her? Eris isn’t the type to throw himself into any kind of risk unless there’s something bigger to gain. Doing reckless moves like this, without a clear benefit for him, is unnatural in the male.

A heartbeat of silence stretches between them. Then, the heir of Autumn exhales, long and slow, and shrugs.

"Like I said, I was curious. That's all."

Rhys narrows his eyes. He can tell when Eris is lying, has had fifty years to know him—except right now, he isn’t. Not entirely, at least.

And it doesn't sit right to him.

A smirk flickers back onto Eris’s lips, a slow, lazy thing. "Besides, you already had your chance to keep her locked up, didn’t you?" His voice is all arrogance, all amused cruelty. "Seems to me like you fumbled that opportunity quite spectacularly. I can't imagine how awfully humiliating it would be for you if this failure became public knowledge."

Rhys’s jaw clenches, shadows hissing around him.

"She’s human, Eris." His voice is ice. He's not letting his brat get under his skin. He won't. "A weak, mortal human with no allies, no power, no place in this world. And yet you—" his eyes narrow, suspicion blooming like ink in his gut "—you helped her anyway."

Eris doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, he moves leisurely to his desk, pouring himself a glass of wine from a decanter that looks worth more than anything that's served in this hellish mockery of a court. He swirls the liquid absently before bringing it to his lips, taking a slow sip.

Then, finally, he says, "Perhaps I simply wanted to see what she was made of."

Rhys doesn’t move. Not even a twitch in his expression.

Eris glances at him over the rim of his glass, something unreadable in his gaze. "And she showed it to me. Quite impressively, I might add."

Rhys’s teeth grind. "That’s not an answer."

"No, it’s not," Eris agrees easily, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. "But it's not like you would understand the truth, either."

Rhys studies him for a long moment, the gears in his mind turning. There’s something here. Something he’s missing.

And then it hits him.

The way Eris's posture has changed when it came to her. The way he had spoken about her.

The realization slams into him like a punch.

Eris isn’t just helping the human.

He’s testing her.

But why?

Rhys exhales sharply, a quiet, humorless laugh escaping his lips. "You’re playing a dangerous game, Vanserra."

Eris leans back against the desk, arms crossing over his chest. "Aren’t we all?"

Rhys doesn’t have time for this. He doesn’t have time for Eris’s cryptic bullshit or his...whatever it is with the human.

His shadows curling at his heels, slowly engulfing his form.

"I hope you got everything you wanted from this," he murmurs. "Because when I find her, it’s over."

Eris chuckles. "Oh, I’m counting on it."

Rhys doesn’t wait for more.

He turns and disappears into the dark, his mind narrowing to a single purpose.

Hunt his pet down.

He's been in this passage enough times to memorize the dents in the walls, the texture of the rock, even the tiny pests that call it home.

Yet every time, his skin prickles with disgust.

Now, his mind is too focused on the task at hand to notice the dust and dirt around him. He's in tunnel vision, his nose honing in on the familiar human scent.

There's a moment when she's just within reach of his shadows—just one swirl, and he'll have her. He'll drag her back to him, engulf her in his presence with no chance to resist. She can't kick shadows away.

He reaches out, his essence surrounding her, blocking her senses. He still can't quite brush the surface of her mind, but he has other ways to trap her. He feels the warmth of her skin and the rapid beating of her heart, so loud in the heavy silence around them. His shadows caress her, soaking in her fear and confusion.

Just as he's about to seize her, he senses something amiss.

A stinging pain surges through him—a burn, as if he just laid his hands on flames. Instinctively, his shadows recoil immediately.

"What the hell...?"

What was that? It felt like...

He reaches out for her again, but then a door creaks open—a hidden latch in the wall leading to another room. And she slips through, closing it behind her.

Silence settles over the passage once more, broken only by the faint rhythm of her heartbeat from the other side of the wall.

That sting—he knows it well. Too well.

It’s been a millennium since he last felt it, but it’s something he could never forget.

Ashwood.

His jaw tightens. Where the hell did she get her hands on ashwood? She didn’t have it when she left him in the chambers, and there was no way she could have come across casually it while running through the hallways.

Then how—?

A low growl rumbles from his throat.

Eris Vanserra.

Because of course.

Again, he wonders—what game is he even playing? There’s nothing to gain from helping a mortal. In fact, he has far more to lose. He’s already treading a razor’s edge, one wrong step away from pissing him off enough to get himself killed.

But before he can follow that train of thought, something else catches his attention.

A scent.

It halts him mid-step.

Salty, like the sea, but tinged with damp earth.

She’s crying

He can almost taste it on the air—a bitter mix of sweat, tears, and damp earth that now clings to her scent. For centuries, he used to torment mortals without a second thought, driven solely by his own whims. But this…this raw display of vulnerability unsettles him more than any of her antics ever has.

