#fast moon landing

[aperfecta]

on that grindset (232 soft resets for shiny buzzwole)

[eyndr-stories]

HAPPY (belated) MOON DAY EVERYONE!! :D

[lacyblades]

౨ৎ creep!nerd!jo has a bad habit. he knows it's bad. he feels bad before he does it, and after. but, during? during, he feels great. during, he feels like he's on top of the moon, a euphoria like no other.

if he's being honest, sometimes, a pair of your dirty old panties isn't enough. it should be, it's a lot, everything — to him, at least. sometimes, he needs more. sometimes, everything isn't quite enough. it's a deep, almost animalistic need.

a need to sneak into your room at night, while you're fast asleep. you're a heavy sleeper, he's found. a need to make his way onto the edge of your bed, watching the soft rising and falling of your chest. a need to quietly palm himself through his sweatpants, another hand over his mouth, concealing his whimpers.

if you couldn't tell, he's never been good at keeping quiet.

it should be concerning, how hard he's clenching his jaw, as to not awake you with his noises, when his warm hand meets his angry, leaking tip. he smears the pre-cum, feeling it drip between his fingers. gently letting his eyes fall shut — letting himself pretend it's you. your tight, pretty cunt he's buried in, one that undeniably clenches around him.

it was a sinful scene; his muffled moans, glasses slipping down his nose, all the while he's stroking himself to the sight of his unknowing, naïve roommate. he's grown accustomed to it, now. it's like a twisted ritual he preforms overnight, hours after you've passed out.

"oh- fuck, fuck, fuck..." he'd murmur, and thus followed a string of your name. and, yeah, it doesn't feel bad, not as thick ropes of cum shoot out, covering his pale thighs in a sticky, white coat.

it's not quite the real deal, but it's a step closer. well, until it's not. until, even that, doesn't satiate his hunger. cut to him, impatient and needy, hovering over your face, panties stuffed in his mouth. balls slapping in your face, as his wrist is jerking down his length.

he can see the curve your lashes, the arch of your lips. the way your hair falls oh-so nicely across your pillow. the headboard might just splinter, what with how hard he's gripping it.

your mouth is parted, as if ready to take whatever he was about to give you. you let out a little hum, a sound of sleep, but if he closes his eyes, it's just like a little moan, and the though pushes him off the edge.

his seed spurts onto your blanket, and the top of your chest. it paints the lower half of your face, a trace reaching your bottom lip. it slips into your mouth, and he curses, breathing hard. the sight of his cum-soaked soulmate, right there, laid out in front of him.

the warmth of it stirs you, and your breath hitches. you instinctively wipe at it, tiredly knotting your brows, because, what's the salty taste?

click.

your eyes shoot open, darting around until they land on the figure in front of you. lanky and shaking, glossed over look in his eyes. tip of a cock that's, hardening in real time, shoved in your face. and, above it all, a familiar face—

"...'toru?"

[batsandbirdbrains]

Pls just imagine how dramatic a young justice fic would be if it was like

The one where Batman and Robin are magically de-aged to when they first started working together

So now you’ve got a very paranoid and over protective Batman who hasn’t actually met any of the other justice league members yet and an itsy bitsy Robin who looks like he’ll tear someone’s head off. The Justice League has them quarantined in the Watchtower, they’re not letting them go home to the batcave or anything, and Batman is arguing with Green Arrow while holding a flailing Robin by the scruff of his neck. He looks like a feral kitten.

Now keep in mind, no one in this scenario knows Batman and Robin’s secret identities. They’re not even really sure if they’re father and son, brothers, uncle and nephew, or maybe strange mentor and protege picked off the streets, they’ve no clue. So seeing what is now clearly a young twenty-something Batman trying to wrangle in a wriggling eight year old is both highly entertaining and totally baffling. Where the hell did these two even come from. And how has that tiny kid been around longer than some actual adult heroes.

“He bit me!” Kid Flash cries, running away from a glowering Robin.

“Don’t try to touch me next time, asshole!”

“Hey!” Batman barks, holding Robin up by an arm and dangling him in front of him. “We don’t bite super-powered strangers. Who knows what kind of radioactive germs they might have.”

“But B!” Robin’s voice is so high and whiny, Conner is starting to feel dizzy. “He tried to pick me up! He called me cute! I’m not cute I’m terrifying.”

And the two just keep bickering back and forth, Robin eventually hanging with his ankles and hands hooked around Batman’s arm. Batman is trying to shake him off like a bug. They are both still arguing with each other as this happens.

“Did Batman just accuse me of having radioactive germs?” Wally is gaping at the scene in front of him.

As is everyone else. This is a total mindfuck. Who let Batman be in charge of a kid.

The two of them do eventually, reluctantly, start to trust the league. And they’ve been told they have to stay on the Watchtower until their magic expert gets back from a mission. Four days from now.

There’s one point when most others stationed on the Watchtower are sleeping or taking a break, and Batman is holding a drowsy Robin close to his chest and looking out the windows of the observation deck. Someone brought them some casual clothes to wear during their downtime, but they both have domino masks over their eyes. Those who see them like that can’t quite comprehend just how young Batman looks without the cowl.

“The moon looks so big,” a sleepy Robin mumbles, his cheek squished against Batman’s shoulder.

“That’s ‘cause it’s so much closer here,” Batman tells him, his voice incredibly soft. “Can you see where Gotham would be?”

Robin’s head turns just slightly, looking toward the Earth, and he hums, a fist moving up to scrub at his eye.

“S’over there,” he points. “With all the clouds ‘n stuff.”

“Looks tiny from up here, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Robin mouth opens in a comically wide yawn, then he shoves his face in Batman’s neck.

“S’not gonna fall from the sky, is it?”

“Nah.” Batman shifts his arms, holding Robin a little tighter. “This place is in orbit, kinda like how the moon is. It’s not gonna fall.”

“Would you catch it if it did?”

“I’d steal us a ship from here so fast, I wouldn’t need to catch it.”

“Kay.”

Batman presses his cheek to the top of Robin’s head, stray curls tickling his nose.

“Do you wanna practice your flips and shit in the morning? I’ll spot you.”

“Yeah,” Robin mumbles, “And I wanna scare Green Lantern by poppin’ outta the vent again. He screamed like a little girl when I landed on the table.”

“Do a flip when you do it and I’ll smuggle you an ice cream bar from their kitchen.”

“Deal.”

Batman has to twist his left arm funny so he can shake Robin’s hand, his right arm occupied by holding Robin up, and they shake on it.

Batman lets out a snort of a laugh, looking at Robin with an incredibly fond look on his face.

For everyone else, it’s a very long four days of them being menaces and encouraging each other to do more and more odd shit.

When they get turned back, they act like nothing was out of the ordinary. They’re not even phased when they’re reminded of some of the things they got into.

[dreammfyre]

the heir's favorite ⋆ jacaerys velaryon

SUMMARY. You are the first daughter of the marriage between your mother Rhaenyra Targaryen and your father Daemon Targaryen. Always the most rebellious and difficult of all, temperamental, impulsive. However, weak before the temptation to possess your older brother, the crown prince Jacaerys Velaryon, a knight par excellence, the opposite of you. But no one in Dragonstone imagined that you shared much more than dragon's blood.

WARNINGS. +18 Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!oc. Targaryen incest (brother and sister). Jacaerys aggressive and dominant. Smut. Based on the second season of House Of the Dragon.

AUTHOR'S NOTE. This was a suggestion left anonymously in the messages, so I invite you to leave yours. Thanks for reading.

The empty room is so quiet that you could feel your thoughts could be heard over the place. The full moon illuminated the dark sky, standing out against the stars that night where everyone are resting in their chambers, but you were unable to lie in your bed, much less fall asleep without having nightmares. The Stone Table is where everyone met daily to discuss strategies for the war that was being unleashed in Westeros, but now that empty place feels strange, so much silence and loneliness. The extinguished embers did not illuminate the tabletop, you touched the stone expecting to burn, however, it was totally cold.

"Who's there?" A familiar voice entered the place. You turned immediately finding prince Jacaerys, your older brother and heir to your mother's throne. "Sister? It's very late."

"I know and you should be resting." You replied walking towards him.

"Yeah. But it's a bit complex lately." He took the liberty of joking, in response you smiled without much encouragement. "May I know what are doing here?"

"Not much. Seems you're not the only one who doesn't get any rest." Lifted your shoulders in a casually mood. "Any news on your rounds?"

Jace shook his head in disappointment, pacing around the table resting his hands on the handle of the sword without taking eyes off you, analyzing your presence carefully, as if silently judging you. You rested your hands on the stone of the table relaxing your body on your arms, but your head couldn't stop scheming hundreds of thoughts and bloody imaginary scenarios regarding the war.

"Cole's army is getting bigger and we don't have a damn clue about anything." Said with a tense jaw. "And about my father..." you sighed deeply without looking your brother in the face "no words from him for days."

"That's not your fault." The prince tried to make you feel better with repeated kind words, but your guilt was growing and the anguish of the approaching war wouldn't leave you alone. "Daemon is not the priority for the moment."

"That idiot should be here, on the island, with his queen and childrens." Visenya whispered angrily. Then you looked up resolute in your decision. "I'll go see him tomorrow."

That didn't sit well for your older brother.

"Don't talk nonsense, Visenya." Jacaerys scoffed. "Can't go to Harrenhal alone, it's too dangerous and we don't know if the way is clear for us.”

"You think I'll arrive by land alongside Daemon's imaginary army?" You sneered in the same condescending voice, a brazen gesture that made Jacaerys' blood boil. "I will ride Vermithor's back at dawn and arrive before the sun peaks. I will return the same day with news before the queen."

"That's a lousy idea!" Your brother exclaimed angrily. Grabbing your arm with brute force, forcing to look him. "How can you even just think of traveling alone to lands we don't know if they are enemies or allies?"

"We need to move fast before they come for us, brother." You squirmed under his grip feeling his fingers bury into your pale skin. "Do you intend to wait for my father to return?" You managed to break free from his grip with difficulty, Jacaerys ran a hand through his wavy hair desperate not to talk sense into his sister. "Because you may take a seat, I will not be accompanying you."

"Damn it, Visenya. Please understand the magnitude of your stupidity." He begged, chasing from side to side. Your brother knew how impulsive you are, and how hard it’s to get an idea out of your head, no matter if it was good or bad and in this case it was a rather dangerous one. "What happens if you cross paths with Vhagar in the skies?" The prince raised his voice to you demanding and imperative trying to intimidate, anyone passing nearby could overhear the discussion. Turned your back to him, you didn't want to look in the face out of embarrassment because deep down you knew his words were true. "You have any business there!"

"I have no business here either!" Exclaimed with same intensity. You were temperamental by nature and now are blowing off steam. "I'm tired of staying cooped up on the island, waiting for others to figure things out! I'm a dragon rider constrained by these walls."

Your brother understood that feeling better than anyone, he grabbed you by both cheeks, covering your face with his firm hands.

"I know how you feel, Visenya. Believe me, but walking out at the first impulse is not the solution, okay?" You put your hands over his, looking at him intently. Really want to nod for answer him, but were mesmerized in his nearness and his breath hitting your face. "Stay here, with us." He watched carefully without letting go, losing himself in the sense of his pleas to look very closely, you were so beautiful in any light no matter how dim, a Targaryen through and through with bright, intense violet eyes of long white hair like your parents. Jacaerys couldn't help but stare at you, the half-open lips tempting to taste you, trying not to lose what little composure he had left. "With me."

Visenya possessed the ethereal beauty of her mother and the complex character of her father, Daemon Targaryen. Under your little ethics and impulsiveness did not think if it was a coherent idea and you threw yourself to kiss the thick lips of your brother who reciprocated instantly, none of them reasoned, they only moved to the rhythm of the kiss where their moist lips brushed anxiously. Your brother's hand on your waist took you by surprise, more so when he pressed you against his body bumping you against his chest and cornering you against the table.

"Go to sleep, sister." Jace scolded making an attempt to stop kissing you, but you kept reaching for him. "This isn't a good place."

With a little smile you ignored knowing the only way to stop the situation was for you to go to your quarters and you didn't feel like leaving. You grabbed Jace’s hair tangling your fingers in the chestnut curls, Jacaerys strength intimidated, but it wasn't enough for hold you.

"Don't go to Harrenhal." He pleaded leaving wet kisses on your neck, tracing a wet path over your skin taking the opportunity to inhaling your sweet scent. "Do it and I promise warm your bed every night."

Felt a shiver run down your back at his offering, Jacaerys kept leaving kisses until he reached your collarbones uncovered by the neckline of your dress. His lips made your heart beat faster, grabbed him by the face stopping him.

"Would you do that for me?" Asked with dangerous innocence, watching his glossy swollen lips.

"Really doubt it?" he answered against your ear, then brushed his nose against yours slowly, you left a short kiss on his lips almost by instinct, so tender and unexpected that you heard a laugh come out of the prince.

"Maybe." You whispered touching his chest, playing with the textures of the fabrics, his agitated breathing gave him away, having you so fucking close is a personal challenge. It was a lie, you weren't going to think about it, you just wanted to give him what he needed to hear to stay with you.

Jacaerys' big hands began to take hold of your body squeezing you tightly making you gasp, then you lifted your chin giving him access to the neck, kisses there unsettled you in a special way and only your brother knew it, listening closely to his breathing and feeling the warmth of his breath was much better. Everything about him you liked, and you were missing him all nights. The pressure and uncertainty of the war had taken your head elsewhere, you had abandoned each other for valid reasons, but at that second just wanted to give yourself to Jacaerys one more time.

You stood on your tiptoes to gain a little more height reaching for his ear, your brother tensed at the delicate touch of your hot tongue against his lobe, licked delicately knowing that it turned him on, he confessed it to you one night and you never forgot it. A deep moan of satisfaction came from his throat, then carefully, you lowered one of your hands straight down to his pants, positioning yourself over his hard member that was pressing against the fabric.

"This is not the best moment." Begged the prince resting his forehead on your shoulder. "We are in a sacred place, you know?"

You cared little for his insistence or decency when only wanted to shout his name, though you knew Jacaerys was asking you to stop for the sake of not failing in duty, not because the desire wasn't there. No one understood the reason why Rhaenyra did not cancel the stupid engagement between lady Baela and the right Jacaerys, no one could deny that they could become blameless kings for the history of Westeros, but there would never be the tension and burning desire throbbing as when the fire was unleashed between you. That first time with a taste of sin, you begging him not to stop, that it was going to become a one-time secret that his parents would never find out, a secret they couldn't help but repeat between your sheets and his, in the hallways and the library.

Desperate for more your brother lifted the skirt of your dress with your help by grabbing your leg and pulling it up to his waist. The mere contact made you moan from the pleasure, clamped your mouth shut to keep from making noise, you were too sensitive and needy and Jacaerys liked to have you under his control. You were always sarcastic, upset and nasty, just like your dragon, but Jacaerys Velaryon knew how to control you.

"What are you going to do if someone finds us?" You asked with bated breath. Deep down it was important to keep the secret guarded to keep it. Jacaerys' fingers stroking between your legs making moan, clinging to the heir's neck and leaning against the table. "What are they going to say when they find out the crown prince fucking his sister."

His fingers slowly moved up and down, playing with your slimy wetness in his fingers. The mischievous grin on the chestnut's face only reflected the satisfaction of having managed to have you like this, so submissive.

"Does it scare you?" he whispered against your moaning lips. With his other hand he gripped the back of your neck tightly, so you wouldn't move. "They're going to find out you're my spoiled sister." Two of his long fingers began to search for the perfect place to insert themselves into you. You stirred under his grip settling in for him, your desperate breathing needing him to finish his work, but he seemed very calm provoking you with his words. "Do you know what they'll call you?" he bit your lip, pulling it towards him. "The heir's whore." His fingers slipped inside you so easily, sliding into your wet insides gushing moans from your chest as you felt him move in and out of you. Jacaerys took your leg his free hand clutching his fingers to your thigh preventing you from closing before him.

At the first loud moan you covered your mouth immediately knowing you were attracting attention, the sensation between your legs was stronger. You squeezed your brother's shoulder getting used to the movement of his fingers inside you.

"Don't yell." He ordered uncompromisingly. He had to kiss you to shut you up, which served you a few short minutes. You were losing your mind, your legs wanted to close but Jace put his foot down to stop that from happening.

"Jacaerys." His name on your lips excited him more than anything else, for it was the tone of desperation that mirrored your desire. To know that he controlled you and you were under his dominion with how arrogant you were, that no knight owned you, that everyone desired you for being Rhaenyra's spoiled daughter, but you were his, no matter an arranged marriage or duty was enough. "Mmh." You ran your hand over your face, desperate to keep silent fighting against your body that was beginning to tremble as his fingers went faster.

But for an ego like Prince Jacaerys Velaryon's it wasn't enough. Listening to you enjoy yourself on the Stone Table where every day they met to discuss war strategies was the most satisfying image to his eyes and he was not going to be able to forget it. The way you moved, dragon-like, the sweetest and most desperate noises came from you, none of the whores he had been with compared to the delicacy of a pureblood Targaryen. A unique and unrepeatable privilege.

When your breathing became erratic and the murmurs incomprehensible swearing you were going to reach that peak, Jacaerys came to a screeching halt chastising you. You opened your eyes in disappointment and fury, your heart leaping out of your chest and your legs damp and trembling.

"Be a good sister," he stroked your cheek with the gentleness you deserve to be treated with. You were trying to listen to him but you were so upset you just wanted to insult him for doing that to you. "Turn around."

Your hair stood up at his tone of voice demanding and conciliatory at the same time. As obedient as ever, just for him, you turned your back to him as the prince busied himself with pulling down his pants that were pressing against the erection he was trying to contain. Your heart wouldn't stop pounding, you could still feel his long fingers inside you and the wait, however minimal, was becoming eternal and torturous. You looked sideways at the entrances of the place without finding anyone, but the truth is that you didn't care if at that moment the queen arrived and found them like that, the euphoria and adrenaline was taking over your body and your reason, the overflowing desire had taken your actions. You felt Jace's hands sneaking up your skirt, careful where to touch, looking for just the right position to enter. He stood behind you, your dress pulled up over your back, the mere touch made you moan. You were so wet it was slipping from your entrance.

"Don't say anything." He told you and you nodded, you were capable of begging if necessary, though deep down you knew he enjoyed it making you obey. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

You closed your eyes as you felt Jacaerys slowly push behind you. You took a breath and tried to relax, you both moaned slowly, the prince tensed his jaw and clenched his teeth to keep from making noise, he stayed still for a few seconds searching for your hips digging his fingers into your skin trapping you in that position, moving you back and forth to better thrust. The rubbing of his member on your walls felt warm and wet, an invasion of your body, you were so used to his size that the sensation became familiar, literally. Some of the pieces of stone you unintentionally threw away, that was going to be a problem for later, because now the noise of their bodies colliding was beginning to consume you. The control he had over you didn't bother you, he gripped you tightly taking over everything. Her hips moved with yours instinctively in a delicious back and forth.

"Like this." You gasped with closed eyes and a satisfied expression. You reached for his hand under your dress and clung to him as tightly as Jace clung to you.

His length pumped in and out of you at a rapid pace, but this time, Jacaerys made sure each thrust was deep by ramming his pelvis into your buttocks.

"What a pleasure to meet again, don't you think?" his question was punctuated by your same panting without stopping moving. You weren't able to answer, your high-pitched moans were getting louder and louder, putting both of you at risk. On the other hand, he was breathing heavily. You had to cover your mouth with your hand, biting your palm to stifle your own moans of pleasure at having him inside you.

You started to stir but you were trapped in his hands, he knew you well enough to know what to do, you turned to look at him finding the heir ramming you with force and speed, his hair fell in curls that moved to the rhythm of his rhythm, when their gazes met for a second he stared at you, your face sweating, your eyes bright with a frown of supplication and red cheeks were enough to have no mercy. Your entrance was tightening at the same time you couldn't breathe, that feeling of a wave invading your insides begging for more desperate to reach orgasm. Jacaerys took your with one hand your waist and with the other your hip, encasing his fingers preventing you from escaping, you were in this together and you had to finish it.

You moved your arm and disarranged the pieces on the board. Now you could hear your brother moaning, cursing you for being his undoing and the greatest of his sins, making you his own feeling the power to mark you and deflower you breaking any tradition that governs the Targaryen nobility. It felt so good that you could confess your love to him just so he wouldn't stop. Luckily for both of you, he didn't stop, the rapid movements and the pressure forming in your lower stomach was getting out of control, the noise intensifying from the collision of your bodies and your knees seemed to lose any kind of strength to hold you up, luckily the table was there to support your body, plus your brother who wasn't going to let you fall. Until you couldn't manage to resist anymore, your orgasm came first like a shiver throughout your body, you closed your eyes tightly and watching you exclaim his name in screams of pleasure ended the infinite torture of the heir that took a few seconds to wait.

"Shit." Your voice hopefully came out of your dry mouth. You had your chest against the weight crushing your breasts, one of your hands intertwined with your brother's who was rebounding behind you.

You both took a second to take a breath and assimilate what you had just done, you had promised not to fall into carnal sin again and that's why the last time was several months ago. You leaned on the table with both hands coming back into yourself with your chest heaving, your brother's hands were still in the same place but he was no longer squeezing you with the same possessive intensity. Your hair was falling on both sides, tousled from the movement and your legs were begging you for a rest.

Jacaerys caught his breath, but his heart had not calmed down at all. His body was still experiencing those chills and that unique tension, he took a step backwards out of your body to get dressed. You immediately felt the fluid trickle down the inside of your thighs, dripping slowly down your hot skin.

"Are you okay?" Jace asked pulling up his pants, his movements a little uncontrolled as the adrenaline was still pumping. You nodded fixing your wrinkled dress. It wasn't the first time it had happened, you both knew what it was, that meant you would have to have tea the next morning.

"Looks like I'll be staying."

Your older brother smiled, fixed his hair pulling it back and moving closer to kiss you again, this time slower and softer, trapping your lips with his so slowly that you relaxed. You took his face kissing him again, his scent, his warmth, his bearing that forced you to lift your chin to reach your mouth, the softness of his lips, it was the most comforting sensation you knew.

"Go rest." He whispered without opening his eyes. Tidying your hair behind your ear.

"Okay." You replied in the same tone, so obedient and submissive before him, kissing for the last time his mouth following your movement. "Good night"

Leaving him was complicated, but you were satisfied with the encounter. As you walked you felt the burning between your legs, a reminder that was to last a couple of days that he had made you his once more, that was the greatest secret they kept hidden, they had forgotten for a moment the war between families, the political problems, duty and order.

Jacaerys Velaryon watched you go, silently picking up the sword he had dropped to the ground. That simple symbol that he was capable of abandoning his duty as prince for you, he staked his honor and his word for taking you. He stayed a while longer tidying up the mess they had created, arranging the pieces of stone in the place that corresponded according to the figure, picking up from the floor some that fell without realizing it. It was he who always assumed the role of responsibility for cleaning up the mess and pretending nothing had happened. How was he going to show up tomorrow at this very spot knowing he had relations with Visenya, the spoiled and arrogant princess, right there?

He only hoped Daemon Targaryen would never discover that his daughter was the heir's favorite if he wished to one day ascend the throne.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ MASTERLIST

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

beauty and the beast (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 9.3k

Summary: Mattheo Riddle, the infamous heartbreaker, gets his heart broken.

Part 2

A/N: this is my first fic ever for matty but basically what happened was i read @redeemingvillains's amazing amazing fic called 'Dove' and it made me feral and i wrote this when i was supposed to be studying for my finals

im not so sure abt it lol because i feel like it's all over the place but this is what happens when i get depressed and get inspired at the same time

so, i hope you enjoy the product of my academic burnout and procrastination

also vee i hope you like the fic cuz ur most definitely my celebrity crush hehe 👉👈

Mattheo Riddle and you made an odd couple—at least, that’s what everyone said.

He was the son of the Dark Lord, Slytherin’s crowned king. All sharp edges and smoldering glances, more beast than boy. Mattheo solved problems with fists long before he used his brain, and even then, he was more likely to headbutt the issue than think it through. Fights, bruises, bleeding knuckles—he was practically the poster child for them.

You, on the other hand, were his opposite in every imaginable way.

Hufflepuff’s sweetheart. A sunbeam in human form. You were always wrapped in soft pastels with flower crowns tucked into your hair, hands sticky with sugar from baking treats or speckled with soil from planting herbs. You loved baby animals and warm tea, and your hands only ever got dirty in the name of creation or care.

So when Mattheo Riddle—the dark moon to your warm, gentle sun—started showing interest in you, your friends were quick to intervene.

Mattheo loved flustering you. Whether it was a cocky compliment or a teasing nickname, he’d always say something just to catch that bashful blush on your cheeks. He’d lean in too close, grinning like a devil as you tried to hide your smile.

“Ah! You’re just so cute. Muah!” You giggled one afternoon, pressing a kiss to the head of a tiny kitten. You’d found a litter of them near the castle grounds and built a makeshift shelter, lining it with soft blankets. To your delight, your friends had fallen in love with them too, helping feed and cuddle the kittens when they could. You came today for the usual dose of kitten therapy.

“Wow, where’s mine?”

The deep voice startled you so much you nearly toppled over from the crouch you were in, silently praying to Helga that your arse wouldn’t land on a defenseless kitten.

“Woah there!”

Luckily, someone caught you—one hand steadying your back, the other gripping your elbow just enough to stop your fall. The kitten in your arms squirmed and you realized you might’ve squeezed it in your surprise. Loosening your grip, you gently pet between its ears with a single finger, smothering it with kisses as an apology.

“You really know how to make a bloke jealous, sunshine,” Mattheo said, his voice a low purr near your ear, “I save you, and you’re still more invested in the kitten.”

You turned, only to find him inches from your face. You squeaked again, your blush rising fast as you looked away, tucking your face into your shoulder. Mattheo grinned.

You cleared your throat, trying to gather yourself, “Well, if you recall, you’re the reason I almost fell in the first place.”

His smirk widened, one brow arching—the same brow with the notch he’d gotten in a fight just a few days ago. You’d heard about it in passing, less concerned about the fight and more about whether anyone had been seriously hurt. Your friends had smiled gently at your concern, telling you you were too sweet for this world.

“I didn’t realize I distracted you, princess.”

The nickname was your undoing. Again.

You turned away, hiding behind another kitten as your cheeks burned. You couldn’t understand how someone like Mattheo Riddle found so much joy in tormenting your poor, flustered heart.

You cleared your throat, flustered, “So… you came to see the kittens too? Don’t they just cheer you up after a long day?”

Mattheo gave you a look—something between a smirk and a genuine smile, an expression that made your heart stumble over itself before he even opened his mouth.

“I am cheered up now,” He said, his voice low and warm, “But I must say, it’s not because of the kittens, Sunshine.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Your friends had immediately tried to intervene—purely out of concern for you, as you came to realize that night in the cozy safety of your dorm room, when Mattheo Riddle’s name was brought up.

“We just want you to be careful,” Lila said gently, her dark curls falling into her eyes as she spoke, “Mattheo isn’t exactly a stranger to other girls’ beds, (Y/N). He’s gone all the way with them—four bases, easily. Hell, with him, there’s probably an extra base we don’t even know about.”

Imani winced, “And well… we know you aren’t as experienced.”

You felt your cheeks flush. They weren’t wrong.

They were referring to the fact that you were a virgin. You’d never dated anyone. Never even had a boyfriend.

“…Is that bad?” You asked softly.

The girls’ eyes widened and they immediately jumped to reassure you.

“No! Not at all!” Lila said quickly.

“Of course not!” Imani added, shaking her head.

“That’s not what we meant,” Daisy chimed in, reaching over to squeeze your hand, “You just… you deserve someone who’s patient with you.”

“Mattheo’s part of a rough crowd,” Evangeline said, hesitating. She always chose her words carefully, “I don’t want to sound mean or make you feel like we’re judging him, but… I’ve been overthinking this whole thing. And you really can’t be sure he’s not doing this as some kind of cruel joke. Or a dare. Or something equally awful. I wouldn't put it past some of his friends.”

She looked you right in the eye, her voice softening.

“I feel bad assuming the worst, I really do. But I also don’t want to trust just anyone with someone as precious as you.”

That made you smile despite yourself.

Evangeline. The mother of the group. Always looking out for everyone. Always making sure you were safe, happy, and loved. She deserved something in return for how diligently she cared for you all.

You made a mental note to bake her favorite strawberry jelly pastries as a thank-you.

“I understand what you’re all saying,” You said, voice warm, “Thank you… for looking out for me.”

Thus began the excruciating process of trying to remind yourself of everything your friends had said—every time Mattheo began to flirt with you.

You returned his charm with a polite smile. You laughed at his silly jokes. You reminded yourself, this probably isn’t that serious to him.

He could have any girl on his arm—any girl who actually knew what she was doing. What business would Mattheo Riddle, famed Slytherin heartbreaker and rumored womanizer, have with someone like you? Someone who wasn’t experienced. Someone who needed emotional connection to feel safe. Someone who couldn’t even tell whether this was real or just another one of his games.

It all came to a halt the day Mattheo—so casually it could have been mistaken for a joke—suggested you two actually go out.

It happened in passing, half-directed at someone else in the conversation. But you noticed the way he paused. The way he looked at you afterward, as if waiting—hoping—for an answer.

You stared at the hand he extended toward you, palm open.

Then your gaze lifted, meeting his eyes. Wide. Hesitant. Innocent.

He laughed, trying to play it off, “What? Don’t you trust me?”

You froze.

The corner of your mouth dipped downward, a subtle but telling movement. And Mattheo noticed instantly. The playful spark in his expression faded, replaced by a chill that settled into his shoulders like dread.

“Oh.”

“Mattheo, I—” You stopped, unsure what to say as you tugged anxiously at the edge of the shrug you’d crocheted, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t, princess,” He said quietly, shaking his head, “Truth is… I’ve never given you a reason to trust me.”

You paused, chewing your bottom lip nervously. The sight of it made something sharp and aching stir in Mattheo—an urge to pull your lip from your teeth with his thumb and press his own mouth to yours, just to stop you from doubting yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered.

Mattheo gave you a gentle smile.

It was a sad kind of smile—soft, genuine, and far too forlorn for someone who was always so cocky and sure. Seeing it on his face made something twist in your chest.

“Don’t be, princess.” He said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The next couple of days were filled with a Mattheo-shaped hole in your life—and it left a heavier ache than you expected. You tried not to dwell on it, but it was hard not to overthink. Had he only wanted one thing from you? Had your rejection truly been enough for him to discard the little friendship you’d built?

Was that all he ever wanted? Was that all anyone wanted?

Still, the thoughts didn’t consume you completely. You had your friends. You had your kittens. You had the little chaos garden you were growing with Professor Sprout’s permission just beyond the greenhouses, where wildflowers grew beside pumpkins and honeybees lazily floated between blooms.

That was enough… mostly.

At least until Mattheo found you in the library.

You were seated near the back, flipping through your Herbology notes, when he strolled up and set a small vial down on the table in front of you. The clear liquid inside shimmered faintly, catching the candlelight. You looked up at him, eyebrows raised.

Mattheo’s chest was puffed out in obvious pride. He looked like he expected you to gasp or leap into his arms or start clapping.

But you just stared between him and the vial.

His posture deflated slightly, “Come on, princess. At least pretend to be interested. I spent days trying to get my hands on this.”

You bit back a smile, secretly amused by the way he still spoke to you like nothing had changed. Like you hadn't broken his heart—or at least bruised it. The fact that he was here at all made something flutter in your chest.

You gave in with a curious tilt of your head, “Alright, Mattheo. I’ll bite. What’s in the vial?”

“Veritaserum.”

Your eyes widened, but before you could even think to stop him, Mattheo uncorked the tiny bottle and downed it in one go like it was a shot of Firewhisky. He slammed the empty vial back onto the table and leaned forward, smirking.

“I’m completely at your mercy now, sunshine. Ask me anything. I’ll prove I’m not messing with you.”

You blinked, taken aback by his dramatic display. Then you pouted a little, your lips tugging downward as your eyes softened.

“How do I know that was actually Veritaserum?”

He laughed, grinning at you, “Trust issues much, princess? I respect it. Go on—ask me something I wouldn’t answer unless I was under the influence.”

Your eyes flicked over him, unconvinced. That was when you noticed the fresh cut across his nose—no doubt from yet another fight. It should have made you concerned, should have made you check him over for any other bumps and bruises. Instead, you had the completely embarrassing thought that it looked… sort of adorable.

You cleared your throat and hummed, thinking, “Your best friend is Theodore, right?”

He smirked, already cocky again, “Of course. Come on, angel. Give me a tough one.”

You tilted your head, pretending to ponder. Then, as sweetly as ever: “Have you ever thought about kissing Theodore?”

Mattheo froze.

His entire face lit up in a furious blush, red blooming across his cheeks and ears, “I—I mean, yes—but I wasn’t fantasizing about it or anything!” He sputtered, “It was just… a random thought that popped into my head once, I swear!”

You clapped a hand over your mouth, giggling uncontrollably. “Well,” You managed through your laughter, “I guess it really was Veritaserum.”

He covered his face with one hand, groaning into his palm, “That was embarrassing. I am embarrassed.”

You paused, your laughter fading into a soft frown as concern overtook your expression, “Mattheo… if you regret it, it’s okay. I won’t ask you anything else until the serum wears off, you don't have to answer anything else.”

He peeked at you through his fingers and smiled, slow and sincere. “You really are too good for this world, princess.” He let his hand fall and leaned forward, eyes never leaving yours, “No—I don’t regret it. I want you to trust me. And this was the only way I could think of doing it.”

You let out a breathy laugh. Of course it was. Of course the way Mattheo Riddle tried to earn your trust was something absurd, reckless… and somehow incredibly endearing. Just like him.

You hesitated, then asked the question that had been sitting on your chest for weeks, “All those compliments you give me… when you say I look beautiful… do you really mean that?”

His expression softened so much it almost hurt to look at. “Without a doubt,” he said without missing a beat.

Your heart stuttered in your chest. A blush crept up your neck, spreading across your cheeks like warm sunlight, “…Do you really want to date me?”

“More than anything.”

You swallowed hard, “Is this possibly part of a joke? Or a dare? Or something else I should be scared of?”

Mattheo didn’t even flinch, “Believe me, princess, I would rather fall twelve stories from the Astronomy Tower than ever do something like that to you.”

Your breath caught. You’d been cold earlier, the drafty corners of the library nipping at your sleeves—but now you felt hot all over, your skin tingling like you’d been dropped into sunlight.

You blinked, “…Are you using me as a beard to hide your true feelings for Theodore?”

“(Y/N!)” He exclaimed, utterly scandalized, your name leaving his lips for the first time ever instead of a teasing nickname. The outrage on his face was so genuine that you couldn’t hold back anymore—you burst into a fit of laughter, face falling against his bicep as you tried to muffle your giggles.

Mattheo was still huffing beside you when you finally peeked up from his arm, and the expression he wore—soft, amused, fond—made your breath hitch all over again.

You shifted nervously, “Do you… like me?”

“More than you realize.” He said, quiet but certain.

You lowered your head, flustered, heart pounding as you fidgeted with the sleeves of your jumper. You weren’t usually so forward. Asking him all those questions had taken a surprising amount of courage. And now that you had your answers, you didn’t know what to do with them.

Mattheo tilted your chin up with a featherlight touch, catching your eyes. He glanced at your lips, then back into your gaze with so much reverence it almost made you dizzy.

“Will you go out with me, sunshine?”

Your lips curled into a shy smile, “I’d love to, Mattheo.”

His smile widened, something boyish and sweet in it that you hadn’t seen before. But before you could let yourself fully sink into the glow of that moment, the nagging voice of self-doubt tugged at your courage.

“I… don’t know if you know this about me,” You started hesitantly, “but I’ve never really done this before. Dated, I mean. So… I might need to take things slower than what you’re used to. Is that okay with you?”

There was a beat of silence where your heart was convinced it might just split in two from the pressure. But then Mattheo leaned in, pressing the gentlest kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

When he pulled back, his eyes were soft with something so genuine it made your throat tighten, “We’ll go as slow as you need to, princess.”

You smiled, chest loosening as you leaned slightly into his side, your hand brushing his.

It wasn’t until later—when you were curled up in bed, running back through every detail—that you realized something.

He had never actually clarified if that pace—slow, careful, uncertain—was okay with him.

He had said you could go slow.

But you didn’t know if he wanted to.

***

It had been about three weeks since you and Mattheo started dating, and even now, it sometimes didn’t feel quite real. Not because he didn’t show it—if anything, Mattheo Riddle was a surprisingly attentive boyfriend. He brought you little things he thought you’d like (a flower he saw outside Greenhouse Three, a charm that reminded him of your favorite animal, a quill in your favorite color just because you said yours was running out). He always waited for you outside class, always carried your books if your bag looked even slightly heavy, and never let a day pass without calling you by some new sweet nickname.

But more than that, he never pushed.

On your first date, you'd gone to the edge of the Forbidden Forest—somewhere quiet and peaceful with just enough sunlight trickling through the trees to give the illusion of safety and magic. You’d spread out a blanket, shared pumpkin pastries and pumpkin juice, and talked about anything and everything. Mattheo hadn’t even tried to hold your hand until you'd gently brushed your pinky against his, and even then, he’d waited for you to fully intertwine your fingers.

Since then, it had been a slow rhythm of delicate moments: shoulders brushing in the corridor, pinkies linked under the table, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with careful reverence. He never took more than you offered. Never asked for what you weren’t ready to give.

Even now.

Now, it was late—past curfew—and you stood with him in a shadowed alcove near the Astronomy Tower, where moonlight pooled like spilled silver. The castle was hushed, and your heartbeat was the loudest thing in the world.

Your hand touches his cheek, featherlight, like you’re still unsure if you’re allowed to touch him this way. Your voice trembled at the edges when you spoke—

“Can I kiss you?”

Mattheo’s heart stops.

“You—you wanna…?” His voice catches, and he mentally curses himself because he’s Mattheo Riddle, for fuck’s sake, and now he’s stammering like a schoolboy.

“I want to kiss you,” You admitted, voice soft and just a little shaky, “But… I’ve never really done this before. I mean—not really.”

Mattheo’s expression softened immediately. He reached out, his fingers ghosting along your cheek before curling gently around your hand, “Me either.”

You blinked, “You’re kidding, right?”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head, “No. I mean—I know what people say. I know what you’ve heard. And yeah, I’ve kissed girls before. But those… they didn’t matter. They didn’t mean anything.”

You stared at him, skeptical, “But you’ve done things, Mattheo. With other girls.”

He didn't deny it. Instead, he took your hand in both of his and guided it to his chest, just over his heart. The steady thud was frantic beneath your palm.

“You’re the first one,” He said, voice quiet and steady, “who’s made me feel like this… from just being around me.”

Your breath caught. And then, slowly, you rose onto your toes, brushing your lips against his.

It was tentative, uncertain—but real. So real it made your knees wobble and your heart race.

Mattheo barely moved, just kissed you back softly, reverently, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he wasn’t careful. When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling like you’d just handed him the stars.

“Still nervous?” He whispered.

“Only a little.” You replied, cheeks warm.

And then he leaned in again like you were sacred.

Not like a boy kissing a girl. Like a sinner kissing a prayer.

He didn’t grab. Didn’t take. He just kissed you like it was all he ever wanted to do, like your kindness was the only thing that had ever made him feel clean.

When you finally parted, your breath was uneven, your hands still trembling faintly in his.

For the first time, you understood what people meant when they talked about wanting. The way your heart kept whispering more in the stillness. The way you leaned closer without even realizing.

“I think,” You said, barely louder than a breath, “I might need some more practice.”

Mattheo grinned, brushing his nose against yours, “Good thing we’ve got time, then.”

And he kissed you again—just once more, until you asked him for more—like you were the only thing that had ever made his heart beat like that.

***

The morning sun poured lazily through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, casting golden light over half-finished bowls of oatmeal and drifting owl feathers.

You slid into your usual spot at the Slytherin table beside Mattheo, nudging his side lightly with your shoulder, “Good morning, Matty.”

His lips quirked up immediately, voice still raspy with sleep, “Good morning, baby.”

A chorus of greetings chimed around the table.

“Hi, (Y/N),” Theodore greeted, already mid-sip of pumpkin juice.

“Morning,” Lorenzo added with a grin, elbow-deep in toast and marmalade.

Draco gave you a nod, lifting his chin. “(Y/N).”

You smiled sweetly. “Hi, Theodore, Lorenzo, Draco.”

Mattheo tried to hide the way he preened, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. His hand casually slid onto your thigh under the table, his thumb brushing tiny circles there. You weren’t one for PDA-heavy nicknames in front of the boys, so the fact that he got a "Matty" while everyone else got their usual names? That was better than syrup on pancakes. And he was smug about it.

“What are you guys talking about?” You asked, pouring yourself some tea.

“We’re just messing with Draco,” Lorenzo said with a snort, “Apparently Pansy invited him to go flower picking in the Far East Forest.”

Your eyes lit up, “That sounds like fun!”

The table went silent for a moment—and then all three boys burst into laughter.

“You’re so precious,” Lorenzo wailed, wiping a tear.

Theodore leaned in, “Oh, it is fun. Just not in the way you’re thinking.”

Your brows furrowed, “Huh?”

Mattheo snorted, clearly amused, “Flower picking in the East Forest is a very hands-on activity, sunshine.”

Draco looked smug, “It's basically a date with, uh, extra-curriculars.”

You gasped, “Ew! Draco!”

Mattheo leaned closer to you with a smirk, his voice dropping suggestively, “If you’re that interested, I could take you flower picking sometime…”

Your head whipped toward him, scandalized, "There’s a whole brood of sweet little ducklings that nest there! Don’t you dare snatch their innocence!”

The boys lost it.

Draco buried his face in his hands, laughing helplessly, “You sound like a disappointed forest fairy.”

“I am!” You declared, scandalized, “Honestly, I hope that every time you try to do anything with Pansy out there, you open your eyes and see a baby duckling staring right at your soul. Judging you. Silently.”

Lorenzo practically choked on his juice, “Even her threats are innocent!”

Mattheo couldn’t stop grinning. He looked at you like you’d personally hung the moon, brushing his knuckles against your cheek affectionately.

Just as the laughter around the table began to settle, a familiar voice called out from the entrance of the Great Hall.

“(Y/N)! Come on, we’re gonna be late!”

You turned to see Evangeline waving you over, with Lila and Imari flanking her, each holding an enchanted picnic basket floating obediently beside them.

Mattheo let out a quiet groan beside you, letting his head drop gently onto your shoulder. “Where are you going? It’s not even time for class yet. It’s so early…”

You giggled, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “I know, but we haven’t played with the kittens in days thanks to that Charms essay. I promised the girls we’d have breakfast outside with them.”

He sighed like it was the worst tragedy known to man, looking up at you with tired eyes and a pout. “So you're ditching me... for a bunch of furballs.”

“They’re our furballs,” you said with a soft smile, standing and brushing off your skirt.

Mattheo looked up at you—his hair a mess, his expression still sleepy, but his eyes so warm and full of something you couldn’t name. You leaned down and pressed a featherlight kiss to his cheek. It was barely anything, just a brush of your lips, but it had heat blooming across your cheeks.

“Bye,” You said quickly, “Save me a seat in Charms?”

He nodded, watching you trot off toward your friends with a smile so dazed it made him look a little lovesick.

As soon as you were out of earshot, Theo let out a low whistle, “Mate. You’re gone.”

Lorenzo leaned in with a grin, “Did you just blush? Over a cheek kiss?”

Draco raised a brow, amused, “You’ve had girls snog you senseless behind greenhouses. 'The Hufflepuff Sweetheart' kisses you on the cheek and you look like you're ready to write her a sonnet.”

Mattheo blinked slowly, still smiling like a right fool, “It was a very good kiss.”

Draco smirked, “She barely touched you and you look like you’ve been hit with a Confundus charm.”

None of them noticed the two girls lingering near the entrance—eyes narrowed, arms crossed—who’d heard every single word.

***

You weren’t supposed to hear them.

Their voices were just a low hum at first—giggling, whispering—coming from around the corner as you walked the quiet corridor. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop. You weren’t looking for trouble.

But the words found you anyway.

“Mattheo Riddle? Merlin, he’s such a fuckboy,” One of the girls said, her voice dripping with judgment, “He’s probably seen more girls naked than he can remember. And now he’s with her? Sweet, innocent little thing? She doesn’t stand a chance. I mean, how could someone like her—so sweet, so innocent—keep up with him?”

Another girl snickered, her tone mocking. “It's probably just a corruption kink. He’ll get bored as soon as he realizes she can’t give him what he really wants.”

You paused mid-step, your heart sinking into your stomach. The words struck you harder than you could have imagined.

“She doesn’t have what it takes, though. Look at her—so naive. You think she even knows what to do with a guy like that?” One of them continued, “You really think she knows how to keep someone like him satisfied?” The rest of their words faded, but they’d already done their damage. The words had been carved straight through your chest.

You hadn’t meant to listen. But now you couldn’t unhear it.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you could feel the sting of tears burning behind your eyes, the cruel weight of their words crushing your chest.

You wanted to shake it off. You wanted to tell yourself it didn’t matter. But their voices stuck to your skin like smoke. You weren’t enough. You never would be.

You felt stupid.

You’d been so blind to think someone like Mattheo, with all his past, could ever truly want someone like you. You weren’t like the other girls. You were soft, innocent—too innocent, it seemed. You knew it, deep down, but hearing them confirm your worst fear was unbearable.

You didn’t even know how you managed to make it to your dorm. Everything blurred—walls, portraits, passing students—until finally you reached your bed and collapsed onto it, curling in on yourself like you could disappear. The tears came hard and fast, soaking into your pillow no matter how tightly you shut your eyes.

You couldn’t shake the image of Mattheo and his past. Of all the things he’d done, of all the girls who had been in his life. And here you were—so different from them. You were certain he deserved someone who could keep up with him, someone more experienced, more capable of handling whatever it was that he needed.

What if Mattheo needed someone more experienced—someone who could match the fire in his veins, not melt under it?

Could he really be happy with someone like you?

The ache in your chest tightened. You tried to brush it off, to convince yourself it didn’t matter, that Mattheo wouldn’t care what those girls said. But the words kept echoing, louder with every breath: He’ll get bored. She’s not enough. She can’t keep up.

You’d always known you were different than the girls he'd usually chased. You thought he liked that about you. But… maybe you’d been delusional to think he could feel the same way. Really feel it.

The sadness settled over you like fog—thick, inescapable. You tried to reason with yourself, tried to dismiss the ache as insecurity, paranoia, nothing real. He told you he didn’t mind. He’d said it plainly, truthfully—Veritaserum coursing through his veins, no way to lie. You could take all the time you needed. He liked you, chose you, in spite of your hesitation.

And still, the doubt crept in.

Maybe he had meant it at the time.

But maybe he’d change his mind.

Maybe one day he’d wake up and realize what he was missing. Maybe he’d grow tired of your softness, your innocence, your quiet kind of love.

The ache deepened, dull and steady, like something inside you had cracked and wasn’t going to heal quickly. You curled tighter under the blanket, trying to shut it all out—the voices, the doubt, the image of Mattheo with someone who could give him more than you ever could.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

You told yourself to stop.

But the feeling wouldn’t leave.

***

The next morning, when Mattheo met you in the corridor, he noticed it instantly.

There was a weariness in your eyes that hadn’t been there before—an invisible weight pressing down on your shoulders. The usual lightness in your step, the spark in your smile, your warmth—all dimmed, like someone had drawn a curtain over you overnight.

“Hey,” He said softly, tilting his head to meet your gaze, “You okay?”

You forced a smile, but it felt brittle—like glass about to crack. “Didn’t sleep well,” You murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear as you looked anywhere but at him. The floor suddenly seemed very interesting.

Mattheo’s brows pulled together. He didn’t press, not yet, but the shift in your energy felt like a punch to the ribs. You were always open with him. Bright, effervescent—sunlight in human form. Seeing you closed off like this, hiding behind half-smiles and lowered eyes, made something twist deep in his chest.

He leaned in for your usual morning kiss—your quiet tradition, simple and grounding. Mattheo loved giving affection, and you adored receiving it, but he’d always let you close the gap. Let you decide. Whether it was a quick kiss, a lingering one, or just a soft touch on the cheek—he followed your lead, always careful not to push your boundaries.

It was something that had always made your heart flutter. His patience. His gentleness with you.

But this morning, all you could think about was Fifth Year—when he’d grabbed the girl he was dating at the time and snogged her senseless in front of half the Great Hall. No hesitation. No care for who was watching. His hand had been tangled in her hair, the other gripping her waist like he needed her closer, and when she’d giggled against his mouth, clinging to him like he was gravity itself, he’d laughed—carefree, cocky, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It had been effortless for him then. Confident. Public.

Your heart seized.

How much did he have to restrain himself now? How many times had he accepted your fleeting pecks, when he might have wanted more? How often had he pretended it was enough?

A wave of guilt washed over you. You wanted to reach out, to grab him by the tie and kiss him breathless. Maybe then the whispers wouldn’t matter. Maybe then he wouldn’t get bored. Wouldn’t leave.

But even with that desperate thought flickering in your mind, your body didn’t move. There was ice in your veins. Fear anchoring your limbs. So instead, you leaned up just enough to brush your lips against his, featherlight. Barely there.

Mattheo froze.

You always smiled after your kisses—grinned and scrunched your nose, sometimes added a ridiculous muah sound that made him roll his eyes but secretly love you more. But now…

Now, you didn’t even look at him.

“Sunshine,” he said gently, “are you sure you’re okay?”

You sighed, and this time the smile didn’t even try to reach your eyes. “Just feeling… tired,” you murmured, the words barely above a whisper.

He didn’t believe you. Not for a second.

***

The next few days felt like a slow drift—like two ships caught in different tides.

You weren’t as quick to meet him between classes anymore, often ducking into the crowd or lingering behind with classmates until he was gone. You still spoke when you ran into him, but only when he spoke first. Your voice lacked its usual lilt, and the pauses between your words were longer. Heavier. When he asked to see you, you hesitated. “I’ve got homework,” you’d murmur, “I think I’m getting sick.” Excuses—flimsy, transparent.

You didn’t even show up for breakfast.

Your absence was glaring, something his friends immediately picked up on.

“Where’s your sweet little princess, Matty?” Theodore teased around a mouthful of toast, “Too busy with the mice and birds baking a pie?”

Mattheo didn’t answer.

Because in all honesty… he didn’t know where you were. Just like he hadn’t known yesterday. You’d slipped through the day like a ghost, nowhere to be found, avoiding every place he’d looked for you.

He’d even sent an owl that morning. A soft, simple note: Missed you at breakfast. Meet me after class? I miss you.

All he got back was a short reply scribbled hastily on parchment: Sorry, slept in. Was up late. Just really tired. Maybe later.

There was no little kiss-mark of your lip gloss. No sweet spritz of your perfume clinging to the paper. Not even a heart at the end of your sentence.

And it hurt him—visibly, deeply. More than he could ever admit.

Mattheo wasn’t stupid. If anything, he was painfully perceptive when it came to you. He noticed the way your eyes didn’t light up when you saw him anymore. The way you flinched—subtly, but undeniably—when he reached for your hand. How your laughter came less often. How your smile no longer reached your eyes.

You were pulling away.

At first, he tried to play it cool. Maybe you were stressed, maybe you just needed space. He’d seen you have bad days before. But the quiet between you kept growing louder, stretching taut with everything unsaid. Every time he reached out, you slipped further from his grasp—like sand slipping through his fingers, no matter how tightly he tried to hold on.

And it scared him.

Because this time… you weren’t just hesitant. You weren’t just unsure, or overwhelmed, or waiting for him to take the lead.

You were running away.

And he didn’t know why.

***

It had been nearly two weeks.

Two weeks of avoiding his eyes, his touch, his voice. Two weeks of skipping dinners and brushing past him in corridors like he was a stranger. Two weeks of burying the ache in your chest and pretending like you didn’t feel the pull of his absence every second of every day.

And now… you were here.

Standing outside the boys’ dorm, your fist hovering just inches from the door.

You hesitated—long enough to wonder if this was a mistake, long enough to feel the lump rise in your throat again—but then you knocked. Once. Twice.

It creaked open immediately.

“Oh—hey,” Theodore said, surprised but smiling, “Uh… Mattheo’s inside.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

Around the room, the other boys lifted their heads. Recognition dawned quickly—followed by an awkward shuffle of movement. They exchanged glances, and then, wordlessly, began to file out.

“We’ll give you two a minute,” Lorenzo said with a wink, nudging Blaise toward the door.

Draco gave you a small, kind smile as he passed, brushing your shoulder gently, “Good to see you again, (Y/N).”

And that made it so much worse.

You swallowed hard. Guilt pooled in your stomach like lead.

When you finally stepped inside, Mattheo was sitting on the edge of his bed, a book abandoned in his lap. His head snapped up the moment he saw you.

“(Y/N),” He breathed, standing quickly, his eyes searching your face, “You—you’re here. Are you okay? Are you finally gonna talk to me?”

He looked so hopeful. So relieved. Like your silence had just been a bad dream he was waking up from.

You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I wanted to talk,” You said softly, “Can we sit?”

He nodded quickly, motioning for you to sit beside him on the bed. You did, folding your hands tightly in your lap.

He sat close—close enough to touch, to reach for you—but you shifted slightly away, just enough for him to notice.

His smile faltered. “(Y/N)…?”

You forced yourself to breathe, to speak the words that had been lodged in your throat for days. To finally speak the words that had been festering inside your chest like poison.

“I think we should break up.”

Silence.

You couldn’t look at him.

It took him a moment to react—like the words had hit, but the meaning hadn’t quite registered yet.

“What?”

Your heart cracked in your chest.

“I don’t think we’re right for each other, Mattheo.”

He flinched—actually flinched—like you’d slapped him, “What are you talking about?”

“I just…” You struggled to keep your voice steady, “I think we’re too different. You and me. It’s not working. I don’t want to waste your time.”

He was staring at you now—like you’d just confessed something absurd, “You don’t want to waste my—(Y/N), what are you saying? You’re everything to me.”

“Mattheo—”

“No.” He stood suddenly, running a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps like the motion might help him make sense of the spiral, “You’re lying. This isn’t you. Just tell me what’s wrong and I’ll fix it. Is it something I did? I can change. I will change. I’ll do anything. Just—don’t do this.”

You stood, too, voice quieter now, “That’s the thing. Even if you change…it wouldn’t make a difference.”

Because I’m the reason everything is falling apart—but you couldn’t say it.

And Mattheo was standing there like the wind had been knocked out of him.

He opened his mouth—but no words came.

So you left.

You turned on your heel, walked out the door, down the stairs—your legs trembling the entire way. You were halfway across the common room before—

“(Y/N)!” His voice tore through the air like lightning.

You froze.

Then you felt it—his hand wrapping around your wrist, desperate and trembling, pulling you gently back around.

His friends were there, scattered around the couches, watching with wide eyes.

“Can you just please tell me what’s going on?” He asked, breathless and hurting, “I’m not mad—I just… I don’t understand. You don’t even look at me anymore, you’re avoiding me, and now this? If you want space, I’ll give you space. If you need time, I’ll wait. Just… please. Tell me the truth. I can’t fix it if I don’t know what I broke.”

You looked up at him then. His eyes were shining, lips parted, pain carved into every inch of his expression.

And it shattered you.

You shook your head slowly, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.

“You didn’t break anything,” You whispered, “But some things just…can’t be fixed.”

And that was all you gave him before you slipped your wrist out of his hold and walked away—this time, for real.

He didn’t chase you again.

Mattheo stood there, unmoving, eyes locked on the spot where you’d stood.

“What the hell was that?” Blaise asked quietly.

Mattheo didn’t respond.

He just stared at the door, still trying to catch his breath.

“We just broke up,” He said hollowly. Then he sank into the nearest armchair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His fingers threaded through his hair, trembling as he blinked rapidly—like the world was spinning too fast, and he couldn’t keep up.

***

It had been nearly a month since the breakup. And every second of it had been hell.

Mattheo wasn’t just off—he was unrecognizable.

He stopped showing up to class unless someone physically dragged him. On the rare occasions he did, he’d sit slouched in the back, hood up, glowering at the floor, snapping at anyone who dared speak to him. He skipped practice. Ignored meals. Picked fights for no reason.

And when Quidditch rolled around? It was brutal.

He played like he had nothing to lose—like every match was a battlefield, every tackle a personal vendetta, every swing of his bat a desperate attempt to release something festering inside. Players left the pitch bruised, limping, bleeding. Referees issued warnings. Professors whispered behind closed doors. Students started walking on eggshells whenever he passed, careful not to catch his eye.

But still… even through all of that, he searched for you.

Every time he walked into a room, his gaze found you. Across the Great Hall, surrounded by your friends. In the courtyard, hunched over your journal. In the corridors, where you kept your head down and your footsteps quick—where you avoided him like it physically hurt to meet his eyes.

Because it did.

Once—just once—you ran into each other between classes.

You turned a corner and there he was.

His steps halted. Your breath caught.

“(Y/N)—” He breathed, his voice low and hopeful, like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming.

But you couldn’t look at him. You ducked your head and brushed past, your heart hammering in your chest.

You kept walking, fast, willing yourself not to cry.

And just before you rounded the corner, you paused.

Just for a second.

You glanced back, hoping—aching—for even the smallest sign that he was looking back.

Mattheo didn’t see your heartbroken gaze.

But Evangeline certainly did.

***

“This is ridiculous.” Theo muttered one night, slamming his book shut.

Blaise didn't look up from his game of exploding snap with Enzo, “He didn’t even show up to practice today.”

“He was out back,” Enzo said quietly, “Feeding her cats at the shelter again."

The tension in the Slytherin common room was already thick when the door opened and four girls stepped inside.

Evangeline, Lila, Daisy, and Imari strode in with a kind of urgent determination that made every conversation falter mid-sentence. Heads turned. Even Draco glanced up from where he sat lounging by the fireplace.

When him and the others saw the girls heading straight for them, their expressions shifted from curiosity to mild alarm.

“You lot,” Evangeline said firmly, folding her arms as they approached, “We need to talk.”

“Uh…” Theo blinked, “Hi?”

Lila didn’t waste time, “It’s about (Y/N).”

That got their attention.

Blaise sighed and put down the Exploding Snap cards.

“She’s not eating,” Daisy said quietly, “I’ve been sitting with her at meals, and she hardly touches anything. She’s barely there. Her eyes are dead, and I know she’s been crying herself to sleep every night. I can't watch it anymore."

Imari added sharply, “And she won’t tell us what happened. All we know is that she broke up with Mattheo, and ever since then, it’s like we’re living with a ghost.”

The boys exchanged glances—uneasy, guilt-ridden glances.

“Well,” Theodore exhaled, running a hand through his curls, “if it makes you feel any better, Mattheo’s not exactly thriving either.”

Draco snorted, “Thriving? He’s on the verge of a full mental collapse.”

“He’s stopped going to class,” Blaise muttered, “He’s smoking like a chimney again. Got detention twice last week for fighting.”

Lorenzo chimed in, “He damn near took someone’s head off at Quidditch. We’re this close to him being benched for the rest of the season—or expelled.”

Evangeline’s expression softened slightly, “So… they’re both miserable.”

“Clearly,” Theo muttered, leaning against the arm of the couch, “But what are we supposed to do about it?”

That’s when Imari stepped forward, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She fixed the boys with a hard look, “You all know Mattheo better than anyone. What the hell is he doing to fix this?”

Theo’s eyebrows shot up, “Why does Mattheo have to fix anything? (Y/N) dumped him out of nowhere and shattered his heart! Some Hufflepuff sweetheart she turned out to be!”

Lila stepped forward defensively, “She must’ve had a good reason! Mattheo must’ve done something—he’s obviously in the wrong!”

“You shut your Hufflepuff mouth,” Draco snapped, standing up as the tension in the room heightened.

“Enough,” Evangeline snapped, eyes flashing, “This isn’t about blame. We’re not here to fight—we’re here to help them. Or did you all miss the part where they’re both completely wrecked without each other?”

Theo blinked, “…Damn. I like an assertive woman.”

Evangeline didn’t even look at him, instead turning her attention back to the boys, "We need to help them. They’re both falling apart, and if we don’t do something now, it’s only going to get worse."

Imari glanced at the guys, her eyes narrowing as she thought for a moment. Then, a smirk tugged at her lips. She stood up straight, crossing her arms as she looked them over, "I’ve got an idea."

***

It was just past sunset when you heard a stampede of frantic footsteps charging up the stairs to your dorm room. You barely stirred from bed, buried deep in a cocoon of blankets and silence.

Then the door burst open.

“Does anyone have gauze? Or a healing salve? Lila, where’s the bloody first aid kit?!”

The chaos jolted you upright.

Imari was digging through drawers like her life depended on it. Daisy was pacing, hair a mess, muttering under her breath. Lila had inexplicably opened your wardrobe and was rifling through your jumpers. Evangeline was trying—and failing—to look composed.

You blinked, “What’s going on?”

“We found a baby owl,” Daisy rushed out, breathless, scrambling to your bedside, “Abandoned on the Astronomy Tower. Its wing’s all bent—it can’t fly.”

“—and it was crying,” Lila added dramatically, dabbing at imaginary tears, “Little squeaky hoots, like it was calling for help.”

Your heart lurched, “Wait—what? Is it still up there?”

“Yeah, we didn’t want to risk hurting it more by moving it,” Imari said, voice sharp with urgency, “We were grabbing supplies, but honestly, you’re the best with animals, (Y/N). Could you go? Please?”

You were already tossing off your blanket, “Of course. Where?”

“Astronomy Tower,” Evangeline said, “By the west-facing window.”

“We’ll be right behind you with the kit,” Lila added, pushing the nearly empty first aid box into Imari’s arms.

“Go on,” Daisy said gently, “Poor thing’s probably terrified.”

Without another word, you slipped on your shoes and bolted for the door.

The second you were gone, the girls sagged in relief.

“We’ve been trying to get her out of bed for weeks and all it took was a fake injured animal?” Lila muttered.

“She’s too pure for this world,” Daisy sighed.

“I love her for it,” Evangeline said softly.

“Right?” Imari smirked, “Now we just need the guys to hold up their end of the bargain.”

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dorm…

“Oi, Mattheo,” Blaise called casually, leaning against the doorframe, “Fancy a smoke?”

Mattheo didn’t even glance up. He was slouched in his desk chair, hood up, fingers twitching idly. But after a pause, he sighed and stood, “Sure.”

They walked in silence, the kind that made everything feel heavier. No jokes. No jabs. Just thick, uncomfortable quiet.

Halfway to the courtyard, Theo suddenly froze, smacking his pockets, “Shit.”

Mattheo frowned, “What?”

“My lighter. Left it in the dorm.”

Mattheo narrowed his eyes, “Use your wand?”

Theo blinked, “Uh… right. That would make sense.”

Mattheo stared at him.

Draco stepped in, cool as ever, “Ignore him. Dropped on his head too many times as a child. Just head up to the Astronomy Tower—we’ll catch up.”

Mattheo’s expression tightened, “Why the Astronomy Tower?”

“Best view. Less wind. Good vibes,” Blaise said, waving him off, “Go on. We’ll be right there.”

Mattheo looked at them for a long second. Suspicious. Then he turned and headed toward the tower alone.

As soon as he was gone, the boys broke formation.

“Do you think he’s going to punch someone if this goes wrong?” Lorenzo asked.

“Definitely,” Draco muttered, “I’m blaming that halfwit Imari. This plan is ridiculous.”

“I don’t know,” Theo said thoughtfully, “Evangeline seems like she knows what she’s doing.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, “Theo’s kink is women telling him he’s stupid.”

Theo shrugged, “Not denying it.”

***

You ran up the stairs to the Astronomy Tower, lungs burning, trying to quiet your breathing so you could listen for the pained hoots of an injured owl.

But then you saw him.

“Mattheo?” You breathed, freezing in the doorway.

He leaned against the far wall, bathed in the fading light of sunset, his posture tense, eyes sharp with disbelief, “What are you doing here?”

“I—I didn’t know you’d be—”

The door slammed shut behind you with a heavy clang.

You both spun around, “What the hell?!”

“YOU’RE WELCOME!” Came Theo’s smug voice, muffled through the thick wood, “Not unlocking this ‘til you two sort your shit out!”

“DON’T BOTHER SCREAMING!” Imari added cheerfully, “It’s soundproofed!”

Mattheo stormed to the door, yanking at the handle and pounding his fist against the wood, “This isn’t fucking funny, Theo! Open the door!”

You stood frozen, caught between panic and the overwhelming urge to melt into the floor.

“Mattheo—”

“Honestly, what the fuck were they thinking?” He snapped, pacing now, furious, “Let’s just trap us in a room together, yeah? Brilliant. Force her to spend time with the monster she couldn’t wait to get away from.”

Your chest clenched, “You’re not a monster.”

He laughed bitterly, “Right. That’s why you couldn’t even look at me when you ended things.”

You flinched.

“You didn’t even say anything real,” He continued, voice rising, “Just some vague crap about how we weren’t compatible—like that wasn’t a complete lie.”

You stared at the floor, throat tight, “It wasn’t about you, Mattheo.”

“Oh, no?” His voice cracked, “Could’ve fooled me.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, “It wasn’t you. It’s me, okay?!”

He froze, “What?”

You couldn’t stop the words now, even as your voice wavered, “It was me. I’m the problem. I can’t give you what you need. I’m inexperienced and clumsy and it was only a matter of time before you realized you deserved better—someone who could give you the kind of relationship you actually want.”

He looked like you’d just struck him.

“I didn’t want it to get to my head,” You whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks, “But I couldn’t stop thinking about how I wasn’t making you as happy as you made me. I wasn’t enough. And every time I saw you, it hurt… and I just didn’t want it to hurt anymore.”

“(Y/N)…” He breathed, shaking his head, “I told you so many times. I promised you—we wouldn’t go faster than what you wanted. What you needed.”

“But what about your needs?” You cried, voice cracking, “Why should you have to restrain yourself and ignore what you want just because I’m too scared to give it? What makes me worth that sacrifice?”

Mattheo was stunned silent.

Then, in the quiet, his voice broke through like a prayer, “Because I’m in love with you, (Y/N).”

You froze.

“I love you for who you are. There isn’t another girl in this bloody castle—or the world—who’s as kind and selfless as you. I told you before—I’ve never felt like this with anyone else. And I don’t want to. I’m not going anywhere.”

He stepped closer, voice softer but no less intense.

“I don’t love you in spite of your caution—I love you because of it. Because every time you trust me, even just a little, I know I’m getting a part of you no one else has. That means something to me. That connects me to you in a way I’ve never felt with anyone else.”

His eyes searched yours, earnest and unwavering.

“So if you want to take things slow? That’s fine. If you want to join a convent and die a virgin—I’ll turn into a priest.”

That startled a teary laugh out of you.

“All I need is you, (Y/N). In whatever way you can give me.”

And then, in a blur of movement, he crossed the room and wrapped you in his arms so tightly it knocked the air from your lungs.

“You stupid, beautiful idiot,” He whispered into your hair, voice shaking, “You think I’d ever stop loving you?”

You sobbed into his chest, gripping the back of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“I don’t care what anyone says,” He murmured, “I don’t care if you’re scared, or shy, or awkward—I. Don’t. Care. You’re mine, (Y/N). That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“I just didn’t want to disappoint you.” You hiccuped.

“You couldn’t,” He said fiercely, “You never could.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face—his eyes were glassy, rimmed red, but so, so soft.

He cupped your cheek, kissed your forehead. Then your temple. Your cheek. Every inch he could reach without letting go.

“I love you,” He whispered, like a vow, “And I’m gonna keep loving you—no matter how long it takes you to believe me.”

“I—I love you too,” you whispered back, trembling.

And this time, you kissed him first—wrapping your arms around his neck and molding your lips to his, harder than ever before. Not because you felt like you had to, but because you missed him.

You missed him so much.

The stars above bore witness—not to an ending, but a return.

***

Bonus:

You stirred your cup of hot cocoa lazily, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you watched both groups of your friends awkwardly glance at one another. The kitchens were warm and buzzing with laughter, but a hint of tension from earlier still lingered in the air.

“Unbelievable,” You said, looking more upset than you were considering your eyes were still red and your cheeks were still blotchy, “Lying about a poor injured baby animal like that.”

Lila, ever the spokesperson, threw her hands up with an exasperated groan, “We’re sorry, (Y/N). But you were so depressed! It was horrible. We didn’t know what else to do.”

You raised a brow, grin deepening, “So you told the depressed girl to go to the only place in the castle with a balcony?”

The room went dead silent. Everyone exchanged panicked looks as the weight of that unintended implication sunk in.

Then—your laughter broke the silence, bright and sudden, echoing off the stone walls. The sound was so unexpected that they all visibly relaxed, joining in with nervous chuckles.

Mattheo, seated beside you, leaned in and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his voice quiet and steady. “Don’t talk like that,” he murmured, his lips brushing your skin, “I don’t like hearing it.”

You blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the tenderness in his tone. His gaze was soft but serious, full of something fiercely protective.

A quiet warmth spread in your chest, and you gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Okay,” You whispered, your smile softer now.

Across the table, Theo let out an exaggerated groan, “And now we have the pleasure of witnessing the tooth-rotting fluff. Again.”

“They’re adorable. Stop being mean,” Evangeline shot back, smacking him lightly on the shoulder.

Theo perked up, undeterred, “Maybe I wouldn’t be so mean if I had some teeth-rotting sugar of my own.”

Evangeline looked genuinely disturbed, “I’d rather third-wheel their disgustingly cheesy romance, thanks.”

“Alright, alright,” Daisy cut in, raising her mug in a faux-toasting motion, “How about we all agree to be mildly happy for them and get back to celebrating the fact that they’re no longer moody shells of human beings.”

“Agreed,” Blaise added, lifting his own cup with mock solemnity, “For the greater good of us all.”

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

[moonstruckme]

hi mae! i have an idea for emt!marauders. i’m imagining something traumatic happens to the reader and it triggers panic attacks that cause them to scratch themselves. the marauders help them (maybe they have to restrain them so they can’t hurt themselves) and explain to the reader why it’s happening.

Thanks for requesting!

cw: minor car wreck, panic attack, potential self-harm triggers because reader scratches herself while panicking

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

Your fingers are tingling. You can’t quite feel the tips. Tears prick your eyes, multicolored lights blurring and smearing across your vision as you sit down on the gravel outside your car door. 

You try to breathe as the sound of the siren cuts off, leaving only your heartbeat. 

“Hey, everything alright there?” 

The voice sounds like it comes from far away, but when you look up there’s a man right in front of you. He’s striking, dark hair and fair skin silhouetted by blue ambulance lights. When he slows his footsteps and squats in front of you, you can see an inky moon peeking from the edge of his uniform sleeve. 

“I’m Sirius,” he says, pretty teeth showing as he flashes you a smile, “I’m with NHS. Having any problems here?” 

“I’m—” You try to get the breath to tell him. 

“Hey, no, no,” Sirius tuts at you. Suddenly your hands are in his grasp, the inside of your arm stinging. “What’re you doing that for, darling? Don’t hurt yourself.” 

You look down, seeing through unshed tears the angry lines you’ve scratched into your own skin. You didn’t even register you were doing it. 

“What’s the matter? Are we having some trouble breathing?” Sirius puts two fingers to your pulse, keeping your hands held in his. “Are you in pain?” 

You don’t know how to answer all of his questions at once. You feel hardly in this world. The numbness is spreading up the lengths of your fingers, eating you away to nothing. 

“I’m—having a panic attack,” you manage. 

“Okay.” Sirius nods like this doesn’t surprise him. His eyes are large and liquid in the darkness. “Let’s go sit in the grass, okay? Remus,” he calls, helping you stand. Another paramedic looks over, and Sirius juts his chin to where you’re going. 

Time moves like a scratched film, like sludge in some places and speedy in others. The grass is still warm from the sun when it flattens beneath you. 

“There you go, doll. We’re going to make sure you’re okay, yeah? You don’t need to worry.” Sirius is rubbing the inside of your wrist, tingles emanating from his touch. He steers clear of the damage you did yourself further down. “This is my mate Remus, he’s just going to get your vitals to make sure everything’s working properly.” 

You don’t process what he’s said until a large boot lands on the grass in front of you. You startle, craning your neck to look up at the man Sirius had called to earlier. 

“Easy.” Sirius puts a hand behind your back to prevent you tipping over. “I know he’s very tall, but he’s really not as scary as he seems. Just don’t ask him how the weather is up there.” 

“Sirius,” Remus mutters warningly, though his expression when he crouches in front of you is gentle. “Hi, love. I’m going to take your temperature, is that alright?” 

You shake your head. He hesitates, already taking a thermometer out of his bag. 

“It’s a panic attack,” you insist. 

“Hey, we believe you,” Sirius promises. He catches your gaze and holds fast. “Remus is just making sure that there’s nothing else going on. But you and I are going to breathe, okay?” 

You suck in a breath, shaky. It doesn’t get far. “Okay.” 

“Thank you,” says Remus, seeming genuine. “Alright, let me know if I’m bothering you. We’re not in any rush. We can pause any time you need.” 

As you nod a tear falls from your eye, leaving a blazing hot trail down your cheek. Sirius squeezes your hands to recapture your attention. 

“I know it’s scary,” he says, “but we’re here to help you. We’re going to breathe in for four, hold for four, and then breathe out for the same, alright, lovely? Four, four, four. Can you do that for me?” 

“I—” 

“You can. You’ve got this, it’s alright. In for four now, here we go…” 

Sirius doesn’t make you count. It’s impossible for most of it anyways; he holds up four fingers for you to see as you inhale and hold, and then counts out loud for the both of you on the exhale. Remus’ movements fade into your periphery. Occasionally he’ll touch you gently to signal that he’s going to do something, or Sirius will give you a small nudge when Remus needs your hand, but it’s not really enough to distract you. Sirius never breaks pace. 

“There we are, perfect,” he says after a while, voice slow and sure. “You’re so good at this, doll, you’re a natural. Is that a bit easier now?” 

You nod, exhaling. Your face has become tacky with tears. “Yeah.” 

“You sound much better,” Remus encourages as he affixes the plasticy clamp over your finger again. You’re all quiet while numbers fluctuate on a device in his hand. 

Remus catches you looking to where your car and another are parked on the side of the road. 

“Everything’s alright,” he reassures you. You meet his eyes. There are freckles you hadn’t noticed before scattered across his nose. “The other driver seems fine, our partner is just checking her over to be safe. Nobody was hurt.” 

Sirius hums. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.” He turns over the hand still in his, inspecting the scratches in your arm. “What’s the deal with this, hm? What happened?” 

Your shoulders gravitate inwards. “I think it just helps distract me.” 

“Well, I can understand that,” he tsks, “but there are better ways.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” you mumble, self-conscious. 

“Nobody’s upset with you, love,” Remus says with a pointed look to Sirius. “We’re just glad you didn’t hurt yourself worse.” 

A low whistle startles the both of you. Sirius sets a hand on your shoulder when you jolt, you and Remus turning to find a third paramedic standing behind you. 

“What happened here?” he asks, oblivious to your fright, eyes on your arm as he stoops to see better. “That doesn’t look like it was done by a car.” 

“It wasn’t,” Sirius agrees. “Grab us a wipe, will you?” 

“This is James,” Remus says to you, taking pity on your disoriented expression. Having so many attractive men moving around you and paying you attention is making your head spin in a different way than it had been. Sirius’ hand is still on your shoulder. 

“I am James,” James agrees. He lets his bag drop from his shoulder, sitting criss-cross applesauce on the grass next to you as he begins to rummage through it. “Sorry, lovely, I just got too distracted by your arm for manners. Did you run across a mean cat after your car wreck? Because that is shit luck.” 

“I’m the mean cat,” you admit, mumbly. 

Sirius tuts, rubbing his thumb over your skin familiarly. “Don’t talk about yourself like that, beautiful. You’re a delight.” 

You huff a weak laugh. He grins, his eyes softening. 

“She had a bit of a panic,” Remus tells James quietly, “and hurt herself by accident.” 

James makes a rather adorable frowny face. “I’m sorry. Way to add insult to injury, eh? It’s—oh, you’re alright. It’s okay.” 

James’ face had distracted you from his hands, so the sting of antiseptic comes as a surprise. He grabs your wrist when you flinch, voice softening with apology. Remus makes a low pitying sound. 

“Sorry,” you laugh wetly. “I wasn’t expecting it.” 

James sends you a sheepish smile. “That’s my bad, I should’ve warned you.” 

“Please don’t cry again,” Sirius pleads. “I think we’ve had enough of that, haven’t we? You’ll dehydrate yourself.” 

You laugh again at the alarm in his voice, wiping a knuckle under your lashes. “It stings,” you defend yourself. 

“It’s James that’s the problem, then?” he asks. “I’ll send him away, doll, just say the word. I’ll hit him for you if you want.” 

James’ eyes flit up from his task like this is a threat Sirius might hold to. 

“Alright, give her a bit of breathing room.” Remus gives Sirius’ shoulder a light nudge, encouraging him back from where he’s leaned in close to you. “She’s allowed to cry, Sirius, Christ.” 

“She might be allowed to, but I don’t have to allow it.”

[noonecareslol]

࣪˖ ִ ೀ 𝐀 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

Hwang In-ho x Fem! Reader

Summary: When the games aren’t in session, and In-ho is lonely, he finds himself in the first row at the ballet. Watching you. Suddenly he's falling in love.

TW: Channeling my love for older men. Injury. Reader lowkey gets sad for a sec. Age gap (reader is 25 In-ho is 49). Just FLUFF! In-ho learning how to love someone again. Quite literally head over heels for you. Allusions to masturbation. Size kink if you squint.

WC! 5k Part 2! -> here!

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It is quite obvious that In-ho is an old soul.

He enjoys old films, old clothing, old theatre, and old music. The little jazz set that plays, “Fly Me To The Moon” is a cherished possession of his, along with his vintage whiskey decanter.

He wears a musky cologne he’d been gifted by his late wife, and his closet is lined with leather dress shoes and perfectly pressed slacks. His dimly lit room on the island is vastly similar to the one in his Seoul apartment, everything perfectly neat and clean.

Yes, In-ho is an old soul.

And in between the games, when he would return to Seoul, he’d find himself bored. Especially during the night. He’d miss his wife, the whispered hope of a promised future.

Often he would distract himself by putting his whiskey decanter to good use, pouring the aged whiskey into his glass over and over again. He would linger by his shelf full of movies he’d seen hundreds of times, tracing his fingers along the cases until he landed on a title. A small smile would play on his lips before popping it into the DVD player and taking a seat next to his beloved cat.

He would find himself mumbling the lines as the actors spoke them on screen, his hand absentmindedly petting his cat. When the movie is over, and the quiet resumes, he’d move to his bedroom.

He’d ensure his cat followed before changing into his expensive pajamas and climbing into the king-sized bed. His cat would join him and he would drift to sleep, dreaming of, well, nothing.

He would close his eyes and wake up without any dream having occupied his mind.

This routine became comfortable. Each night he would get home from whatever he’d been doing before, drink, watch a movie, play with his cat, and sleep without any dreams.

But this night, this night was different.

It was a cold night. And all In-ho wanted to do was drown in glasses of whiskey and watch “Dial ‘M’ For Murder” with his cat.

But as he walked past a line of people waiting to enter a theatre, a poster caught his attention. He blinked once, twice, before walking toward the lit-up frame.

A strikingly beautiful ballerina caught his attention first. She held her arms elegantly above her head, her leg pointed behind her, her other leg resting on pointe as she looked to the side. She was breathtaking.

The Seoul Ballet Company Presents: Swan Lake

Opening Night November 1st

Suddenly the thought of whiskey and Alfred Hitchcock left his mind as he joined the line. I mean, who would miss out on opening night?

Especially when the lead was so pretty.

“We have one ticket left in the front row.” The woman behind the ticket booth clicked her pen unenthusiastically as she watched In-ho pull his leather vintage wallet out of his coat pocket.

A grin rested plainly on his lips as he fiddled with his cash, “That’s perfect. How much?”

The woman slowly turned and punched a few numbers into her register before turning back to him, “80,000 won.” She clicked her pen again.

“Do you have change for 100,000?” He held the two 50,000 won in front of him, watching as she stared at him blankly.

She blinked once before snatching the bills from his hands, “Nope!” In-ho sighed. For someone so slow she took those bills awfully fast.

In-ho drew his lips into a thin line before taking the ticket and placing it in his wallet, “Thanks.”

“Yeah enjoy the show or, like, whatever.” The woman took out her phone and began to text as he walked away, obviously not giving a shit about her job.

But as In-ho walked through the double doors, his breath caught in his throat. The theatre certainly did not disappoint his love for old architecture.

The large barrel vaulted ceilings were beautifully ornamented and adorned with intricately painted designs. Gorgeous crown molding edged the ceiling and stretched to the floor. And a large crystal chandelier rested as the centerpiece, warmly lit and inviting.

In-ho took his seat, a smile evident on his lips as he sighed contently. However, he hoped his cat wasn’t too worried about his whereabouts. Maybe she could come along next time? She is a very sophisticated cat, after all.

As the chandelier and house lights began to dim, the crowd became quiet with anticipation and excitement. And it would be dishonest to say that In-ho wasn’t a little excited as well.

He looked to his left at the woman sitting next to him. She was a small elderly lady with a pair of glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Her eyes were filled with excitement as she scanned through the pamphlet, a wide smile plastered on her face.

She wore a vintage necklace around her neck, layered with pearls. In-ho smiled, it was nice to see someone who also had a knack for old taste.

The soft notes of Swan Lake began to play, and In-ho watched as the curtains opened, revealing the beautifully decorated stage. Large trees with hanging vines arched over the set, greenery and flowers blending into the painted backdrop.

A foggy mist flooded the stage as dancers began to move elegantly across. But the lead had yet to make an appearance.

In-ho watched rather impatiently, and failed to notice the woman next to him lean in, “Right now, the prince is going hunting with his crossbow. But he will find that the white swan has turned into a beautiful woman, and has fallen under a curse.” The old woman pointed slightly to the prince, her voice whispering just loud enough for him to hear.

His eyes trained on the prince as he danced with his crossbow, “Thank you. I must look confused.”

The old lady gave a small laugh, “I used to dance for this company, i’ll never miss an opportunity to explain the ballet.”

In-ho watches as she subtly mimics the prince's moves, her hands moving elegantly in front of her. Her eyes were closed, the sound of the music bringing emotion to her face.

Her eyes flick open as the music changes softly, “Look.” Her eyes lighting up as she nods slightly to the stage.

In-ho watches as you finally take the stage, fluttering your feet as you move elegantly toward the prince. Your hands held high above your head, moving gracefully as you bourrée.

He watched as your back muscles contracted, moving as if you had wings. His eyes trained down to your legs and to your pointe shoes, watching as you danced with ease.

Your white feathered skirt moved along with you, the bodice elegantly framing you perfectly. The feathered piece in your hair catches In-ho’s attention, causing him to study your face.

That poster was nothing compared to your beauty.

You held a soft look, but In-ho didn’t fail to notice the focus that caused your eyebrows to furrow slightly. Your movements were soft and graceful, your demeanor innocent and melancholic.

You were perfect as the white swan.

You were perfect.

He wondered if you were just as innocent as you portray yourself to be, “God, she’s beautiful.”

The elderly woman hummed in agreement as she watched In-ho’s gaze remain sharp on the white swan, an all-knowing smile spread across her lips.

As the ballet continued it seemed that the rest of the audience had disappeared. In-ho felt as if you were only dancing for him. No one else.

He swore you looked at him a few times, him being the focus point of your graceful turns.

And when you transitioned into the black swan, all thoughts in In-ho’s head became dark.

Oh, how he liked this side of you.

Your movements were sharp, determined, and seductive. And he found himself adjusting in his seat as his slacks became increasingly tight. You were so close to him. Just a few feet from his touch as you danced on stage. He could take you right now. He could fuck you, make you feel things you’ve never felt before.

And as you leaped on the stage, the white swan jumping to her death, In-ho felt a tear slip from his eye. You were magnificent.

The audience filed out of the theatre, fanning themselves with their pamphlets and discussing the ballet. You had received a standing ovation, and In-ho took pride in being the first one to stand and clap.

He had finally caught your attention. And when you locked eyes with him as you bowed, you felt your brain turn to mush.

He was handsome. Like, extremely handsome.

His face was perfectly chiseled. His eyes crinkled as he flashed a perfect smile, his hair slightly falling in front of his face and covering his dark eyes.

You didn’t blink once as you remained under his gaze, and it wasn’t until another dancer pulled you up that you realized you were bowing for far too long.

You avoided his eye contact as you walked off, embarrassed he had made you turn into putty just by his stare.

And as In-ho exited the theatre, he took his time lingering by the lamp post. He’d secretly hoped to see you leave.

He doesn’t know what he would say if he did see you. Maybe he would compliment you, or ask you a meaningless question. Or maybe, just maybe, he’d push you against the lamppost, and let his desire consume you.

He’d just wait a little bit longer.

10 minutes.

15 minutes.

30 minutes.

The woman from behind the ticket booth locked the door as she brought down the metal gate, “Excuse me, did the woman who danced as the white swan leave yet?”

She turned around smacking her gum, “Yeah. Why?” She sized him up, placing a hand on her hip as she cocked an eyebrow.

In-ho felt his face flush, “I was just going to compliment her.” He put his cold hands in the pockets of his coat, shifting his weight onto his other foot.

“Yeah well,” The woman smacks her gum as she walks up towards In-ho, handing him a flier, “They have open practice every Friday. Tickets are only 10,000 won.”

He took the flier from her hand, folding it and sliding it into his pocket, “Thanks.” She nodded her head and walked past him, slipping into her jacket.

In-ho turned and started his walk to his apartment only a block away. When he arrived, he heard the familiar sound of meowing by his front door.

And as he opened the door, he came face to face with his cat waiting on the couch, “I’m sorry Elisabeth, but I’m too tired for a movie tonight.”

She gave an annoyed meow before reluctantly following him into his room, hopping onto the pillow beside his. In-ho got dressed in his pajamas, ready for another dreamless night as he slipped into the sheets next to Elisabeth.

But this time, it wasn't dreamless.

In fact, he had dreamed a very vivid dream.

He had dreamt of you.

And as In-ho woke up the next morning, his hand immediately went to his nightstand, picking up the flier.

It seems that the pretty ballerina has stolen his heart.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

"Plié! Ron de jambe, retiré! Good!" You held your arms in front of you, your right leg coming up at a bend, "Pas de chat, écarté! Don't rush it, Fiona!"

Your ballet teacher weaved between you and the other students, her tight bun sitting perfectly on her pointed head, "Développé, demi-pointe! No! Not pointe, demi pointe!"

Her thick French accent bellowed throughout the theatre, "Good y/n! Très bien!" A wide smile painted your lips as you continued your dance, your friend Fiona rolling her eyes at your praise. You giggled as you went into second, your arms outstretched to the side.

"Well done! Take a water break and stretch, we'll take five." You brought your hands to your knees, leaning over slightly as you caught your breath.

Fiona dramatically flopped on her back, a hand coming to her forehead as she breathed heavily, "I've died, she's killed me." You tossed her water bottle into her hand with a laugh as you sat next to her, your eyes scanning the theatre.

Familiar faces met your eyes. Elderly couples, former dancers, and little kids with their moms. Oh! And the man who you haven't stopped thinking about.

Wait.

You hit Fiona's shoulder hard, not taking your eyes off him, "Fiona. Fiona, look." She sat up, holding her shoulder as her eyes trailed to where you were subtly pointing.

"Oh, it's the hot dilf." Fiona took a drink from her bottle, watching as In-ho looked around while taking in the architecture.

You slapped her shoulder again, "Shut up! What if he hears you?" You get up from the ground, pulling Fiona up with you and tossing your water bottle back into your bag.

She followed suit, taking one last drink before tossing it in her own, "First off, stop hitting me. It's abuse." You rolled your eyes as you both took your spot by the barre, "Second, he's in the back corner of the theatre, he's not hearing shit. Except for our teacher's constant yelling."

You didn't respond, instead, you continued looking at him. His black turtle neck sweater hugged his biceps perfectly, and you didn't fail to notice his empty finger where a ring would sit.

"Okay! Lets continue! Tendu, plié! Ron de jambe, plié!"

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

It had been two months since In-ho first started spending his Fridays pining over you.

Each Friday, he would come home, change into an outfit he had dry-cleaned and pressed, feed Elisabeth, and head to the Theatre. He would take his spot in the far left corner, and watch as you danced and laughed with your friends.

He found himself looking forward to Fridays. Which is strange, because he's never looked forward to anything before. Well, besides the games. But he had been so focused on you, that he had fallen behind on his work. Something he'd never done before.

You plagued his mind.

He dreams of you. When he's asleep and awake. He'd find himself walking by the Theatre on other days when you were practicing, hoping to see a glimpse of you.

He found himself listening to Etta James and Nat King Cole more often than not. 'A Sunday Kind Of Love' and 'Unforgettable' filing his apartment as he cooked his dinners. 'My Fair Lady' and 'Gone With The Wind' replacing his classic mystery movies.

He even found himself stopping by flower boutiques, smelling the tulips and Orchids. He wonders what your favorite flower is. Perhaps it is Lilies, the flower that represents innocence and purity.

He wondered a lot if you were a virgin. Often imagining the feeling of your body under his large one late at night when he can't sleep, and when his hand finds itself under his pants.

You had him wrapped around your pretty little finger and you didn't even know it.

Vice Versa, you found yourself looking forward to Fridays as well.

It was the only day you could see the stranger who you had been thinking about constantly.