He wanted to break her. To see what she hides behind her walls and have her submit to him, willingly.

He should feel triumph, but instead, a disquiet gnaws at him—a dangerous curiosity about the depth of her defiance, mixed with a pang of something he’d long thought dead.

He presses his lips together, his mind racing in the silence. A mortal with the guts to cry out in despair… and manage to run with that fire still burning in her eyes just as fiercely. She’s more than a pet to be recaptured. She’s a challenge. An enigma he never anticipated.

He scowls into the darkness, anger and confusion warring within him. He should not care about her tears, should not feel any pity for the weak and fleeting nature of mortal sorrow, specially from the one human that has been nothing but an unsufferable pain for him.

And yet...he's not moving. He's not capturing her. He's standing there, in the silent passage, listening to her sobs.

He groans, shaking his head. Enough of this. He will not be distracted. He tightens the grip on the shadows and readies himself to resume the pursuit, his mind sharpening once more to the singular purpose that has driven him since the moment she slipped away. Since she outsmarted him and left him chained to his own damn bed, like a fool.

This human must be found, and she will pay dearly for her insolence—and no amount of tears and begging will save her. But for now, he'll let her think she's safe. That she has escaped him. Let her wallow in her relief before he rips it away from her.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, her tears are gone. She stops.

Her emotional control is fascinating for such a young mortal. Despite his rage, his curiosity still remains underneath all of it. ¿What else is she hiding? How far can she be pushed before breaking?

Only one way to find out.

...........

She doesn’t know how long she’s been running.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been here.

Every hallway looks the same.

Every single corner blurs together.

She doesn’t know where she is. Or what’s going to happen to her.

And worst of all—she still hasn’t found Feyre.

The sharp clicks of her heels against the stone stairs echo in the empty halls, the only sound reaching her ears. Her heavy, ragged breaths have melted into the other white noise thrumming in the background of her senses.

At some point, she had to shove the knife Eris gave her up her sleeve—she needed both hands to steady herself.

She’s tired. Hungry. Thirsty. Scared.

And yet, none of it overshadows the anger burning inside her.

It’s the one thing driving her forward. The one thing that always has.

Then, she hears her mother’s voice.

"People respect anger more than tears, Nesta. If you must feel something, feel angry. Hold on to it. Use it. Don’t ever let anyone see more than that."

Her grip tightens, her jaw clenched so hard it aches.

As soon as she finds Feyre, she’s dragging that idiotic brat back home. She’ll lock her up in their bedroom at the cabin. Tie her to a chair. Break her legs if she has to—just so she can’t run off again.

And then, she’ll stab any cursed fae that dares try to take her away.

Yes. She likes that idea. She likes it a lot.

Suddenly, something curls around her feet mid-step. She trips, barely managing to grip the banister before she crashes to the ground.

Just as she steadies herself, movement flickers ahead.

Then—footsteps. Slow. Measured. Drawing closer.

She pushes herself upright, breath unsteady. And as she lifts her head, she sees it—

A tall, dark figure standing in her path, blocking her view.

No. Not a person.

A monster.

"Found you."

A shiver runs down her spine. Her knees threaten to buckle at the sound of that voice. That awful, terribly familiar voice.

Her breath stutters. Every instinct in her body screams not to look. Not to meet his gaze.

But her eyes lift anyway.

And there they are—those inhuman, violet eyes, gleaming with nothing but twisted intentions.

Before she can turn away, his hand clamps around her throat in a flash. His grip is tight—just enough to cut off her breath for a second.

"Did you have fun, little thing?"

His voice is a purr laced with cruelty. He’s so close she can feel his breath ghosting against her lips. His fingers engulf her entire neck like it’s nothing, locking her in place. She knows—if she so much as twitches, he could snap it in an instant.

"I did," he continues, his smile sharp, almost feral. "It was so fun watching you run around like a headless chicken."

His voice vibrates with a low growl, the edges of his words dripping with amusement and, worse, anger.

Nesta trembles. She claws at his wrist, digging her nails into his skin.

It’s useless. She knows it’s useless.

But she doesn’t know what else to do.

"Well, I'm afraid we're putting an end to the chase now."

His grip tightens. Nesta can’t breathe. She’s choking, clawing desperately for air.

Dark spots bloom at the edges of her vision. Her body grows weak…

"Time to go back to your cage."

The words echo in her head like a sentence passed down by fate.

And then—darkness swallows her whole.

The last thing she feels is his arms catching her. Holding her close.

Like a trap snapping shut.

[loveaffairxc]

open to: F/ Mutuals/ Non Mutuals muse: Alexander Vanderbilt, heir to a wealthy family location: New York City, 19th century connection: your muse is a spirited seamstress working for his family/any other job that highlights the stark contrast in their social backgrounds.