You liked his style, the way he carried himself with a confidence that intimidated you. His large frame towered over everyone, and he stood out from the crowd. He was perfect. It was as if god himself sculpted him with his own hands.

And oh my god.

You were down bad.

Fiona constantly teased you about it. Making fun of how you stopped wearing your loose cover-up, "Im just hot, that's all Fiona. It's warm in here." You lied. And Fiona was obviously aware of that.

You started offering to stay late with your teacher and help clean up, hoping to catch the stranger before he left. But your teacher always insisted you should go home and rest, and who were you to disobey her.

You've always been perfect. At school, at dance, at everything. When auditions came for Swan Lake, there was no question in anyone's mind about who would get the lead.

But since opening night, things have been slightly different. You often got distracted during practice, your eyes always finding the man in the back corner. You started falling out of your turns, forgetting to bring your pointe shoes, and, worse of all, you had been forgetting to point your toes.

And here you were. Walking to the center of the stage, ready to run through your variation in front of everyone. It was an easy variation, but the end was complicated. You had to do several pirouettes, which you have always been good at. But today you decided to test yourself.

You knew your teacher was becoming increasingly disappointed in you, it plagued your every thought. So, as you spun perfectly, you decided to see how many pirouettes you could perform.

17, 18, 19, 20.

Your leg is wobbling, but you choose to ignore it.

21, 22, 23-

You hear Fiona call your name as your foot slips out of pointe, twisting as you fall on top of it, "Oh my god!" The sickening sound of your ankle cracking causes your heart to drop. The stinging feeling of tears replaced by the overwhelming pain that was now shooting up your leg.

Everyone huddles around you as the teacher runs to call an ambulance, but Fiona kneels at your side, "I know this isn't the right time but, the dilf is running over here right now."

You close your eyes, trying to control your rapid breathing. You wished the stage would open around you and swallow you whole, just put you out of your misery.

In-ho jumps with ease onto the stage, his sweater sleeves rolled up to his elbow, "Move." He pushes past the dancers huddling over you and grabs your face.

Your eyes flick open at the feeling of warm hands pressed against your cheeks. Oh my god, he was holding your face. Your heart fluttered but you didn't notice, you were too worried about the fact that your ankle was bent the wrong way.

In-ho's hand softly brushes over your ankle, causing you to wince. At first, he's skeptical about touching you. Was it too fast? Too sudden? Too bold?

But he didn't have time to think it over as he put his strong arms under you, lifting you gently as he stood. Fiona watched with a smirk on her face as she saw shock fill your eyes, his biceps flexing as he pulled you close to his chest.

Without a word, In-ho steps down from the stage and carries you through the exit, "I have an ambulance coming!" Your teacher ran after him yelling, her typically neat bun somewhat loose and frizzy now.

In-ho motions to his pocket and Fiona responds, grabbing his car key and unlocking his Mercedez-benz, "It will take too long. I'll drive her."

For a split second, you catch his eye, and you could've sworn to god your pain disappeared for a moment. And if it were a different circumstance, In-ho would kiss you. He would kiss you right here with you in his arms.

But the shared look was short-lived as he very carefully sets you in the passenger seat, buckling your seatbelt gently. Your ballet teacher leans down to the window, "Don't worry! Fiona can dance for you!"

Your heart shattered.

And tears began to flood. You ignored In-ho's words of reassurance as he took off, speeding to the hospital. The drive was quiet except for your soft cries. And In-ho wanted nothing more than to cradle you and whisper sweet nothings into your ear.

"Im sorry im getting your car dirty." You looked at the tear-stained headrest you laid against, wiping your sore eyes with the back of your hand.

In-ho cuts a car off as he turns, ignoring the beeps from the angry driver, "It's okay. I have another one." The subtle money brag wasn't missed by you. In-ho just wanted to impress you.

"What are you? Like a CEO or something?" You turned to face him, giving a pitiful sniffle as he gave another sharp turn.

He chuckled, and you felt your heart beat faster. Was it because of the adrenaline? Or was it because the man whom you've become obsessed with is quite literally acting like your night in shining armor, "Im... Im a game show host."

You nodded, an impressive smile growing on your face, "That's cool. Im y/n by the way."

He flashes a smile, the same smile from the night you first saw him, and a blush creeps up on your tear-stained cheeks, "You're sitting there, with a fucked up ankle, and you're making small talk?"

You suddenly feel embarrassed. He's just some random guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time, nothing more. "Sorry. Just trying to distract myself."

In-ho frowns. Did he say the wrong thing? His grip tightens on the steering wheel, "No! Don't be sorry. If I'm being honest, I've been dying to know your name."

His eyes flick to you before looking back in front of him, "Im Hwang In-ho." A small smile creeps onto his lips as he pulls to a stop in front of the ER.

"Well, Mr. Hwang, it's nice to meet you."

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

"Well, it looks like you have a fracture." You give a long exasperated sigh as the Doctor holds up the X-rays, "The fibula is fractured below the level of the syndesmosis, which is the joint between the tibia and fibula."

You look at In-ho, who, for some reason, seems more stressed than you do, "What's the healing process like? Will she need surgery?" Your head snapped to the doctor at the mention of surgery. Surgery for dancers is like a death sentence.

No. More. Dancing.

"Fractures like these are considered stable, meaning that they are unlikely to worsen with correct treatment and management. You'll just need to wear a boot for a while." The doctor noticed how your concerned look didn't falter, and gave a sigh before placing a hand on your shoulder, "You can still dance."

The breath you were holding escapes your lips as you feel a heavy weight fall off your shoulders, "Thank you so much." The doctor rubs your shoulder before leaving, instructing the nurse to fit you for a boot.

In-ho watches as you close your eyes, a smile resting on your face. He cocked his head, how could you be so beautiful in a moment like this? His eyes take a minute to trail down your body, taking you in, something he's grown fond of doing.

Your hair is a mess, your cheeks are red and tear-stained, your ankle looks like a snapped twig, and you're picking at your cuticles. But god.

You are perfect.

Just as beautiful now as you were months ago.

An unfamiliar feeling has taken over his chest ever since he saw you. A tightening, warm feeling that he hasn't felt in years. At first, he ignored it. Maybe it was just heartburn? But as it progressed, he got worried. The next thing you know a doctor is laughing in his face.

Calling it 'love'.

In-ho immediately left after he heard that, making sure to write a very passive-aggressive review on Yelp. What doctor diagnosed a patient with 'being in love'?

In-ho was not in love.

...

...

Right?

It wasn't until he watched 'Funny Face' that he realized the estranged doctor was correct. The moment Fred Astaire saw Aubrey Hepburn and was immediately captivated by her beauty, he knew it was true.

He didn't care that he was more than twenty years older than you, or that he had bigger things to worry about, all he cared about was you.

And that made him so confused.

You had managed to captivate his heart, soul, and body. And he felt like a teenager with his first crush all over again. So as he saw you look up at him with those big doe eyes of yours, he couldn't help what happened next.

He stood from his chair, taking large steps towards your frame. You furrowed your eyebrows as you watched him stand between your legs, careful not to hit your ankle.

His big hands reach down and grab your face, slamming your lips into his own. Your eyes grow wide, confusion flashing across your face before slowly giving in, pulling his head down lower.

His touch was gentle, the opposite of his kiss. His hands softly caressed your red cheeks, while his lips hungrily chased after your own.

You tugged at the baby hairs that rested on the back of his neck, desire and hunger feeding off you as he slipped his tongue into your pretty mouth. A low growl escaped his swollen lips, and you felt arousal begin to pool between your thighs.

You whine as he removes his hand from your face and steps back, crossing his arms. His gaze has always been intimidating. But now that he's seen you fall on your ass, cry, and melt under his touch all in one day, it is much more intimidating.

You've been vulnerable in front of him. Something you could never do before. But you didn't care if he saw your flaws, you were perfect to him.

He saw a future when he looked at you. He saw a family, something he had longed for many years ago. He saw hope, love, and promise.

He saw you.

Beautiful, perfect, irresistible you.

And as he looked at you, only one question entered his mind.

"Do you want to meet my cat?"

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 𓈒 𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

a/n: chat. its 2 am. but i am DETERMINED to post this. i just love you guys sm mwah mwah. also, wasn't in a smut mood. still getting used to writing smut LMAO.

also random disclaimer: i have never done ballet. so if any terms are wrong or if my spelling is trash PLS LMK!

@bohemiandelilah @menabuser16 @verouys @speedymagazinewhispers @metalbaby2 @nellabear @marymun @orihime188 @nanascupid @fnl9zer @chasinghxran @crystalizia @auspicious-lilana @machipyun @cdej6 @namelesslosers

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Flower Faced

Aemond x wife female character

Summary: a series of diary entries written by Aemond Targaryen following his tumultuous marriage and the realm's descent into war | word count: 13k~ | warnings: angst, smut, infertility, chronic illness, war, character death, wife features is described briefly, spoilers for f&b

15th day of the 4th moon, 128

They have made me a husband. A prince wed to a flower plucked too soon.

She stood before me by the Septon, trembling in her silken gown, her face pale as the moon. I was told her beauty would make up for her lack of standing. That her delicate disposition was proof of her good breeding, a prize unfit for a mere second son. How fitting, then, that it was to me she was given. A scrap for a scrap.

I find myself wondering how she might have appeared in better health, had her frame not been so thin, her skin not so colourless. She is the image of a flower wilting in the frost. I cannot fathom what my father intended when he arranged this match. Did he think her weakness would breed strength in me? That I would look upon her frailty and find myself tempered by pity?

Perhaps it is too kind to assume that my father put any thought into the matter. The one of little importance.

I feel nothing but irritation. A prince needs heirs, and she is as likely to bear a child as a winter rose is to bloom.

She retired early tonight, her maids fretting over her as though she were a babe in swaddling clothes. Preparing her for the bedding no doubt. Several lords approached me thereafter asking for a ‘bedding ceremony’. I fear her gentle heart would have given out if such a thing were to actually happen.

They tell me her name means ‘grace’ in the ancient tongues of the Reach. Grace, indeed. She moves as though her bones might shatter beneath her weight, her steps feather light. I suppose if I were to be truthful and perhaps kind, which I do not know why I should, I would admit there is a beauty in her fragility. Such is the beauty of a fine layer of ice on water in the early winter, easily broken with a mere breath to its surface.

I have no need for beauty, and no patience for weakness. Yet weakness is what I was served, wrapped in lace and trembling upon the bedsheets.

When consummation was inevitable, I thought I might snap the poor thing in two when I fucked her. She is so slight, so frail, as though the gods built her of spun glass and good intentions alone. She did not cry, though I expected it. She lay beneath me as one might endure the bite of a leech, silent, resigned, and still.

I despised her for it.

Not for her fragility, but for her acceptance. For the way she stared at the canopy, her lips pressed into a pale line, her hands gripping the sheets as if she feared being swept away by my storm. I do not know what I wanted. A protest, perhaps. A tear. Something to remind me that she was alive, that I was not bedding a corpse.

When it was over, she whispered, “Thank you, my prince,” so softly that I nearly thought I imagined it.

Thank you. For what? For duty? For what she believed was kindness? She did not look at me as she said it, and yet those two words have haunted me since.

It has been three nights now, and I have not returned to her chamber. Mother, ever dutiful, had broken fast with me the next morning to ensure ‘the act’ had indeed taken place, of which I confirmed it had. But she pressed no further on the matter, as if that was all that was important.

I tell myself it is for her benefit, that I do not wish to worsen her condition. But the truth, if I am to be honest here, is that I do not know what to do with her. She is no adversary, no equal, no dragon. 

She is a flower pressed flat by the weight of its own stem.

2nd day of the 5th moon, 128

The rain has not ceased for a fortnight. King’s Landing reeks of soiled hay and wet stone. I've kept to my chambers to avoid the rancid air, but the storm intrudes all the same.

She has been ill again. The maesters tell me that her disposition is weakened, the damp worsening her condition. It grates on me relentlessly to think that something as simple as rain is enough to set my sickly wife abed for days on end. As if she is made of sugar and will dissolve if she steps outside for a single moment.

I half-expected to hear of her passing this morning when I visited her. Pale and fragile as she appeared when her maids opened the curtains. And when she rose out of bed to look out the window, it was painfully, like a stubborn plant forcing its way through frozen soil.

I asked her why she did not wish to rest.

Her smile was as weak as her body.

“Once these rains have washed away, the grass in the Reach will be as green as those in the Seven Heavens.”

She thought of her home even now. She did not consider King's Landing her home.

Since she uttered those words, I have tried to see it as she does. To see past the filth and shit of King's Landing and imagine the fertile fields and warm sun. As she hails from the Reach, she is drawn to flowers, hence why I noted that day that there were so many strewn about the room in various vases.

They wilt in the damp, just as she does.

Sometimes I find myself watching her more often than perhaps I should. I reason that as much as I loathe it, she is my wife. Whether she notices my watching her and says nothing or is ignorant to it, I do not know.

She moves slowly, as if not to shatter her fragile bones, but not out of fear I now see. She is afraid of little I have noticed, though she has every reason to be. A girl as sickly as her wed to a prince known for his temper, gods, she should tremble when I blink.

But she does not.

I regret I spoke harshly to her. Told her to rest. Save her strength. To let the flowers wilt if they must.

And before retreating back to her bedsheets at the will of her maid, she said.

“Even wilted flowers have worth, my prince.”

I had no reply for her.

11th day of the 6th moon, 128

She looks better today. Has done for several days in a row, much to the maesters relief.

The flush in her cheeks was neither from fever or strain, but life. And seeing her now as opposed to how I had often known her, she was beaming with it. Whether it was out riding or the gardens, she would routinely ignore the advice of those who cared for her health to bask in the sun, if only for a mere few hours.

Her breath was even, her voice was clear.

For the first time since our wedding, we spoke freely.

I had not meant to stay for long, truly. But we walked through the gardens on a warm early afternoon. Although I had to stop every few paces to allow her to bend to retrieve some half-wilted flowers so she might place them in her basket.

She said the maesters said she will likely never be strong enough to bear children. At least healthy ones, or ones who would draw breath once born. That feminine melancholy drifted over her face for a moment, as if she suspected I already knew that truth myself.

And truly I had. It was why I had made no attempt to bed her since our consummation.

I did not know how to respond. Usually women speak of such matters with carefully shielded delicacy, whereas she spoke plainly. But I could not bring myself to express the disappointment I should have felt, or the anger that had simmered beneath the surface for so long.

Anger, perhaps not. Weary, maybe.

My answer was not one she would have expected. That I never asked for children. But in my stupidity, I had in fact said, I never asked her for children.

It seems I have driven an already sheathed blade even deeper.

My words may have been misshapen but they were the truth and that is all I have to offer her, is it not? I hold no love for her, but I would never deny such a fragile creature as my wife what I would give any other.

She said nothing. She lowered her lashes and the silence that followed was so unbearable I considered leaving her altogether.

I never asked her for children.

True enough, I suppose. But even I can see how little truth matters in the face of what I’ve taken from her.

I know as well as anyone, what I have actually expressed is that I expect nothing from her.

And perhaps the latter is more cruel.

14th day of the 6th moon, 128

Tonight, we coupled for the second time in our long marriage.

I had avoided her bed for months, claiming duties, council matters and brief bouts of illness that she no doubt didn’t believe as reasoning for my absence. Though after a time, people were beginning to whisper, so I had no choice but to comply. And there was a time where I believed my own mistruth, that I was sparing her. But in truth, I did not wish to see her fragility laid bare again.

She never protested, and likely never would.

So I went to her.

Her chambers were lit by a single candle dotted at several points around the room. She sat at her vanity, pulling her hair free of tight braids and pins. Her hands were so small and pale, I wondered if this small action itself did not overwhelm her delicate nerves. 

It was she who broke the silence. 

“Have you come to pity me, my prince?”

I almost turned away then. 

She let me unlace her gown, let me bare her to the dim firelight. 

It was less frantic though no less awkward. She held me as though she feared I might vanish, and I let her. Perhaps it was the wine, or the quiet of the hour. When I touched her, she shivered. And when my lips accidentally brushed against her neck, she tilted her head back. The floral perfumes she had applied to her skin felt too much of a distraction.

When I finished she looked up at me. It has always unsettled me, her ability to look upon me without flinching. I am a dragon and she is a petal, and yet it is I who wilts beneath her gaze. 

Even the bloodiest of injuries had no such effect on me. 

- - the day of the 8th moon, 128

Aegon celebrated his nameday swiftly as he usually does. It is the third time in one month where he has had to be dragged from celebrations because he is unable to handle his wine. He had of course revelled in the attention, called for songs, dancers and yet more Dornish Red, as if he had not had enough.

The lords humoured him. The ladies pretended not to notice. Father was not even in attendance, it was mother and Helaena who sat diligently at the top table, faces sullen as if they held the weight of the Realm on their shoulders.

For my part, I watched from the shadows, as I often do. My appetite for such things is thin at best, and thinner still with the murmurs that reached my ears tonight.

They speak of her. My wife.

“Too weak to attend,” one said. “She’s been frail since the wedding,” said another.

I could feel their eyes upon me, their pity or curiosity or judgment, I could not say which was worse. It felt such a disservice for others to remark upon her the way I have. 

Nobody was as shocked as I to see her when the doors to the hall opened. There she stood, walking carefully into the light, bathed in a dress that was not crimson, not dark, never. But red all the same, as if she had thought of honouring the house she wed into but not yet willing to loosen the reins on herself entirely. The colour was pale, muted, a shade more suited to her, though it did little to disguise her frailty. Truth be told, she does look sickly in red.

I knew she had wanted to wear it, though. That was why she had chosen it.

For a moment, I thought she might collapse under the weight of the eyes and silence on her.

I thought to rise as she approached me, but for some reason I did not. She inclined her head to me so faintly I doubt anyone else saw, and I saw her locks were adorned with jewellery she had not usually worn.

She inquired as to the whereabouts of my brother, no doubt asking whether the celebrated prince was on his very own nameday, but she did not seem downtrodden when I informed her he had retired to his chambers. As if it were a mere formality.

“Shall we dance, husband?”

I thought to refuse her, to spare her the strain, but the look in her eyes silenced me. And I could not very well be seen to refuse my own wife. She extended her hand, pale and trembling, and I took it without a word.

I thought it would embarrass me, this spectacle before the court. Her weakness had done so before, and I had no doubt it would do it again. But I could not bear to say the words aloud, not when she had dressed in my house colours for me.

I led her to the centre of the hall, her small frame so light beneath my guiding hand that I wondered how she had summoned the strength to stand, let alone to dance. When I placed my hand at her waist and we began to move, I noticed almost immediately that she was struggling to keep pace with the beat. Her breaths were short, shallow, her fingers tightening on my shoulder as though holding herself upright by sheer force of will. Still, she did not stop.

“I hope I have not made a spectacle of us,” she whispered.

I only said there was no need for her to apologise.

When her steps faltered again, I acted without thinking. I lifted her slightly, guiding her feet onto mine so that she would not have to move. She blinked at me, startled, but did not protest. For the first time that evening, her breaths seemed to ease, her grip on my shoulder loosening ever so slightly.

I kept my gaze forward, refusing to meet the eyes of the court. If they found it amusing, I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing it bother me.

I told her that when I was born, it was said I was half the size of Aegon, but twice as fierce. He had cried louder, but they said I fought harder. That perhaps it was the cruelty of the gods to make those of us born weaker feel as though we must prove ourselves twice over.

She studied me, with her soft eyes, but I did not meet them. I regret that now.

When I lost my eye, I told her, they pitied me. Looked at me as if I were a thing to be mended, or worse, endured. And that is I imagine how she feels when they look at her.

She said nothing for a moment, but the faint pressure of her hand against my shoulder told me she had heard.

“Yet, you have made yourself strong. Where I have not.”

For a moment I could only stare at her. But when I found my voice, it was hushed, so that others dancing around us might not hear.

“Strength is not always shown through the sword.”

She replied with nothing.

Perhaps we are not so different, she and I.

19th day of the 10th moon, 128

She is with the maesters today. 

I knew this but I found myself in her chambers regardless.

Aegon, in his perpetual state of drunkenness, had the gall to make a joke of it. Saying that she was with child. The court laughed of course, unable to tell the difference between a joke and insult. I am grateful she was not present to hear it. And for the fact that I did not defend her.

Her desk was an array of papers and cuttings as if she had left in a hurry. Lately she was more tired than usual, and instead of chills and shakes, she was hot to the touch and feverish. Perhaps nobody will understand her condition truly, but I am told that she has been this way since birth.

Lately I have found that practicing with the sword does not steal my attention the way it used to, so there I found myself, looking through the smatterings of paper and flowers, and I doubt it will be the last time.

A leather bound notebook sat snugly atop everything else, the pages fanned out as though abandoned mid-turn. I thought perhaps it was a diary, not unlike the one I keep myself, somewhere to keep my thoughts and worries if they arise. But the little writing that was present was descriptive, brief, and so feminine in its curves and loops that I could barely read it. 

When we were first wed, and for several months since then, I had watched closely and from afar as well as she insisted on walks through the gardens, even despite the advice of the maesters. She could not be stopped. She would fill her basket slung over her elbow with wilted, near-dead flowers, the petals curling inward, their stems drooping, 

I had not thought to ask her why then. Why she collected such things if they were already so close to falling short of bloom.

The flowers are pressed between the pages of a book, their fragile shapes preserved as though she has defied time itself. Beside them, in her careful script, she has labeled each one, names I recognise, though I have never cared to remember them before. A rose, a poppy, a sprig of thyme, rosemary. Even weeds have found their place here.

She has always been given to sentiment, to seeing beauty where others would not bother to look. It is a softness I have long struggled to understand. But she has made them more than what they were, given them a purpose beyond their fleeting bloom.

It was an evening primrose, its pale petals pressed so thin they seemed almost translucent. Beneath it, in her neat script, she had written:

“Evening primrose. For quiet devotion.”

And below that, a date, the day after we were wed.

I stared at it for a long while.

And as I stand there, I realise I have never seen her hands tremble when she writes.

I cursed myself when I returned to my chambers and remembered I had not restored the book to the page I found it on. She will know I have touched it. Her sacred little book.

27th day of the 12th moon, 128

The Keep is more quiet than it has been in months, as the year comes to its close. The usual tensions of the Realm remains, as does my father, who is more akin to a walking corpse than a man most days. He can no longer walk up the steps by himself, and my mother does not have the strength to assist. Even Aegon has managed to hold his tongue of late, though I suspect it will not last.

She has been visiting Helaena more often than usual as of late. Seated together in her solar, embroidering, their voices soft and indistinct, like the murmuring of a distant brook. A casual observer might have mistaken them for sisters, though I doubt either would care for the comparison.

“Soft in the head,” Aegon says of Helaena. “Soft in the body,” he says of my wife. He does not mean it as a compliment, though he says it with a grin, as if he expects me to laugh. I do not.

Though I don’t agree, the two do share a certain gentleness. An ethereal charm that I am not able to form into words. They are both easily dismissed, glanced over in a crowd of boisterous and overzealous personalities. Dismissed by those too blind to see. Aegon, is one such fool.

When I approached, Helaena looked up first with her pale eyes that were so familiar, but said nothing. And my wife, to my surprise, greeted me warmly, and seemed surprised to see me. When I spoke to Mother later, she insisted that my wife was a good influence on Helaena. And that she has a calming presence. One she says I should feel grateful for.

I did not tell her that I am.

2nd day of the 1st moon, 129

The belly of King’s Landing celebrated the turn of the new year more so than any within the Keep. The thunder of laughter and dancing seemed to stir the very grounds beneath me. The merriment of the season seemed to warm the chill in the air, and it seems almost everyone has felt its embrace.

She surprised me tonight.

I had not expected her, not at this hour, and certainly not in such a state. Her usual pallor was touched with faint color, her step more certain than it had been in weeks. There was a lightness to her gaze, an energy that I had not seen in some time, and for a moment, I thought her appearance a trick of the dim firelight.

I motioned for her to sit, though she declined, choosing instead to stand near the hearth. For a while, neither of us spoke. 

But then she said she had been thinking about her place here, at the Keep and by my side, as my wife. I waited, unsure of where this conversation might lead. 

“I know I am not the wife you might have wished for,” she continued. “I know what the court says of me, of my frailty, my weakness. And I know what it is to be a man of your station.”

Her meaning became clear, though I did not wish to hear it.

“If you were to take a mistress.”

I did not mean to startle her by interrupting, but I could not bear to hear the rest. Had she no respect for herself? That she would assume I am so restless that I cannot stay one moment without bedding another woman, simply because I am afraid she will break beneath me? What could I say? That I did not desire anyone else? That the thought of betraying her, even in name, made my stomach turn?

And then she asked why. I offered the only truth I could manage.

“I do not know. I only know that I do not wish to. Is that not enough?”

She replied with a simple, but quiet, “it is.”

She did not stay long after that, but she lingered yet in my mind as she does now, writing this entry at the hour of the wolf. Sometimes when I look upon my delicate wife, it feels as if she is other-worldly, plucked from some distant place and planted right here to wither in the sun. She seems less a creature of flesh and blood and more a whisper of something eternal, a soul untethered by time.

There is a stillness about her, a quietness that feels unnatural, as though she is not bound by the same rhythms of life that govern the rest of us. She exists in the space between moments, the breath held just before the candle flickers out.

She is not a woman to me, not entirely. She is something deeper, something I lack the words to name. Perhaps that is why I cannot bring myself to stray, why the thought of betraying her feels like a sin greater than I could bear.

Indeed why not? I could not answer her then, and I doubt I could answer her now.

5th day of the 2nd moon, 129

Am I not a man, but a beast.

She accompanied me this morning to break my fast. Something we now often do to please Mother.

She sat across from me, the light through the windows pebbled across her face, showing how the flush that had decorated her cheeks was starting to fade. A fleeting bloom I did not wish to see vanish.

She picked at the honeyed bread with delicate, little bites, savouring its sweetness. I hardly touched my breakfast. I find it difficult to eat in the morning. But here I sat, too focussed on the golden sheen of the syrup upon her lips.

When she licked the honey from her lips and fingers, I felt a sharp, sudden pain to my chest.

I do not know what possessed me then.

One moment, I was watching her across the table. The next, I was upon her. My hand tangled in her hair, my tongue licking along the seam of her lips to taste the sweetness that lingered there. She gasped against me, I remember her warm breath, startled but pliant.

It was not quick, though it was desperate, as if I could mold her body to mine, as if I could press all I was, all my essence into her fragile frame. My hands gripped her waist, her hips, her thighs, heedless of her delicacy.

I was a creature of need, of raw, unchecked hunger. And her sweet cunt tightening around me was the only thing that could sate it.

Her breath hitched as I fucked her, but said nothing. Her hands held my shoulders, as if to keep herself steady. I did not stop to think, to question.

When it was over, she lay beneath me, her breathing shallow, her hair tousled. And for a moment I could not bring myself to move. I stayed inside her, relishing the warmth of her sweet womanhood, breathed in her scent at her neck, and felt I might weep.

She smelled of vanilla and amber.

What have I done?

I did not dare look at her, but equally she said nothing. 

I fear I have hurt her. Both in body and spirit. And yet, I cannot regret it. Though now I must wonder if she looks upon me with fear, with pity.

6th day of the 2nd moon, 129

I sought her out today.

The guilt has gnawed at me. Sharp and aching. I thought she might be angry. Or worse, afraid.

She was in her chambers, a shawl around her shoulders to stay the chill that seemed to find her easily, a book rested in her lap. When I entered, she looked up, her expression unreadable.

I said I owe her an apology. Which was a difficult enough thing to admit to myself than to her.

She closed her book slowly, and moved to stand. The shawl made her look frail.

“For what?”

For that morning, I replied to her. For taking liberties. For being selfish and only thinking of myself.

She interrupted softly. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

She must have seen the confusion on my face.

“You did not hurt me,” she added. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “I was…surprised, perhaps. That is all.”

Surprised?

She answered that sometimes she felt undesirable. Repulsive. And the words from such a delicate, little thing were like a blade to my heart.

How do I tell her that I desire her more than I can bear?

She told me that she said nothing during the act because she felt it was improper for young ladies to desire such things. To enjoy them. And she had.

I only said that she is not simply a lady.

She is my wife.

She uttered so quietly I thought I might miss it.

“I did not think I could make you feel this way.”

Gods. She can.

She is not what I expected, not what I thought I wanted. But she is what I need, in ways I am only beginning to understand.

4th day of the 3rd moon, 129

Father is dead.

I've repeated the same sentence in my head for hours now, and yet they still feel hollow. Echoing like the toll of a dull bell. Everything has changed.

Though not unexpected, the whispers of his failing health have been constant for years. Even as long as I have been alive, I'd wager. But the finality of it. The truth. The realm will stir into chaos, as Mother had always warned us it would.

They mean to crown Aegon. They mean to gift him what Father had always upheld was Rhaenyra's.

Any whisper of treason is swiftly dealt with. Otto Hightower sees to it. Nobody is safe, it feels.

My wife has been locked in her chambers, barred from leaving as if she were a criminal. I am forbidden to see her, but I am told by the maesters that her condition is too delicate to bear the strain of what is unfolding around us. The stress, they claim, has worsened her already fragile health.

I am furious. The thought of her, alone and frightened, makes my blood boil. She is not a pawn to be hidden away while the realm burns. She is my wife, and I will not be kept from her.

Mother has tried to calm me, speaking of duty and order, of the chaos that would erupt if the truth of Father’s death were known before the plans are set in motion. But I see no order in this, only madness.

She does not understand. How could she? She has never known weakness, never known what it is to live under the constant shadow of her own failing body. My wife has. And now they confine her to her chambers, as though the isolation will preserve her.

Surely they must know it is not the noise of court or the weight of the realm that will break her. It is the solitude.

If they think to keep me from her, they are fools.

I will not allow her to be dragged head first into the mess Mother has made of this.

9th day of the 3rd moon, 129

Aegon is king.

The bells rang to usher in a new era. A new king. Grandfather had organised the crowds to gather in the Dragonpit, to witness the moment the conqueror’s crown was placed upon my brother's brow, and Blackfyre thrust into his grip.

For all his faults, Aegon is no stranger to spectacle. He held our great ancestral sword aloft, and the smallfolk roared their approval, blissfully ignorant of the blood that stains this crown and the chaos that will surely follow.

I stood beside Helaena. She was dreamy as usual, and barely looked in her husband's direction. She knew as well as I, that it all stank of desperation.

My wife attended, though she was likely too unwell to. It wasn't difficult to guess she had been spoken to by Grandfather, instructed what to do to appear as if she was supportive of this farce. But still, she insisted on standing by my side.

She had applied rouge to her cheeks in an effort to mask her pallor, but it did little to fool anyone. Her face was thin, her movements careful.

The smallfolk noticed. I saw the way they whispered to one another when their eyes fell upon her. They are a superstitious lot, always quick to see omens where there are none. A sickly wife at the hasty coronation of a king.

Her hands trembled as she gripped mine, her strength waning with each passing moment. I whispered to her that she should sit, but she shook her head, her resolve unbroken despite the frailty of her body.

And then the ground shook.

Meleys burst forth, the Queen-Who-Never-Was seated at her neck. And the smallfolk that were not stuck beneath her claws scattered like leaves in the wind. My wife’s knees buckled, her strength finally giving way. I caught her before she could fall, my arm wrapping around her waist as I shielded her from the chaos. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her fingers clutching at my sleeve.

But Meleys did not strike. Nor did Rhaenys speak.

I did not release her until the crowd began to stir again, until the danger had passed. Even then, I could feel her trembling against me, her breath shallow and uneven.

My house has been fractured. Our futures uncertain.

And all I can think of is her pale face, her trembling lips, as she said. “Are you alright?”

I could have laughed if I were not so angry.

12th day of the 3rd moon, 129

The maesters still hover over her, though I have been here at her bedside since the coronation.

She is more fragile than I remember, her breath shallow, her skin too pale beneath the warmth of the fire. Her gaze follows me everywhere, as if afraid I might vanish. Perhaps she sees me as fleeting too. 

Perhaps she fears that I might not return.

I did not think I would be the person she would cling to. And at times I do not know how to feel about it. She has not changed, and yet I used to look upon her with contempt and irritation.

Could it be that I have changed?

I must go to Storm’s End soon.

The Baratheons are key to ensuring an alliance, to strengthen my family's claim to the throne by rallying the great houses of Westeros to our cause. I resent Aegon's rule, yes, but I do not wish to see my whore sister on the throne even more so.

Should that happen, my wife would be in danger as well.

It is Daeron who I must barter a marriage for. It is a necessary journey, one I cannot avoid, no matter how much my heart aches at the thought of leaving her.

She knows this. She knows my duty to the family, to the crown, and yet when I spoke of it, a shadow crossed her face. Her lips parted as though she wished to speak, but she remained silent. The fear in her eyes, however, was enough.

“Will you come back to me?” she asked me.

She is afraid. She fears for my safety, just as I fear for hers. And equally, though she does not speak it, she resents that I have been dragged into this cause.

I promised her I would return.

When I kissed her before I left, I did not want to let go. Her hand gripped mine as though she might shatter with the slightest breeze. She did not speak again, but I saw the unshed tears in her eyes, and it nearly undid me.

I do not wish to leave.

I do not wish to leave her.

- - - - - -

I am living in a nightmare.

She sleeps as I write this. So deeply I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure she is not stood right there.

The journey from Storm's End to Kings Landing was a blur. And when I returned and dismounted Vhagar, I was soaked to the bone from rain. I did not stop to speak to Mother. Could not bear to.

I had not meant for it to happen. But what does intent matter now? The boy is dead.

Lucerys Velaryon is dead.

His body fell from the skies, his dragon broken and bloody. And I just watched. Fear gnaws at me, but not for myself, but what this means for my family and all those that live under my protection. Rhaenyra will want vengeance for this.

My mother, grandfather, they will want for me to claim I wanted this, just so they might shift their judgement onto me instead. Claim that I began this war and not their scheming. They will whisper, I know they will, that this was revenge for the boyish quarrel that left me half-blinded.

And such has ended in his death.

It is not so simple. I know what I have done. I know what they will call me. A kinslayer. A monster. And worse, I fear that she, my wife, will see it too.

When I returned to our chambers, she was sat in a nest made of pillows, propped up to avoid strain. Hearing my arrival, she sat up straighter, though she looked weak, and shakily got to her feet despite my initial protests.

Her eyes still looked upon me with softness, as if I were deserving. And I was unprepared for her reaction. She saw me, soaked and trembling but did not speak. Did not ask what had happened, though she could see some turmoil in me.

Her hands, small and trembling, undressed me without rush. Stripping me of not only my clothes but the weight that slumped my shoulders. She did not judge, did not speak of what was so plainly written across my weathered face.

Her silence was a gift. One I did not deserve.

And yet I leaned into her touch. It was so warm against my skin. I even allowed her to remove the leather over my stolen eye. Something I rarely do in her presence.

I was bare, laying beside her, shaking. And she shed her clothes so that we might embrace without the confines of fabric. Her hands ran through my hair, untangling the salty strands delicately with all the patience in the realm.

“I killed him.”

I whispered it into the dark, without seeing her face.

“Lucerys. I killed him.”

She did not ask why or how. She slid closer, her tender breasts against my back, and ran her hands down my arm.

I told her everything. What I said. Threatened. How I flew after him in the storm. Vhagar.

Her voice in response had no anger. Only sadness.

“You returned to me. That is all that matters.”

12th day of the 4th moon, 129

I went to her chambers tonight as if the Gods had paved the path for me. I could not summon the strength to summon her to mine. Not after what I have done.

She did not question the shadows under my eyes. She simply welcomed me as she always does, with a tenderness I do not deserve.

When our bodies came together it was a communion of two souls. Deliberate. Not a conquest in the least. She is the only thing anchoring me to this world. And each scrape of her fingernails against my back felt heavenly. Kissing me softly. Tracing the scars that mark my body with the same hands that never tremble in my presence. Even now, when I feel I am beyond forgiveness. 

For a night, I did not feel like a kinslayer.

14th day of the 4th moon, 129

I was not there.

I was not there. And I should have been.

I was with her instead. And in my place, it was Helaena’s chambers they reached. Their names I forget, but they were grotesque as if from some old wives’ tale. I cannot stomach to imagine their faces in my mind.

My nephew is gone. They made my sister, my blood, point him out, as if he were meats fetching a good price at the slaughter. If I had been there, in my chambers, as I was supposed to be, would I have been able to stop this? Could I have spared my sister the sight of her son’s blood soaking the stone floors?

I cannot think of it without bile rising in my throat.

The court is ablaze with questions, panic rippling through every corner of the Keep.

Where were the guards? How could this have happened?

I, too, demand answers. For all her faults, I never believed Rhaenyra capable of such an act, sending assassins into the heart of the Keep to put Helaena, of all people, in danger. But this? This cruelty? She has proven herself to have even less humanity than I once dared to credit her.

Helaena has not spoken and not emerged since. I do not know if she ever will. 

I cannot protect my family, even in my own home. Though my wife reassures me, I feel like a kinslayer twice over. Even once I returned to her bed after the commotion had died down and Aegon too, she reached for me, and I let her. Her hands were frail, but somehow steady when they touched me. Like tiny little stems curling into my blood. Growing more and more. Like a gentle annihilation of the man I think I am.

She wept for the child. For Helaena, who would never again hold her son.

And I wept with her.

25th day of the 4th moon, 129

The boy was paraded through the streets, wrapped in silks and embroidered fabrics. My mother and Helanea followed, and any level-minded person would guess that this is desperation. Something I would not forgive grandfather for if he forced such a thing onto me and my wife, if we had a child of our own.

Aegon has ordered the ratcatchers put to death, every one of them, as if blood could somehow wash away blood. I doubt it will ease his conscience, if he has one left. He claims it is vengeance, justice. It is anger. It is shame. It is fear, thinly disguised.

At the council, I learned that Aegon had dismissed my grandfather as Hand. His replacement? Ser Criston Cole. A decision as reckless as it is insulting. 

Mother’s face said what the rest of us could not. She sat in silence, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her lips pressed into a thin line. I said nothing either, though the weight of her displeasure mirrored my own. Criston may wield a sword with skill, but a Hand must have wit and reason. He has neither.

I know I hold little love in the eyes of my own mother now anyway. She looks upon me like I am a monster, as if I have been my whole life. As if this is not what she has made of me.

I returned to my wife afterwards. We rarely speak now, though her presence is a balm I cannot name. The illness has caught her chest again, I can hear it in her breath. She told me to keep my distance, fearing I will catch it, as if I care for such trivial things.

I stayed regardless, seated in the chair by her bed as the fire burned low. She did not scold me for it. She simply turned her head to watch me, her eyes soft, almost apologetic. I reached for her hand, and she let me take it. I can see the fear of what is to come weighs heavy on her. 

This quiet between us. Is this feeling what those countless ballads harp on about? Could this marriage, born of resentment and difficulty, become love?

2nd day of the 6th moon, 129

Aegon’s hold on this war is akin to his grip on a cup of wine at the hour of the wolf. Slippery, at best. He sits in council and speaks of Harrenhal with such conviction, as though Criston Cole marching there will be anything more than foolishness. Daemon holds that cursed ruin, and we all know what awaits Criston if he tries to pry it from him. Yet Aegon seems blind to reason, drunk on his desire to pull victory from thin air.

I suggest a different course. Rook’s Rest. But he will not see reason. And of course it was met with hesitation. Aegon’s indecision is a rot that will take him black, and Mother’s silence does nothing to stay it. 

They all think me hungry for blood and battle. Aemond One-Eye. 

There is a part of me that longs to prove myself. To be remembered for something other than the boy who lost his eye or the prince who killed his nephew. My wife knows an Aemond the realm does not. The one that sits beside her as they lays coughing at night. She sees a man, a good one perhaps. Whereas the court merely whisper of me as if I am a dark shadow.

The realm will never know the man my wife sees. There is a power in them seeing only what I allow, what I need them to know. Strength. Fire. 

Sometimes, I wonder if she mourns the parts of me that the world will never have.

She listens to me speak of my plans, hands clasped, seeing the fractures in her husband, the places where pride and vengeance run too deep to cut out. I wonder if she pities me for it. If she doesn’t, perhaps she should.

13th day of the 6th moon, 129

Rook’s Rest still burns, I'd wager. Though it has been several days since the battle. The wind still whips at me, I feel, as I watch Meleys hurtle towards the earth. Her dragonrider still pitched to her back.

Aegon does not relish in his victory. He lays near death, every breath a struggle. Not dissimilar to how I have seen my wife oftentimes.

I returned to her chambers as soon as I was able. The Keep feels hollow these days, and there I might find peace, where none exists inside me.

She looks frailer than she did when I left, though she insists otherwise. The maesters prattle about her condition, and I find myself snapping at them more than I ought. They are failing her. Everyone is failing her. Even me.

When she tried to rise from bed to greet me, I could not stop myself, I barked at her to stay put, the words sharper than I intended.  

I hate myself for it. But the thought of her straining herself, of her fragile body bending beneath the weight of this cursed war...it twists something in me, something I cannot name.

She is mine. My wife. My delicate flower. The one thing in this accursed world that is still soft, still untouched by the poison of the crown and the war.

I will not lose her.

She, of course, asked what had happened. Having heard the unfortunate nature of the king’s condition. Having heard the whispers. I said it was recklessness. Incompetence. But she has always been perceptive. 

She sees the darkness in me. The flicker of doubt that darkens her beautiful eyes, one she does not dare speak aloud.

But I cannot speak to her of the shadow that is cast over my heart. So instead, I spared hers, and told insisted it was Aegon's folly that lead to his downfall. Nothing more.

She nodded. But her gaze lingered on me. Searching. I know she does not believe me.

She reached for my hand, and I held hers too tightly. She winced. 

I watch her even now, as she sleeps, her breath too shallow for my liking, her form too still beneath the furs. My mind races with thoughts I cannot quiet. What if she never sees me return again? What if I leave and come back to find her gone?

I will not let it happen.

19th day of the 6th moon, 129

The council have chosen me as their Regent. Me, over Mother. It is as it should be. For all her wisdom, her place is not there. Her gentle sex does not suit the burden of governance, no matter how much she believes otherwise. She clings too tightly to something she herself has denied Rhaenyra, and I will not stand idly by and listen to her hypocrisy.

The council at least know my worth. 

Already I have begun to shape the crumbling realm back to stability. The first act began with Mother, relegating her to duties befitting of a Dowager Queen, and one she did not take lightly. It is not cruelty. Necessary. There is no place for soft murmurings of mercy at my council. She will understand in time.

The work is endless. The weight immeasurable, but one I wear with pride. I have longed for this. To show I am not weak, but formidable, with no time for distraction. 

The realm needs me now more than ever.

28th day of the 6th moon, 129

Regency suits me well. It is a shame I was not born first.

The first real edict was to close the city gates, to forbid people from leaving and also to avoid our enemies sneaking past our fragile lines. King’s Landing must be fortified, protected from the vipers who would see us undone. Let the smallfolk whisper and grumble, their safety is ensured only because I am willing to make the hard choices.

Trade has slowed, of course, but I care little for the merchants’ squawking. Better that they lose their coin than lose their lives when Rhaenyra’s forces march upon us.

Though the power is intoxicating it is not without its burdens. I see the faces of the council as they defer to me, the uncertainty that flickers behind their eyes. They doubt my youth, my ability to lead, but they dare not say it aloud. 

There are moments, fleeting though they are, when I wonder if I have already given too much of myself to this war. But I cannot dwell on such thoughts. The realm does not wait for doubt, and neither shall I.

7th day of the 7th moon, 129

I had nearly forgotten her.

The council chamber was quiet when she appeared, the hour so late that even the most loyal attendants had taken their leave. I sat, pouring over papers and maps, looking up as she stood at the doors draped in translucent fabric, her fragile frame looking almost ghostly.

She had come all the way from her chambers, weak as she is, just to see me.

For a moment, I was struck dumb, caught between guilt and irritation. I had not sought her out in days, too consumed by the weight of my duties.

I asked her, sharper than I intended, what she was doing here and that she should be resting. And she did not flinch, but I could see her eyes flicker downwards.

“I had to see you.”

It was as if she wanted to see if I still existed. And that I was not some otherworldly vision, told only through whispers and rumours. For she had not seen me in near a fortnight. Her voice was so soft that it struck a chord I did not need for it to resonate.

I could not say anything more than the realm expects more of me now. The demands on my shoulders. I cannot spare a moment.

Her voice strained. “I had to see you because otherwise I scarcely know my husband lives and breathes.”

Her words erupted guilt and irritation alike. Buried beneath a thin, black veil I have carefully fabricated.

I could only insist I do all this for her. To keep her safe.

“How is it for me, Aemond? All I see in you is this desire for power. You speak of the realm, of me, but this is just sheer ambition, and you are too blind to see what it is doing to you. And I will not be your excuse for how tightly you cling to what you seek.”

I snapped and said how could she know. She has not ruled and never will. She does not understand the burden I bear.

“Perhaps I don't understand. But I know the man I married, the one I grew to love. And all I see is him slipping away.”

Gods, she sounded so wounded I was not sure whether to resent it or pity it.

The man she grew to love.

I was rendered so shocked I could not say anything. Even when her eyes begged for a response. And she turned to leave, her steps weak and faltering with every second. And I did not help her.

I did not help her.

I cannot shake the look on her face. 

I know I should go to her, but I cannot. Her weakness, her frailty, I am afraid it will take me down with it.

And the realm cannot afford more weakness from the crown.

24th day of the 7th moon, 129

Everything is unravelling.

Rhaenyra has thrown everything she has at us, now even her bastards ride dragons. It is a cruel mockery of what we were meant to be. Blood of the dragon, sullied by lowborn filth. And Helaena, sweet and broken, refuses to aid us. Her grief holds her captive, and I cannot rouse her from it. I need her dragon, but she will not hear me.

Today was unbearable.

The council drags their feet and the walls close in. The smallfolk riot in the streets from hunger, one Rhaenyra herself has caused but that they seem to forget.

I came back to my chambers after the council adjourned, weary and enraged. And there, on my desk, I found them. Snapdragons. Flowers of bold pinks and oranges, fierce and alive, their edges tinged with red like the tips of dragonfire.

She has been here.

There was no note. No explanation. The flowers spoke what she did not.

It is a reminder of who I am, or rather the man I should be. The man she loves, not the beast I fear I am becoming.

I stood there for what felt like an age, staring at the blooms as if they might speak to me. In that moment, I made my decision. I must go to Harrenhal soon, to face Daemon, but I will not leave without seeing her first. Without making amends.

When I went to her chambers, there were no maesters, but her fever was heightened, and so she slept with sheer clothing and no bedsheets. She looked like a nymph, laid there, her breasts visible through the fabric and flowers at each bedside.

Like she didn't belong in the confines of the Keep. She belonged out there, amongst the trees and rivers, to exist in breath and wind.

She looked up, rose from her gentle slumber, and looked at me. Her eyes soft and searching.

I kissed her and she did not pull away. She let me touch her, hold her, gasped as I slid her nightgown up her hips and nipped at her thighs to taste the sweet nectar that poured from her.

She was warm and heady, an intoxicating mix of salt and sweetness, like honey warmed by the sun. I drank from her as if parched, savoring the way she trembled beneath me, the way her body seemed to bloom under my touch.

Her breath hitched as I lavished her with my tongue, her fingers desperate as her nailed pulled pleasantly at my hair. Each sound she made was a victory, each shiver a testament to the power she held over me. For all my strength, all my fury, I was undone by her, reduced to this, worshiping at the altar of her body.

Even as she cried out I could not stop. And when it became too much, I rose, her flavour still clinging to my lips. And we coupled slowly, tenderly, for hours. Devouring her as if by doing so, I could take some of her kindness, and bathe me clean of the darkness that lingers within.

She is no fool.

“My love. Do not make love to me as if I will never see you again.”

I could not answer her. She knows I must go. To Harrenhal. Now on my own, if nobody else will assist me.

I felt her fingers on my cheek.

“If you cannot promise me that. Promise me this. Write to me. Wherever you are. Whatever you do.”

I could not find it in my heart to deny her such a simple thing. I will send her my words, if I cannot send my body, soul and love.

I realised right there, her small body spent in my arms how many weeks, months even, I had spent unappreciative of the flutter she always gave me. The unending kindness she would offer. The truth, even when I didn't want it.

I had forgotten to treat her with tenderness.

1st day of the 9th moon, 129

Harrenhal is mine.

The stronghold of the Strongs fell with little resistance. The castle itself, vast and cold, looms like a beast over the land, its ruins whispering of past glories and darker tragedies. House Strong is no more. I have seen to that myself.

Save for one.

Alys Rivers remains. She claimed she had visions of my coming, of my victory, and of greater things yet to unfold. She spoke in riddles, her eyes fixed on me as though she could see into my soul.

Her words, her presence, are tempting in their way. Alys Rivers is a beautiful woman, older than I expected, with a certain allure born of her confidence and mystery. She has made no secret of her willingness to warm my bed, to offer herself to me in exchange for her life.

But I did not take her. I will not.

I told her plainly that she would live for now because her visions may serve a purpose. Nothing more. Let her think she has some measure of power over me if it keeps her pliant and useful. Yet even as I write this, I know I should send her to the sword, for the danger she represents.

My wife would see it how it is. Desperation.

I have not written to her yet. Not my wife. Not the only soul who would calm the storm within me.

I will tomorrow.

For tonight, the shadows of Harrenhal linger too heavily, and the blood on my hands feels too fresh.

17th day of the 11th moon, 129

Now I know why Daemon left this wretched place behind.

Harrenhal is not a castle, it is a carcass. Its halls are hollow, its walls crumbling, and its very air feels like a curse pressing down on my chest. The fires that claimed this ruin have never truly died. They linger in the stones, in the bones of the dead, whispering their stories to anyone who dares to listen.

And I am here now, breathing it in. I thought it would feel like a triumph, taking Harrenhal, but it is not.

I have not slept well since my arrival. And when I do, the dreams come. Muddled and confusing. Vivid and cruel things that weave consciousness into sleep.

Last night, I dreamt of her.

She was in her chambers in bed, sickly, her skin pale and translucent. The maesters swarm her like vultures for flesh, muttering useless words and hovering instead of healing. Her eyes found me, tired and hooded, and it was not a look of blame or fear, but something that still reminded me I am not the man she needed me to be.

In her eyes I saw my regrets. Every harsh word I spoke. Every moment I turned away. Every time I let ambition and anger drown out what little light we had kindled between us.

I tried to reach for her in the dream, but the distance was too great. I called her name, but she did not answer. And when I woke, my throat was raw, as if I had truly been shouting in my sleep.

In another dream, I was between her milky thighs, lapping at her sweet cunt like I had been starved of it for years. She moaned so sweetly as she always did. And when she clawed at my scalp to pull me closer to her it felt different. She was stronger. Less tender.

And when I looked up, her nectar glazing my face, I felt my heart grow cold and hollow. Her skin was pale, yes, but her hair darkened into something akin to raven feathers, her eyes sunk back slightly, cheekbones sharpened. And the soft, lightly colour there morphed into stark emeralds, lips red and quirked upwards.

Perhaps Harrenhal is cursed. Perhaps it draws out the darkest thoughts, the deepest fears, and forces them to the surface. Or perhaps it is only me. Perhaps I am cursed.

I must write to her. She is my tether, the only thing that keeps me from being swallowed whole by the darkness here. Tomorrow, I will write. Tonight, I will try to sleep and hope the dreams do not return.

Dearest Wife,

I write to you from the cold halls of Harrenhal, a place that holds no warmth, no life. Not like your chambers do. The days here stretch long, the nights longer still. It is a place of ash and shadow, where even the air feels heavy. And yet, amidst the ruin, I found something unexpected, a winter rose, growing stubbornly in the cracks of stone.

I have enclosed it with this letter. It is small, fragile, but it persists. A reminder, perhaps, that beauty can be found even in the bleakest places. I thought of you when I saw it. Handle it gently, as you always do.

How do you fare, my love? I pray the maesters have been attentive, and that the chill has not worsened your condition. I think of you often, though I fear my words fail to capture how much. I see you in every quiet moment, in every breath of wind. You linger in my thoughts as if you are a part of me, inseparable and eternal.

I do not wish to burden you with the trials of this place, nor the weight of my duties. But know that I am well, and I will return to you as soon as I am able. Until then, take care of yourself, for I cannot bear the thought of you suffering in my absence.

Yours Always,

Aemond

4th day of the 2nd moon, 130

Alys spoke of visions today.

She said she could see two dragons coming together, sharing the same fate above the great God's Eye. Then my wife, she saw our reunion, my wife's hair lit as if from the sun of the Seven Heavens. She sounded so certain, as if recounting events that had already transpired. She was so confident, I almost believed her.

Almost.

She sees so much, so she claims. Watching the flames dance along her eyes is, in itself, invigorating to watch. Her gentle mutterings are welcome sometimes in the quiet, hollow hallways of Harrenhal. They linger, pulling on the threads of my mind as if I am to her whim.

She moves through this great castle as if she has been a ghost here for generations. Her gaze does not cower before me as many others do, but she stands close. Perhaps sometimes, too close. And I think myself weak for not dismissing her.

She is a woman who knows the route to survival, and I cannot fault her for that.

They are brief, fleeting. The times where I wonder if she offers herself for something more than just survival. When she hands me a raven, her touch lingers longer than it should. 

I do not know what Alys Rivers wants from me, nor do I care to ask.

I have not written to my wife of her. How could I? How do I explain this shadow in my midst, this woman who speaks of futures I do not wish to see? I tell myself it is unnecessary, that Alys is nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.

And yet, I wonder if I am lying to myself.

Daemon is coming. That much I believe. Whether Alys’s visions are truth or falsehood, the outcome remains the same. We are on a path that cannot be turned aside.

When the time comes, I will be ready.

My Dearest Husband,

Your letter reached me today, and I must confess, I wept to see the winter rose you sent. Such a small and delicate thing, so rare. I pressed it into my own book, so it may keep company with my other treasures. Thank you, my love.

I have pressed a snapdragon into these pages also. Last spring, you commented that the colour of their petals reminded you of a dragon mid-roar, and I wished to remind you of simpler times, before the world felt so uncertain.

I have soaked these papers in the oils I apply to my hair and skin. Perhaps a silly indulgence to some, but I thought perhaps it might bring you some comfort, a memory of home in the coldness of that dreadful castle.

The maesters say the chill has caught my chest, though it has for many here. You must not worry, I assure you it is nothing more than the season’s cruel bite. I have taken my draughts and kept warm as you would wish me to, though the days feel colder without you here to hold me.

I hope this letter finds you well. Write to me when you can, even if it is but a few lines. Your words are a light in these dark times, and I cling to them more than I dare admit.

I hope you campaigns in the Riverlands fare well. Remember you are my husband first, not a shadow of war or duty. Please do not forget or lose grip on the man I fell in love with.

Yours Forever,

Your Loving Wife

- - - - 130

The quill trembles in my hand as I write. Ink smears before I can make sense of my thoughts. This entry will be illegible by morning, I am certain. It makes no sense— how could it? Dreams are madness.

Alys.

Alys.

Her belly was swollen, a grotesque curve rounded with child, one of my blood. Not hers. Not hers! I could not look at her without feeling bile in my throat, the heat of shame.

And then my wife.

My wife!

She was there, crumpling to the ground, her grief splitting the air like a storm. Her screams. Gods, her screams. I have never heard her voice raised in such a way, never seen her face contorted with such anguish.

I wanted to go to her, to explain, but I could not move. My feet were rooted, and the air was thick, choking me. She looked at me, her eyes wide with betrayal, and I felt myself drowning in them. No. Not in them.

In water.

My lungs burned. My limbs thrashed. The surface was a distant shimmer, unreachable. I could hear her still, even beneath the water, her screams warped and muffled, but no less devastating.

I woke gasping, clawing at the air as if I could still feel the water pulling me under.

What does it mean? What does it mean?

Harrenhal speaks as if it has a clawing, fearsome mouth.

Kinslayer. Usurper. Liar. Monster.

I am all and none. All and none.

The water, surely it does not drown me, it must cleanse me.

But it cannot. Nothing can. Nothing will.

My Dearest Aemond,

I write to you from my bed, as I have found myself unable to rise for much of late. The maesters are vigilant, though they assure me there is no cause for alarm and that I should not tire myself by writing. They say it is only the season and my own weakness conspiring against me. I do not tell them how I feel the cold seep deeper with each passing day, but I tell you, my husband, because I know you will not dismiss my words so lightly.

News of the battle at the Lakeshore has reached even here. The servants whisper of it, though I hear only fragments. There seems to be a changing of guards here at the Keep, but I do not leave my chambers, so I cannot see why. Are you well? Please tell me you are. It has been too long since I last heard from you, and I cannot help but worry. You are so far away, in such a dangerous place, and the weight of it lies heavy upon my chest.

I would not ask this of you if I thought it selfish, but please, write to me. Even a single line would be enough to still my restless heart.

Take care of yourself, my love. Remember that you are not alone in this, no matter how distant we may seem. You are mine, as I am yours, and nothing, not war, not duty, not even death, can change that.

All My Love,

Your Wife

My Loving Husband,

Why have you not written? Why do you leave me in this silence? The days are long without word from you, and the nights are even longer. I wait, and I wonder, and I worry. Is it so hard to take up your quill? Is it so hard to tell me that you are well?

Please, my love, do not let this silence stretch any longer. Tell me you are safe. Tell me you are whole. Tell me anything, for I am desperate for the sound of your voice, even if it must come to me through ink and paper.

Do you think of me, Aemond? Do you think of the nights we spent in each other’s arms? Do you think of the flowers I left for you, the words I whispered when the world felt less cruel? I hope you do. I hope you remember.

I have tried to be strong, for you, for us, but I am alas not as much as you. Please, my love, do not leave me to this silence any longer. Write to me. Ease my heart. I apologise for my heavy emotions, the ink smudges because of my shaky hands, and they are not as steady as they once were. Do not think poorly of me for it.

I fear I am beginning to lose my sense of time. Did I already tell you the maesters say I will recover? Forgive me if I repeat myself. My thoughts seem to wander, but they always find their way back to you.

I love you, Aemond. It hurts more than breathing. Please let me hear from you.

Yours, always and forever.

Your Loyal Wife

My Beloved Wife,

I read every stroke of your ink like a blade to my chest, not because they wound me so, but because I imagine your voice. Reminding me what I have left behind.

Do you know, my love, how much I miss you? How much I miss the feel of your hands on me, grounding me when the storms inside threaten to consume me?

Do not lose hope, for I cling to it still. If you cannot feel my arms around you, know that my soul reaches for you, across all the miles that separate us. Hold fast, my love, until I can come back to you.

Do not think poorly of your emotions, nor of your trembling hands. They have always been steady enough to hold me, to steady my own restless soul.

I do not deserve you, my delicate flower. But I am yours, wholly and utterly. I will write to you again soon, I swear it. I will not leave you in silence again.

Please, take heart, as I try to do. Remember that I love you, more than I have ever been able to say.

Yours, now and always,

Aemond

My Dearest, dearest Aemond,

Do you remember our first days as husband and wife? How cold you seemed, how distant? I used to think you disliked me, perhaps even resented me for my frailty. I was so small and scared then, unsure of my place in your life, in your heart.

But I see now what I could not see then. You are a man of storms, my love, and I was too weak to weather them. Yet, even storms have their moments of calm, and it was in those moments I found the man I have come to love more than life itself.

I do not know if this letter reaches you, nor if I have the strength to write another. But I need you to know, that I am wholly, and truly, yours. Now and always.

Please, remember me kindly.

Forever,

Your Loving Wife

My love,

It has been too long since I last wrote to you. For that I am sorry. I did not mean to worry you.

Truthfully I have left Harrenhal behind, trawling the Riverlands to those loyal to my sister still, even now. I head towards a confrontation I cannot avoid. Daemon wants his fight, and as much as I would like to be by your side, this challenge cannot be ignored. He is a fool if he thinks he can stand against me, but I must prove it nonetheless.

Once that is done, I swear to you, I will return to your side. This madness, this war, it has taken too much from us both. I long for the peace of your presence, the quiet of our chambers, where only you and I exist in our own world.

I do not know what awaits me when I return. I do not know what has become of you, though I hope you are well. Please know that, despite the distance and the bloodshed, you are always in my heart.

I will write again as soon as I can. Stay strong, my love. Wait for me.

I am yours,

Aemond

My love,

I await your reply like a lovesick child.

I fear the worst with each passing day, each hour that I do not hear your voice. Have I lost you? Is the cold consuming you, or have you fallen into silence for some other reason I cannot fathom? Please, I beg of you, send me word. Let me know that you are still waiting for me.

I have prepared myself to face Daemon, though I care little for the confrontation. His challenge has become a matter of necessity, but I cannot shake the thought of you, fragile and alone, while I am here, so far away. I would rather be by your side, taking care of you, than facing that traitor. But I have no choice now.

I am desperate, my love. A few lines in your gentle hand would give me the strength of a thousand men. Without you, what am I but a man trawling this desolate, darkened land, lost forever without your light to guide my way.

Please do write. My cherished flower.

Aemond

My darling wife,

I woke to a raven today. The words written within it seemed impossible, a cruelty that no man should have to face. It tells me of your passing, of your death.

But I refuse to believe it. I cannot.

You are not gone. I would have felt you, felt your soul leave this realm. I would have felt the Stranger take you from me, and yet, there is only the emptiness. The cold distance that stretches between us, yes, but not your absence. Not truly.

Were such a thing to happen, my love, I would have felt a pain so deep in my chest, I would have cried out. I would have howled until my throat bled. You are too vital to me for your death to be a mere whisper in the wind. No, this cannot be real.

Do not let the maesters fill my mind with their lies. Do not weaken the fragile hope I cling to, the only thread keeping me tethered to this world. Please, I beg of you, let me hold onto the belief that you are still waiting for me. That when I return, I will find you where you belong, by my side.

I will nourish you, body and soul, as I should have from the very beginning. For I do not believe that the distance, the war, the bloodshed, it has not been enough to sever the bond we share. When I come to you, I will fix what I have broken in myself, and I will fix what has withered between us.

This war has broken me, my love. I have witnessed too much, done too much, and it has hollowed me out in ways I cannot even express. But you, you always knew how to heal. Your touch, gentle, sure could mend what no one else could. And so, I beg you, when I return, lay your hands upon me. 

Fix me. 

Make me whole again. It has been so long since I have felt so. Without your touch, your voice.

I will come for you.

Forever Yours,

Aemond 

21st day of the 5th moon, 130

The winds howl so loudly now. 

They sing on the eve of what may be my last. Daemon is here and he waits for me. One of us must fall, though I have reassured my wife that it shall not be me.

I write this now because I do not know if I will have another chance. If the Stranger comes for me, I will not meet him with words left unsaid.

To my mother. You were the first to see me, even before I knew myself. When I was a boy without a dragon, I ran to you, tears staining my face, and you held me as though that could mend what I lacked. The day I lost my eye, the boy you nurtured was forced to become a man. A bitter man. Perhaps I lost more than my eye that day. Perhaps I lost the better parts of myself. If I am to die tomorrow, know that I never blamed you for showing your love to me the way you did, and though I may not have shown it, I am grateful.

My sister. Sweet sister, I am sorry. Sorry for your grief, sorry for your pain, sorry for all the ways I could not protect you from this cruel world. You deserved peace, and all you have been given is sorrow. I hope that, in another life, I might have been a better brother to you. I hope you will forgive me for failing you.

Aegon. Brother, I have resented you for much of my life. Perhaps it was jealousy, perhaps it was anger, perhaps it was something I will never fully understand. But you are my brother, my blood, and for all our differences, I have never wished you harm. Not truly. If I do not return, lead this realm as you see fit, but know that power is a fleeting thing. Do not let it consume you as it has consumed me.

To my wife, my delicate flower, if you ever read this: forgive me. Forgive the times I was cold, the times I let my anger and pride obscure my love for you. Forgive my silence, my absences, my failures to be the husband you deserved.

I see you even now, though miles lie between us. I see your smile, rare but radiant. I hear your voice, soft but sure. I feel your touch, delicate but anchoring. You made me feel whole, even when I thought I was nothing but a shattered thing.

Daemon may take my life tomorrow, but he cannot take what I carry with me, the memory of you, the warmth of you, the love you gave me even when I did not deserve it. That is mine, and mine alone.

If the Stranger does not take me, I will come back to you. I will hold you, care for you, and let the world crumble as long as I have you. But if I do not return, know this. 

I loved you. 

With all that I am, with all that I ever was, I loved you.

The winds howl louder now. Perhaps it is time I let them carry me. And if it is to be so, take me to her.

[lizzyiii]

Hey girl hey. Hope you are still alive and life is treating you well. Just checking in.

you're so sweet for this omg. so ive graduated from high school, have this whole summer, but I can't really enjoy it since a broke girl's got to work. got my very first job and it's sooo draining, but I've got to get that bag

Sevenmas

pairing | aemond x wife!reader

word count | 9.2k words

summary | amid the haunting ruins of harrenhal, aemond's pregnant wife senses the looming threat of alys rivers, a witch whose presence fuels her nightmares and aemond's growing distance.

determined to protect her husband and unborn child, she delves into the secrets of warding magic, reclaiming her bond with aemond as she invites him back into her bed and vows to stand against the witch’s dark influence.

tags | 18+ (MDNI), smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, pregnancy, magic, fluff, soft aemond, hubby aemond

a/n | it's summer, the heat is evident, yet I've only been at work or home. I needdd to leave my house!

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

My Dearest Babe,

It has been a full moon since your father and I arrived at these dreary halls of Harrenhal. It is bleak here, cold and damp, and the walls seem to hold the whispers of the dead.

I have not known a single night’s rest since we set foot in this cursed place. My sleep grew all the more restless when your father saw fit to move me into a separate chamber.

Harrenhal weighs heavily upon him. It has changed him in ways I cannot yet understand. He walks the halls as if hunted, and I see the shadows of his unrest in his eyes.

Each night, his dreams twist into dark things—visions that wrench him from sleep, leaving him gasping as though clawing his way back to wakefulness. He grows ever more volatile, as if the very stones of Harrenhal press upon his mind, threatening to drive him to madness.

One night, he woke from a nightmare so violent, I feared for him. I reached out to calm him, but he struck out, not knowing it was I. I do not hold it against him—he was deep within whatever horror plagued him.

But he looked upon the bruise on my wrist with such anguish, fearing for my health and yours. It was then he resolved to put me in another room, to shield us both from his torments.

Yet, my sleep has only worsened since he made this change. This keep holds no comfort, only shadows and sighs, and I feel that something - someone - wicked watches us, waiting.

The sixth day of Sevenmas dawned in Harrenhal, a day to honor the Crone, she who carried the lantern of wisdom and foresight. How you longed for that guidance now, caught in the maze of cold stone walls and shadows that seemed to stretch into eternity.

The ancient keep, with its crumbling towers and halls seeped in ghosts of past horrors, gnawed at your spirit with every passing hour.

The days bled together, each as gray and listless as the last. Time itself felt suspended, and there was little to fill it but your prayers to the Seven and the slow, meticulous pull of thread and needle.

Embroidery was meant to calm the mind, but here it became another way for your thoughts to spiral into dark corners. How could you not let them when the halls echoed with whispers not your own and the air felt thick, laden with something unseen yet suffocating?

Your husband, Aemond, the prince with a fire in his blood and the shadow of the conqueror in his step, had become a stranger cloaked in duty.

Since Rhaenyra had laid siege to King's Landing, his days were consumed with strategy, flame-bright eyes scanning maps and murmuring with commanders until dawn kissed the horizon.

You would catch glimpses of him, his presence fierce and distant, a sword poised to strike. And still, there was one tether left—he would always return to break his fast with you, no matter the hour, as if the morning meal was a sacred pact he refused to break.

This shared ritual was a brief light in the gloom, a moment where his brow would smooth, and he would offer a small nod, as if to say, I am still here.

Yet even then, the weight of Harrenhal seemed to press upon him, creasing the corner of his eye and stealing the little warmth from his voice.

You wished for the strength of the Crone’s wisdom, to find words that could soothe whatever haunted him, whatever pulled him into those long, silent stretches where he barely met your gaze.

And so, with the sun’s first pale rays stretching over the stone battlements, you whispered a prayer to the Crone. Let me see what he cannot. Let me guard us in ways unseen.

There was another shadow cast over your time at Harrenhal, one that gnawed at your peace like a hound at a bone. Within the first week of your arrival, an attempt on Aemond’s life had been made, a sloppy affair that left more questions than answers.

Yet the mere notion of betrayal and blood sharpened Aemond’s already fierce nature into something perilously close to madness.

In his rage and paranoia, he swept through Harrenhal like a storm, burning and executing every male Strong—lords and bastards alike, sparing none.

The aftermath left the keep haunted by its own silence, populated mostly by women and children who dared not cross his path. Yet among the survivors, there was one who set your skin crawling like no other: Alys Rivers, the bastard daughter of Lionel Strong.

Her gaze, dark and knowing, seemed to pierce through you whenever it drifted your way. The keep’s old women, those who lingered in the kitchens and halls, were full of whispers, speaking in hushed tones about Alys and the tales that clung to her like a shroud.

They claimed she was a wet nurse with no babes of her own, that her cradle stayed empty because she offered her children to dark gods, drawing power from their sacrifices.

The word witch passed between toothless mouths with reverence and fear, a name that conjured images of blood and whispered spells in the dead of night.

You would catch Alys watching Aemond from the shadowed corners of the great hall, her green eyes glistening like the polished scales of a serpent.

There was something about the way she looked at him, a gaze that lingered too long, with a subtle curl to her lips that suggested she saw beyond what others did. Each time, a cold knot formed in your stomach, winding tighter with each day.

Aemond, for his part, seemed oblivious—or perhaps unwilling—to acknowledge her attention. He stalked the halls of Harrenhal like a restless dragon, his eyes always aflame with thoughts of war and vengeance.

But you, kept to the fringes and left with little to occupy your time, had learned to listen. You had overheard more than once the old wives’ tales, how the stones of Harrenhal bore witness to strange sights in the dark of night.

The morning light struggled to filter through the narrow, soot-streaked windows of Harrenhal’s great hall, casting long, somber shadows across the cold stone floor.

You sat at the grand table, an expanse of dark oak that seemed almost too vast with just the two of you seated at its head.

The hall’s emptiness swallowed the small noises of clinking silver and the rustle of fabric, leaving only the low crackle of a distant fire to break the silence.

You glanced at Aemond, his face severe and sharp as ever, eyes narrowed and distant as he picked at the bread before him. His hair, pale as moonlight, spilled over his shoulders, catching the dim glow of morning like polished silver.

You traced the line of his jaw with your gaze, noting the tautness there, the slight twitch that spoke of restless thoughts.

In truth, you did not know this man well—your husband, your prince, and yet a stranger in so many ways.

It had only been moons since you first met, and within days, the marriage vows were spoken, the ink on the alliance barely dry before you found yourself bound to him in name and in fate.

Your father’s fleet had been your dowry, a formidable power that the Greens could not afford to spurn. You understood your role, the politics and power that tethered you to Aemond, but understanding him was another matter entirely.

His silences were as deep and dark as the Blackwater, and he carried an anger that smoldered beneath his skin, an unquenchable flame that whispered of vengeance and old wounds.

But despite the cold armor of his demeanor, Aemond had never raised his voice nor his hand to you. He moved with a kind of carefulness in your presence, a restraint that bordered on gentleness.

He treated you with a respect that was rare among men of power, where wives were often little more than pawns on a board.

And though it was likely due to the child you carried beneath your heart, it kindled a small warmth within you to think that he had not left you behind when he marched to Harrenhal.

Instead, he had commanded that you come with him, a choice that puzzled you even as it comforted you.

Harrenhal was a desolate place, steeped in old, cracked stone and a history that groaned beneath every step. You despised it, with its drafty halls and the air that always seemed to taste of ashes.

Yet sitting here, across from Aemond as the thin light etched sharp lines across his face, you felt a reluctant flicker of gratitude.

The silence between you was not companionable, but it was not cruel either. It was a space where the two of you existed, tethered by duty and an unspoken understanding.

Your gaze lifted from your untouched plate to meet his. “You barely ate anything,” you ventured softly, the words almost swallowed by the great hall’s vastness.

Aemond’s eye flickered to you, just a moment of acknowledgment, before drifting back to the distant, unfocused point beyond the hall’s great hearth. “I have much on my mind,” he replied, his voice low and guarded, as always.

You lowered your gaze, the golden glint of your cup catching the flicker of the fire as you turned it in your hands. “Today is the day of the Crone,” you murmured, the soft words drifting into the vast emptiness of the hall.

Aemond’s eye settled on you again, this time with a sharper intensity, as if he were trying to read the thoughts that played behind your eyes. The violet of his gaze, stark and unyielding, seemed to see through flesh and bone.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks but pushed on, lifting your head with a tentative, almost sheepish smile.

“I have been holding small celebratory suppers in my chambers for each of the Seven,” you said, the words trembling on the cusp of hope. “Perhaps you would join me tonight?”

Aemond’s expression remained inscrutable, carved from the same marble as the gods whose names you spoke. He was silent, his lips pressed into a thin line as he measured the request. You held your breath, bracing for the sting of rejection, but after a moment, he inclined his head with a slow, deliberate nod.

“I shall see if I am free to attend later, wife,” he replied, each syllable precise, as if spoken under a watchful eye.

A smile unfurled across your face, a small, fragile bloom that brightened the somber air. You nodded, your gratitude silent but deeply felt, and returned your attention to the meal before you.

The hall fell back into its familiar hush, but the silence seemed gentler, softened by the promise—no matter how uncertain—that he might sit with you as the evening drew near.

Throughout the day, you moved with a purpose that had been absent for some time. Excitement flickered within you, casting a rare warmth over the bleakness of Harrenhal’s cold stone walls.

You spent more time preparing yourself than you had in weeks, choosing a gown of deep violet, the color rich and regal, one you knew would match Aemond’s eye.

Your hands worked carefully as you braided your hair, fingers weaving strands with practiced precision. You wound the braids into a half-up style, securing them with thin silver pins, and threaded small pearls between the coils, their soft luster catching the waning light that seeped through the chamber’s narrow window slits.

As the sun dipped lower, you prepared the chamber for supper, eager to cast away the dreariness of Harrenhal’s stone embrace. The table, though small, was set with care.

You placed a modest arrangement of primroses at its center, their pale petals lending a touch of softness to the somber room.

Candles, thick and tapered, were placed with a meticulous eye, their wicks waiting to be lit and offer a warm glow that would banish the shadows lurking in the corners.

Tonight was meant to honor the Crone, a day of wisdom and reflection, yet you could not help but hope for something more—a chance to share a moment, however fleeting, with the man you called husband.

The hours had been long since you’d known any touch of intimacy, any whisper of companionship. The prospect of Aemond joining you, even for a brief supper, was enough to make your heart beat with anticipation.

Time stretched on, heavy and unyielding, as you sat alone at the small table in your chambers, a solitary figure in a room filled with muted light. The food before you, once steaming and fragrant, had grown cold, the sheen of oil on the meats congealing in the chill air.

The candles you had lit earlier had burned down to stubs, their light dwindling as shadows crept up the walls.

The fire in the hearth, once crackling with warmth, had reduced itself to a bed of glowing embers, the last vestiges of heat sputtering as they surrendered to the draft that snaked through the stones.

Your heart, which had quickened with hope earlier in the day, now felt leaden with disappointment. The silence pressed in around you, each passing moment a reminder that Aemond would not come. The anticipation that had kept your spirits aloft now left a hollow ache in its absence.

Pushing your untouched plate away, you rose from the table, your movements deliberate as anger stirred in your chest. It was not the hot, reckless kind, but the slow-burning indignation that came when expectation was met with silence.

You wrapped your cloak around your shoulders and slipped into the dim corridor, determined to find him, to seek an answer rather than stew in this quiet, stinging rejection.

Harrenhal’s halls were a maze of stone and shadow, empty and vast, with only the sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the cold. The castle held a thousand whispered secrets, and tonight, it seemed eager to keep its prince among them.

You turned corners and climbed staircases, the flicker of dying torches casting your shadow long against the walls, until the familiar paths grew strange and your resolve wavered.

Finally, as you entered a lesser hall that stretched toward a wing of old chambers, you spotted movement—a maidservant carrying linens, her head bent as if afraid to be seen. Relief mixed with frustration as you quickened your step.

“Excuse me,” you called out, your voice sharper than intended.

The servant started, nearly dropping her burden before bowing her head hastily, eyes fixed to the floor. It was a common sight in Harrenhal, the way they kept their gaze averted in your presence.

Word of your husband’s fierce reputation as Prince Regent and Kinslayer had traveled swiftly, and it seemed they feared that to slight you was to invite his wrath upon them.

With a lifted chin and a tone that brooked no disobedience, you asked, “Where is my husband?”

Before the maid could stammer out an answer, another voice cut through the dim hallway—a voice that chilled the blood in your veins and haunted your sleep with its whispers.

“I fear the prince is still occupied in the council chamber, my lady,” said Alys Rivers, her tone smooth and deceptively courteous, like the edge of a blade.

You turned slowly, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, but a knowing smirk pulled at her lips as she regarded you, taking in the sight of your tense shoulders, the protective way your hand drifted instinctively to your rounded stomach.

There was no warmth in her expression, only the sly amusement of a cat toying with a bird that dared to stray too far from its nest.

Your nostrils flared, and you straightened your back, eyes narrowing as you corrected her in a low, simmering murmur, “Princess.”

Alys tilted her head, feigning surprise, though her eyes betrayed nothing but a cold mirth. “Pardon me,” she said, her gaze sliding deliberately to your abdomen before flicking back up to meet yours, daring you to react.

“I am not your lady,” you hissed, “I am your princess.”

With a final, steely glare, you turned on your heel, the folds of your violet gown sweeping the floor as you made your way back through the shadowed hallways, heart pounding beneath your ribs.

The silence of Harrenhal enveloped you once more, and you did not pause until you reached the safety of your chambers, locking the door behind you and pressing your back against the cool, unyielding wood.

The echo of Alys’s smirk lingered in your mind, but you would not let her see your fear. Not tonight. Not ever.

A scream ripped from your throat, raw and primal, as the pain surged through you, tearing its way up your spine and scattering your senses. It felt as though your very body was being split apart, the agony sharper and deeper than any blade.

“Keep pushing, my princess; the babe is almost here,” urged the midwife, her voice steady but relentless.

You clenched your jaw, wanting to curse her, to scream at her to hold her tongue, but the pain stole all words from you, leaving you breathless and shaking.

It was a torment that came in relentless waves, each cresting higher than the last, only to drag you under when you thought you could surface for air. The burning, the stretching—unbearable, blinding.

“I cannot,” you sobbed, tears mingling with the sweat that drenched your brow. “Please… I can't,” you pleaded, your voice broken and desperate.

The pain surged again, stealing the air from your lungs, and then you felt it—a firm, familiar hand pressed gently to your cheek. Through the haze of pain, you turned your head, and your vision cleared just enough to see the sharp lines of Aemond’s face.

His single violet eye was intent, fierce, a rare expression of vulnerability breaking through his stoic mask. Relief, so profound it was nearly painful, swelled in your chest.

“Aemond,” you gasped, his name a lifeline, an anchor in the storm.

Husbands were not meant to be present for the birth, tradition forbade it. But he was there, and you did not care for any rule or rite that would keep him away.

“Just a few more pushes, my love,” he murmured, his voice low, a thread of steel woven through the gentleness.

You nodded weakly, mustering what remained of your strength. A deep groan escaped you as you pushed once more, the room spinning around you. The midwife’s voice rose above the roaring in your ears.

“The babe is crowning, my lady.”

But the tone was wrong. Too familiar, too cold. Alarm jolted you to consciousness, and you struggled to prop yourself on trembling elbows. Your eyes darted to the space at the foot of the birthing bed, and dread coiled tight in your gut.

There, in the dim light of the chamber, knelt Alys Rivers. Her dark hair framed eyes as green and sharp as glass, eyes that glimmered with a knowing, malevolent gleam. A smile curled at the corners of her lips as she met your gaze.

“No, no!” you screamed, panic twisting your voice. “Get away from me!”

With a surge of fear-driven strength, you tried to kick her away, your limbs thrashing wildly, but Aemond’s hands clamped down on you, firm and unyielding. “Calm yourself,” he commanded, his voice cool, steady as stone.

Alys turned her gaze up to him, a shadow of mock sympathy curving her lips. “You must choose, my prince,” she intoned, each word dripping with false solemnity. “The babe, or your wife.”

A sob wrenched from your chest as you felt your breath come in sharp, shallow gasps. “No. No!” The pain was drowned beneath the torrent of fear that flooded you.

Desperately, you looked up at Aemond, seeking the warmth, the fierce protection that once resided in his eye. But what you found was a gaze distant and unreadable, as though he stood apart, watching from some cold, unreachable place. His jaw tightened. “Save the babe.”

Time seemed to fracture around you. His words, so final, crashed over you like a wave of ice. Your eyes widened, disbelieving, as rough handmaids or shadows, you could not tell—pressed you back, holding you firm as you struggled.

“Let me go! Let me go!” you screamed, your voice raw with betrayal and terror, limbs straining against the iron grip that pinned you.

Pain cleaved through you, and you felt the weight of the babe shift within. But your focus broke as Alys moved, no longer at the foot of the bed but gliding closer, the flicker of torchlight catching on the edge of a cruel, glinting blade.

The chamber seemed to darken around her, the faint cries of the midwives fading into an ominous silence. And all you could see were those green eyes, bearing down on you like a curse whispered in the dark.

You jolted upright, heart pounding and breath ragged, the remnants of your nightmare clinging to your skin like a shroud. A trembling hand reached up to brush the tears from your cheeks, the dampness proof of the terror that had gripped you in sleep.

Your eyes drifted down, catching the soft curve of your swollen belly under the covers, rising and falling with your shallow breaths. A shaky sigh escaped your lips, a bitter mix of relief and unease.

The babe was still safe within you—at least for now. You pressed your palm over it, as if to reassure yourself of its presence.

Beyond the thin light filtering through the shuttered window, the sky remained cloaked in the indigo of night.

The stillness told you it was not yet dawn, that liminal time when dreams and waking often blurred. But sleep would not find you again; not after that vision, nor for many nights to come, you were sure.

The memory of Aemond's cold, detached gaze as he spoke words that sealed your fate in your dream clung to you. It pierced deeper than any blade, a wound festering with fear and doubt.

Yet you forced yourself to swallow the sharp sting of betrayal, directing your thoughts toward another source of your unease—Alys Rivers.

The whispers, the eyes that followed, the dark air that seemed to shift when she was near. Your fears, your husband’s torment, the sense of something wicked gnawing at Harrenhal’s bones—it all traced back to her.

Resolve steeled your spine. You pushed back the covers and rose, the weight of your pregnancy making the motion slower, more deliberate.

Wrapping yourself in a heavy fur cloak, you reached for the candelabra on the nightstand. Its small flame sputtered in protest before catching steady, casting long shadows that danced upon the walls.

The corridors of Harrenhal, once alive with whispered conversations and the hurried footfalls of servants, now loomed around you in cold, watchful silence. The draft that crept through the ancient stones nipped at your cheeks and sent a shiver down your spine.

Clutching the fur tighter against your body, you moved forward, the warm light in your grasp flickering as it met the draft.

The silence was thick, broken only by the soft rustle of your cloak and the creak of old floorboards beneath your weight.

At last, you reached the great doors of the library, their dark wood carved with sigils long forgotten and gnarled from centuries of use. Setting the candelabra down, you pushed against one of the doors, muscles straining with the effort.

It groaned open, the sound reverberating through the stillness and sending a cold gust rushing past you. Picking up the candelabra, you stepped inside and let the heavy door drift shut behind you with a thud.

The scent of old parchment and dust surrounded you, familiar and oddly comforting. Shelves stretched high, towering sentinels filled with the stories of old and the wisdom of those long gone.

On other nights, you would have lost yourself in the tales that wove through these tomes—myths and sagas that spoke of courage and triumph. But tonight, solace was not what you sought.

You moved through the rows with purpose, eyes scanning the spines until they found those few volumes that hinted at the arcane.

The lore of witches, their dark arts, the means by which they could twist men’s dreams and cloud their minds—it all lay within reach, hidden among dusty pages that no one dared speak of.

You placed the candelabra down, its light casting a golden glow that flickered across the cracked leather and faded titles.

With trembling hands, you opened the first book, its binding stiff with age. The parchment crackled as you turned the pages, your eyes drinking in the inked words.

If there was any way to guard yourself, to protect Aemond from the shadows that had seeped into your lives, you would find it here. No longer would you be haunted by that witch’s knowing gaze or the dread that coiled tight in your belly.

With each turn of the page, the flickering glow of the candelabra cast dancing shapes upon the stone walls, warding off the chill that seeped through Harrenhal’s blackened stones.

The words spoke of charms and tokens, of age-old rituals whispered by the smallfolk who feared the unseen.

Marking doors with protective sigils or crosses to ward off malevolent forces. The purifying strength of salt, said to bar dark spirits and their ilk. Rowan wood, revered for its protective properties, best used when tied with crimson thread to seal its potency.

The hours crept by, measured by the slow guttering of candle wax. You read, forgetting the passage of time as the nightmare’s claws loosened their grip on your heart.

Knowledge was your weapon now, and you wielded it with the silent promise that neither you nor Aemond would fall victim to powers unknown.

The day’s first light spilled through the high, narrow windows, a pale and hesitant glow that bled into the room and painted the bookshelves in muted gold.

It was the day of the Stranger, seldom celebrated, yet you paid it no heed. Lost in the pages, you missed the bells that tolled the hour and forgot the warmth of your usual morning meal shared with Aemond.

When at last you closed the final volume, a resolve settled in your chest, resolute and unyielding. You would need these items—symbols of protection—and that meant venturing beyond the castle’s shadowed halls and out into the market.

The fur-lined cloak wrapped snug around you, guarding against the bitter drafts that swept through the corridors as you made your way back to your chambers.

As you reached the windows, a rare sight unfolded before your eyes—snow, soft and unrelenting, blanketing the bleak spires of Harrenhal.

Snow was a rarity in King’s Landing, seldom seen during your girlhood there. For a moment, untouched by fear or doubt, you felt the stir of childish wonder rise within you.

Three knights of the Kingsguard, their white cloaks pristine even in the snow, flanked you as you ventured to the market. The square bustled despite the cold, vendors calling out their wares with voices hoarse from the chill. Your list of protective items, hastily scrawled in the early hours, guided your every step.

Surprisingly, the rowan wood was easy to find, its branches bundled tightly with red thread as per custom.

Charms of polished crystal and talismans wrought from iron and bronze were procured with little effort, their sellers eager to part with them for a handful of silver stags.

The murmured blessings from the old crones at their stalls made the hair on the back of your neck prickle, but you pressed on, their eyes shadowed with both reverence and suspicion.

By the time the sun began its descent, casting a gilded glow over the snow-draped stones of Harrenhal, your arms were laden with your newfound protections. You returned to your chambers with purpose, setting to work immediately.

With meticulous care, you bound the red thread around the twigs of rowan wood and placed them above each entrance.

Salt, precious and fine, was spread across the thresholds, each grain catching the firelight like scattered stars.

With charcoal from your writing desk, you etched intricate symbols—wards against dark magics—onto the cold, unyielding stone walls.

But it was not just your own safety you sought to secure. For Aemond, you had combed the market for a piece both practical and protective. After much haggling, you procured a leather eyepatch, supple and black, unmarred by wear.

Returning to your chamber, you carefully stitched shards of black tourmaline into its edge, each piece glinting with a subtle, protective gleam. Your needlework was steady, each pull of the thread imbued with silent prayers.

Lost in your task, you barely noted the soft knock at your door or the maidservant who entered, setting a tray of supper on the table near the hearth.

The aroma of roasted fowl and warm bread wafted through the chamber, but your focus remained fixed.

As you worked by the fire's glow, the shadows that had haunted your waking hours seemed to lessen, replaced by the steady rhythm of thread and needle, and the quiet resolve that this time, you would be ready.

You were so absorbed in your needlework, fingers deftly stitching the dark crystals onto a supple leather patch, that the sudden clearing of a throat startled you. Your gaze snapped up, eyes wide with surprise as they met the cool, familiar face of Aemond Targaryen.

“Husband,” you said, breathless as you hastily hid the finished eye patch beneath a velvet pillow. Rising to your feet, you inclined your head, though your heart thudded with residual tension.

He stood tall and imposing in the dim glow, the silver-white of his hair catching the light like a crown. For a moment, the room felt smaller, as if the walls themselves pressed in with the weight of his presence.

“What brings you here?” you asked, voice touched with confusion and a hint of sharpness. Exhaustion dulled your sense of propriety, leaving the question more pointed than intended.

Aemond’s lone violet eye narrowed, an unreadable glimmer within its depths. “To have supper with you,” he replied, as if such a thing were the most natural answer in the realm.

Your eyes flickered to the table, where two silver plates now sat, the steam rising lazily from the dishes set by the silent servant moments before.

You pressed your lips into a thin line and sighed, murmuring, “I believe my invitation was for yesterday.”

A shadow of regret crossed his face, so brief that another might have missed it, but you saw. As you moved past him to take your seat, you caught the soft murmur that slipped from his lips, “I deserved that.”

Aemond followed and took his place across from you, the creak of the chair echoing in the quiet chamber. For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearthfire. His gaze settled on you, sharp and searching.

“I have not seen you at all today,” he said at last, the words carrying a hint of something that might have been longing, tempered by pride.

Your eyes dropped to your hands, fingers fiddling absently with the edge of your gown. Remorse pricked at your heart—you had broken your shared morning ritual, the one part of the day reserved just for the two of you.