As Alexander embarked on a leisurely winter stroll through the labyrinthine streets of 19th-century New York City, a serene blanket of snow draped the world in ethereal beauty. The crisp air tingled against his cheeks, and the ground was so slick with ice that he felt as if he could glide effortlessly across it in his shoes.

Suddenly, a distant cry shattered the peaceful stillness. Startled from his reverie, Alexander's senses sharpened, his heart quickening with a surge of concern. Without hesitation, he followed the urgent call, his steps hastening. Drawing nearer, his eyes fell upon the source of the commotion—[your muse] floundering in the icy water after slipping on the slick surface. With swift resolve, Alexander hastened forward, his breath forming delicate wisps of vapor in the chilly atmosphere.

Snatching up a sturdy wooden stick discarded nearby, Alexander forged ahead, his determination unwavering as he closed the distance between himself and the beleaguered figure. "Here, take this" he urged, extending the stick towards her.

@indiestarter

[asongofgoldenfireandblackblood]

Home — Navigate — Wanted — Plot — Houses — Apply — Discord

We are a No-Dance!AU and politics, family, and court-drama focused RP. To join, check out our main site, and find out who our court would like to see most on our Most Wanted page, send us a raven with any questions and once you're ready apply, and then join us for plotting and OOC-chat on our Discord!!

Sabitha is particularly wanted by several of the most powerful political players throughout our AU! Especially our Queen Rhaenyra, Lady Jeyne Arryn, Lord Cregan Stark, Lady Roslin Vance, Lady Cissy Grafton, Lord Kermit Tully, Lady Berena Bolton, and Dowager-Queen Alicent Hightower.

Note: Character traits, faceclaim, and details are suggestions and can be reworked to a certain extent if discussed with the current members of the RP!

Character biography under the cut

The eldest daughter of Lord and Lady Vypren's five children, Lady-Wife of Lord Forrest Frey, and mother to their heir, Lucas, Sabitha is 26 and known throughout court and Kingdom as The Light of The Reach for how embodies the highest ideals of a noble lady: elegant, soft-spoken, and impeccably polite. But beneath her polished exterior lies a woman of sharp wit and sharper resolve, a lady who would rather gallop through the woods than glide across a ballroom. Born into House Vypren and raised amid the swamps of the Riverlands, Sabitha honed resilience as naturally as she did charm, mastering the art of subtle defiance within the constraints of her station. She is a gifted diplomat, adept at managing the tangled egos of her quarrelsome Frey relatives and securing alliances with the finesse of someone twice her age. Yet even as she plays the part of the dutiful Frey, Sabitha chafes against the gilded cage of expectation, yearning for a freedom her title will never allow. Her lifelong friendship with Alysanne Blackwood was her sanctuary, a bond forged in their youth and tempered by time. Where Alysanne is a tempest, Sabitha is the calm eye of the storm—a grounding presence who tempers her friend’s fiery spirit while drawing courage from her defiance. As they grew older, their friendship deepened into something far more profound: a love neither dared to speak aloud. For Sabitha, it was an act of rebellion as much as passion, a quiet assertion of her autonomy in a world determined to mold her into a docile bride. But duty, as always, proved stronger than desire. When the weight of expectation grew too heavy, Sabitha, ever the pragmatist, made the heart-wrenching choice to prioritize her family’s needs over her own happiness. Her marriage to Forrest Frey, a dutiful but uninspired son of House Frey, is a cold, calculated alliance designed to strengthen ties between their houses. While Forrest is content with their union, Sabitha views it as another chain binding her to a life she never chose. She plays the role of devoted wife when duty demands it but spends most of her time in the saddle, at the practice yard, or in the woods where she feels most herself. Though she and Alysanne drifted apart, Sabitha has never been able to banish her entirely from her thoughts. Alysanne’s eventual return to the Twins—under the guise of serving as Sabitha’s secretary—has shattered the fragile equilibrium of her carefully constructed life. To the Freys, Alysanne’s presence is practical; to Sabitha, it is a whisper of all she has lost—and all she might dare to reclaim. In the labyrinthine politics of the Frey household, even the smallest gestures are fraught with peril, and the renewed closeness between the two women threatens to unravel everything Sabitha has built. Lady Sabitha Frey is a woman caught between duty and desire, a rebel cloaked in silk, wielding her sharp tongue and sharper mind to navigate a world that seeks to confine her. Beneath the poise lies a heart at war with itself, yearning for a freedom she may never know but refusing to surrender entirely to the weight of her choices. Suggested Faceclaim: Yang Chaoyue in Dance of The Phoenix and Love You Seven Times