“I was very busy,” you replied softly, the excuse feeling thin on your tongue.

Aemond’s expression remained unreadable as he tilted his head slightly. “I heard. Visits to the market square,” he said.

You hesitated, holding back the details of the charms, the salt, the ancient warding sigils you had traced with trembling hands. He would only deem you foolish or worse, mad.

“I needed fresh air.”

His eye narrowed, a flicker of displeasure passing over his sharp features. “It is too dangerous for one in your condition to wander beyond these walls,” he said, the admonishment clear, though his tone held an undercurrent of concern.

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with defiance. “That is why I took three of your White Cloaks,” you retorted, the fire in your voice matching the spark in his eye.

For a heartbeat, the tension crackled between you, the weight of unsaid words pressing down like a heavy cloak. Then, Aemond’s lips quirked, almost imperceptibly, as if some silent battle had been waged and resolved within him.

“Good,” he said at last, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “You are no fool, wife.”

The tautness in the room eased, and though unspoken, an accord was reached.

Aemond leaned forward, and placed a carved wooden box on the table between you. “I’ve brought you something,” he said, his voice a measured calm, yet there was an undercurrent of something softer. “An apology for last night.”

Your brows knit together, skepticism clear in your eyes. “My forgiveness cannot be bought with trinkets, husband,” you said, your tone edged with defiance. Yet even as you spoke, curiosity stirred within you.

One of his silver brows arched at your remark, and a small smile ghosted his lips. “Let us see if it is worthy,” you murmured, reluctant to give ground but unable to hide the intrigue that tugged at you.

With a careful hand, Aemond lifted the lid of the box, revealing a necklace of silver and sapphire. The deep blue stone glimmered like the sea under moonlight, capturing the room’s faint candle glow.

Your breath stilled for a moment, eyes tracing the intricate work of the silver links, each carved to mimic dragon scales.

Your fingertips brushed over the gem, the cool surface grounding you as warmth bloomed in your chest. Unbidden, a soft smile tugged at your lips, an expression so rare that even you felt its presence.

“Thank you, husband,” you whispered, your voice softened by genuine gratitude.

Aemond’s face shifted, pride flickering across his sharp features. There was something triumphant in his half-smirk that you could not allow him to savor unchallenged. You rose from your seat, skirts rustling as you moved.

“I, too, have a gift for you,” you said, your tone now light with a note of playfulness.

“Oh?” he replied, one silver eyebrow lifting in surprise, though the glint in his lone violet eye revealed his interest.

“Mm,” you hummed, stepping to the chaise where a small cushion lay. Your fingers slipped beneath it, retrieving the item hidden there. Turning back to him, a touch of shyness colored your expression, a rare sight that softened the lines of your face.

With both hands, you presented him with an eye patch, the black leather supple and embroidered with fine strands of broken tourmaline crystals, catching the dim light with a subtle shimmer.

Aemond took it, surprise giving way to careful scrutiny. His fingers traced the delicate work, the weight of the crystals and their arrangement thoughtful.

“Black tourmaline,” you said quietly, watching his gaze flick between you and the patch. “It is said to have powerful protective qualities.”

You hesitated, unwilling to speak of how it was also believed to ward against dark energies and unseen dangers—of how it might shield him from threats both known and hidden.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words. Aemond’s mouth quirked into a faint smile, rare and genuine. “Thank you, wife. 'Tis a very thoughtful gift,” he said, voice low and sincere.

A moment passed, and you froze in silent shock as Aemond reached up to remove the eye patch he wore. Of course, you had seen what lay beneath—the striking sapphire set into the hollow of his missing eye—but Aemond was never keen on showing it.

In King’s Landing, he would only take it off moments before sleep and replace it the moment he awoke.

Before he could put on the new eye patch, you placed a hand over his arm. “You know you don’t have to wear it around me, yes? I have no issue with it, and you should not either.”

Aemond stared at you for a long moment, his nostrils flaring slightly. For a heartbeat, you feared you had overstepped, but then he nodded, leaving both eye patches on the table.

A small, victorious smile touched your lips as you felt the weight of this unspoken understanding between you. “Allow me to have the maids bring us some dessert,” you said, the tension lifting.

Aemond nodded, his gaze lingering on you as you turned to the doors.

Stepping into the corridor, you quickly found a maid and requested something sweet to be brought to your chambers. When you returned, your heart faltered at the sight before you. Aemond stood at your desk, his tall frame hunched slightly as he leaned over an open book—your journal.

Panic surged within you, and you strode forward, slamming the book shut with a sharp motion. “What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice sharper than intended, eyes wide with both shock and alarm.

Aemond straightened, holding the closed journal in his hand. His expression was unreadable, though his eye bore into you with quiet intensity. “What is this?” he asked evenly, tilting the book slightly for emphasis.

“My private journal,” you answered quickly, reaching for it, but he lifted it just out of your grasp, his superior height giving him the advantage. “Give it back, husband. It is mine.”

Aemond’s voice was steady but carried an undertone of something raw, almost fragile. “Then why,” he began, his eye fixed on you, ignoring your protests, “do you write to our babe?” There was an ache in his tone, a depth of emotion he hadn’t yet voiced.

The question caught you unprepared, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your skirts, and your shoulders sagged as you avoided his penetrating gaze. “In case,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips.

“In case of what?” he pressed, his voice low and edged with a demand for understanding.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could uncover your secrets by sheer will. Unable to face him, you closed your eyes and let out a shaky sigh. “In case I’m not there,” you admitted at last, the words barely audible, like a confession carried on the wind.

Aemond’s brows drew together, confusion shadowing his features. “What do you mean if you’re not—” He stopped mid-sentence, his breath catching as realization dawned. The tension in his posture shifted, his shoulders falling ever so slightly. “…There.”

His sharp features softened, a rare vulnerability settling over his face. “Women do survive the childbed,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, as though he feared the weight of his words might shatter you.

“Not every time,” you countered, your tone edged with resignation. “And there’s also… that choice.” Your voice broke on the last word, and you felt the tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire. Then, with a tenderness that made your heart ache, Aemond reached out and cupped your cheek.

His touch was warm, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as he tilted your face toward him, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“There can be more babes,” he said softly, his words a promise etched with fierce determination, “but there is only one you.”

His eye, a storm of violet and sapphire, held yours with such intensity that you felt as though he was laying his very soul bare. A tear escaped and traced down your cheek, but Aemond caught it with his thumb, his touch steady, grounding you in the moment.

“I would not choose otherwise,” he said firmly, the weight of his vow lingering in the air between you. “Not for all the heirs in the realm.”

Your lips trembled as you whispered, “You swear?”

“I swear it,” he replied, his voice low and resolute. “I will not lose my wife.”

The ache in your chest eased slightly, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a shield. You placed your hand over his, pressing it gently against your cheek.

With a soft breath, you tilted your head upward, letting your lips meet his in a gentle caress. The kiss was tender at first, a quiet exchange of affection that carried the weight of your unspoken fears and his unyielding promise.

Aemond responded eagerly, his lips pressing more firmly against yours as his hand slid from your cheek to cradle the nape of your neck.

His other hand found your waist, gripping you firmly as he pulled you closer, as if the mere thought of distance was unbearable. His tongue brushed against your lips, seeking entrance, and you granted it willingly.

As his tongue met yours, the kiss deepened, a slow, fervent dance that sent warmth coursing through your veins. A soft moan escaped your lips, and you felt his grip on your waist tighten in response, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown.

Your hands moved up his chest, tracing the hard planes of muscle beneath his tunic, before curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself.

The world around you faded, leaving only the press of his body against yours, the taste of him on your lips, and the heat that built between you like the fire crackling in the hearth.

When the kiss broke, it was with a reluctance that lingered in the air between you. Your breaths came in shallow pants as you gazed up at him through hooded lashes, the corners of your lips curving into a teasing smile.

“My love,” you purred, your voice sultry and laced with affection, “you’ve left me wanting… again.”

Aemond’s gaze darkened, the stormy hue of his violet eye smoldering with barely restrained desire. “Have I now?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Then it seems I must remedy that, wife.”

You guided his hands lower, to the swell of your belly, then further down to the hem of your nightgown. “Will you show me how much you desire me?” you asked, your voice a sultry whisper. “Make me forget everything but the feel of you inside me...”

A low growl rumbled in Aemond's throat as his hands moved beneath your gown, fingers tracing the curves of your swollen belly before dipping lower to find the damp heat of your core.

“You have no idea how often I dreamt of this,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “Of burying myself deep within you, feeling your walls clench around me...”

With a swift motion, he lifted the hem of your nightgown and pulled it over your head, throwing it aside, revealing your naked form.

His gaze devoured every inch of you, from the full breasts that rose and fell with each ragged breath, to the soft, rounded hips and the glistening folds of your sex.

“Tell me what you want, my queen,” he commanded, his voice husky with desire.

A shiver ran through you at Aemond's bold appraisal, your nipples hardening into tight peaks as his hungry gaze seared your skin. You reached for the fastenings of his breeches, your fingers fumbling with urgency to free his straining erection.

“I want you,” you murmured, your voice low, thick with a desire that lingered like a soft melody in the air. Your eyes never left his, the depth of your longing laid bare in the way your breath hitched.

Aemond’s violet gaze darkened, the flicker of a smirk ghosting his lips. His head tilted ever so slightly, a predator’s grace, as though savoring your words before acting upon them.

You took a step back, your movements slow and deliberate, your footsteps light against the floor as you inched toward the bed. The flicker of the firelight cast a warm glow across the room, the shadows dancing across the carved posts of the bed.

As you reached its edge, you let yourself fall gracefully onto the soft mattress, your body sinking into the luxurious furs and silks. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you gazed at him through lowered lashes, a sly smile curving your lips.

“You beckon me so boldly,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet drawl, the faintest edge of amusement laced within it. “Have a care, wife, for I am not a man to resist such temptation.”

Aemond watched, transfixed, as you sank onto the bed, the mattress creaking under your weight. His cock throbbed in time with his racing heart, the tip already glistening with precum.

He shed his clothes the rest of the way, letting them fall carelessly to the floor as he stalked towards you, muscles rippling with each step. By the time he reached the bed, he was fully erect, his shaft jutting proudly from a nest of silver curls.

Lying beside you, he reached out to cup your breast, thumbing the sensitive peak before leaning in to capture your mouth in another searing kiss.

His free hand trailed over your round stomach, pausing to tease the edge of your slit before delving deeper, fingers probing your slick folds.

“You're so wet for me already.”

You gasped into the kiss as Aemond's fingers found your entrance, your hips bucking instinctively to meet his touch. “Please,” you whimpered, breaking away from his mouth to gaze up at him with pleading eyes. “I need you inside me. Fill me up, make me yours again.”

As if sensing your desperation, Aemond positioned himself between your thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging insistently at your opening. With a deep groan, he thrust forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

You cried out at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure-pain crashed over you. It took a moment for your body to adjust, to relax and welcome the thick length filling you so completely.

Aemond's breath hitched as he bottomed out inside you, your velvety walls gripping him like a vice. For a moment, he simply savored the exquisite sensation, reveling in the tight heat enveloping his throbbing cock.

Then, with a slow, deliberate withdrawal, he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, setting a relentless pace.

The bed frame creaked ominously beneath the force of his thrusts, but Aemond paid it no mind, lost in the primal rhythm of rutting his mate.

“Yes, just like that,” he growled, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. “Take my cock, my queen.”

You wrapped your legs around Aemond's waist, heels digging into his firm behind as he pounded into you with wild abandon.

Each brutal thrust sent shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your veins, your inner walls fluttering wildly around his pistoning shaft.

“Aemond!” You wailed, your nails raking down his back as you met his ferocious pace.

The obscene slap of flesh against flesh filled the room, punctuated by my wanton cries and Aemond's guttural grunts. You could feel the pressure building within you, coiling tighter and tighter like a spring ready to snap.

Suddenly, you were hurtling over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name as your cunt clenched rhythmically around him, milking his cock for all it was worth.

Aemond's eye rolled back in his head as your velvet sheath spasmed around him, your climax triggering his own. With a hoarse groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came undone, his seed erupting in thick, pulsing jets.

He continued to thrust through the aftershocks, prolonging your shared bliss until he was spent, collapsing beside you with a grunt. For a long moment, the two of you lay entwined, chests heaving as you struggled to catch your breath.

The chamber was awash with the warmth of the firelight and the quiet hum of your contentment. As you lay entwined, your bodies barely a breath apart, your gaze lingered on Aemond’s face.

His sharp features, so often hardened by duty and war, were softened now, his violet eye fixed on you with a tenderness rarely seen.

Your noses brushed lightly, a quiet intimacy, as his hand rested possessively over your waist while yours splayed across his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.

Almost as if drawn by a spell, he leaned forward, pressing a feather-light kiss to your lips, a gesture so gentle it felt like a whispered promise. When he pulled away, he settled back onto the pillow beside you, his arm still wrapped protectively around you.

You shifted, nestling closer, your head finding solace in the crook of his neck. Your hand lay over his heart, its steady rise and fall a soothing cadence that began to lull you into slumber.

His breathing slowed, each exhale a soft brush against your hair, and soon, the quiet comfort of his presence drew you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

But the peace did not last.

You jolted awake, startled by the sudden thrashing of Aemond’s body beside you. His face, so serene moments ago, was now contorted in anguish, his brow slick with sweat.

His breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps, and his hands clenched the sheets as if warding off some unseen terror.

Your heart clenched at the sight. He had spoken little of his nightmares, but you knew they haunted him—a torment born of battles fought, losses endured, and burdens carried.

Pushing yourself up, you moved with as much haste as your swollen belly would allow, the weight of your pregnancy slowing you only slightly.

Grabbing the robe draped over the chair, you wrapped it around yourself, its soft fabric barely warding off the chill of the room as you padded toward the small table where you had placed your new goods.

Your hands rummaged through the items with purpose, your fingers finally curling around a small vial. You held it up, peering at its contents even in the dim light. The faint, familiar scent already began to calm your racing heart.

Lavender oil.

You returned to the bed, the vial clutched firmly in your grasp. As you sat beside him, Aemond's thrashing began to subside, though his breaths were still ragged, and his jaw clenched tightly.

Carefully, you uncorked the vial, the soothing aroma of lavender wafting into the room. You poured a small amount onto your hands, warming the oil between your palms before leaning over him.

With gentle, deliberate movements, you began to anoint his temples, your touch light yet firm as you traced small, calming circles.

The oil left a faint sheen on his skin, its scent filling the space between you. "Aemond," you whispered softly, your voice low and steady, a tether pulling him back from the depths of his nightmare.

His breathing began to slow, the tension in his body easing under your ministrations. You moved to his wrists, massaging the oil into his pulse points, your hands steady despite the ache blooming in your lower back.

“You are safe,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his ear. “I am here.”

You whispered a silent prayer under your breath, invoking the gods for protection and peace. Your gaze stayed fixed on him, your heart clenching as you watched his features begin to soften, the tension melting away.

You held your breath, waiting. When his form finally stilled, his breathing evening out, you let out a soft sigh of relief. The lavender and your quiet vigil had worked.

Exhaustion weighed heavily upon you, and you slid back into bed beside him, pulling the covers over the both of you. But just as you were about to lay your head against Aemond’s chest, you froze.

A chill ran down your spine, and the hairs on your arms stood on end as an inexplicable sensation swept over you.

You were being watched.

Your eyes darted to the chamber doors, which you now noticed were slightly ajar. Beyond them, barely visible in the darkness, you caught the faint glimmer of glowing green eyes.

Your heart raced, a primal fear coursing through you. The air seemed to thicken, heavy with an unseen presence.

But you steadied yourself, your breathing slowing as you reminded yourself of the protections you had set in place earlier that day.

You had taken every precaution, warding the chamber with runes and incantations, ensuring that no ill intent could cross its threshold. Alys Rivers might wield her strange gifts, but she would not claim Aemond—not without a fight.

With a courage you hadn’t known you possessed, you tightened your arms around Aemond’s sleeping form, drawing strength from the warmth of his body against yours. Lifting your chin, you stared directly into the glowing eyes, refusing to show weakness.

“I won’t let you have him,” you whispered fiercely, your voice a low, steady vow. “Not without a fight, witch.”

For a moment, the air seemed to hold its breath. The green eyes lingered for a moment longer, unblinking and cold, before retreating into the darkness.

Only when the oppressive feeling lifted did you allow yourself to exhale. A trembling sigh escaped your lips as you lowered your head, nestling into Aemond’s chest. His heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear, became a soothing rhythm, lulling you out of your fear.

As the night enveloped you once more, you clung to him, your resolve unshaken. Whatever forces sought to disturb your peace, you would face them.

For Aemond, for your babe, for the family you were building together—you would fight.

Hope You Enjoyed!

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

71 / 2.1k / part 4 of shapeshifter familiars!141 tormenting witch!reader

nsfw; dubcon, group sex, predator/prey dynamics, degradation, manhandling, sex while on substances. also monsterfucking and sex pollen if you squint.

...

You're not stupid. You know fur won't save you. Their hunt is sweeter for prey that changes skin.

You'll pay for this. And they intend to make you pay in more than just blood--they want your fear, your pleasure, your vulnerability. Everything you've refused them until now.

You run until you reach the ancient chapel in the middle of the woods. Right as you reach the empty space where the front doors used to be, enormous paws slam into your back. The henbane's power ebbs. Your palm bleeds where glass shards remain embedded. The cracked stone steps, laced with overgrown brambles, press cold on your naked skin. Gaz's paws dig into your back as they shift into clawed fingers. You hear Soap's approach, too--the way he shifts halfway from crow to human as he lands behind you. The half-beast shape sharpens the look of starvation and lust in his bright eyes.

Gaz's claws dig into your shoulders as he flips you onto your back. You writhe as Soap's hands close around your legs and pull you between him and Gaz. Your body is human, but adrenaline and henbane trap your mind partway between animal instinct and human nerves. Your body is hot and your cunt swells and glistens as their rough hands grip you, squeeze you, drag you away from the entrance of the holy sanctuary, and spread you open over the forest floor. The chapel's crumbling walls loom over you, moonlight slicing through broken stained glass to paint your naked skin in fractured colors. You were so close.

Soap's claws carve crescent moons into your hips. "Think you're clever, aye?" His hand wraps around your throat and presses his thumb to your frantic pulse. "Playin' games with us."

Gaz pins your wrists above your head, his catlike pupils blown wide. Henbane still clouds his movements. He watches Soap spread your thighs. "She's dripping for it. Nothing better than a chase to make rabbits want to fuck."

Soap licks a stripe up your thigh and chuckles against your skin. "Knew you wanted to be caught. Should've stayed a rabbit. Och, but this is better," he groans against your skin, cock already pressing against your leg. "Fightin' us even when you're fucked raw on poison. Perfect."

The henbane twists everything--their snarls into hymns, the pain of being chased and held down into a perverse sacrament. With Gaz holding your wrists above your head and Soap holding your thighs apart, you're completely exposed. Your heartbeat makes your skin warm, makes it flush, and you know they can see how wet it makes you. Both sets of eyes are glued to your cunt.

You buck uselessly as your human pride compels you to fight. Then rabbit-like instincts compel you to lay still. Your throat is ragged from the chase.

Soap laughs. He splays his hand over your lower belly, pins you there, and leans mouthwateringly close to your cunt. From above your head, Gaz leans over you upside-down and drags a messy, open-mouthed kiss up your sternum. "Poor creature."

"Should've known she'd like this. Witch with a martyr complex. Gets off on being punished."

"Could've let the villagers take you," Gaz croons. "Would've paid good coin to watch 'em try to torture our witch. Bet you'd rut against their stakes just to feel something."

You feel Soap's breathy chuckle against your core and jerk. He holds you fast. "Could've just tied her spreadeagle to the old tree, aye? Let the whole village watch us fuck her. Ghost can have first go."

"Now that's just cruel."

Their cruel words braid into praise in your henbane-fogged mind. Soap licks a hot stripe through your folds, and your back arches against your will. He chuckles again, breath fogging your wetness. "Think she'll come on my tongue before Price gets here? Five silver coins says she screams."

Gaz's free hand pulls your head back to expose your throat. "Ten says she bites like a hare."

You writhe, but Gaz's grip is iron. Soap's mouth seals over your clit and sucks hard enough to blur your vision. Your thighs tremble. The pleasure is a serrated knife sawing through your weak resistance.

"Fuckin' starved," Soap growls against your cunt. His fingers spread you wider to lap harder at your clenching hole.

They move in tandem. Soap's tongue fucks into you, long and relentless, while Gaz’s hand angles your face toward himself. Gaz laps at your mouth and the beads of sweat saturating your skin to take his fill. As Soap's claws dig into your hips, your body betrays you over and over--arching into their mouths, cunt and throat clenching around nothing. You writhe, but Soap pins you harder and harder with each lathe, grinding you against the moss until your thighs shake. The henbane amplifies every sensation--the drag of his tongue, the scrape of Gaz's stubble against your neck, the damp earth beneath you. Every rough touch ignites nerve endings you didn't know you had. Your vision blurs at the edges. Rabbit instincts scream for you to submit even as your hips lift greedily for more.

Gaz releases your hair to palm your breast. "Slow down, Soap. Price'll skin us if we don't leave some fresh."

Soap's obscene groans vibrate through your core. He pulls back, lips glistening. "Better get here faster if he wants some, then. Him and Ghost both."

You moan at the loss of contact. Your hips chase his mouth, and his self-restraint snaps.

"Nah, fuck 'em." He flips you onto your stomach, yanks your hips up, and pushes a finger inside you eagerly. Anything to get you wetter. "Let 'em hunt for themselves."

You're so high and dizzy, cheek pressed to the broken stone below, that it takes you a few seconds to notice when Gaz runs his hands up your arms, over your shoulders, and cups your jaw in his hands.

"Beg," he says softly. "Beg your servants to fuck you."

You whine as he lifts your front half up to kiss you. He practically cradles you in his arms--protective, but completely unyielding--and slips his tongue into your mouth to devour all he can.

You squirm and gasp around his tongue. The command surprises you enough that your humanity--your pride as a witch--surface over the instinct to submit. You sink your canines down on his invading tongue.

Gaz pulls back with a hiss. His eyes narrow and his pupils slit.

Soap laughs. "That's ten to you, then. Rabbits do bite, don't they?"

Gaz ignores him. His grip tightens around your jaw. He takes your mouth in another searing kiss that lasts until your lungs burn and you taste his blood in the back of your throat. He holds you captive there and enjoys the way Soap's finger-fucking forces your desperate moans into his mouth. Then he pulls back.

"Good rabbits," he growls, "know when to play dead."

Gaz's hand fists in your hair and yanks your head back. It forces a deeper arch into your back just as Soap slips a second finger into your cunt. You clench around the inclusion. God, it feels to good. You've been so careful, looked over your shoulder, smudged sage into every dark corner. So much tension, protecting yourself the way you need to, and nowhere to channel it. Even lying awake at night in your house, gritting your teeth and thumbing tight circles around your own clit, the release wasn't enough. Wasn't even practical. The animal in you never left; it only slept.

Soap's fingers curl inside you, calluses scraping your walls. He chuckles. "Greedy."

Gaz chuckles, too, at the sounds you're making. "Chatty."

Your back arches further as Soap adds a third finger. He stretches you ruthlessly. Gaz's other hand drifts down to circle your clit, fingers pressing hard enough to make your thighs twitch and shake.

"Look at her," Soap rasps. "Fightin' for more. Fuckin' made for this."

Ghost's howl rolls through the trees. A warped distortion of an owl's screech calls back in response.

"Price is coming," Gaz says.

Soap withdraws his fingers with a lewd schlick. He drags you upright and presses his chest against your back. "Better get our fill first, then."

Gaz spreads your legs wide. "Hold her open."

Soap grips your thighs as Gaz lines himself up. His cock drags through your slick--teasing at first, and then slow and rough with sudden hunger. You can't remember how to form words. Just as well--if you spoke, you'd only beg him to take you. So much for pride.

Then Price's shadow falls across all three of you. He descends from the trees as something resembling a screech owl--but larger, older, something that blurs your vision at the eddges with instinctive fear. But by the time he lands atop the leaf litter, his talons have already morphed into boots, and his enormous wingspan is gone.

"Having fun, boys?" Price's voice is venomously calm. "While I track our wayward witch through three miles of cursed thicket?"

Soap doesn't lift his eyes from his new view down your body. "Just securing the kill, Cap'n. Didn't you hear our signal?"

A lie. "Move."

Soap sighs and wipes his glistening chin. "That's five more coin."

He pulls away, but before he can withdraw--if he intended to at all, still eying you with hunger--Ghost is there. He grabs Soap by the neck and hurls him away as easily as a sack of cats. Soap skids across the moss, leaving furrows in the earth.

Ghost doesn't pause to see him react. He pins your hips down with a hand the size of your face. Gaz watches from above you with careful eyes as Ghost's claws divot your skin as he leans down. Gaz glances at Price, but wisely does not stand in the way.

Soap straightens up casually. "She's high as fuck on henbane, LT. Go easy."

The divots under Ghost's claws deepen. "No."

He replaces Soap's mouth with his own. The difference is immediate. Brutal. Where Soap languished, Ghost devours. His tongue spears into you, thick and unrelenting, fucking and scooping into your cunt with the same merciless rhythm a wolf would use to feed. You choke on a sob, heels digging into the loam.

Price's hand fists in Ghost's hair and yanks his head back. "Enough. She's not some tavern whore to be ruined before the main event."

Ghost licks your slick from his lips, gaze burning into yours. "Could be."

"Later." Price steps over you, boot between your splayed thighs. "Up. Now."

They haul you upright. Your legs buckle. Gaz catches you and bands his arm around your waist. You try to stand, leaning into him, but you're struggling to remember how. The sudden movement blurs your vision and your body aches from the chase and from the torment of pleasure still thrumming through your muscles.

The threshold of the church--holy ground--looms so close, still. Then, to your shock, Price crosses over that threshold. Right into the old hallowed church.

Your breath hitches. "How--?"

The chapel gives an echoing groan. "Sacrilege," Price mutters. He glances up at the half-collapsed rafters. "Good."

He turns, backlit by moonlight pouring through the broken windows. His shadow stretches long and strange across the altar. "You really thought a pile of crumbling stones could keep us out?" He taps the tattoo on his inner forearm--your mark, seared into his flesh the night you bound them. "We go where you go, darling. Even into God's own house."

Gaz's hand slides up your ribs and plucks at your nipple. "You're ours down to the marrow, love. Nowhere holy enough to change that. But we admire the effort. Running, hiding, getting us good and hungry." His too-sharp teeth graze the shell of your ear.

He pulls your head sideways to expose the scarred sigil behind your own ear. The one you branded there the night you summoned them.

Price unbuttons his coat. "You bound us. Fed us. Let our filth seep into your bones." His belt buckle clinks open. "Now you'll take your communion. Ghost," he commands. "The altar. Bind her."

Ghost pulls you out of Gaz's arms. Your fuzzy, drug-addled brain struggles to keep pace. Then the cold bite of iron shackles snaps shut around your wrists, chaining you to the marble surface of the altar. Ancient restraints meant for darker rites.

Soap whistles low. "Harsh even for you, LT."

Ghost stands. "Witch needs to learn her place isn't in the dirt." His boot nudges your spread thighs wider. "It's on her back."

...

← part 3 / [part 4] / part 5 ➡

more Price / more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / masterlist

[cherryheairt]

Hidden Truths

Cregan x Wife!reader

pt. 1

named reader (aye-leese) no description, from house Glover.

summary - Cregan comes home from war with a scandalous surprise, much to the horror of his wife. Though, it is not all that she expected when she heard of her husband's infidelity.

Inspired by Ned and Catelyn Stark (obviously lol)

It had been four moons since Cregan Stark returned from King's Landing, ending the war and placing Aegon iii on the Iron Throne. Four moons since he presented his bastard for all to see, declaring to his wife that they would raise the boy as a legitimized Stark.

Aelys Glover, now Stark, had never thought her husband would betray her in such a brutal way. To bed another woman down in the South, in a time of war, to father a bastard. To give the bastard his Stark name.

She hadn't even had her first babe yet, due to the young couple deciding to spend their first few years of marriage having each other all to themselves. Had it all been a lie from Cregan? A masterful deceit to make his mistress' son his heir? Perhaps he had regretted their marriage and chosen to disregard any of her future children, thinking her genetics undesirable. Whatever dull excuse he had, it would never be enough to balm her heart.

People whispered about which mother's son might be Cregan's heir apparent.

It was not yet decided, and would not be until years ahead when Aelys showed if she could bear him more sons or not. Until she did, Brandon Stark would be Cregan's unofficially heir as his eldest son.

Aelys had refused to share a bed with Cregan since the night he returned. She would not perform her marital duties anymore, not until she was either dead or he forced her, which she knew he at least had the honor to not. Aelys would give him no children of her own, spitefully intending to leave the Stark line to a bastard who would forever be known to the world as such.

She would make it clear that her husband's stupidity would end the Stark's honorable history streak. The babe would be legit, yes, but never trueborn. It was said that bastards were born nasty and cruel, and Aelys had not believed such rumors until she met the babe herself. Her spite grew in spite of her previous kind and understanding nature, driven to hate the babe without knowing him.

Even with the same House name as his father, the boy was nothing like him. He seemed to carry his mother's traits, instead, whoever she was. Dark black hair and even darker eyes to match, though the Northern pale skin Cregan carried had stayed through the genetic battle.

At least Cregan did not bring her home, too. If he had, Aelys would have thrown herself from The Wall in shame and disgrace. She would not be the other woman in her own marriage.

His words when he returned burned at her heart, even now the dust had not settled nor had the fire quelled.

"It was a one-time tryst, I swear this to you. A night of vulnerability, when it got rough in King's Landing." He said, voice strained and undereyes dark with the heavy weight of guilt and responsibility. She'd never felt such an intense urge to hit a man before.

His bastard sister, Sara Snow, a woman whom Aelys had grown to see as her own sister and close confidante, returned from King's Landing a month after her brother.

She looked even worse than her elder brother, who still could barely hold Aelys' eyes when she wordlessly passed him in the halls. She looked gaunt and exhausted, though she claimed that the journey back was tiring. Sighing, Aelys could only welcome her back into the Great Keep to catch up over all that she had missed. Apparently, Sara had stayed in the Riverlands for most of the moons Cregan had hosted in the Crownlands. She was housed by the Blackwoods, becoming fast friends with Alysanne Blackwood and Davos Blackwood, the fierce aunt and nephew who fought together against the Greens.

No useful information about the whore that Cregan had bedded that night, Aelys bitterly thought for a moment. Then, a wave of guilt and regret hit her. It was not Sara's fault for her brother's mistakes. She was truly glad to have the conpany back, seeing as Winterfell had felt cold and emptier now that Cregan was back than it ever had before. She had been avoiding his for these four moons, leaving only a few rooms accessible for her privacy and peace of mind.

She never entered the nursery room's entire hallway. Even when needing something past it, she chose to go the longest possible route to avoid it. She didn't wish to think about the boy more than she already did. She saw him during dinners, being presented to Cregan by his wet nurse before being put down to sleep for the night. Those mere glimpses were plenty to feed her anxious mind.

Today, the adjacent hall towards the Keep's hotsprings was closed. "A few cobblestone in the wall have cracked, m'Lady. You mustn't enter for one might accidentally fall on you." A young servant boy had informed her, thoroughly apologetic as she sighed and headed him. The nursery's hall was the only one that also held the door outside, lest she chose to go all the way around the outside of the keep in this blizzard.

The thought was tempting but childish. Steeling her courage up, Aelys had fixed herself to stride past the door. She could not help the subconscious glance inside, seeing the glimpse of curly black hair laying alone in his crib, but wide awake and almost flailing around in a fuss.

Looking around, Aelys was surprised to see not one attendant or wet nurse. From her experience with babes, they were rarely left alone unless they were sleeping. Even then, some mothers and nurses liked to hover to ensure its safety while unconscious. Aelys stepped into the dim room, finding that Brandon's attention immediately focused on her. He whined out, reaching out grabbing hands toward her. Grimacing, she reached into the crib to lift him up, holding him at a safe distance from her face.

Up close, she could reluctantly admit that the babe was cute. He was well-doted on in the Keep by all the maids and even visiting Lords. Though his parentage was questionable and whispered about, none actually had the courage to ask why the boy had been legitimized so quickly. Aelys guessed it had been the circumstances. Aegon, the new King, was young and suseptible to influence, so legitimizing a bastard like Brandon was done without question.

"What are you fussing on about, you spoiled thing?" She asked, though her tone was soft and gentle. Brandon smiled a gummy smile, face lifting as he reached out again for her. This time, she allowed him to rest on her shoulder as she supported him, gently rocking back and forth as she stood. The faster he was asleep, the faster she could leave without feeling like a monster.

She already had that feeling nagging at her mind too much. Hating a babe took a lot of energy. She knew it was wrongfully placed, but Brandon's very nature and sire had wronged her more. The physical reminder that his father had not loved her.

Soft snores filled the room as she hummed lowly, the vibrations and comforting sound putting the fussy tot to sleep quicker than she had anticipated. Gently placing him back in the cot, she hands gripped the wooden edges harshly, a sharp contrast to her previous touch. Was she betraying herself for not demanding that the babe be taken away? Warded with another great House until she finally had a son? No. Cregan would never allow it, even as Lady of the House she held no true power over the Warden.

Turning, Aelys was met with her husband in the doorway. Silent as a stalking wolf, he leaned against the doorway and looked upon his son and wife with pools of affection. There was a slight gloss to them as she looked closer that she opted to ignore. "Cregan." She greeted curtly, moving to slide past him and speak no more of her presence in the nursery.

"He has a way of melting one's heart, does he not?" He asked, tilting his chin to look down at her. A branch, left out and hanging by Cregan's strong arms. Too bad that she did not need it.

"He disgusts me." She said instead, shouldering past him and continuing back to her rooms. She changed her mind in the few minutes that she spent with the bastard Stark boy. She could stay here no longer, could not bear for her own husband to bring this embodied lie to live in the very home that she did. Wouldn't raise any children to be in their older brother's shadow.

Ignoring the hushed plea from Cregan, Aelys went straight to the Maester's tower. Maester Parek had been a helpful and understanding ear for Aelys to rant to when dealing with arisen problems, whether with her moon blood, achy bones from the cold, or questioning if any ravens had come from mysterious women. None had, as far as she had been told. That is, if Parek had been entirely truthful to his Lady.

Hurriedly knocking on the man's door, it was soon opened after a grunt of physical labor had been heard from the other side. The Maester had always complained about his bad knees and how they were made worse in the winters.

"Lady Stark?" He asked, shocked to see her at midday. It was a rarity, as she usually made her visits in the morning after she broke her fast.

"Maester." She greeted, shifting on her feet. "I need to send a letter, urgently."

"May I ask to whom?" He inquired, earning a solemn nod from the young Lady.

"I'm sorry, Parek. It is private."

"Of course, my Lady. The room is yours." He bowed and left the chambers to occupy himself while she busied herself as well. She immediately made for the small attached room in the tower, made into a raven nest hundreds of years ago. A few perched black birds squaked or raised her heads at the unfamiliar sight curiously, but they were well-trained and did not spook.

Bending over the crickity desk, she quickly drafted a messily-writen yet vague letter.

Father,

Some troubles have come up in Winterfell, and Cregan Stark has advised me to return to House Glover's protection while he deals with matters here. I will be returning swiftly, though the snow will hinder the horse a few days.

See you soon,

your dearest Aelys.

As soon as she finished, she hastily melted the powder blue wax and sealed the direwolf sigil onto the rolled paper. Tying the scroll to a raven's foot, Aelys sent it off. The bird would reach House Glover's Maester quickly, and in the meantime she would ready herself for departure.

As she was shoving clothes and pelts into various bags, the very ones that carried her belongings to Winterfell over two years ago, Aelys could not stop the hot, angry tears that fell to her cheeks. Wiping away at her face with scruffy sleeve fur, gifted to her by Cregan himself, Aelys felt the frustration and loneliness sting at her soul. The loneliness was a choice on her part, most would say. That she was dramatic and most Lords sired bastards. She should be grateful he did not bring the mother back, too, and house her in his home next to his Lady Wife. All whispers she heard from her ladies-in-waiting, whom she immediately dismissed from service upon hearing such impudent things.

She would not be subjected to the humiliation. She wanted love, and she once had it. Oh, she had it. Cregan treated her like a goddess walking amongst humans for the moons they spent together before his leave to King's Landing. If she could not have Cregan's loyalty or love, she would at least find a man who she did not have high expectations for. An older Lord, perhaps, one who just wanted a young and pretty woman to give him final heirs during his last years of life. Aelys would know her role, then, and would live contently knowing she did not love foolishly while expecting faithfulness in return.

First, this marriage had to be annuled. In Lord Glover's home, she could easily ask for such a thing. The marriage had been commsumated, but there were no witnesses and no babes to confirm this to outsiders. Aelys would simply have to claim that she and Lord Stark never once bedded before he left to find another woman, and then she'd be an unmarried Lady once more. A Glover, not a Stark.

She realized she'd been quite fastidious in her packing. Unlike her carriage ride to Winterfell, her luggage could not be carried easily on one horse. She picked only one of her bags, with the thickest dresses and warmest pelts she had, rushing out of the room while clipping a cloak over her shoulders. Dark blue in color, Aelys almost cursed at the thought that almost all of her wardrobe and fine things had been gifts from Cregan. Her pelts, gloves, and even the horse that she would take home.

Cobalt, she had named the steed, noticing how his pure black coat almost gleamed blue in certain lights. Cregan had a wide and cherishing smile on his face as he walked the young stallion out of the stables a few days after their wedding. They often took walks on trails in the Wolfswood together on horseback, just their muffled conversations filling the still air. She remembered every moment with her husband fondly before he tarnished everything. Now, she knew all of it to be a facade, just like any other Lord in Westeros might have done. At least other men had the decency to be nasty plain to your face, unlike the Stark.

Aelys sneaked into the armory to pick up a few extra things, knowing no one would occupy the room when the whether was so unfortunate.

Striding towards the stables with squinted eyes, Aelys shivered at the temperature change. Luckily, the journey would be quick, with only a few days to walk on horseback. Cobalt was a resilient horse built for such harsh weather, and she was a Northern woman through and through.

She attached the bag and waterskin to Cobalt's saddle after she tacked him up. His long and unruly made quivered in the breeze as the light blizzard raged on as it had been for two days now. It did not deter her. She attached her bow and quiver to the other side to keep weight even, knowing she'd have to hunt for herself during the journey.

Steadying herself on the saddle, Aelys glanced once more at Winterfell's Great Keep, where Cregan was surely in his study or councilroom. She squeezed Colbalt's side lightly to urge the percheron onwards, giving herself no room for second guessing her choices.

At the wall's gate, the two snow-covered men regarded her with weary looks. "My Lady, there is a blizzard—" Ron Frasel told her, ginger brow upturned in question.

"I have eyes, Ron. I will return soon, I have buisness in Winter Town." She said tiredly, not wanting to be interrupted by the men at such an important time. It would not be long before a maid reported her missing.

Ernest, the guard's most frequent partner, inquired gently. "Will you require any assistance, Lady Stark? I'm sure Lord Stark would feel more at ease knowing you are escorted."

"He is fine with me going on my own, it is a short ride." She said curtly, anxious for Cregan to find out about her plan.

Ernest nodded and gestured for the iron gate to be lifted. "Safe travels, my Lady." Before bowing his head politely.

As Aelys walked through the opened gate, she urged Cobalt to a faster trot to create quick distance between her and Winterfell before she set up camp.

Ron shared an uneasy look with Ernest as the woman passed. "Lord Stark has never allowed her out without a guard before." He whispered.

His friend nodded, eyes glancing between her fading figure in the snow and the Keep. "Perhaps we should go see Lord Stark himself, just to be safe."

Ron shivered. "If he finds out we let his wife go into the blizzard without him knowin', who knows what'd happen to us."

"Quickly, then." They were both skidding off towards the Keep with no time to waste.

[peachdues]

THE GREAT WAR

PART I ♤ SECRET PREGNANCY AU

A/N: After seven months, it's finally here. Part I of Giyuu's Bundle of Joy. This fic involved a ton of research and tears. I hope you all enjoy. Special shout-out to @squishybabei @kentohours @homo-homini-lupus-est-1701 @ghost-1-y and @xxsabitoxx for letting me bombard your DMs with endless snippets from this fic for feedback. Note that this is a multi-part fic, and it will be a non-linear story.

CW: explicit sexual content ☼ MDNI ☼ loss of virginity ☼ unprotected sex ☼ protective/possessive Giyuu ☼ canon-typical violence

LISTEN TO THE PLAYLIST HERE

January, 1915

The moon’s rays filtered through the sparse canopy of the trees from above, bathing that small portion of the forest in its silvery glow. There, about twenty paces ahead, Giyuu locked eyes on his target.

A demon; one he’d been pursuing through the dense forest separating his Manor from the base of a great mountain for the last several miles

The demon had yet to notice him, for it was focused entirely on its own prey — a human woman, who was frantically zigzagging as she ran in a desperate effort to evade its clutches. 

She was succeeding rather well in her endeavor, managing to dart out of the beast’s reach right as it snapped its sharp, deadly claws at her back. But the girl then miscalculated her movements and stumbled over something — whether it was a tree root or her own feet, he could not say — and she went airborne. For one, sickening moment, Giyuu feared he would not be fast enough to save her from falling victim to the demon he was readying to kill.

The girl squealed as she fell, just narrowly managing to avoid the swipe of the beast’s claws as they cut uselessly at the air where her back had been only seconds before. Something long and wooden flew from her hand as she sprawled across the forest floor – a broom.

Odd. 

Steps quick and even, Giyuu’s thumb flicked his sword free from its scabbard. Within seconds of him drawing his weapon, the Slayer’s blade sliced seamlessly through the demon’s neck, its head thudding pathetically to the forest floor before the beast could comprehend the threat.

He landed swiftly on the balls of his feet, the Water Pillar quickly shaking his blade free of the demon’s blackened, rotted blood before sheathing it at his hip. A quick job – that was how he liked it; free of fuss. 

Behind him, he heard the leaves coating the frozen ground of the forest shift and crack as the human girl he’d rescued rose to her feet. He grimaced; while helping rid the world of the blight inflicted upon it by demons was his life’s sole and true purpose, and one he fulfilled without hesitation, he was little more than a fish out of water when it came to talking to those he helped. 

The girl had yet to flee; Giyuu suspected she might be in shock, if not a bit simple, and he sought to prod her along. After all, the sooner she left the forest, the less likely she’d end up a demon’s meal and waste his efforts in preserving her life. 

“You should be fine now. Please return to your ho-,” The dark-haired Slayer’s words were cut off with a sputter as the head of the woman’s broom whacked him sharply up the side of his skull. 

Giyuu stood there for a moment, dazed and slightly confused as he turned towards the woman whose life he’d just preserved. 

The Water Pillar had not paid her much mind upon discovering her seconds away from becoming the slain horned demon’s newest meal, his attention having been entirely focused on eliminating his target. But now, without the distracting threat of a man-eating beast, he could see she was clad in the traditional attire worn by Shinto priestesses, though she looked far too young to have achieved such a status. Instead, she appeared to be much closer to himself in age. The front of her red hakama pants were streaked in mud and dirt from her fall, and several strands of hair had fallen loose from where they’d been gathered in a ribbon just below her shoulders. 

And she was glaring at him. 

“What are you?” She demanded, and the Water Pillar noted the faint tremor in her voice that she worked to conceal behind her defensive stance, her broom braced in front of her like a blade. 

A slow blink. “I am Tomioka.” 

It baffled him that he let his name slide so freely when he’d never been one particularly keen on sharing it. Yet, he’d thought that perhaps the exchange of names would get the wild woman before him to calm, and perhaps lower the sweeping tool —-

“What the hell is a Tomioka?” 

Giyuu wondered whether the — Miko, that was what young priestesses in training were called — had hit her head in the fall. “My name.” 

A faint dusting of red spread across the Miko’s cheeks as she realized the absurdity of her mistake, though she still did not lower her weapon. Rather, she jutted it towards him in what Giyuu thought may have been an attempt to be threatening. 

“And what was that thing just now, Tomioka? And what are you?”  Quickly, her eyes swept behind him, scanning. “Are there more?”

Idly, Giyuu wondered why he was bothering to indulge in such a silly conversation to begin with, chalking it up to the mere fact that they were still in a dark forest, with dawn still several hours away. 

The foolish girl would end up a snack for another demon if she did not turn around and go home. 

“It was a demon. I’d been tracking it for several miles when it stumbled across you. You can count yourself lucky — do not hit me again.” He cut off with a warning, eyes narrowing as the Miko drew the broom back up over her head. 

There was a tense moment as the two regarded one another, Giyuu’s eyes locked on the Miko’s trembling arm as she stared distrustfully back at him. 

The girl’s hands twitched as the broom cleaved through the air once more, but Giyuu knocked it easily away, sending the cleaning tool flying uselessly to the side where it rolled under a bush. 

“Are you finished?” Giyuu asked, irritation creeping into his tone as he stared coolly at the flustered Miko. 

“You’ve stripped me of my only weapon, so I suppose I have no choice,” the young woman sniffed, her tone as frosty as his glare. 

Giyuu grimaced. “You would not have lost the privilege had you simply done as I asked.” 

The Miko folded her arms stubbornly across her chest and glowered at him. “You would truly leave a woman defenseless in the woods? With nothing to protect herself?”

Giyuu scoffed. “You are not a woman; you are a menace.” 

The young woman’s mouth opened and closed several times as her face flushed several shades deeper. “Y-you!” 

A crack! somewhere in the woods made the sputtering Miko fall silent with a small squeak, and Giyuu was bemused to find that the woman’s hands shot to him for safety, when only moments before she’d tried to clobber him away from her. 

“You said that…that thing earlier was a demon, yes?” She whispered and Giyuu nodded, tense as his eyes swept through the shadowy line of the trees, searching. 

“Do you think there are more?”

“So long as we continue sitting here like a pair of lame ducks, more are bound to come sniffing.” The wary Pillar replied. “Which is why I suggest you return home — without bludgeoning me further.”

The young Priestess continued to cling to his arm, her eyes wide and anxious. Giyuu cleared this throat, and when the woman’s attention snapped back to him, he pointedly glanced down at her white-knuckled grip on the sleeve of his haori. 

“Apologies,” the Miko blushed, and her hands quickly relinquished their hold on his sleeve. She wrung her hands nervously before her. “Might you escort me back to my Shrine? It’s not far from here – less than two kilometers.” 

Still within his territory — albeit at the opposite end of the forest where is own Manor stood. He grimaced, but nodded stiffly. His efforts to save the woman’s life would be in vain if she walked away from him and straight into the waiting, eager claws of another beast that lurked in the shadows.

The Miko smiled brightly at him and offered her name. Giyuu elected not to reply, and the girl settled into step at his side, a small frown pulling at her lips.

“I’m sorry for earlier — for hitting you with my broom.” The girl — Y/N — said a short while later, the faintest trace of shyness in her tone. 

Giyuu did not think the apology warranted a response, and so he gave none, but the chatty little devil prodded him once more. 

“Did I injure you?” She gestured to the side of his head where her broom had caught him. 

Giyuu snorted, raising an eyebrow at her. “The day I am hurt by a mere broom is the day I retire from the Demon Slayer Corps.” 

Y/N hummed in contemplation. “And what exactly is the great and mysterious Demon Slayer Corps?” 

The Water Pillar’s eyes remained forward. “I should think the name is self-explanatory. There are demons who eat humans. We slay them.” 

Inwardly, Giyuu cringed at the harshness of his words. It did not happen often, but there were times when he wished he was better with them, when he wished he did not come off quite as aloof and callous — 

“You do not know how to talk to people very well, do you Tomioka-sama?” Y/N’s tone was not judgmental; it rather had a mild curiosity to it, as though she were merely commenting on the weather or the quality of a cup of tea. 

But the Water Pillar did not know how to answer her. Kocho once told him that others disliked him, but Giyuu wasn’t sure that was entirely true; after all, no one had ever said so much to his face. 

Then again, if the young shrine maiden’s words were anything to go by, then perhaps the Insect Pillar’s scathing assessment hadn’t been too far off the mark. 

“What even brought you into the forest so late at night?”  Giyuu did not know why the question needled at him, but he found the pressing silence of the trees more disconcerting than the Miko’s voice, and so he was desperate for the distraction. “And why a broom?”

Y/N herself seemed surprised at his sudden interest. “Night-blooming herbs,” she said plainly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “They are critical for certain rites and medications. And I cannot collect them any other time. The broom was for protection, obviously.” 

“I wasn’t aware shrines still performed rituals,” Giyuu pushed an errant tree branch out of their way, and ahead, faint lights began to swim into view. The Shrine. “Are you not a mere relic of a time long since-passed?” 

“I’ll have you know that we still perform basic cleansing rites for those in the village,” Y/N bristled. “And we provide medical aid, since there is no hospital nearby.”

She shot him a cold look. “Modern medicine would not have developed but for ancient practices such as ours.”

Giyuu frowned. He hadn’t meant to insult the woman. “Be that as it may,” he said flatly. “Demons prowl at night. You wandering into the forest none the wiser  is akin to you waltzing into their territory with a giant sign that says ‘Eat me.’”

Y/N grimaced. “Then what would you have me do? Neglect my duties?” 

He could sympathize with that. “No, I’m not saying you should forsake your obligations,” he furrowed his eyebrows at the thought. “Perhaps it is simply a risk you must take. But you should at least be aware of your surroundings.”

Y/N looked upon him with a miserable expression. “You’re of little help, you know that?” 

Giyuu only frowned, perplexed as to why she couldn’t understand the import of his words.

An awkward silence ensued, punctured only by the faint hoot of an owl. For that, the established swordsman was grateful; noise meant the absence of predators, which meant they were safe – for now. 

“You mentioned tracking the demon earlier – how long had you been doing so?” 

“A while.” 

The girl was relentless. “And you just so happened to track it here? Where it was conveniently chasing me?” 

“I patrol this region. Your rescue was nothing more than coincidence and luck on your part.” 

“My gratitude is endless,” the shrine maiden said drily. “Forgive me for not falling to the ground in prostration.”

At that, Giyuu fell silent and refused to engage in any further conversation. The shrine maiden, for her part, seemed to take his cue that he had no interest in her or exchanging meaningless pleasantries, and so she too, went quiet. 

The forest floor eventually began to slope gradually up, and before long, Giyuu found himself walking along a carved rock path that curved through the trees until it widened at a great set of stone stairs. At the very top of the steep incline, he could spot a great Torii gate.

Y/N turned to him with a beaming smile. “Allow me to introduce you to the Shrine." Tomioka opened his mouth to protest, but she quickly added, “You should at least know who it is you have dedicated your life to protecting.” 

“I’d rather not.”

But she was already leading him up the stairs, his wrist pinched delicately between two of her fingers. Realistically, Giyuu knew it would take him no effort to shake the woman’s hold and disappear into the night. But to his own bemusement, he allowed her to tote him behind her as though he were little more than a useless pet. 

The pair passed under the Torrii and into a sprawling courtyard. Though night sky was a deep, inky black, the perimeter of the courtyard was dotted with several stone lanterns -- toro -- each of which had been lit with a generous flame. Giyuu's quick perusal of the Shrine, however, was cut short as the Miko led him into the Shrine's main structure -- the honden -- and tugged him down a narrow hallway. Based on his rough appraisal of the building, Giyuu surmised she was taking him to the center of the honden, likely where the girl's master was.

His theory was proven correct when Y/N drew up to a great slat of shoji panneling. The Miko knocked softly on one of the wooden beams before she slid the door aside, revealing a great, open room that was littered with scrolls, half-dried pots of ink, and burned incense sticks. There, in the center of the room, knelt the head Priestess of the Shrine. She was an old, shriveled, wrinkled thing. The white hair that she’d gathered into a knot at her neck was as wispy as the thinnest clouds, and a quick glance over her hands revealed swollen joints covered by skin spotted with age.

But the Priestess did not appear to be a gentle elder by any means; her thin mouth was curled down into a sneer that was directed at the Miko at his side, and her eyes were hard and cold.  

"Head Priestess," Y/N bowed to her elder. "This man is called Tomioka, and he helped save me tonight in the forest."

Giyuu resisted the urge to snort. Helped, indeed.

The old woman's eyes shone bright with an emotion he could not name as the Miko continued. "A creature attacked me as I was returning home. Tomioka says he is a swordsman whose occupation --"

“I know what he is, girl,” the Priestess snapped at her student before she turned those beady eyes to him. “A member of the Demon Slayer Corps will always be welcome at this Shrine – particularly one as esteemed as yourself.” 

The Water Pillar straightened at the old woman’s casual mention of the Corps. “I was not aware that of any Shrines so affiliated with the Corps.” 

“There was a time when the Demon Slayer Corps would partner with shrines such as this to carry out its mission,” the Priestess replied evenly. From his periphery, Giyuu spotted Y/N’s head snap toward her mentor, her jaw slack. “Once, priestesses were akin to shamans who offered a variety of rituals for cleansing and protection. You slayers relied on our connection with our communities to operate more effectively, and we in turn, counted on your protection to fight what we could not.”

Despite the distinct scent of sake that clung to the elderly shrine keeper like a cloud, her eyes remained sharp and fixed upon him, and her wrinkled mouth pulled into a rueful smile. “Now, it seems, our wise and benevolent government has forced us both to retreat to the shadows to operate in secret.”

She bowed her head. “You have nothing but my respect, Lord Hashira. You are always welcome here.” 

Giyuu did not respond, but he inclined his head toward the Priestess in polite acknowledgement. 

Y/N gaped at her Master. "Lord --?"

The old woman poured another generous serving of sake and brought the choko to her lips. “Though we are honored by your visit, young Lord, I’m afraid your presence is nothing more than a calculated effort by this one,” she nodded pointedly at the young shrine maiden at his side, whose cheeks pinkened. “To keep herself out of trouble. My apprentice was not permitted to leave the grounds, you see.” 

“Oh hush you old drunk,” Giyuu’s eyes snapped to the irate Miko in surprise. “I told you earlier I was going to the village market –” 

“Telling me while I am in the middle of lessons with the younger girls and sprinting off before I can respond is hardly me giving you permission,” the Priestess’s mouth curled into a sneer. “You’ve defied me for the last time, girl.” 

The old Priestess turned away from her apprentice, dismissive. “You will take the rice bundles and hang them in the drying shed – every last one, for the next three days.” 

“You hag!” Y/N fumed, her face pinched in outrage. “I was on rice duty all last week without an ounce of assistance –” 

“And you apparently have yet to learn your lesson,” the old woman retorted bitterly, shooting the seething Shrine Maiden a withering glare. “Considering you still think it seemly to mouth off at any and every opportunity –” 

The Miko spat a curse at the elder Priestess so filthy and colorful that even Giyuu could not mask his surprise, raising his eyebrow. But if Y/N’s outburst shocked the Shrine’s head, the old woman gave no sign. Instead, she only glowered at the young woman as the latter turned and shoved the shoji door harshly to the side. Giyuu, ever the unwilling observer, was left to be pulled by his wrist back into the hall behind the young Miko before she whipped around to face her senior once more. 

Giyuu had thought himself stunned by the crassness of the Shrine Miaden’s language before, but nothing prepared him for the sight of the obscene gesture she made at the old woman before she slammed the door firmly shut. 

A telling crash on the other side of the wall signaled the Elder Priestess had hurled her empty sake dish at the door with all her might. “And work on your aim!” Y/N snapped before turning sharply on her heel to stomp out of the honden, tugging the Water Pillar helplessly behind her. 

“She seems unstable.” said Giyuu once they were a safe distance away from the main Honden. 

Y/N brushed aside his concern with a flippant waive of her hand. “Granny is harmless. As her charge, I suppose I instigate her nearly as much as she torments me.” 

Granny. It made sense, then, the curious affection the girl held for the rancorous head Priestess, even if he could not bring himself to fully understand it. 

“You are more than welcome to stay the night,” the Miko’s mood lightened considerably the more she put distance between herself and the drunken head Priestess. “We serve breakfast at sunrise, but of course, you’re not obligated to attend.” 

The ravenette’s mouth quirked down in a faint grimace, the only sign of his discomfort. “I should return to my own home.” 

“It’s quite late,” Y/N glanced up at the night sky, now awash with stars that surrounded the fat, glowing moon like thousands of glittering jewels. She turned back to him with a radiant grin. “At least allow me to show you around.”

—

If anyone had asked him, Giyuu Tomioka would not have been able to explain the series of events that had led him here. 

He distinctly remembered telling the vexatious young Shrine Maiden no, that he could not stay the night, yet somehow he’d found himself in the Shrine’s old, musty guest house, already prepared for his stay, a lantern flickering merrily in the corner. 

He glanced warily at the fresh sleeping kimono folded beside his futon. The possibility of him actually sleeping in such an unfamiliar place was nil and while the Water Pillar certainly had no issue in appearing impolite to others, he thought that perhaps the Shrine was affiliated with the connection of Wisteria Houses dotted throughout the land, and he didn’t want to risk offending the head Priestess and cause her to shut her gates to other slayers in need of lodging. 

So, Giyuu paced the floor of the small guest house, restless. Though his eyes remained carefully trained on the window of his room, waiting for the slightest hint of movement that would give him an excuse to leave without offending his hosts, no sign of either his crow or any demonic threat  manifested. Though, he supposed with a frown, it shouldn’t surprise him that he’d not heard from Kanzaburo; the ancient bird was likely flitting about the forest, lost.

He continued to pace until finally, the sky in the East began to lighten signaling that dawn was fast approaching. Stealthily, he slipped out of the small hut that had served as his temporary accommodations and made his way toward the Torii under which he and that Miko — Y/N — had passed upon their arrival.

He’d almost cleared the gate when he saw the elder Priestess standing beside the Torii, apparently waiting for him. Giyuu nodded his head at her, the only expression of courtesy he was willing to give, but he was halted as the old woman flung out a single arm in front of him, her hand flat and palm turned up, waiting.

And that was how Giyuu learned the Shrine was not, in fact, a Wisteria House; not as he was forced to fork over a considerable sum of his earnings into the Priestess’s expectant hand. 

Wisteria Houses meant Corps Members stayed free of charge; the price the Shrine’s keeper demanded in exchange for his brief stay bordered extortion.

At least he’d had the money; if he’d been of any lower rank, the old woman would have cleaned him out.  

He scowled as he departed but his irritation quickly fell away as he finally laid eyes on Kanzaburo, who nearly collided with his Master’s head as he struggled to pant out his orders. 

And so, as the Water Pillar trekked through the forest and toward his new assignment, the view of the Shrine faded behind the dense canopy of the mountain forest, and so too, did any final, sparing thoughts of it, or its inhabitants.

———-

Nearly a month passed since Giyuu stumbled across the strange shrine maiden in the forest separating his Estate from the old Shrine, and the Miko had nearly faded from his memory. Not that such a feat was difficult; the raven-haired Pillar’s mind was far more occupied with tasks like patrol and chasing down leads that could potentially lead the Corps to an Upper Rank demon to focus on much else. 

He’d intended only to find a decent meal and then depart the village before nightfall to investigate rumors of women disappearing in a small town to the south. Night was rapidly approaching, however, and he’d yet to find any vendor that sold anything he liked, much to his chagrin. He was about to cut his losses and continue on, when he spied a familiar blur of white and red idly perusing one of the stalls, apparently oblivious to the impending sunset. 

Without thought, his feet carried him toward her, his annoyance sparking to life. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

The Miko’s – Y/N’s – head turned back and her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the Pillar standing behind her. 

“Tomioka-sama,” she greeted with a polite bow. “I did not expect to see you so soon.” 

He ignored her greeting, choosing instead to take a step closer. “I asked what you were doing.” 

If she was taken aback by his terseness, she didn’t show it. “I am returning to my shrine after an afternoon of errands,” she replied smoothly. “As is usual for me.” 

“It is nearly dark.” 

“An astute observation,” and to his annoyance, he saw an amused twinkle in her eye. “Do you also know that tonight is also a full moon?” 

Said moon had already made an appearance above them, growing brighter and brighter as the sky faded from twilight to night. 

Giyuu had never been one for rolling his eyes, but the young woman’s knowing smirk grated at something inside him, made him feel as he often did whenever Kocho would make a sly comment with that smile of hers, that for some reason made him feel like he was the butt of some joke only she knew. 

He grimaced. Teasing; that’s what the shrine maiden was doing. She was teasing him. 

“It is nearly dark,” he repeated. “And I did not think you’d be naive enough to risk traveling after sunset.” 

“I believe it was you who insisted I did not have to ignore my duties, so long as I paid attention to my surroundings.” She replied coolly. “So that is exactly what I am doing.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Fine. If the stubborn girl wanted to be bait for whatever awaited her in the forest once the sun finally set, then that was her choice. He’d saved her once, and he’d given her sufficient warning; what she did from then on did not concern him. 

He was about to bade her farewell when a slurred, boisterous voice boomed her name from across the market. Several heads turned toward the source, including Giyuu's, until he found a round faced, piggish man stumbling away from a sake stand, his cheeks flushed a bright red.

The man repeated the Miko's name in that grating, sing-song voice of his. "Whe're you goin' all by yourself so late?"

He didn't know what possessed him to ask, but Tomioka turned to the shrine maiden. "A friend?"

“His name is Susumo,” she said airily, though she could not conceal her scowl as the man drew closer. “He’s merely the village drunk who forgets to keep his hands to himself.”

The shrine maiden’s eyes narrowed accusingly at the villager, and the Miko remarked, in a raised voice, “And he is not welcome at the Shrine, though he pretends to forget otherwise.”

Susumo only held his hands up, as though in surrender. “You can’t blame a man for wanting to know what lies under all those layers,” and as if the implication of his lechery wasn’t clear enough, he gave the Miko a leering once-over. “Can’t say I was disappointed.” 

“But your friend is right,” he slurred, a smirk forming on his lips. “The dark is too dangerous for a pretty thing like you to risk walking back alone —“

“I shall escort her,” Tomioka said abruptly and she whipped back to him, her mouth falling open. “After all, I’m welcome at the Shrine.” 

Susumo, too, gaped at the Swordsman. The Miko recovered quickly however, unwilling to allow the opportunity to pass or for the Slayer to suddenly come to his senses and realize he’d rather leave her to fend for herself in the forest. 

“You have my gratitude, Tomioka-sama,” and she gave him a small bow of her head. Relieved, she flipped her braid over her shoulder and smiled warmly up at her raven-haired companion. “Shall we?”

She did not wait for Tomioka to answer, nor did she give any further acknowledgment to Susumo, who only continued to stare at the Hashira, his face bright red. With a feigned indifference, she breezed past him, but a sudden yelp from behind caused her to snap back in alarm. 

The first thing she noticed was the proximity of the back of a dual-patterned haori as it stood between her and the village drunkard. The Water Pillar’s shroud nearly brushed the tip of her nose, forcing her to step back. Cautiously, she peered around Tomioka’s rigid form, and her eyes widened at the sight before her. 

Susumo, it appeared, had tried to grab her, only to be cut off by the Water Pillar himself, who snatched him by his wrist. Though it did not appear that Tomioka was using a great deal of effort to restrain him, it was clear Susumo was struggling — greatly so — against the ferocity of the Slayer’s hold, given how a vein bulged in his forehead, his face,  rapidly turning purple. 

Her gaze flicked to the Swordsman’s hand, and she felt herself blanch at the odd angle of Susumo’s wrist. 

She was no doctor, but she knew wrists weren’t meant to twist as his did in Tomioka’s crushing grip. 

“Leave.” the Water Pillar ordered coldly, and there was a darkness in his eyes that matched the brutality of his hold. “Your presence is unnecessary and unwanted.”

“Y-you! Susumo sputtered.

But Tomioka’s grip only tightened. “Now.”

And then he released him, Susumo half-stumbling back from the Swordsman. His eyes were wide with both fear and loathing, and he muttered incoherently under his breath as he massaged his rapidly-swelling wrist.

The Water Pillar, however, did not pay any more attention to the red-faced villager. He turned only to the shrine maiden, who remained frozen in place, her eyes wide. "Shall we?"

Numbly, Y/N nodded and the two set off down the path that led back to the Shrine. Dimly, the Miko noted that the Slayer kept noticeably close to her as they walked, as though he was unwilling to let her wander too far away. The air between them as they traveled was thick and tense. She was on edge enough thanks to Susumo and his oily words, and she was desperate to do anything to distract herself from the buzzing mounting under her skin. 

She cast a sly, sidelong glance at the Swordsman walking at her side. He’d not been receptive to her small-talk the last time he’d escorted her back to her Shrine, but saying something — anything — would be better than this stifling quiet threatening to choke her.

“How old are you?” Before the Swordsman could decide whether to answer, she continued on. “If I had to guess, I would suspect you’re around my age, and I just passed my nineteenth birthday.”

She hummed aloud. “You seem quite young, yet you’ve achieved some level of status as a swordsman, according to Granny.” Her eyes fell to the blade secured at his hip before she lifted them back to his profile. “Yet you’re as withdrawn and taciturn as an old man.” 

Her words, thankfully, seemed to irritate him into responding. “Are you always so forthright?”  

The Miko grinned. “Perhaps I am like you, Lord – what was it? Hashiba?”

“Hashira.” 

“Yes, that. Perhaps I am like you, Lord Hashira – utterly lacking in social ability.” There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she brushed her shoulder against his bicep. “But at least I make up for it by talking.” 

“Talking is a distraction,” Tomioka monotoned, his eyes fixed resolutely on the hidden path of the forest before them. “It only serves as an interference to one’s duties.” He looked pointedly at the Miko’s profile, but inexplicably found himself unable to look away. “Or an excuse to ignore them.” 

But she was unflappable. “And yet you are the one who decided to escort me all the way back to my Shrine – so who is the one ignoring their duties, Tomioka-sama?” 

“I think you enjoy diverting my attention,” the Water Pillar retorted, though Y/N could see the rising annoyance in his eyes. 

She felt his gaze bear into her as she flipped her loose hair behind her shoulder. “It’s not possible to distract someone unless they find the diversion in question captivating, Tomioka-sama.” 

The Water Pillar almost looked amused. “And you are certainly that, Y/N.” 

The Miko ducked her head to avoid that piercing gaze, so that the ravenette would not see the faint rosy blush creeping across her cheeks. “I did not think you had the constitution for teasing, Lord Hashira.” 

Tomioka looked at her fully then, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do not jest.” He hesitated for a moment, eyebrows furrowed as he scrutinized her. “Nor do I lie.” 

Y/N’s lips parted. There was something about the way the Swordsman beheld her that made her stomach flutter. In her last encounter with the enigmatic Slayer, she’d been so rattled by her close encounter with the demon, that she hadn’t truly noticed much about the man who’d saved her life, apart from his bland detachment and rather unfortunate social skills. 

But now, the Miko was struck by how handsome the raven-haired Hashira was; she was mesmerized by the deep azure of his eyes, as vast and deep as the sea. His skin was a delicate alabaster, and, contrasted with the flesh of his hands which were calloused and scarred, his face had not a blemish in sight.

She blinked, clearing away some of the fog that had crept into her mind, put there by the vexatious Slayer. “I must return to my duties,” she said softly.

They spent the remainder of their journey back to the Shrine in silence. She was quick to break away from him the moment they passed under the Torii, though not before she muttered that he was welcome to stay, should he so choose.

She busied herself with her duties, but even the neediest obligations could not fully distract her from feeling the burning heat of his stare as the Water Pillar’s watched her fiercely from across the courtyard. And nothing, nothing at all could have prepared her for how he eventually  joined her in carrying out her duties, 

The Water Pillar stayed the night once more, departing sharply at daybreak. Later, as Y/N swept the courtyard free of loose brush and clutter long after his departure, she noticed a crow sitting high in a tree, its black eyes watching her every movement. Though its gaze was sharp, the presence of the great, sleek bird did not disturb her, though not as much of a feather twitched from its perch upon the branch as the Miko continued through her day. 

As she’d readied for bed later that night, she realized she’d felt oddly comforted by the crow. She imagined it a silent protector, a new guardian of the Shrine, no different than the statues of the gods which dotted its grounds. 

She settled into her futon with a great yawn, the image of a certain dark-haired Swordsman flickering in the back of her conscience until she was swept into sleep’s sweet embrace.

Just outside the Shrine’s sleeping quarters, the bird remained, eyes carefully tracking every shift in the shadows, waiting. 

And then the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, and the threat of night receded once more.

But the crow remained. 

———

Spring, 1915

The crow became a permanent fixture at the Shrine, though it always seemed to keep strictly to a single tree at the edge of the property, one that gave it a full view of the courtyard and structures surrounding the main honden.

Despite the bird's constant presence, more than a month passed before the Water Pillar returned, though he'd seemed even more sullen and withdrawn than he'd been during their previous two encounters. Y/N did not consider herself a friend to Tomioka by any means, but she was the only one brave enough to approach him as he'd lingered by the Torii, apparently unsure whether he should seek out their hospitality or return to the forest.

"You are welcome to come and sit for a hot meal," she called cordially, though she maintained a tentative distance. She frowned when he did not respond. Instead, the Water Pillar continued to stare unseeingly at the cracked stone path leading to the Shrine's courtyard.

"Tomioka-sama?" She pressed gently and the Swordsman's attention finally snapped to her, as though he'd just become aware of her presence.

The haunted look in his eyes sent a chill up her spine. The Miko cast one, cautious glance up at the sky, and her eyes narrowed at the wall of black clouds steadily rolling in from the east. A shift in the wind brought forth the distinct, metallic scent of rain, and if she listened hard enough, she swore she could hear the distant rumbles of thunder. “You know, there will be a storm tonight — please consider waiting it out here, where it’s safe.”

Tomioka only stared at her for a moment before he nodded. His hand twitched into a vague gesture inviting her to lead the way, and Y/N escorted him to the Shrine's elder, in search of her permission.

Granny Priestess agreed to let him stay, but on the condition he paid for his imposition. The Water Pillar had silently agreed, producing one small money bag from his pocket and placing it squarely in the Priestess’s outstretched, waiting hand. 

The heft of the bag had made Y/N frown; it seemed a great sum in comparison to their meager lodging offerings, but the Swordsman did not object, so she held her tongue. To comment would only serve to irritate her Master, and the old hag was scornful enough to assign her to duties that would isolate her from the raven-haired Slayer.

Only after the old Priestess sauntered off, leaving behind nothing but the lingering, bitter stench of sake, did the Miko speak again. 

“I’m glad to see you in good health, Tomioka-sama,” she bowed, though she thought she spied the corner of his mouth twitch down at her formal greeting. “I trust your patrol went smoothly?” 

The Water Pillar’s expression was tight; dark. “It did not. The demon I was tracking managed to get away.” His jaw clenched tight. “But not before it slaughtered an entire family in the mountains.” 

All at once, the world around her seemed to slow. It had been easy to assume the dark-haired Swordsman before her always managed to find his target just in time, before it could slaughter its victim. Now, as she beheld the lethal coldness that had settled over his features, Y/N knew her assumptions had been wrong. 

Perhaps, she noted with a shudder, her rescue had been the exception and not the rule. 

Beneath the icy stoicism limning the Water Pillar’s eyes, the shrine maiden noted a distinct heaviness that weighed down his shoulders; made them curl slightly forward, defeated.

She resisted the urge to reach out to him, in comfort. “I won’t offer you empty platitudes,” she murmured. “But I can invite you to offer your prayers for those who were lost.” 

He looked at her, brows drawn, and she knew his instinct was to decline, so she added, “I will do it regardless of whether you join me.”

All at once, any protest he had was snuffed out within him. Instead, he was left with a curious softness as he regarded the shrine maiden, so assured and earnest in her invitation. 

He didn’t know why he’d sought out the Shrine.

He’s been angry; angry at himself for not being faster, for allowing innocent people to die on his account of his failure.

He still felt angry. Yet, as he followed Y/N into the Shrine’s haiden to light incense, he also felt a solemn gratitude for the Miko, who’d not let him indulge in his self-loathing but instead requested he act, and act with her. 

So he had; and somehow, the weight on his chest, the one that threatened to suffocate him, lightened bit by bit until Giyuu felt like he could breathe once more. 

Later that night, Giyuu spotted the shrine maiden from his window as she darted around the courtyard to light the tōrō to illuminate the Shrine grounds. A deep rumble of thunder, however, signaled the spring storm had finally arrived. Y/N, however, only continued with her task, huddling over herself to strike the matches needed to finish lighting the lanterns as rain began to dampen the landscape around her.

He was about to go outside and demand she return to the warm, dry haven that was the girls’ sleeping quarters lest she catch a cold, but then the last of the lanterns were lit and the shrine maiden straightened.

And then she tilted her face up toward the sky, allowing the rain to wash over her. 

And she grinned. And Giyuu was mesmerized; so much so, that he had not stopped staring at where she’d stood, laughing in the rain, even long after the Miko retired to bed.

-

Y/N awoke well before sunrise the following morning and spent hours laboring over the hot stoves in the kitchen. By the time the sky finally lightened, she'd only just finished her task and was in the process of boxing up her creation when she spotted one of her fellow shrine maidens passing by the entryway.

The Miko called out her name. "Has Lord Tomioka awoken yet?"

Her sister trainee lingered in the doorway. "Oh yes, he's been up for a while," and the girl looked back over her shoulder. “But he is already on his way out —“

The Miko swore viciously under her breath as she slammed a lid atop the small bento and hastily wrapped it in the small cloth she’d swiped from the laundry. 

“Move,” she barked at a small group of trainees that had gathered in the hallway outside the kitchen. The girls flattened themselves against the wall as Y/N sped by. She hurtled up the stairs, nearly tripping in her haste. Just as she burst into the courtyard from the honden, panting and winded, she spotted him.

“Tomioka-sama!” Y/N called, hurrying after the retreating form of the Water Pillar before he could pass through the shrine gates. “I have something for you!” 

The raven-haired slayer turned back to her, his face neutral, though Y/N could tell, by the slightest raise of his brow, that she’d piqued his interest. 

“Thank goodness you hadn’t left yet,” the Miko said brightly, holding out a small bundle wrapped in furoshiki cloth. “I was worried this wouldn’t be ready before you did.”

Tomioka’s eyes dropped to the parcel in her hands. “What is it?” 

Y/N motioned for him to take it, and to her slight surprise he did, holding it slightly in front of him as though it were liable to burst open. “A meal for the road. Granny and I prepared it this morning — as thanks, for everything you’ve done.” 

But the Water Pillar was already shaking his head, trying to press the package back into the shrine maiden’s hands. “I need no thanks; I do my job, and your shrine happens to be part of it.” 

If his words disappointed her, Y/N did not show it. “And yet we are grateful all the same,” she said firmly, arms crossing in front of her chest to avoid taking the small bento back. “Besides, it’s salmon; it will only go bad if you don’t eat it.” 

Had she not been watching him, Y/N would have missed the slight widening of his eyes, or the way his hand twitched back towards himself, bringing the packed lunch closer to him. 

Cerulean eyes watched her for a long moment, before dropping as Tomioka tucked the bento into his pocket. 

“Thank you,” was all he said before he turned away and continued through the gates of the shrine, setting off on the path which would lead him through the forest. 

If she hadn’t known better, she would’ve sworn the Water Pillar looked happy as he departed. 

———

The Slayer returned exactly one week after she’d given him the home-cooked salmon – but he did not return empty-handed. For there, wrapped in the same furoshiki cloth, was a strange, oblong object, sitting in the palm of his hand though if he thought it heavy, Tomioka gave no indication. 

“What’s this?” Y/N leaned curiously over the Pillar’s outstretched hand and squinted, trying to discern what the cloth could have been concealing. 

Tomioka pushed his hand toward her, beseeching her to take the parcel from him. “A knife.” 

The Shrine Maiden looked up at him in alarm, pulling away from the Water Pillar. “Why on earth would I need a knife?” 

He rolled his eyes. “Protection.” 

“From what?” The Miko wrinkled her nose down at his offering, though there was a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “As I recall, I walloped you just fine with my broom.”

Tomioka shot her a dull look. “Be that as it may, cleaning tools are useless against demons. Without the sun, the only thing that works against them is decapitation with this — its metal is unique.” 

He parted the folds of the cloth to reveal a simple blade, though Y/N found it daunting all the same. The hilt was basic, an unembellished metal handle wrapped in plain black leather. The blade itself was an unassuming silver, slightly longer than her hand. 

The Slayer motioned for her to take it, though she only shrunk away. “You know how to use one, yes?” 

The Miko’s eyes met his, wide and anxious. “For domestic uses, of course, but not –” 

Tomioka’s fingers closed around her wrist and lifted, guiding her hand toward the dagger. His hand moved to cover hers, wrapping them both around the hilt of the blade before squeezing. “Grip it like this,” he held their joined hands up for her to inspect. “Keep your hand in a fist; do not lift your fingers away from the grip – that’s the best way to injure yourself instead of your target.” 

But the shrine maiden could hardly focus on the Pillar’s instructions. Her attention was directed entirely at the way her hand was swallowed by his, his skin warm and his grasp firm. She studied how his calluses – thick and forged from years of brutal sword training – pressed against hers; how, despite the roughness of his fingers and palms, and his solid hold still remained gentle. 

“-- and thrust like this,” he remained oblivious to her distraction as moved her arm in a sharp jab, a second and then a third time, before dropping her hand.  “Now do it yourself.” 

His command startled her out of her trance, a heat creeping up her neck from beneath the collar of her kosode. She held out the blade awkwardly before her as scrambled to recall the Water Pillar’s words. To her dismay, all she was able to conjure was the memory of his touch, and how cold she suddenly felt without it. 

Lamely, she mimed jutting the knife at an invisible enemy, the blade gracelessly wobbling through the air. Though she was by no means a swordsman, even she knew something was off, her movements disjointed and clumsy.

She glanced shyly back to the raven-haired Demon Slayer and deflated as she was met only with bemused resignation.

Tomioka shook his head in disdain. “Perhaps you would fare better with a broom.” 

The Miko bristled. “I am not a swordsman —“

“You’ve made that abundantly apparent.” 

“— and I do not have the basics you seem to take for granted.” She finished, glaring indignantly at her raven-haired companion. “So teach me.”

The Water Pillar considered her for a moment before he gave her the slightest, almost imperceptible nod of his head. 

“Watch me.” He turned his body toward the Miko and mimed getting into a defensive stance — feet ajar, his weight evenly distributed on each leg, and bent. 

He looked back to the Shrine Maiden expectantly, and she parroted his movements, crouching into what she imagined was the perfect mirror of his position.

It wasn’t.

“No — you need to—“ Tomioka straightened and huffed, impatient. He moved quickly behind her, and without thinking, his hands shot to grip her hips to guide them into the proper stance, until her weight was evenly distributed on both feet. 

“Like that — now bend your knees.” The ravenette pushed down on her hips until her legs bent, apparently oblivious to the way the Miko flushed crimson.

He was close; far, far too close. She’d never been touched the way the Water Pillar touched her. Tomioka’s hands were twin brands, burning her skin even through the layers of her shrine attire, and it sent every nerve beneath her skin buzzing.

She was aware of every inch of him pressed against her; of his arms, caging her in, his hands twin brands against her hips as he turned and pulled her into the proper stance. She was aware of how warm he was, of how formidable his presence felt, even though to her, he posed no threat. Every movement of his was precise and fluid, like the water he’d claimed to style his techniques after.

And if his touch wasn’t distracting enough, his scent threatened to overwhelm every last bit of sense she’d clung onto. Y/N didn’t know how she hadn’t noticed how good he smelled — like mahogany and citrus — so rich and so warm; a stark contrast to his otherwise cold and aloof nature mask.

The swordsman, however, appeared to remain oblivious. “There,” he finally said, having satisfied that she’d achieved proper form. For moment, the two of them lingered there, with Tomioka’s chest against the shrine maiden’s back, his hands remaining steady in place on her hips. It was as though they’d frozen: Y/N, out of a mixture of shock and red-cheeked embarrassment, and Tomioka out of utter cluelessness.

Another beat passed before the Water Pillar finally realized the compromising nature of their position. His hands dropped quickly from her hips, and there was a rush of air at Y/N’s back as he swiftly stepped away, putting distance between them once more. 

The raven-haired Slayer gruffly cleared his throat. “You should also keep wisteria on you.” And Y/N gulped down her embarrassment to turn back toward him. 

Tomioka kept his face neutral and cool, but the tips of his ears had turned pink. “Check your perfumes for it or ask one of the other shrine girls if you can borrow theirs – oil would be better. More concentrated”

Any residual awkwardness that may have lingered fell quickly away. The Miko only stared blankly at him, her head tilted slightly to the side as her eyebrows pinched together. “Perfume?”

Tomioka blinked. “Yes. As all women have.” 

It was an effort to fight off the smile twitching at the corners of her lips. “Exactly how many women do you know, Tomioka-sama? Such that you would know their perfumery habits, that is.” 

His mouth thinned into a firm line. “Enough.” 

And though Y/N supposed he’d meant to sound self-assured and confident, the Slayer was betrayed by the slight doubt in his voice, as though he’d been questioning his own answer. 

The shrine maiden only continued to look at him, her eyebrow slightly raised, amused. The longer the silence stretched between them,the more awkward the ravenette grew, his discomfort plain from the way he shifted under her stare. 

“You seem like someone who would use it.” He finally offered, after another moment of quiet.

It was her turn to blink, taken aback. Her smirk quickly slid from her face and with a grimace, she felt her right eye twitch, ever so slightly. “Apologies, then, for disappointing you.” 

Tomioka frowned and he made like he was going to respond, but the Miko squared her shoulders and stalked briskly past him. 

���I must return to my duties, and I’m sure you need to do the same,” she paused in the doorway of the garden hut and cast one, sidelong glance back to where he stood, clueless. “Until next time, Tomioka-sama. Thank you for the blade.”

With that, the Miko paced briskly away from the garden hut, her spine stiff. The Water Pillar remained in place for a moment, stupefied, before he collected himself once more, before setting off back toward the forest; to his Manor.

And as Giyuu retreated through the rusting Torii gate, he could not quite shake the distinct impression he’d done something wrong, though he knew not what. 

–

The Water Pillar returned the following week, though to a decidedly cooler greeting than that which he’d steadily grown accustomed to receiving. 

That wasn’t entirely true — the majority of the Shrine’s residents had welcomed him warmly, their kindness always far more than he thought he deserved. Only one hadn’t greeted him as enthusiastically as the others, and to his annoyance, that one was the only person whose opinion of him mattered, even if he couldn’t quite articulate why.

She hardly stopped to acknowledge his arrival, only gracing him with a brisk nod, though she’d refused to meet his eyes. Bemused, Giyuu followed her across the courtyard as she made her way to the Shrine’s small storeroom. He leaned against the doorway and watched as the Miko began pulling jars of dried herbs from the rickety shelves lining the walls and stacked them on a sizeable work counter that cut halfway across the room. All the while, she continued pointedly ignoring him, humming lightly under her breath as though she could not see or hear him as he shifted against the doorframe, waiting.

Her obstinate silence grated at him. “May I assist you?”

“No, no, I am perfectly fine, thank you.” She turned away to browse the shelves once more, before finding what she needed: a stone mortar and pestle.

The grinder settled against the wooden counter with a heavy thud and the shrine maiden snatched up one of the jars she’d stacked and dumped its contents into the bowl, followed by another bottle of herbs. Pestle in hand, she set to work grinding the leaves together, mixing in a vial of fragrant oil she’d kept in her pocket to create a thick paste.

Giyuu watched her quietly as she worked. “You’re…” he frowned. “You’re behaving strangely.”

Y/N glanced up at him. “In what way?” 

“You’re trying to avoid me.” 

“Am I?” She straightened, rolling her shoulders. “Only because I’ve not yet bathed today. I didn’t want to risk offending you with my stench.” 

Giyuu paused. “Why would that matter?” 

“You made sure to point out you thought I needed perfume during your last visit.” 

He pushed off the doorframe, eyebrows knit together. “For protection.” 

The shrine maiden rolled her eyes. “Yes, and apparently, because you believe I am the type to need it.” When Giyuu only continued to stare at her with that same, mildly lost expression, Y/N groaned, exasperated. “You implied I stink.” 

The Water Pillar’s jaw slackened as he gaped at her. “That is not –” 

“It is what you implied,” she repeated, turning away from him to focus on her task of grinding herbs, though the force with which she ground the pestle was perhaps greater than necessary.

Giyuu rounded the small countertop of the Shrine’s storeroom to face her head-on. “I like how you smell.” He insisted. “It’s nice.” 

The Miko’s irritated churning of the stone paused and her eyes finally lifted to his. For a long moment, she watched him, head slightly cocked. 

“You are very odd, Tomioka-sama.” 

But she said it with a small smile that he almost wanted to return. 

Before long, things between them returned to normal once more, with the Miko directing him to collect her gathering basket from where she’d left it in the Shrine’s infirmary and bring it to her. Once he returned, he helped her grind charcoal to make incense sticks as she chatted happily away. 

Surprisingly, Giyuu found himself not only engaged in her musings about daily life at the Shrine, but offering her small personal anecdotes of his own, though he was not nearly as proficient as she when it came to story-telling.  

Once the sun began setting once more, and he received no new orders from Headquarters, he simply sought out the Shrine’s head Priestess and silently passed her a small money bag. 

And then Giyuu retired to the guest’s quarters for the night. 

—--

As spring warmed into summer, the Water Pillar began making bi-weekly visits to the Shrine that quickly melted into habit; expectation. Once a fortnight, a thrill would settle over the young maidens in anticipation of the arrival of the stoic yet handsome Slayer, with girls of all ages eagerly looking toward the Shrine gates in hopes of spying him the moment he crossed beneath the Torii. The elder employees of the Shrine had learned to time Tomioka’s arrival by listening for their excited gasps, exhaled as a collective as brooms and rices sacks were dropped where their handlers stood, the girls far too interested in rushing to greet the exalted Slayer than they were in completing their tasks. 

“I do not see the reason for such excitement,” she sniffed, though even she wasn’t stupid enough to think her fellow trainees bought her bluff. “He is only a swordsman.” 

“A handsome one,” a wispy trainee named Miyoko sighed dreamily. “And no doubt strong and capable.”

The group of maidens dissolved into another fit of giggles, concealing their blushes behind their hands.

“His face is attractive, but his hair is odd,” another commented. “It looks like he’s hacked at it with his own blade.” 

“Oh, who cares about his hair? I’m far more interested in what’s beneath that uniform —“

“Enough,” Y/N snapped. While her friendship with the Water Pillar was tenuous  at best, the suggestive way her sisters-in-training spoke of him left her feeling decidedly discomforted.

Though, if she were honest with herself, she’d admit that she, too, wondered whether Tomioka’s strength was the product of a finely-hewn tuned physique. But she wasn’t, so she bottled that thought up and tucked it tightly away, where it belonged. 

Slowly, her cohorts all turned to look at her.

“You seem to spend a great deal of time with him, Sister,” Miyoko directed at Y/N, who felt her cheeks heat. “Is there anything you’d like to share?”

“Tomioka-sama always asks where Sister Y/N is, the moment he arrives!” A tiny voice chimed, and Y/N’s eyes slid shut in an effort to fight off a wince.  “Sometimes they even do chores by themselves!”

Komatsu. At only ten, she was the Shrine’s youngest trainee, and followed Y/N around like a shadow. Not that the shrine maiden minded all that much; she tended to spoil the girl a bit, when she could. But as pure as the girl’s intentions surely were, she’d yet to lose that childlike earnestness that made her prone to revealing information that Y/N rather remained a secret. 

“Alone with a man?” Miyoko repeated, her eyes shining with malicious glee. “How scandalous — even for someone without a family to embarass, dear Y/N.”

“Careful, Miyoko,” she warned softly. “Don’t go speaking on matters of which you know nothing.” 

“Or what? What would you do?” 

As fond as Y/N was of her sisters-in-training, one did not make it through the Shrine’s rigorous education and training without learning how to trade in the kind of currency young women valued most.

Information; specifically, gossip. 

So the shrine maiden only leveled Miyoko’s own smug smirk with one of her own. “Or I shall tell Granny how you spend your afternoons kissing the boys from the village, rather than tending to your lessons.” 

The other girls gasped, their stares turning back to the gossiping shrine maiden. She savored how quickly the girl’s prideful grin slipped from her face as the weight of the threat settled. 

While Y/N, parentless and thus without anyone to truly care about her propriety, was being primed to take over Granny Priestess’s position overseeing the shrine, her position was unique. She was parentless and thus, without anyone to truly care about her propriety or whatever other ridiculous expectations of modesty that were often attached to other young women her age. In being no one, Y/N was relatively free to do as she pleased, and that freedom almost made up for her lack of belonging.

But the other girls residing at the Shrine were different. Families across the region sent their daughters to the Shrine for training, not only in their cultural practices and arts, but also for education; to become well-rounded women who would then serve to be valuable marriage prospects once they returned home. 

Scandal would not affect her; but it would affect someone like Miyoko.

“How do you think your parents would feel, to know their heir was behaving so brazenly in public? Risking her reputation on the marriage market before she’s even entered it?”

Truthfully, she liked Miyoko; had gotten along well with her, in fact. But she would not risk those sacred few moments she spent with the Water Pillar in an effort to keep the peace with another trainee. Not when those few instances she spent in his company were the only times she’d felt connection — true, human connection and belonging. 

Her sister-in-training ruefully fell silent, and Y/N savored her victory. Later, when she was left with nothing but the company of her own thoughts, however, the exchange played back in her mind.

In all her posturing, she’d managed to avoid having to answer for Miyoko’s lofty observation. 

You seem to spend a great deal of time with him, Sister. 

She did; and, to her slight horror, she realized that she had no interest in stopping. 

She only wanted more.

–

It was past dawn when Giyuu trudged under the great Torii gate of the Shrine, exhausted and aching. 

It had been a long while since a demon was last capable of wounding him, but he’d been blown backward by a delayed attack that hit after he’d beheaded the damn thing. As a result, he’d been sent flying back, slamming through a dilapidated wall of the abandoned hut he’d tracked the creature to, resulting in a sizeable gash to his shoulder. 

He grit his teeth in mild annoyance. He would need some treatment of his wounds — not that they were deep by any means, but they were substantial enough that he knew infection could spell trouble for him, should it spread. 

Some small, irate voice in his head snidely reminded him he could have just as easily gone to the Butterfly Mansion for treatment — that, in fact, the Insect Pillar’s estate had been much closer to the location of his mission than the Shrine had been. He’d rationed that, as much as he admired and respected Kocho, he was still a bit raw from her mocking about how unliked he truly was among his comrades. 

Besides, he groused. Kocho was not the one he really wanted to see, anyway. 

He found Y/N in the Shrine’s storeroom, seated upon the floor with a detailed ledger spread out before her as she took inventory of various scrolls and texts.

Giyuu did not bother to announce himself. “You have medical training, do you not?”  

The Miko startled, the charcoal stick she’d been using to tally the ledger clattering to the floor. She blinked up at him in surprise. “Tomioka-sama — welcome, it’s been a few weeks — forgive me, I did not see you come in.” She quickly rose to her feet, shutting the store ledger and tucking it under her arm. 

Her eyes found the blood-stained shoulder of his hair and widened. “I have some; I can stitch and dress wounds —“

He nodded. “Then I require your assistance.” 

—-

Y/N led him to a small office inside the honden that served as the Shrine’s unofficial infirmary.  “Take a seat,” she nodded at a small stool that sat under the room’s solitary window, right by a modest working table. “Let me see what we have.” 

Tomioka sat upon the stool with his back to her as she busied herself sifting through cupboards in search of supplies. “What sort of wound is it?”

She turned back and nearly dropped a tin of medicinal salve she’d located as she beheld the Water Pillar strip himself of his clothing from the waist up. 

There, across his right shoulder blade, she saw it — saw his blood. Quickly, she located thread and a needle and she grabbed a roll of cloth that could double as wrappings and she crossed back across the room.  

She spread her bounty out across the table, right beside the neatly folded pile of his clothing. Silently, she set to work cleaning the gash, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief when she saw that it was little more than a shallow flesh wound.

“Lucky you, this won’t need stitching,” she said lightly as she wiped away the last of the dried blood from the Water Pillar’s skin. “But I shall need to wrap it so it won’t become infected.”

Tomioka only gave her a curt nod. She stepped back to work open her tin of medical salve, and as she warmed the substance in her hands, she let herself fully examine the Swordsman sitting before her. Her eyes trailed over the sculpted planes of his back. It surprised her how muscular he was, given his leanness. Yet, without the layers of his uniform shirt and haori, she could see he was well-built, each muscle defined. 

She didn’t know why it surprised her that there was a man beneath the mask of the Slayer, but what a man he was. Her mouth went dry at the thought. It was an effort not to allow her eyes to wander lower; to ponder what he might look like under his uniform pants, stripped and fully bare before her — 

“What is that scent?” Tomioka’s sudden question startled her away from her increasingly treacherous thoughts. 

She’d never been more grateful to be facing away from him. That way, he could not see the blush coloring her cheeks as she hastily slathered the salve across his wound. “Anti-septic; I know it’s rather stringent, but — ”

The Water Pillar shook his head. “I know what antiseptic smells like. I mean you. The scent you wear.” 

She pursed her lips for a moment before she recalled the distinctly floral scent of her cleansing oils. “Sakaki blooms, I suppose.”

“What properties does it have — what are its effects on others?” He pressed. She was surprised at how insistent he seemed, and there was almost an urgency in his tone that unsettled her. 

“None, to my knowledge — why do you ask?”

The tips of Tomioka’s ears turned pink and he turned away from her, lips pressed into a firm line. “Forget I said anything.” he muttered after a moment, his shoulders and spine stiff.

Neither one of them spoke again as Y/N finished treating the Water Pillar’s  injury and wrapped it. 

“You're done,” she said after a moment, tapping him lightly on his other shoulder. 

“You have my thanks,” Tomioka quickly refastened the buttons of his uniform shirt as the Miko stepped aside, pointedly wiping her hands clean with a small cloth. She only looked at him once he lifted his haori from where he’d carefully laid it atop the small examination table, but her eyes narrowed as he rose from the stool, shrugging the material back over his shoulders. “I am happy to pay you for the resources you used —“ 

Y/N did not appear to be listening, not as she leaned forward and pinched the sleeve of his haori between her thumb and index finger. 

“You have a tear,” she frowned, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. “Right here, see?” 

There, on the side bearing his sister’s half of his haori, right where his sleeve met his shoulder, was indeed a small hole, the threads around it broken and shifting slightly in the wind. 

The Miko’s hand fell away, and she squared her shoulders, mouth set in a firm but determined line. “If you’ll give me a moment, I assure you I can have it repaired in no time –” 

“Not necessary,” the Swordsman said abruptly, twisting back from her. “I can figure it out on my own.” He would not part with it, would not so much as let another put their hands on it and risk ruining his most cherished possession. 

Y/N only stepped toward him, ignoring his attempt at distance. “There’s no need to be prideful,” she huffed impatiently. “Truly, it would take no effort at all –”

“No.”

“Why are you being so difficult?” She snapped, but her hands continued reaching for him, for his sleeve – 

Tomioka snatched her wrist mid-air and held it there, halting her. “No one touches this. Understand?” 

Y/N’s lips parted in faint surprise at the Water Pillar’s severity. Her eyes darted to where his fingers were locked tight – uncomfortably tight – around her wrist. When she glanced back at the stone-faced Slayer, she felt a chill lick down her spine. She’d known he could be intimidating against threats, even without saying a word. It was his eyes – his eyes would harden, with the lapiz hue of his irises darkening to something more akin to indigo, as he stared down an opponent. She’d witnessed it the very first night she’d met him. 

She just hadn’t thought she would ever be on the receiving end of such a cold glare. 

“I understand,” she said softly, and she began flexing her wrist against his grip in an effort to work herself free from his hold. “Please forgive my indiscretion, Tomioka-sama. I overstepped.” 

The raven-haired Slayer blinked and quickly let her go, her wrist falling limply back to her side. Just outside the infirmary’s small window, he heard the familiar, urgent cry of a crow.

He’d never been more grateful for a distraction.  “I must be on my way.” His tone was stiff; clipped. 

“But — you’ve only just arrived —“ 

“Farewell, Y/N.” Giyuu gave her a curt nod.

Helplessly, the Miko watched as the Water Pillar stalked out of the small office, his hands curled into fists at his sides. He did not so much as spare a glance back, leaving Y/N to wonder whether she would see that odd patterned haori again.

The thought she might not made something cold and heavy sink into her gut.

—-

(One week later)

It wasn’t often that Giyuu Tomioka found himself annoyed, much less angry. He much preferred channeling his existing emotions into slaying demons, allowing them to taste a fraction of the rage and hatred he felt deep within, a vicious fire he so rarely let bubble up to his service.

Until that evening. After the fiasco that was Mount Natagumo and the subsequent chaos at the Master’s mansion as a result of the Kamado boy and his demon sister, Giyuu had finally noticed that the previous day’s trials had resulted in the tear along the shoulder of his haori that he knew could no longer be ignored. 

He grit his teeth; the battle against the Lower Moon spider demon had hardly required him to exert any energy — yet the demon’s last ditch attempt to preserve its life had managed to enlarge the small hole in his most prized possession, and the Water Pillar was utterly without the skill to repair it. 

So, he’d been forced to sit through the meeting with the Master, the hole in his haori feeling more like a gaping wound that only festered with every passing moment, until finally, finally they’d been dismissed. 

Giyuu hadn’t wasted any time departing swiftly from his Master’s estate, though that hadn’t stopped him from catching the tail end of Shinazugawa’s biting remark of how fuckin’ typical it was for him to leave without so much as a farewell to his comrades. He tried not to let the Wind Pillar’s words get to him; but he was unworthy of their company regardless, so he supposed it really didn’t matter what they thought of him. It shouldn’t. 

And so, that was how Giyuu found himself padding silently along the cracked, stone pathway which led to the Shrine at the edge of his designated territory, ready to eat crow and ask for assistance from a particular Miko whom he felt certain would not hesitate to remind him of how he’d coolly rejected her help only days earlier. 

Hence, his irritation. 

So, his movements stiff and his mouth twisted into a firm grimace, Giyuu stalked under the Torii and into the main courtyard of the old Shrine. It was coming upon midday, though there was a thick cover of clouds overhead that threatened that open up at any moment and shower rain across the region. He ignored the respectful bows of the Shrine’s various inhabitants and staff, eyes sweeping over faces in search of her. 

He located her near the storehouse, chatting with one of her fellow trainees as the pair worked to clean vegetables. Giyuu trudged over to her, eyes locked unwaveringly on her serene, easy smile, as he tried to ignore the way it made something in his gut clench and churn. 

He drew to a stop right before her and her Shrine-sister, the latter looking up at him with wide eyes, her hands stilling over her work as she looked up to the Slayer in awe. 

Giyuu cleared his throat but Y/N only continued wiping the dirt from carrots with her cloth. 

The ravenette tried again. “I am in need of your assistance.” 

Y/N’s comrade nudged her with her elbow, but the Miko only continued to clean, pointedly ignoring them both. 

Giyuu pursed his lips. “With my haori. The tear has grown larger —“

“I am busy.” Y/N’s tone was clipped. “Perhaps there are others who might assist you.”

“Please.” 

The Shrine Maiden’s hands finally stilled and she lifted her chin to face him. The moment she beheld the pleading sincerity in his eyes, coupled with the hard set of his jaw that betrayed just how desperate he was, her gaze softened.

She sighed. “Very well then,” she rose, brushing her hands free of any residual dirt. She held her chin high and squared her shoulders, determined not to show him how he’d bruised her ego; how he’d frightened her. “Follow me.”

—

The Shrine sat at the base of a great mountain. But, nearly half a kilometer up the winding, twisting path leading up the mountain and carved into its side, was a grassy hilltop that then plateaued into a small overlook that boasted a phenomenal aerial view of the Shrine below. 

The summer grass had turned a vibrant shade of emerald, broken up only by dots of tiny white and blue wildflowers that had gathered in small clusters sprinkled throughout the overlook. At the back of the clearing stood an ancient willow tree, its trunk gnarled and knotted with age, its wisps swaying lazily in the wind.   

It was her favorite spot; a little ways away from the hustle and bustle of the Shrine, which meant they would have some privacy as she worked. Y/N settled down against the grass and pulled a needle and a spool of thread from her pocket. She turned her face up toward the Water Pillar where he stood over her. “I’ll take that haori, now, if you’ll please.” 

Wordlessly, Tomioka carefully slid the garment from his shoulders and handed it to her, though he hesitated in letting go as she took it gingerly into her hands. 

It was clearly very important to the Slayer, and perhaps that was why she felt the need to reassure him. “I promise to take care of it.”

He nodded stiffly and let go of the fabric and the Miko quickly set to work repairing its torn shoulder. The Water Pillar lingered awkwardly beside her for a moment longer before he too, sat in the grass next to her, though his back remained straight, his posture rigid.

She glanced at him as her needle wove the haori’s fabric back together. “I suppose this happened because of your occupation?” 

It was faint, but the shrine maiden swore she saw his mouth twitch into something reminiscent of a grimace. “Yes.”

“You should be lucky it wasn’t your flesh.”

At that, Tomioka scoffed. “I would not allow such a weakling to get close enough to try.”

“My, I’d not pegged you as the boastful sort, Tomioka-sama.”

“It’s not boasting; I speak only the truth.” He retorted evenly. 

The shrine maiden only hummed as she worked. “And what of your family? Do they support your path as a Slayer?”

The Water Pillar turned his head away, his form stiff. For a moment, the Miko feared she would be left to repair his haori in silence, with nothing but the faint whistling of birds to keep her company. 

“I have none,” Tomioka’s voice was soft, nearly swallowed by the wind. “There is no one left to object, even if they wanted to.”

Y/N’s hands paused their work as she thought. “You are alone?”

It would be nice, she supposed, to find another who, like her, belonged to no one; a kindred spirit of sorts.

“I suppose,” Tomioka spoke up after a moment, his eyes squinted in thought. “I have a mentor. But it was he who trained me to join the Corps.” 

“I should hope he’s more sober than mine,” Y/N drawled. “And less irritating.” 

The Miko’s attention was so fixed on her careful stitching along the hole in his haori, that she didn’t see his faint smile at her words. 

——

The Slayer and the shrine maiden continued talking long after she’d finished repairing the tear in his haori. It was only when Tomioka had realized nightfall was a mere hour away that the two reluctantly descended the hillside to return to the Shrine.

“I almost forgot.” The Water Pillar said, halting in front of the honden as Y/N escorted him back to the Shrine’s entrance. He dug into his pockets and pulled something free. “Here. For you.” 

The Miko gaped down at the fat red fruit that sat heavily in his palm. “This is -“ she said breathlessly, “A pomegranate!” 

He nodded, arm still outstretched towards her as he waited to drop the ruby fruit into her hand. 

She shook her head. “No, Tomioka-san, I cannot accept something so expensive-“

“I insist.” The Water Pillar withdrew a small knife and split the fruit in half, staining his hands crimson with the juice that spilled over its soft flesh.

Hesitantly, the young Miko accepted the half he offered her, and thumbed some of the fat, glistening jewels loose. The moment she brought them to her lips, Y/N sighed, contentedly, and for some reason, Giyuu found his cheeks heating as he watched her savor the sweet fruit. 

She lazily opened her eyes after swallowing her first mouthful, but she was startled to see the Hashira staring at her, unwaveringly, and she realized he’d moved closer towards her than he had been only seconds earlier. 

Tomioka’s azure eyes were fixed hard on her lips, as he leaned in close to her, Y/N flushing as he drew nearer. 

Is he going to kiss me? Her traitorous heart thundered at the idea, and it caused her no short amount of grief to know she was uncertain whether she wanted him to do so. As her emotions warred with her logic, the Water Pillar’s gentle fingers cupped under her chin, and his thumb brushed delicately across her lower lip. 

“Pomegranate juice,” he said, but Y/N could still feel the warmth of his breath still as his hand lingered under her chin. His eyes were wide as though he, too, could not believe what he’d just done. 

“Yes,” she breathed, before she felt her cheeks heat. “I – I mean, thank you.”

The Water Pillar’s gaze dropped to her lips and her stomach twisted violently. All at once, awareness seemed to come crashing down upon him, and he then stepped back, his hand falling from its hold on her face and back to his side.

The shrine maiden remained frozen in place for a heartbeat longer. “Are you certain you’re unable to be our guest tonight?” Her voice was little more than a pitiful squeak.

Her eyes lifted to his and she knew the answer before he spoke it. “I cannot,” and to her surprise, he almost looked as disappointed as she felt, but he added hastily, “But I will be back. Soon.”

“Soon,” she echoed, feeling rather dazed. “Yes. Of course. I — we — look forward to it.”

She was thankful that Tomioka had already turned away from her as he made his way down the long, winding steps that led to the main route out of the forest; that way, he could not see the way her cheeks burned crimson, or how she buried her face in her hands as she cursed her own embarrassment.

—

Giyuu was grateful his back was to the young Miko as he retreated through the Shrine’s gates and back to the path which would lead him home. It meant she could not see as he stared at his thumb – the thumb he’d used to clear away the small bead of pomegranate juice from her lips – or how his eyebrows pinched together. It meant she could not hear his heart as it beat wildly in his chest at the memory of how soft and full her lip had been beneath the pad of his thumb, soft enough that some treacherous part of his brain had urged him to lean in, to see if her lips would feel as good against his – 

He shook his head, trying desperately to dispel his wild intrusive thoughts. It was ludicrous; he did not think of the young shrine maiden in that way. Not when she frequently sought to needle him, not when she frustrated him to no end. 

His collar suddenly felt tight; his skin, far too hot. His gaze dropped back down to the hand that had touched her, and it clenched. 

A pomegranate. It was only a pomegranate; nothing more. 

“It was a thank you gift,” Giyuu declared, as though speaking the words out loud gave them more force. “It is nothing more than an expression of gratitude.”

And even his crow, ancient and dull as he was, scoffed at the obviousness of the lie.

——

Late Summer, 1915

Summer blazed hot and humid. But neither the sweltering heat of the sun nor the most arduous missions he took exhausted Giyuu more than the complicated, tangled mess of feelings that had taken root within him. Because with every day that passed, the Miko of the Shrine at the edge of the forest occupied more and more of his mind. And Giyuu did not know what it meant or what he should do about it. 

She’d not just repaired his haori or made him salmon; she’d somehow wormed her way into his every waking thought, and to his great confusion, he found himself almost unwilling to think of anything but her. 

Admittedly, Giyuu Tomioka did not have the requisite tools in his social arsenal to successfully navigate human interaction. He hadn’t quite known the extent of his ineptitude however, until the Insect Pillar had so cheerfully pointed out that none of his comrades, in fact, liked him. That revelation had made him doubt every interaction he’d had since, made him wonder whether even the lower ranked Slayers viewed him with the same apathy, if not the same outright hostility toward him shared by Shinazugawa and Iguro.

He’d come to doubt them all — except her.

Y/N was different; at the end of each visit to the Shrine, the Water Pillar did not find himself feeling drained or unwanted.  He felt lighter; rejuvenated, even. She was a breath of fresh air that Giyuu found more difficult to go without with each passing day. 

She still picked at him, but she did so without the malice he’d normally come to expect, even from those he considered friends, like the Kocho. The young Miko had a way of teasing him that did not leave him feeling decidedly othered. Rather, her japes only spurred him to respond with his own, though admittedly, they tended to fall flat.

He’d known, from the moment she’d attempted to bludgeon him with her broom, that there was more to the Miko than met the eye; but he hadn’t imagined he’d find himself as drawn to her as he was, unable to tolerate going more than a handful of weeks without paying her a visit.

And, given the way she’d blushed after he’d thanked her for repairing his haori, perhaps she was drawn to him, too. Perhaps he hoped she was.

But he would have to wait to find out, for his obligations to the Corps had taken him to a village a considerable distance away from his designated territory. He’d been tasked with investigating a series of disappearances of young women in the region, but his orders had come abruptly enough that he’d not been able to spare a visit to the Shrine before he departed.

He was anxious — eager — to return, though not before he took care of the demon likely behind the mystery plaguing the village he now patrolled.

Nightfall was still a little ways off, and so Giyuu found himself wandering the streets to pass the time. He made his way to a sizeable outdoor market, still packed with shoppers oohing and ahhing over vibrant displays of silk, crafted jewelry, and sugary confectioneries.

Idly, he too, joined other patrons in browsing the small vending stands that lined the bustling village streets, though his perusal was disinterested, if not bored. But his eyes snagged on one small bauble displayed on the merchant’s small stand upon a swath of silk. It was small; unassuming. But the carefully crafted decoration was painted in a startling shade of crimson that he found hard to ignore. 

The image of a certain Miko flashed through his mind. He couldn’t leave without it. he wouldn’t; not when its paint so perfectly matched the color of Y/N’s hakama trousers.

I spend the year longing for autumn. That was what she’d told him, that day on the hillside after she’d repaired his haori. 

He almost smiled to himself. This would be a way for her to enjoy her favorite season even in the scorching heat of summer or the biting cold of winter. 

He waited for the merchant to notice his presence, his fingers twisting around the small money sack he kept tucked in his pocket. His eyes flickered back to the small trinket. Idly, Giyuu wondered when he’d begun associating the color red with the shrine maiden and not with the blood he’d always imagined stained his hands. 

He continued to stare the merchant down until he finally managed to catch the vendor’s eye, who flinched at the intensity of his unblinking stare.   

Giyuu jutted his chin toward the small token. “How much?” 

—-

He found the Miko a few mornings later, relaxing on the hillside overlooking the Shrine. She laid amongst the late summer wildflowers that had bloomed, her form framed against the grass with petals of soft blue and bright marigold. 

Giyuu wordlessly settled beside her, and he tried to ignore the thunderous beat of his heart against his sternum as she rolled her head toward him to greet him with a sleepy smile. They exchanged pleasantries and settled into a comfortable silence, both content to watch the sun rise higher over the horizon.

Easy; it was so easy for him to sit beside her, like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

“So, you are to take over the Shrine, one day?”

Y/N’s head turned to the Water Pillar in surprise; though he’d grown steadily more talkative over the months since she’d met him, it wasn’t often that he initiated conversation. 

She settled back against the cool grass of the hilltop overlooking the Shrine, enjoying the precious few moments of quiet in the early morning before the chaos of the day called her away. “Yes,” though there was a slight uncertainty in her voice. “I’m sure it’s the expectation, after all. I have to repay Granny for her kindness.”

Giyuu frowned. “But is that what you want?”

“What I want is irrelevant,” the Miko folded her arms behind her head and tilted her face up toward the sky. Her eyes tracked the great, fluffy clouds that drifted lazily by, though the Water Pillar suspected she was attempting to avoid having to meet his eye. 

“It’s not irrelevant,” he countered. “If nothing else, you should be allowed to consider other possibilities.”

She did not answer him, and the silence between them stretched enough that he thought to drop the subject, not wanting to press her any further. 

“I think,” she said in that faraway voice that Giyuu had come to learn meant she was trying to conceal some deeply felt emotion. “I think should like to belong somewhere.” Her eyes shone. “No, that’s not it — I want someone to belong to me, and I to them. 

“A husband.” He said flatly. 

The Miko shook her head. “I have never belonged to anywhere or to anyone. I’ve no family to call my own - only an old woman who took pity on me as an infant and raised me. I wonder — what must it be like?” She laid back on the grass and closed her eyes. “That is the one thing I would change. I belong nowhere because I’m no one — nobody’s.” 

Giyuu frowned. “I don’t think that’s true—“

“It is true,” she insisted, though she said it with such ease and conviction, like it was the most obvious and natural thing in the world. “I am here for a moment and then I will be gone, and no one will ever know or remember that there once was a shrine maiden named Y/N here. I’ve made peace with that.”

I would, Giyuu wanted to tell her. I would remember and I would tell them all. 

“I am nobody as well,” Giyuu admitted quietly after a moment. “And I have no one left to belong to.” 

The image of her face, so kind and sad and full of understanding at his words, had stayed with him for the rest of the morning and even as he settled in for a few hours of sleep in the Shrine’s guest wing.  

And in his dreams, her face remained a constant.

—

The sky had turned a vivid shade of orange by the time the Water Pillar emerged from his guest lodgings, ready to depart and resume his duties.  Y/N had been helping another shrine maiden tote firewood across the courtyard when she heard a quiet call of her name.

She turned and saw the raven-haired Swordsman standing near the great Torii gate. 

She looked back to her fellow trainee, who waved her off with a knowing smile, and Y/N brushed her hands clean against her hakama pants before she approached him. 

“Leaving so soon?” And she tried to mask her disappointment at the shortness of his visit. 

Giyuu nodded. “We’ve been stretched thin, in light of a few…changes to our ranks.”

The Miko nodded grimly. He’d told her that a fellow Hashira had been slain a few months prior, and another had retired following a rather violent battle that had destroyed part of a far off city.

“But I wanted to give you this.”

She glanced down to his outstretched hand, where a small parcel was wrapped in plain furoshiki cloth. Stunned, she took the package from him, her eyes flicking between it and the Water Pillar watching her intently.

Gingerly, she unfolded the bundle and unveiled a long, but fragile metal and wood reed.

A hairpin, she realized with a soft gasp. Y/N could scarcely bring her fingers to run over the exquisitely crafted ridges of the leaves that adorned the top portion of the pin, afraid that even the slightest pressure from her touch would cause the Water Pillar’s precious gift to her to crumble. 

I spend the year longing for autumn, she’d told him. She hadn’t thought he’d been particularly interested in listening to her talk; but as Y/N cradled the delicate ornament between her palms, she felt a blush begin to creep across her cheeks. 

As her fingers traced across the delicate ridges of a cluster of maple leaves, lacquered in a thick coat of scarlet paint — a perfect match to the hue of her traditional Miko hakama pants — Y/N realized that perhaps Tomioka had been paying more attention to her than she’d realized. 

For the Water Pillar had given her a piece of autumn to hold onto year-round. 

“Tomioka-san, you do not-“ 

“Giyuu.” The ravenette interrupted her. “Please, call me by my name; it’s Giyuu.” 

Y/N’s mouth closed, but she smiled softly, considering. “Alright. Giyuu — please, you do not need to feel obligated to bring gifts for us — it was only salmon.” 

But Giyuu only shook his head. “I don’t bring gifts for everyone; just you.” 

Y/N turned scarlet. 

“Please, just-“ Giyuu frowned, and Y/N could have sworn she saw the faintest glow of pink coloring the Hashira’s cheeks. “Just take it.” 

“Okay,” her voice resembled a mouse’s squeak as she cradled the pin delicately between her hands. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.” 

“And it wasn’t just salmon.” 

Y/N looked to him in surprise, her head cocked in curiosity. “Pardon?” 

Giyuu exhaled harshly through his nose before stepping closer to her. “This is not only because you made salmon.” Her eyes tracked his hand as it rose to grip the front fold of his haori in his fist. “This – this is all I have left of my family.” 

“My sister,” he gestured to the red half of his haori. “She died protecting me.” His hand drifted to the green and orange patterned half of the garment. “And this belonged to a dear friend. He also perished protecting me – and others.”

The Miko’s lips parted, understanding and sorrow flooding her eyes. “Tomioka-san — Giyuu — I had no idea —“

“They both died because of demons – because I could not help them. And now this is all I have left to remember them by.” And then he did the unthinkable; he grabbed her hand and pressed it against the checkered portion of his haori, right over his heart. His hand was warm and firm. Gentle, though she could feel his callouses against her knuckles as he held it in place. “So it wasn’t just salmon.” He repeated, and there was a heat in his eyes Y/N had not seen before, one that stoked a fire in her belly. “And you are not just anyone.” 

A soft exhale blew past her lips at the sincerity of his words. For the first time in all her nineteen years, she wondered if this was what it meant to mean something to someone.

“Thank you,” she breathed, eyes wide and sparkling with unshed emotion. “I will treasure it.”

She swore she saw a faint blush creep across the Water Pillar’s cheeks, but she brushed it aside as nothing more than the shadows of the sky as twilight darkened the horizon. 

Tomioka nodded. “I must get going now; I will see you soon.”

She did not want him to go.

But the shrine maiden concealed the pang she felt in her chest with a breezy smile. “Farewell, Tomio-“

“Giyuu.” 

She blushed. “Yes — Giyuu. Until next time.”

—

“I cannot believe he lets the old woman charge him an arm and a leg to stay a single night,” Miyoko said in awe as the pair watched the retreating form of the Water Pillar through the shrine house gates. 

The hairpin clutched tightly in her hands suddenly felt like a stone weight. “I’m sure he stays here only for convenience’s sake,” Y/N replied airily, turning sharply away from the egress to the shrine to hide her warming cheeks.  

Miyoko snorted. “Hardly. The Demon Slayer Corps has tons of safehouses throughout the country. Corps members get medical treatment, hot meals, and lodging free of charge.” Y/N’s sister-in-training grunted as she heaved a hefty bag of rice flour from the storeroom to the girls’ side, no doubt hauling it out to prepare the evening meal. 

“I’ve heard of at least four such houses in this region alone. As a Hashira, Tomioka-sama could go to any one of them and be treated far more kindly than he is here.” 

Y/N frowned. “I wonder why, then, he continues to return here so often? Surely our shrine is some distance from his home, given that he stays the night each time.” 

Miyoko shot the young shrine maiden a knowing glance. “Perhaps he tolerates the Granny’s abuse because he is fond of the company.” 

Y/N only felt her face grow hotter as she ducked down, though she felt Miyoko’s amused stare burn through her back. 

—-

The Water Pillar had returned from his intel assignment and promptly journeyed to the Shrine, its inhabitants abuzz as they prepared for the arrival of autumn and the colder months, now only mere weeks away. 

He found the shrine maiden of his interest inside the main wing of the manor, back in the kitchen as she prepared herbs to be incorporated into various salves and medications. Y/N smiled brightly at him as he’d sidled up beside her, taking a handful of dried greenery from the bunch next to her and deftly pulling the leaves from the stem and handing them to her. 

“Is it your day off?” The Miko gratefully accepted the leaves he’d stripped and dumped them into the rocky mortar to join the others. 

Giyuu felt his stomach clench as his fingers brushed against hers. “I have completed my duties for the time being, yes.”

"You're welcome to help me, as long as you do not mind a bit of busy work."

He didn't; of course he didn't. In fact, as he accepted the heavy stone pestle from the Miko and set to work mashing the leaves she handed them into the mortar, Giyuu rather supposed he would do just about anything to remain in the shrine maiden's company, even if that meant assisting her in a task as banal as grinding medicinal herbs. And though the Slayer and the Miko fell into their well-practiced habit of quietly tending to Y/N's duties side by side, there was a notable absence of the bright chatter he'd grown accustomed to hearing during his visits.

The Water Pillar frowned. “You’re quiet.” It was not a question. “There is something on your mind.” 

“Is there?” Y/N hummed loftily, her hands continuing to strip leaves from their stems. “Perhaps I am simply focused.” 

Giyuu found his eyes wandering to the side to study the Miko’s face more often than usual. Though she maintained a pleasant smile as they worked, he could see that it did not fully reach her eyes. And even her sage expression could not conceal the way the troubled look in her eyes, hands pausing their work as she stared at something behind the walls of the small shrine kitchen. 

“Something is bothering you.” Giyuu took the bundle of herbs clutched in her hands and replaced them with his pestle, allowing her to work her frustrations over the paste forming at the bottom of the stone bowl. 

She blushed and refocused her gaze, grinding the pestle hard. “Nothing is wrong!” She chirped. 

“You are a dreadful liar.”

The Miko replied with an airy laugh that made his throat tighten. “So I’ve been told — often, in fact.” 

“There is…trouble in the village,” Y/N said carefully, though she kept her hands busy as she continued to grind herbs into a thick paste. “It is nothing we can’t handle, but it has put many of us on edge. Particularly Granny.” 

Giyuu frowned as he handed the shrine maiden another bunch of leaves from her basket. “What sort of trouble?” 

She hesitated. “It is petty village drama, nothing more.”

“You won’t give any further details?” 

The Water Pillar could not explain it, but he found himself troubled by the way the Shrine Maiden forced a smile and a far too casual shrug of her shoulders. “There are none worth re-hashing.” 

He frowned, but he did not press her further, resolving instead to poke around later. Perhaps he would see whether the Shrine’s head Priestess’s tongue was as loose with information as it was with vulgarity once she’d properly indulged in her sake; he’d make certain she was well-stocked in advance. 

Giyuu furtively glanced back at the shrine maiden’s profile, in part to see whether he could deduce anything from her expressions, but he found himself instead studying her, puzzling over a change in her appearance he hadn’t noticed before.

Sensing his stare, the Miko turned to him with a light smile that then  faltered. “What –?”

“You changed your hair.” It took everything within him not to reach out, to see if her hair would feel as silky in his fingers as it looked shifting softly in the wind. “I’ve never seen it down.” 

“Oh!” Her smile turned bashful, a pretty pink dusting spreading across her cheeks. “I wanted to wear my hairpin – see?” 

She turned her head, the long curtain of her hair rippling smoothly with the movement. With her back to him, Giyuu could see the pin he’d given her neatly tucked into the long strands of her hair, pinning half of it back. The red of the pin’s maple leaves posed a lovely contrast with the hue of her hair. 

Y/N was already quite beautiful, but with her hair partially down, he thought she looked softer; younger. She peeked over her shoulder at him, fingers nervously combing through her tresses. “It’s not practical for every day, of course, but I thought since you’d likely be arriving soon –” 

His eyes widened and Giyuu became acutely aware that his heart now thumped wildly in his throat as Y/N choked off with a squeak, apparently realizing what she’d revealed. Though she hurriedly turned back around, Giyuu could see how the tips of her ears burned bright red. 

Despite her efforts, her admission hung like a cloud in the air between them. She’d worn it – the hairpin – for him. 

Giyuu swallowed thickly. “I like it.” He cleared his throat and turned, allowing his own unruly hair to obscure his face. “On you, that is.” 

For once, the Miko had neither a quick remark nor barb to lob back at him. Instead, she only turned back to her task of grinding her herbs, a thick curtain of her hair concealing her face from his sight.

Once she'd finished bottling up her new medicinal salves, Giyuu helped her carry the tins to the Shrine's storage house, directly across the courtyard from its main wing. The shrine maiden remained curiously quiet, even in spite of his own lame attempts to converse with her. He'd finally given up after his dry comment about the weather went ignored. But every so often, he let his eyes wander to her as they returned to the honden, and that nagging feeling returned as he watched her gnaw incessantly at her bottom lip, a faraway look in her eyes. 

Giyuu was not a nosy man, but the Miko's clear distraction unsettled him. He was about to pull her aside, to demand she tell him exactly what it was that had chased away the smile he so longed to see when they were approached by Y/N's haughty Master.

“Lord Tomioka,” the head Priestess nodded curtly at him in greeting. “I am glad to have run into you — I am in need of your assistance.”

The old Priestess turned to her young protégée. “Go assist the younger ones; they need to give their offerings before dinner.” 

Y/N’s mouth opened to protest but the head Priestess cut her off. “Now.”

To his surprise, the shrine maiden did not argue with her Master, only turning to him to give him a helpless shrug before she began to make her way toward the Shrine’s honden. 

The Water Pillar grimaced. He tried to convince himself the pit in his stomach was only because her odd behavior gnawed at him; that he was only curious to learn what it was that troubled her.  But as the Miko cast one last, reluctant look over her shoulder at him, Giyuu found that he was as unwilling to watch her go as she was to leave. 

If the Shrine’s head priestess noticed his inner anguish, she paid it no mind. “You will accompany me in the kitchen.”

—-

The first thing he noticed was the conspicuous absence of the scent of sake, which he’d grown accustomed to following the Priestess around like a pungent cloud of perfume. He resisted the urge to scowl; he would have to find another way to get the old woman to talk.

Giyuu followed the woman into the small structure that stood adjacent to the honden that served as the Shrine’s kitchen. He watched silently as she pulled a cleaver, large and deadly sharp, free from where it was stored in a cabinet and laid it atop a butcher’s block. The elder stepped outside of the kitchen and returned a moment later, a recently de-feathered and skinned chicken in hand.

“Things around here seem…tense,” Giyuu observed carefully  as the old woman slapped the chicken on the counter for preparation. 

“Tense is one word for it, I reckon,” she bit, taking up her cleaver. “The world we live in is dark. I should think you would know that better than most.”

The corner of his mouth dipped down. “But even your girls seem unusually subdued; distracted.” 

Her eyes flashed to his, piercing and sharp. “You mean Y/N.”

It wasn’t a question. 

“She is always restless this time of year,” the old woman sighed. “Though she loves autumn, she despises winter — or, rather, she despises how it reminds her of what she does not have. And winter is well on its way.” 

He nodded, recalling what the shrine maiden had revealed to him that day, on the hillside.

“But your observation is correct — that is not all of the reason she is so distracted,” the old Priestess said darkly, and Giyuu was surprised to see how alert and focused the normally soused elder seemed. “A man from the village — Susumo — has been following her. Demanding her.” 

Giyyu straightened. “What do you mean by ‘demand?’” 

The haggard woman cursed below her breath as she broke down the chicken’s body. “I mean in the way that men often feel entitled to women — especially angry drunks like him.” 

Every hair on Giyuu’s body stood straight as the weight of the Priestess’ warning settled. 

“I have forbidden her from venturing out in the dark alone,” the Granny continued, harshly wrenching a joint on the fowl. 

“She is a Priestess in training; surely that status affords her some protection?” Giyuu’s knuckles turned white where his fists clenched at his sides. 

“I’m not sure the shrine is enough to keep him out for much longer. He’s been lingering — and threatening consequences, if I do not agree to hand her over to him for marriage.” The old Priestess grimaced. “Her status does her no good if he burns this place to the ground.” 

The old woman set her cleaver next to her with a heavy thud, her frustration palpable. “The girl is of age, and I am not her blood family; there is no one here who can claim authority over her, not like a parent or an elder sibling.” When her eyes lifted to his, Giyuu could see a hint of fear underlying the hard anger in her gaze. “These days, I half-expect to awaken and find that she’s been stolen in the night.” 

The Water Pillar felt his jaw clench. It was rare that he felt the burning flush of anger and it was not directed at a demon, but the idea that Y/N was being harassed and threatened by some village drunkard who felt entitled to her, lit something hot in his stomach. For as vexatious and confounding as he found the young Miko to be, no one deserved to be stalked like prey. 

Especially her. 

“I’ve had a crow stationed here to alert me of any demon attacks for months,” Giyuu began, and the old woman looked to him in surprise. “But I will assign more to keep watch during the day. If there is anything strange afoot, they will tell you.” He paused a moment before adding, “And they will alert me, too.”

The head Priestess laid down her cleaver to look at him, long and hard. “Then she may have a fighting chance yet, Lord Hashira.”

————-

By the time he found Y/N once more, dinner was over and the moon had risen high in the night sky, casting the shrine grounds in its pale, silvery glow.

He’d told her, rather tersely, that he was unable to stay the night, and he tried to ignore how his chest tightened at the crestfallen look that flashed across her face. Despite her tangible disappointment, she insisted on escorting him out of the Shrine, desperate to cling to every second that might be spared to them.

“You are rather quiet tonight,” the Miko observed, walking him to the grand Torii. “More so than usual.” It was an understatement; the Water Pillar had been downright sullen and withdrawn from the moment he’d returned from whatever takes Granny had insisted she help him with. 

Rather than give her any explanation, Giyuu halted his step and reached for her wrist, stilling her. “You did not tell me you were being harassed.” 

She looked up to the Water Pillar in surprise. “How did you —?” 

He released her from his grip in favor of drawing closer to her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Y/N opened and closed her mouth, struggling to find her words. “I suppose,” she began, but her mouth quirked down in a frown. “I did not think you needed to be burdened by something so insignificant.” 

Giyuu stared at her as he mouthed the word insignificant, the look he shot her giving the distinct impression he thought her an idiot. “I do not think your safety is insignificant,” Giyuu’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, clenching it tight. “Nor do I think you are insignificant.” 

“Compared to your other obligations? I should think I’m very unimportant.” Y/N turned away from him, fiddling with a gathering basket she carried on her hip to avoid having to look him in the eyes.

But the raven-haired Pillar caught her wrist and turned her back to face him, not willing to be ignored. “If you call for me, I will come to you.” 

Y/N’s heart lurched at the Water Pillar’s words, spoken with such conviction and sincerity that it made her falter in her step. “Tomioka-san,” she said breathlessly, her eyes wide as she turned to him. “You have far more important duties to see to than to concern yourself with than mere village drama —“

But the raven-haired Hashira only shook his head as he took another step towards her, his expression severe; calculating. “You have the knife I gave you, yes?” His eyes dropped to her pocket, and Y/N felt compelled to show him that the small blade was indeed tucked safely within the folds of her hakama pants. 

“Giyuu,” she pled, and she noted the way that he twitched towards her at the sound of his name falling from her lips. “Please, don’t worry —“

“I do not make promises I cannot keep,” the Water Pillar cut her off, closing the distance between them until the tips of his zori nearly grazed hers, his head bent down towards her as the heat of his stare threatened to consume her. “So I repeat: if you call for me, I will come to you.” 

Any thought of arguing faded from her mind as Y/N became keenly aware of the lack of space between their bodies, of the way her hands, clasped in front of her chest brushed against the folds of his haori as it shifted softly with the wind. 

“I understand,” she breathed. Y/N held his gaze for a long moment, though it was in part due to the battle waging within her not to allow her eyes to drop to his lips.

She would not let herself acknowledge how close they were; how soft they looked, or how warm they might feel against hers; her skin. 

Giyuu lingered as well; after a pregnant pause, he finally stepped back, blinking as though coming out of a trance. “Good,” he nodded, and he glanced furtively over her shoulder. His eyes narrowed and he nodded as though satisfied before he turned crisply on his heel to begin his trek towards his duties and away from her. “Do not forget.” He called one last time over his shoulder, before the shadows of the woods swallowed him whole. 

As Y/N dazedly made her way back towards the shrine, a crow following closely behind her, she almost laughed at the suggestion she could. 

——-

Autumn, 1915

The weeks passed by without much fuss, and soon, the palpable tension that had settled over the Shrine as a result of Susumo’s lingering threats subsided. Soon, life at the Shrine returned to normal, and Y/N often found her mind wandering to thoughts of raven hair and endless blue eyes. 

Until that night.

It had been a normal evening at the Shrine; autumn, blissful autumn had arrived, heralding forth crisp winds and golden skies. Though the days were steadily growing shorter, Y/N found herself rejuvenated by the new chill, especially as she watched the leaves of the trees shift from green to gold to ruby. 

The leaves on her hairpin indeed had been a perfect match to those which were steadily drifting from the tall maples dotting the Shrine. Though she couldn’t wear her hair down the way she had the last time the Water Pillar paid the Shrine a visit, Y/N had found new ways to incorporate his gift into her daily life, weaving it through her plait or tucking it behind her ear. 

That night had been one like any other; after dinner, the girls of the Shrine had scattered to tend to their evening duties.  The shrine maiden had been walking alongside her Master, planning for the upcoming festival in the nearby village, during which the Shrine would seek new patrons to keep it operational. The women mulled over which families might be more inclined to assist them, and settled on a prominent merchant known to frequent other shrines on his travels through the country.

That was when they’d spotted the smoke.

“Fire!” A shrill voice cried, and both the old Priestess and Y/N blanched. “The honden is on fire!”

All at once, chaos broke out across the Shrine grounds as girls darted to and fro, frantic. Granny began barking at her charges, ordering the younger ones to gather in the courtyard while instructing the older girls to assist in putting out the flames.

"The granary!" Someone else cried. "The granary has gone up in flames!"

The elder Priestess snatched Y/N's wrist in her weathered hand. “The scrolls!” Granny's expression of horror was a sure match to her own. “They’re in the storeroom near the granary!” 

The scrolls in question had been in the Shrine’s custody for over five hundred years, carrying sacred inscriptions of the gods and prayers essential to its operation and legitimacy.

They were priceless; irreplaceable. 

“I’ll go!” And before her Master could protest, the Miko had already turned away and began sprinting toward the fire that was rapidly engulfing the granary near the back of the property.  

Thankfully, the storeroom had yet to catch fire, but if the one steadily consuming the granary was not dealt with soon, it wouldn’t be long before it spread to consume the small wooden hut. 

And Y/N knew it wouldn’t take much to reduce the storeroom to ash. 

Coughing, she pressed her arm to her nose and mouth, using the large bell sleeve of her kosode to block some of the smoke that burned her eyes and nose. She pulled her other sleeve over her hand to protect it as she pushed the storehouse’s door aside. 

Inside was dark; quiet. Though the nighttime made it difficult for her to see the scrolls and prints carefully rolled and tucked away into tiny cubbies lining the hut’s walls, Y/N wasn’t stupid enough to waste time searching for a candle to light. So, with only the flames eating away at the granary at her back to light her way, she began pulling handfuls of scrolls free from their storage, tucking them under her arm. 

She turned to take her first armload of priceless Shrine artifacts from the storeroom and nearly tripped over a collection of heated coal pans that had been stacked in the corner to keep the scrolls sealed within the room at a stable temperature. She managed to hold onto her scrolls, however, and she quickly moved them away from the hut, placing them safely on a nearby rock that was still far enough away from the storeroom should it catch fire. She returned to the hut to survey what else she needed to salvage, but a familiar, tiny yelp and the flurry of movement in her periphery made the Miko’s stomach twist.

“Komatsu!” Y/N turned and saw the anxious younger girl lingering at the storage hut’s door, her tiny hands trembling. “Get away from here! It’s not safe!” 

“B-but Sister,” the girl cried, hopping anxiously from foot to foot. “This is too much to do on your own —“

“You need to go find Granny,” the shrine maiden ordered. “I will join you in a moment.”

The girl’s lower lip wobbled. “But —,”

“Now!”

With a great sniff, the girl turned away, leaving Y/N alone once more. The Miko sighed and resumed her hasty perusal of the hut’s shelves, searching for anything else that could not be replaced. 

There was a rustling near the doorway and Y/N bit her lip in an effort not to swear in front of her younger peer. “Komatsu, what did I say —“ 

She turned to admonish the girl, but her reprimand dried instantly on her tongue. For there, in the entryway to the storeroom, was Komatsu, her eyes wide and her face bone-white with a terror that matched Y/N’s own.

Because the girl was not alone.

Wrapped around her bicep was a hand, as large as a small boulder, and tipped with long, wicked claws that threatened to pierce Komatsu’s bicep. The hand was attached to a forearm, inhumanly thick and muscled. Slowly, Y/N’s eyes dragged up the length of the monstrous arm to behold the sinister face that grinned at her. 

It was Susumo — only it wasn’t Susumo. Y/N recognized the vague features of the face that had once belonged to the village drunk and her personal tormentor. His hair was the same as was the general shape of his face, and the cruelty of his smirk, but that was where the resemblance to the Susumo she’d once known ended.

Now, he boasted a row of sharp fangs that distended nearly to his lower lip. And his eyes — no longer were they a cold, soulless black; now they were crimson red, and his pupils were cut into catlike slits.

Demon. A voice whispered in her mind. Demon.

“Enjoy my fires, Priestess?” Even Susumo’s voice had changed, forming a growl that matched his monstrous appearance. “I set them for you — I knew you would not be able to resist seeing such a spectacle.”

“Komatsu,” Y/N ignored him in favor of addressing the young girl, though her voice was unusually high though she fought to keep it as steady as possible. “Please go find Granny and help her with the honden.” 

The young trainee trembled but Susumo’s clawed hand only tightened around her arm. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that, sweet Priestess,” the demon crooned. “You have something I want, you see.”

The slick, oily look in his eyes made his desire clear.

Y/N’s eyes darted quickly around the hut, finally falling on a series of coal pans stacked to the side of the room, only a few feet from where she stood, paralyzed. Her quick, cursory glance at the pans revealed iron that was slightly red, and she swore she could see the air around them distorted by the heat.

Hot; they were still hot.

The Miko looked back to where the demon continued to leer at her, ravenous. “Fine,” she said coolly. “I will go with you, Susumo.”

Komatsu looked between her and the demon in horror, but Y/N only kept her eyes locked with the demon’s. She edged closer to where the coal pans were still burning hot, eyes not daring to drop his as she drew closer to the demon and the younger trainee. He grinned, revealing cruelly sharp and bloodstained teeth, and his yellow eyes shone with a triumphant smugness, believing the Miko was surrendering to him at last. 

As she brushed past the pans, Y/N furtively reached out a hand and closed her fingers around one of the handles. “Komatsu,” the Miko kept her eyes carefully trained on the demon. “Run.”

Her hand seized around the coal pan and with every ounce of her strength, she swung it toward the demon. The hot iron of the pan slammed into the side of his head, forcing him to drop his hold on the younger girl. There was a struggle between the older shrine maiden and the demon, who fought to wrench the pan free from her fierce grip, but Y/N would not relent. 

“Run!” She shrieked at the girl again, and Komatsu darted away. Y/N’s fingers stretched to close around the tiny lever on the handle of the coal pan, and with a snarl of fury, she managed to latch around it, squeezing it with all her might. The lid of the pan opened and red-hot coals spilled forth over the demon’s head. Susumo howled in fury, and Y/N dropped the pan, letting it crack against his head as she shot past him, desperate to escape the tiny storeroom.

The faster she got into open air, the better chance she had of living. 

But a claw, sharp and deadly sunk into her bicep, and yanked her back. She could not help the small scream that tore from her throat as she felt his talons rip at her skin and the sleeve of her kosode was shredded into ribbons beneath his nails.

“Sister Y/N!” Komatsu’s tiny, terrified voice cried out from several feet ahead. 

The shrine maiden swallowed her building panic. “Go!”

The little girl hesitated again and Y/N knew she could not follow after her, not without risking her safety once again. With a defiant scream of rage, the shrine maiden tore her arm free of the demon’s razor-like claws, fighting back the bile that rose in her throat as she felt blood run down her arm, hot and thick. 

The demon grasped wildly at her but found only air. Thinking only of the safety of Komatsu and her fellow trainees, Y/N turned on her heel and ran for the trees, away from the chaos unfolding at the Shrine. 

And the demon, still snarling and panting and undoubtedly enraged, followed her into the forest.

Shit, shit, shit!

Y/N hurtled over a snarled root as she ran, her life dependent upon every stride as she fled the newly-demented Susumo.

In the back of her mind, the Miko knew her efforts were in vain; because for every inch she managed to gain, the angry demon at her heels seemed to gain a foot.

“You’ve denied me for far too long!” The monster’s voice growled behind her, far too close for comfort. “I will have you!”

Y/N palmed the small nichirin knife tucked safely within the deep pockets of her hakama pants, and wildly she wondered whether it was possible to decapitate a demon with such a small blade. Perhaps the Water Pillar should have left her a sword. After all, a sword could not really be that different from a broom, and she’d walloped her fair share of handsy drunkards and would-be thieves with the cleaning tool.

If she lived through the night, she would tell him as much the next time she saw him.

Y/N’s musings did nothing to help her avoid the root of an old tree that jutted out from the earth, snarling around her ankle and sending her flailing to the forest floor. Angry tears of frustration clouded her eyes. Although she knew these paths like the back of her hand, that knowledge did her little good in the dark, as she fled for her life.

Scrambling up to her feet, Y/N caught sight of a pair of eyes watching her from the brambles, dark and inky.

A crow. The image of a certain Hashira flashed before her eyes, as Y/N recalled the way that the members of the Demon Slayer Corps used crows to communicate.

Perhaps this crow was so affiliated, and she was desperate enough to try. “Please!” Y/N begged, sobbing as the crow stared down at her with those black eyes. “Giyuu!”

———

The night had been unusually peaceful for the Water Pillar.

His ambling patrol around his territory’s perimeter hadn’t revealed so much as a whisper of demonic activity. But the absence of any conspicuous threat did not mean his guard was down; his eyes remained sharp, his ear finely tuned, listening for any shift in the wind, any sign that something was amiss and required investigation —

A sudden rustle of leaves sounded from his right, and Giyuu’s hand moved reflexively for his blade, bracing against its hilt in preparation. A small shadow burst from the canopy above him, its wings flapping wildly. He recognized it instantly as the crow he’d assigned to watch over the Shrine — to watch over her.

“Demon attack at the Mountain Shrine!” The crow squawked, circling above him frantically. “Demon attack! Go now — quickly!” 

He hadn’t hesitated to turn sharply on his heel, furiously making his way toward the Shrine. He broke through the line of trees at its edge in record time, and even he’d been taken aback by the chaos that had broken out.

“The honden is on fire!” the old woman cried out to the Pillar as he swiftly landed among the chaos unfolding across the shrine grounds. “The girls were still doing their evening duties – but then another fire was started near the granary!” 

“My crows said a demon had made an appearance,” Giyuu’s eyes carefully scanned the terrified, frantic faces of the Shrine’s residents, his hands braced against the hilt of his sword. “Has anyone been hurt?” 

The head Priestess stared at the Water Pillar in muted horror. “I have not seen – but I haven’t taken any headcount of the girls to know –” 

A piercing cry from near the south gate of the Shrine cut the old woman off, and both Priestess and Slayer whipped toward the sound. A girl, no more than nine, was half-running, half-stumbling toward them, frightened tears streaking down her face. 

“Komatsu!” the old Priestess blanched as she caught sight of the small apprentice’s busted, bloodied lip. With a sob, the young girl flung herself into her elder’s arms and clung tightly to her. “What on earth –?” 

“Sister Y/N!” the girl called Komatsu wailed, and Giyuu felt himself go cold. “Granny – th-that man – he’s a monster!”

The head Priestess paled in recognition. “Susumo?” Giyuu’s gut clenched at the name. The old woman knelt before the girl, her hands clutching wildly at her slim shoulders as she shook her lightly to recenter her. “Komatsu, was Susumo the monster?” 

The young girl nodded. “He was so – hiccup – fast! I didn’t even see him!” She only cried harder. “And t-then Sister Y/N – she grabbed the coal pan and dumped it on him until he let go.” Komatsu trembled as she lifted a shaking hand to wipe at her cheeks. “A-and then she t-told me to r-run –” 

THe old Priestess caught the girl’s quivering chin in her hand and forced her to meet her eyes. “Where is Y/N, Komatsu?” 

Komatus’s eyes were wide with fear. “She ran,” she whispered. “Into the woods – b-but Granny – she was bleeding –” 

The Shrine’s Priestess turned to the Slayer, ready to beg him to follow after the demon and her apprentice, but the Water Pillar was gone. For a brief moment, she feared all hope was lost; that they’d been abandoned and non one would be able to save the young Miko – her heir – from whatever horrid fate awaited her at the ends of Susumo’s crazed, brutal claws.

She caught a flurry of movement right against the dark line of trees that snagged her attention; a flap of the edge of a mismatched haori, and the glint of a blade being drawn, its wielder already furiously making his way into the shadowy depths of the forest. 

The Priestess exhaled and clutched her trembling young trainee to her chest. As she soothed the shaken young girl, the old woman prayed the Water Pillar would not be too late.

–

She was fucked; well and truly fucked.

Y/N had no idea how long she’d spent sprinting furiously through the forest, but she knew she was quickly running out of stamina. Worse, it seemed the demon on her heels knew she was slowing, and was now playing with her. But even his patience seemed to be at its wit’s end; for a sudden sharp blow to her back sent the Miko flying several feet forward until she slammed against the uneven, rough terrain of the forest floor.

Y/N gasped for air that would not come as she tried to push herself up. Crawl! Her mind begged her body. Crawl, damn you!

A dark chuckle from behind sent every hair on her body standing straight on end. A hand locked around her ankle and flipped her over until she was nearly nose to nose with the demon crouched over her. “Got you,” he sang, and the moonlight glinted off the sharp edge of his fangs as he grinned. 

Her fingers found the handle of the knife the Water Pillar had gifted her in her pocket. With a determined grunt, she pulled it free and plunged it deep into the meat of his shoulder, praying furiously to any god who would listen that she might have hit an artery so that he would bleed out. 

The demon loosed an enraged scream and fell away from her, hands blindly fumbling for the blade.  

No longer pinned beneath him, Y/N  scrambled back. Her hands scraped against the broken brush and pebbles below her in her desperate attempt to put distance between herself and the demon rising to his feet ahead of her, snarling. As he began advancing toward her, Susumo gripped the knife she’d buried in his shoulder and with a grunt, he wrenched it free and tossed it carelessly to the side, right along with the last shred of any hope she’d had of making it out of the woods alive.

The demon’s mouth curled into a cruel, savage grin, the moonlight glinting off his long, wicked fangs. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he growled, saliva dripping down his chin as his nostrils widened to scent her blood and her fear. 

This was it; there was nowhere for her to run, no weapon she could try and protect herself with. There was nothing she could do; she was going to die, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Just as Susumo drew upon her, close enough that she could smell the rancid, pungent odor of rotted meat on his breath, he stumbled back, startled. 

One moment the demon was standing mere inches from her, ready to devour her whole; the next, he was sent sailing back, his body smashing into the trunk of a nearby tree with a sickening thump! 

A blur of dark matter soared over the Miko’s head toward the monster. Susumo barely had time to stand before the shadow converged on him once more. There was a flash of light — the moon reflecting off metal — followed by a dull thud. The shrine maiden’s heart lodged in her throat as she watched the head of the former village drunkard roll across the forest floor before distingrating, his body following soon after. 

She was nearly hyperventilating as the shadow turned to face her, but the pall of the moon finally illuminated the face of her savior — her Water Pillar.

“G-Giyuu,” she stuttered, her eyes stinging with unshed tears of relief that washed over her all at once.

But Giyuu did not respond, his lapis eyes narrowing in on the dark stain spreading across the white of her kosode. Y/N cowered at the cold, unbridled rage that contorted the ordinarily stoic Hashira’s face as he began to shake at the sight of her blood. In a flash, Giyuu had closed the distance between them and knelt down by her side, gripping her wounded arm in his hand as he tried to pull her tattered sleeve down and  inspect her wound.

“Tomioka — Giyuu,” she pled, trying to wrench her arm from his iron-like grip. “Please, it’s not that bad —“

“Did it get you anywhere else?” Giyuu demanded harshly, and the authority underlying his tone made Y/N fall silent for the first time since she’d known him. “Did it -“ the Water Pillar hesitated. “Did it touch you anywhere else?”

Y/N was trembling, and the Hashira’s hand around her arm tightened. “Ah!” She winced. “No, I promise, Giyuu, it’s just a flesh wound, I’m fine-,”

“You are bleeding. You are not fine.” Giyuu snapped back. “You could’ve been killed, or turned, or -,” the Water Pillar began to hyperventilate, and it shook the young Miko to her core. The Water Hashira was normally so unflappable, so stoic, that his panicked anger frightened her.

“-So do not tell me you’re fine,” Giyuu’s rant continued. “Not when you could’ve — not when I might’ve failed — not again --”

She was at a loss for what to do as she watched the raven-haired man struggle to form words. Vaguely, she recalled the way the Granny-Priestess had once explained to her that when someone panicked, they needed to regulate their breathing, and there were many ways someone could help force another to breathe properly…

Stomach fluttering, Y/N’s free hand came up to grip the fold of the Water Pillar’s haori. Giyuu’s incessant rambling only ended when her lips urgently pressed against his own, his eyes going wide. A heartbeat or two passed and then the Miko pulled away, her eyes serious as she stared at the stunned Water Hashira.

“You need to give me a sword.” She told him, earnestly, her face blazing.

———

Giyuu helped her back to the Shrine, though the Miko found herself needing to bat off the Water Pillar with a stern reminder that she’d only sustained a small arm wound as he’d tried to scoop her up into his arms.

The Swordsman had been rather subdued the entire journey out of the forest, his eyes curiously wide and dazed right until the pair breached the tree line at the edge of the Shrine’s property. The moment they stepped into open ground, they were swarmed by the tearful, relieved faces of the Shrine’s inhabitants. Words of gratitude to him were woven through worries over the Miko’s arm wound as they made their way across toward the small infirmary which, thankfully, had not been touched by Susumo’s fire.

The honden itself was still standing; though the flames had finally been subdued, smoke still curled up toward the sky, blocking any view of the moon or the stars. 

The head Priestess waited for them outside the infirmary. Though her face was grave, Giyuu could spy the relief shining in her eyes. He stood numbly by as the Miko and her master regarded each other warily for a moment, before the elder Priestess reached forward and yanked her charge forward into a fierce embrace.

“Reckless girl,” she chastised gently against the side of Y/N’s head. “Thank every one of the gods that you’re safe.” The old Priestess’s eyes found those of the Water Pillar. “And thank you, Lord Tomioka.”

Y/N was promptly escorted inside to have her wound examined and stitched. Despite the old shrine keeper’s gratitude for his aid in saving the young shrine maiden, that thankfulness apparently did not extend to permitting him inside the infirmary with them, and for good reason. For under the Elder’s withering glare, the Water Pillar realized that Y/N’s treatment would require her to be stripped of her kosode, leaving her exposed and bare. 

As unwilling as he’d been to part from her, the thought of witnessing the Miko undressed and vulnerable had been enough to temper his urge to look after her, if nothing else because the mental image of her in such a state flustered him to no end.

Though, he supposed his bewilderment also had something to do with what had transpired between them in the forest.

Kissed him; the shrine maiden had kissed him. 

His fingers drifted to his lips. They still felt warm where they’d been graced by hers, and he swore he could still feel the softness of her mouth from where it had brushed against his. 

He needed to talk to her; he needed to know what the hell she’d been thinking, kissing him like that. 

But as shocking as the Miko’s kiss had been, there was something else, something far heavier, that weighed on his mind. 

She’d nearly been killed. By a demon. On his watch. 

He should’ve apologized; he should’ve begged for her forgiveness for letting her come that close with death. For letting her get wounded because he hadn’t been fast enough.

I was concerned for you, he wanted to tell her. I thought I would be too late.

No; concern didn’t cover it; did not do near enough justice to his true emotions upon learning the Miko had fled into the dark forest with a hungry, loathsome demon hot on her trail.

He’d been scared; terrified; almost beside himself at the possibility that he’d be too late and find that she’d already been reduced to the beast’s meal, 

He’d been scared he’d never again see her smile or hear her laugh, and that had terrified him more than anything. For it was the memory of both that soothed his anxious nerves each time he startled awake from visions of his dead loved ones, demanding to know why they had died in his stead.   

He’d feared that he would have to add her face to those he saw when he slept — the faces of those he’d failed to protect, who’d died for his sake. He’d been terrified of seeing her image in painstaking clarity, just as he saw the faces of his sister and Sabito every morning. 

He did not know what to do with them, these confusing feelings, so abundant and intense that they’d welled up within him and threatened to spill over. He couldn’t name them, let alone begin to untangle the knot they’d formed within his heart. All he knew was that every one of them were inextricably tied to her. 

His shrine maiden. 

His.

—

Y/N’s arm ached, but it had been properly sewn and bandaged, and there was work to do before she could settle in for the night; and so, she found herself helping her peers with cleaning up the courtyard from the debris of the night’s events. 

Truthfully, she'd been grateful for the distraction. Occupying herself with cleanup meant she did not have to think about what she’d done in the forest. But then Granny Priestess saw her trying to heave away broken wood with her freshly stitched arm and Y/N found herself forced to abandon her fellow trainees as the old bat smacked her upside the head and squawked about how she was going to break her stitching and complicate the healing process.  

The Miko tried not to pout as she retreated, opting instead to grumble over the old woman’s dramatics as her arm stung and her ego throbbed. When she finally returned to her sleeping quarters, exhaustion slammed into her, making her limbs heavy and leaden. Unable to quite rally the energy to crawl into her futon, she slumped against the doorway of the room, her head and her heart a tangled mess of emotions she couldn’t quite name.

What she’d felt the moment the Water Pillar had stepped into the moonlight had been more than mere relief that he’d managed to save her life for the second time. She’d felt safe, so unbelievably safe that the forest itself could have been on fire and she wouldn’t have been afraid; not as long as he was there with her.

Something between them had shifted; that much was clear. In truth, things likely had begun to change the moment she repaired his haori, and she’d admitted to him her deep-seated loneliness and lack of belonging.

She only hoped he felt the change, too.

—

Much to Y/N’s chagrin, autumn was quickly giving way to blasted winter.

Though, the Miko hadn’t been able to fully resent the rapid shift in the seasons; repairs at the Shrine had consumed nearly all of her attention, and as Granny’s heir, she was expected to contribute to its reconstruction more than any other trainee.

That expectation meant Granny left the task of figuring out how to finance the necessary repairs entirely to her young protege. Y/N had spent all of two days agonizing over ways to raise the necessary funds when she awoke to find a mysterious sack of money that had been left on the doorstep of the honden. Inside had been an amount more than generous to cover the cost of repairs from the fire, with a hefty remainder that could be put toward other necessary improvements to spruce the Shrine up, and perhaps restore it to its former glory. 

No note had been left with the money to indicate the identity of the Shrine’s benefactor.  But amid all the excitement of her peers at the thought of being able to afford materials and laborers to assist with the more difficult aspects of the Shrine’s refurbishment, Y/N had spotted a familiar crow perched high in a nearby tree.

That position had afforded the bird with a perfect view of the money sack, allowing it to silently ensure it fell into the proper hands. But repairs had finally slowed, and Y/N now found her days returning to normal. Almost. 

What was not normal was how agitated she'd become in waiting for his return.

Another week passed without any communication from the Water Pillar, and the Miko had grown desperate for any sort of distraction. She found herself one late, autumn morning passing the time in the Shrine’s garden hut. She was pretending to be searching for tools that would help her prune the wilting Shrine garden when something grazed against the small of her back. Startled, she turned and was greeted by familiar, unruly raven hair and a pair of deep azure eyes. 

“Giyuu,” his name slid easily off her tongue, and suddenly she could not remember why she’d called him anything else. 

A ghost of a smile graced his lips. “Hello, Y/N.”

A poignant silence followed, and her cheeks grew hot. "Don't mind me," she said quickly, turning her head away from him as she pretended to organize stray gardening supplies. "I am only just now finishing my tasks for the day."

Though he remained silent, she became acutely aware of the way Giyuu’s eyes followed her as she tried desperately to keep herself busy, to avoid having to meet that piercing, discerning stare. 

“I did not get a chance to properly thank you after the turmoil of that night,” she said casually. Nervously, she hoped that his heightened senses did not alert him to the way her heart fluttered in her chest, or how her stomach flipped in her gut. Her nails dug into her palms as she lifted her head to meet that unnerving, fathomless stare.

But the Water Pillar had already closed most of the distance between them, having moved so silently she’d not heard him, despite even the creaky, uneven slatted floor of the garden hut. “How is your wound?” He asked softly, his hand skirting up the outside of the arm Susumo had wounded. “Has it healed?” 

It took a great amount of effort for Y/N to remember how to keep her breathing steady. But she forced her lips into an easy smile as she rucked up the flared sleeve of her kosode to reveal her bicep. “It will likely scar,” she admitted, her fingers lightly tracing over the three, angry red marks that remained imprinted on her skin, though they’d fully scabbed over. “I consider myself quite lucky, all things considered.” 

“Why did you do it?” 

The Miko ducked her head, willing the sheet of her hair to fall and conceal her mounting blush. She did not need to ask him to clarify; she knew after what he was asking.

But she feigned ignorance all the same. “I don’t know what you mean, Tomioka-sama –” 

“Don’t call me that,” and even though she refused to meet his eyes, she could sense his irritation at her avoidance. “We’re well past such formalities, Y/N.” Giyuu stepped closer to her, his cerulean eyes melting into something more akin to the midnight blue of the evening sky. “You kissed me. That night.” The Water Pillar’s hand glided up the arm that Susumo had injured, caressing softly over the healed skin beneath the sleeve of her kosode.

“I-I did no such thing!” Y/N sputtered, though her reddening cheeks betrayed her. “I was only attempting to help you calm down — you were panicking, and inconsolable.” 

Giyuu’s responding smirk only served to irritate her more. “Should I thank you then, Y/N?” His hand slid from her shoulder to below her chin, his delicate fingers curling to tilt her head up towards his, as he closed the distance between their bodies. “Should I show you how grateful I am that you were able to assuage my worry?” 

Y/N tried to focus on anything but the feeling of Giyuu’s breath — warm and enticing — against her face as he leaned in close. “You had no reason to worry; I was completely fine before you showed up.” 

“Fine,” the ravenette scoffed, his grip on her chin tightening slightly. “So fine that you were bleeding and about to become that beast’s snack — or worse.” 

“But you saved me, did you not?” Y/N whispered, unable to stop her eyes from dropping to the Water Pillar’s sensual, soft-looking mouth before rising once more to meet his punishing gaze. “And then I helped you.” 

Giyuu’s second hand brushed against her waist and the shrine maiden thought she might leap out of her skin. “You did,” he conceded, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a small, half-smile. “Though I apologize that you needed to do so — I suppose I become a little over-zealous when things that are precious to me are threatened.” 

Even if she could have thought of some witty remark to throw back at him, those words surely would have been blocked by her heart as it lodged in her throat. 

Things that were precious to him. She was precious to him.

“So I’ll ask again, Y/N,” Giyuu whispered, and his nose brushed delicately against hers. “Should I thank you for your assistance?” The fingers beneath her chin stroked her jaw. “Should I kiss you?” 

She fought to suppress the excited shudder that licked up her spine. “Yes, Lord Hashira,” she breathed, and her stomach turned cartwheels as Giyuu’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “Perhaps you should.” 

“Who am I to deny the request of a priestess?” Giyuu murmured, and then his lips were moving against hers, warm and soft. Y/N’s fingers flew to clutch the Water Pillar’s rocky biceps beneath the soft cloth of his haori, anchoring him against her. The hand that had gripped below her chin slid to the side of her face, tilting her head so that the Water Pillar could have better access to her as he pressed his lips harder against hers. 

Y/N moaned into his kiss, wanting him closer, impossibly closer to her than he currently was. 

Giyuu broke away from her once, though he kept a hand on the back of her neck to keep her in place. “What are your duties today?” 

Y/N’s fingers curled around the front of the Water Pillar’s haori, her forehead resting against his. “None of import.” She gave him a sly smile. “No one will miss me if I am gone for a few hours.” 

Giyuu returned her smile with a tiny smirk of his own. “In that case,” he tugged her hand and he began to lead her towards the grassy overlook where they’d spent a great deal of time talking and learning one another. “I could use your assistance.”

–

Y/N hadn’t greeted the sunrise with the intent to neglect her shrine duties, but she couldn’t say she regretted how she ended up spending the day.

They spent the day resting on the hillside overlooking the shrine grounds, rolling back and forth upon the browning grass as they kissed each other again and again. 

“You weren’t wrong, that day — right after we met,” Giyuu gasped against her lips as they broke apart, the blush on Y/N’s cheeks a sure match to his own. “I do not find you captivating.”

Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed. Her mouth parted, a protest on her tongue when Giyuu surged forward, his lips brushing against her neck. The Miko’s words choked off with a squeak as the Water Pillar danced his lips to the hollow of her throat, his tongue flicking out once right where her heart pulsed wildly. 

“I think you are utterly transfixing; enchanting,” he breathed against her skin. “You have cast a spell over me that I do not want broken.”

“I find it hard to believe anyone could wield that sort of power over a Hashira,” Y/N’s voice was high pitched as Giyuu’s lips made their way back to hers.

In the back of her mind, Y/N wondered if his words were motivated purely by his physical desire for her. It would not have surprised her if he was only so taken with her because he longed to be touched; held. Like him, she’d gone much of her life without intimacy from anyone. She could not blame him for seeking it from someone so willing to give as she. 

“But you are not just anyone, not to me.” was all he replied, his lips moving softly against hers once more. “You are…everything.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. The Water Pillars words, dripping like honey from his lips, were only sweetened by the fervent sincerity of his eyes as he pulled back to gaze into hers, so deeply, she felt as though he could see every thought in her head.

She wondered if he lowered that piercing, discerning stare, whether he’d be able to see straight to her heart, too; see how it bore his name. 

Even though her breath guttered in her throat at his words, her heart clenched painfully in her chest. The idea that she’d attached more meaning to their relationship than he, that perhaps she’d overestimated her value to him made her tense, made her want to push him away and —

“You’re distracted,” Giyuu murmured against her lips, brushing his nose against hers. “Your thoughts are loud.” 

Her fingers caught the front fold of his haori, fiddling idly with it. “There is nothing for you to repay, you know. You do not owe me your time or your attention. I know the Shrine is simply a part of your designated patrol. I understand if its convenience is the only reason —” 

A single finger pressed itself against her lips, quieting her. “You think and talk too much.” The ravenette chastised. Her mouth parted, a protest forming on her lips, when he cut her off again. “Ah ah,” Giyuu silenced her with his lips, his tongue flicking out to skim along her bottom lip. Above her, he shifted and allowed his weight to fall against her, pinning her beneath him. Reluctantly, his mouth broke away from hers. “It is my turn to speak.” 

“I do not come to the Shrine because it is easy,” Giyuu’s lips brushed hesitantly against her jaw. “Nor do I come here out of any preconceived obligation to repay your kindness.” 

He pulled back to study her, panting and flushed beneath him. As his eyes slowly combed over her, Y/N felt a strange knot pull and twist in the depths of her stomach. “There is only one thing that brings me back here, no matter how exhausted I am after weeks of endless missions; no matter how often certain junior Corps members pester me to train them.” His eyes narrowed at the hollow of the Miko’s throat, exposed by the way her kosode had shifted as the pair of them rolled around the grass. Curious, Giyuu leaned down and pressed his lips firmly against it. 

And then he did the unthinkable;  the Water Pillar moaned, ever so softly, against the fluttering of Y/N’s frantic pulse. The sound, so rich and full of need – of want – washed over her and drowned out all other thoughts, all other higher reasoning from her mind. INstead, the Miko was left with nothing but the sharp urge to press her thighs together, an unknown heat beginning to pool in her most sacred area. 

“Do you know what that thing is, Y/N?” He whispered against the soft dip in her throat, his breath hot as it fanned across her skin. “Can you guess what it is I cannot stay away from – could not, even if I desired otherwise?” 

His fingers dropped to the collar of her kosode, tracing lightly over its crisp, white fold. “When I close my eyes in the mornings, it is your face I see,” he murmured. “It is your laugh I hear in my dreams; your scent I find myself longing for when I awaken.”

The Miko shivered as his index finger traced from her collar up her throat, over her chin until it came to rest on her bottom lip, gently stroking over its curve. “It is you I seek to turn to remind myself that there is still good in this world – good still worth protecting. Why is that, Y/N?” His eyebrows furrowed and he seemed almost earnest in his question. “Why is it that my mind refuses to be occupied by anything but you?” 

“Because I vex you,” she said softly, eyes wide and locked with his. “Because, try as you might, you’ve never been able to fully fit me into a box as you have with others.” 

Giyuu shook his head. “Vex me?” He tsked at her. “Perhaps once that was true. But now? I desire you in ways I can hardly understand, and it drives me mad.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. “What are you saying?” 

“I think I’ve been rather clear,” and instinctively, Giyuu rolled his hips against hers, desperate to relieve some of the friction mounting in his groin. “And it’s that I want –” 

But the Miko did not get to hear what Giyuu wanted; not as he was drowned out by the screeching cry of a bird from high above. Only, this bird was not the dull, graying crow she’d come to associate with her Swordsman.

“I thought your crow was older?”

The Water Pillar frowned as he turned to look up, his eyebrows drawn together. “That’s not Kanzaburo — that’s one of the Master’s —“

“CAW,” the bird circled above their heads in narrow, rapid turns. “Lord Tomioka! Return to headquarters immediately!”

Giyuu’s jaw clenched. “Can it not wait?” 

Y/N, however, only gaped up at the bird flying above them. “It talks —?” 

But the crow only cried again, “Emergency meeting at headquarters!!

With a short, frustrated exhale, Giyuu rolled to the side of the Miko and rose, but not before he extended a hand and helped lift her to her feet.

He gingerly brushed some loose grass from her hair. “I’m sorry.” 

She only shook her head as she reached to adjust his haori, righting it in his shoulders. “It’s your duty, Giyuu. I understand that.”

He scowled back up at the bird still circling above them, bleating a refrain of “Emergency! Go now!”

“I’m not finished with this conversation,” Giyuu said plainly, a frustrated hand working through his hair. Though his annoyance was plain as day, it fell away as he looked back to the Miko at his side, his gaze softening. “Nor am I finished with you.” 

A single finger reached under Y/N’s chin and lifted her head toward him so he could brush another kiss against her lips. “I will come see you – soon.” 

With a shy boldness, the Miko rose on her toes and gave him one final kiss, and Giyuu’s hand tightened where it rested against her waist. “I’ll wait for you, Lord Hashira.”

———

December, 1915

Y/N cursed at the ancient priestess who insisted on using only gas-powered lanterns rather than the newer, much safer, electric powered lights that other shrines had begun using. 

“We are an esteemed shrine dating back hundreds of years,” the old crone had simpered, “Tradition has kept us going this far!” 

Y/N hadn’t helped her cause by asking whether tradition or spite was what kept the hag from dying off and finally leaving her in peace.

And that was how the young Priestess-to-be found herself stomping through the snowy grounds of the Shrine, forced to light each and every lantern by hand using a match and oil, utterly by herself.

She knew better than to levy such an obvious taunt at the old woman, but admittedly, Y/N hadn’t been in the best of moods as of late. 

Giyuu had not returned since that day on the hillside, when he’d kissed her silly and told her he could not stop thinking of her. It was as though he no longer existed; even the crows at the Shrine were no more, having all disappeared one morning before she’d awoken.

As the weeks passed, the weight of his absence had grown heavier, threatening to beat her into the ground below. 

But Y/N had done her best to hold her tongue over the last weeks as her anxiety mounted, and Granny should’ve known that — so really, it was her own fault if she’d taken offense to the Miko’s barb.

She grumbled and cursed under her breath as she trudged toward the small garden hut standing at the furthest edge of the Shrine’s grounds — her last stop of the night. She shoved past the old, rickety door and braced her merrily flickering, hand-held lantern out before her, bathing the small hut in a warm, orange glow.

All was silent and quiet within the small storeroom. The air was cold, though the slatted walls of the hut offered some protection from the howling, snow-dotted winds outside. Determined to complete her task and return to the comfort of her warm futon, the Miko fumbled around one of the store shelves for a small can of oil. 

“It’s you,” a quiet voice startled her from behind, and Y/N nearly dropped the lantern clutched in her hands.

But she did not feel afraid as she recognized the calm, soothing cadence of the voice, that voice that belonged to the one person capable of making her blush. 

The one person who held her heart.

“It’s been a while, Giyuu. I was wondering when I’d see you again.” She turned and saw the raven-haired man standing in the doorway of the garden hut, his face characteristically neutral, though he seemed tense, even more so than usual.

Instantly, she moved toward him. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes tightened, and the darkness which swam within them betrayed his aloof facade. “Things have changed quickly in my world,” he began, and she saw his fists clench at his sides. “We believe the demons are preparing for war — and so we have been as well. 

“War?” She repeated softly, her step faltering. “I hadn’t realized the demons were so…organized.”

Giyuu nodded. “One creature is responsible for all demons. He is the orchestrator; he is the one we must kill, and we believe the opportunity to do so is drawing nearer.”

The monotonous cadence of his voice fell away as he quietly added, “That is why I haven’t been able to return — we’ve been training. This battle — it may start at any moment.”

He made like he wanted to say more, but he stopped himself, pressing his lips into a tight line. 

“And?” She prompted gently, taking a solitary step toward him.

“He hesitated, and she spied how his throat worked to swallow. “And I do not know when I will be able to see you again. After tonight.”

Y/N watched him for a moment, her eyes searching his. “When you say you don’t know ‘when’ we will see each other again,” she began, cautiously. “Do you mean ‘if?’”

Giyuu’s answering silence said more than any words could. 

For a moment, the Miko could not remember how to speak, not as she felt the organ in her chest splinter into a thousand, mismatched pieces.

“I just wanted to see you,” the Water Pillar struggled to swallow around the growing lump in his throat. “One last time.” 

She could scarcely breathe. 

He was leaving and he might never return. 

Leaving to go try and put an end to the scourge of demons that plagued their world. It was a noble thing to do; sacrifice in its purest form. 

But she hated it. 

She was filled with such a deep melancholy that it nearly brought her to her knees. As the Water Pillar turned to leave, Y/N couldn’t stop herself as she reached for him, her arms encircling him as her hands locked over his front, stilling him.

“Giyuu,” she said thickly, her face pressed into the back of his haori as she willed the tears in her eyes not to fall. “Giyuu.” 

He turned in her grasp and looked down at her in awe, a finger rising to brush the errant tear that had escaped down her cheek as he held her gaze. 

The flame within her lantern flickered as Giyuu softly grazed his lips against her own, Y/N’s arms weaving around his neck to hold him close to her. 

His hands were gentle, if not a little uncertain as they found her waist, but once they came to a rest against her, he pulled her close, arms winding around her middle and holding her securely against him as he deepened the kiss. She moaned softly into his mouth, her hands tangling in his hair as she opened up for him, his tongue gliding alongside her own until she was left breathless and wanting. 

Vaguely, the Miko was aware that he was walking them deeper into the garden hut, allowing the old door to thud shut behind him, and the thought of not returning to her plush futon suddenly did not seem like such a loss. 

Giyuu’s hands returned to her face, thumbs stroking softly along her cheeks as he broke their kiss to brush his lips against her eyes, her nose, and forehead. Y/N’s hands parted the Water Hashira’s haori from his shoulders as Giyuu’s fingers dropped to her collar bone, sliding beneath her kosode, and grazing her bare shoulder. 

“You have been my most treasured encounter,” he whispered, and she felt her heart seize in her throat, tears threatening to spill anew from her eyes.

A year’s worth of interactions had all led to this moment, but it was not the satisfying payoff of the tension and longing that had been steadily building between them.

This was a goodbye. 

Because it was likely that the Water Pillar would not survive the impending battle; but neither did he want to leave this end untied. 

She had known, deep in her heart, that this affair had been doomed before it had ever begun, but that hadn’t stopped her from falling for the kind, brave, selfless man now kissing her like she was his entire world anyways. 

She would not get to have him in the morning, so she resolved to give herself to him for the night. 

Giyuu’s hands eased her kosode from her shoulders, exposing her to the cool air within the garden hut. His warm hands, however, worked to chase away any chill that spread across her skin as he ran his palms over the curve of her shoulders before sliding down to rest on her bare waist, his long fingers grazing just below the curve of her breasts.

Her own fingers trembled as she fumbled with the buttons on his uniform shirt but in time, she’d worked them open and Giyuu broke their kiss long enough to let his shirt drop to the floor beneath them. 

The two stood there for a moment, chests rising and falling rapidly, as they looked at one another, half-nude and vulnerable. The shrine maiden and the slayer knew that they had come upon a precipice, and if they stepped off that ledge, there would be nothing to break their fall. 

Y/N made the first move, taking a tentative step towards the Water Pillar as she trailed her fingers lightly up the beautiful, sculpted ridges of his abdomen, relishing how warm he was beneath her touch. 

Giyuu shivered beneath her fingertips as the miko’s hand came to a rest against his sternum, marveling the way his heart thundered beneath her hand. “Are you certain?” He breathed, his face was impassive, but his own uncertainty was betrayed by the slight tremor in his voice. His hand rose to gently cup the side of her face, his thumb ghosting over her bottom lip. 

She reached to grab the Pillar’s free hand and brought it up to rest against her sternum, mirroring her own hold on him so that he could feel the steady drum of her own heart — and how it thrummed for him. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m yours, Giyuu.” 

Once, she had believed the Hashira incapable of expressing anything other than cold aloofness. she’d not been able to comprehend the subtle ways with which his eyes could signal his mood; how they darkened when angry, or how the outer corners turned up, almost imperceptibly, when he was content. 

But she had long since learned to read him, and so, her stomach fluttered at the way the raven haired man’s gaze heated with both adoration and desire — for her. 

Giyu brushed his nose against hers affectionately before bringing their lips together once more, his kiss growing fervent as her hands slid up to tangle in his ebony hair. Y/N gasped into his mouth as she felt Giyu bend down, his hands gripping firmly under her thighs as he lifted her up, forcing her to lock her legs around his waist. Her lips parted, and Giyuu’s tongue slid seamlessly into her mouth.

Her lover locked one steely arm firmly around her lower back to support her as Y/N felt him lower them to the floor to lay her down, the Water Pillar’s free hand coming to brace against the back of her skull, to protect her head from thudding back against the wooden slats of the hut floor. The Miko steadied herself, prepared for the cold bite of the dirty hut floor to nip at the bare skin of her back, but she was only settled against something warm and soft; something that smelled distinctively of the Slayer panting above her. 

Her fingers dropped to her side and grazed against the familiar fabric of Giyuu’s haori; his most prized and cherished possession, spread out beneath her to protect her from the cold ground,  a makeshift bed against which she would let him take her and make her his.

He withdrew his lips from hers to sit back, his cerulean eyes tracing over every inch of her, from the way her dark hair spread out in a soft halo around her, to the blush staining her cheeks. His eyes darkened as they lowered to her bare chest, at the way it rose and fell jerkily as Y/N struggled to control her breathing. 

Giyuu’s long, slim fingers reached out to trace along the top of her scarlet hakama pants, his finger tips just grazing along her ribs and the underside of her breasts. 

“I’d never known such -,” He covered his struggle for words by pressing a sweet kiss against the hollow of her throat, a soft gasp escaping the Miko at the unfamiliar sensation. “Such beauty,” Giyuu’s lips trailed down to skirt across the ridge of her collar bone. “Not until I met you.” 

His face was against her sternum, pressing kisses as he trailed his lips down her skin. “I am sorry I could not give you more time.” His voice was soft, softer than even she had ever known. Before she could respond, Giyuu’s mouth hesitantly brushed against the stiffened peak of her breast, and Y/N’s mouth fell open with a soft cry. 

Azure eyes flashed up to meet hers. “Is this — is this okay?” 

The Miko's eyes fluttered shut as she nodded, unable to trust that she could hold her voice steady if she spoke. Her fingers weaved their way through the Pillar’s thick, raven locks, and she grazed her nails against his scalp in encouragement. 

Giyuu grunted softly at her touch, and he leaned forward to suck more of her soft mound into his hot mouth, teeth grazing lightly against her nipple as he explored her. 

“Oh,” she moaned, her thighs inadvertently pressing together as Giyuu’s tongue and lips worshipped her bared flesh, licking and sucking and nipping at her in his devotion. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured against the soft, sensitive skin of her breast. “So very beautiful.” 

He repeated the movement again and again before he traced his mouth across her sternum and began lavishing her other breast with the same fervor. Her hands fisted in his hair as she mewled for him, enamored with the feeling of his hot mouth latched around her. He gave her more and yet it was not enough; every pass of his tongue over her stiffened peak only amplified the ache between her legs, only made the emptiness she felt more pronounced.

A breathy, whining and needy moan blew past her lips in time with a reflexive buck of her hips against his.  

The ravenette pulled off her breast with a start, his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed as he gazed down at her in awe. “Do that again.”

“W-what —?” She pushed herself up on her elbows to look down at him, her chest heaving.

“Tell me what to do,” Giyuu’s breath was ragged though his fingers continued trailing down her sides, seeking out the ties securing her bottoms around her waist. “Tell me how I might help you make that sound again.” 

“I –” Y/N squirmed beneath the intensity of his gaze, her thighs rubbing together to stifle some of the electricity she felt between her legs. “I want you to – I need you closer.” 

Her eyes drifted to the bulge that had formed between the Hashira’s thighs, and she felt her heart skip in her chest.

Giyuu pressed his groin against hers and ground. She gasped at the spark of pleasured friction the movement stoked between her thighs, and her eyes flew to meet his, only to see they were as wide as hers. 

And just as hungry. 

Her hand gently cupped his face. “Closer. Please.” 

He pressed his cheek into her palm and with a soft groan, his fingers quickly loosened the fastenings of her bottoms and then he was pushing them down her hips and over her legs, discarding them carelessly to the side. Giyuu sat back on his knees and let his eyes roam her, now fully bare and laid out beneath him. 

When his appraisal of her finally reached the thatch of curls between her thighs, the Water Pillar loosed a shaky breath. She had half a mind to cross her legs, to conceal the most intimate part of her body from the raging fire of his gaze as he studied her, but she forced herself to remain relaxed; open.

One, broad and calloused hand stretched tentatively out to run along the outside of her hip and down her leg, before smoothing back up in the inside of her thigh. His eyes flicked once to hers, and then he leaned forward and brushed delicate kisses down her abdomen, over her hip and along her thigh. He continued his descent as he slowly pushed himself back from her, and once he imparted one last, sweet press of his lips against her ankle, he rose. 

The flickering light of the lantern cast shadows along the alabaster of his skin, further accentuating how the muscles of his torso and abdomen flexed and shifted as he worked to free himself of the remainder of his clothes. His eyes did not leave hers, not even as his hands found the buckle of his belt and tugged it loose, and Y/N found herself free falling into their depths.

The ravenette dropped his belt to the floor, and then his fingers were at the waistband of his trousers, pulling and fiddling with their fastening. At last, Giyuu freed his lower half from the confines of his uniform pants and stepped out from the puddle they made at his feet. 

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat as her eyes raked over his beautiful form, so lean yet solid and muscular. Her cheeks burned with a renewed blush as her gaze followed the small, dark trail of hair beginning just below his navel, and down between his hips, where the evidence of his desire stood proud. 

Her throat went dry. He was large — the flared head of his tip nearly grazed his navel, and his width was a little more than two of her fingers. Her thighs clamped together nervously, as she pondered how on earth she’d be able to accommodate him.

Giyuu noticed her hesitation, and a faint dusting of pink spread across his cheeks. “I have never -“

The shrine maiden shook her head. “Nor I,” she whispered, though the knowledge that this was as new to him as it was to her helped ease the clench in her stomach. For all her nervousness, the Miko could not ignore the heat and longing which burned within her as she lifted her eyes back to his. She found her muscles softening as she saw the same fire within those cyan pools she’d come to love. Y/N laid back against the floor — against the comforting soft of his haori, and let body relax, her legs falling open to him. 

She held her hand out to him, beckoning, “Come back to me, Giyuu.” 

The ravenette did not hesitate as he returned to her, covering her body with his own as he pulled her in for a heated kiss, the weight of his hardened length resting heavily against her hip as he settled between the cradle of her thighs.

Y/N moaned into his mouth, instinctively rolling her hips against him, desperate to feel closer to the man who had claimed her heart before she’d realized anyone was capable of holding it.  

Giyuu groaned, softly, against her as she repeated the movement, breaking their kiss to look down at the flushed Miko threatening to drive him wild with her silken touch. As much as he was desperate to feel her — every part of her — he knew what they were about to do would not be nearly as pleasurable for her as it would be for him. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” the Water Pillar’s eyes were stormy, a tempest of competing desire and pain at the idea of causing her even the slightest discomfort raging within him. 

Y/N brushed her lips against his once before trailing along his jaw, pausing only to suck softly as the soft spot beneath his ear. “I am only ever undone by you; never hurt.” 

He moaned softly, lowering his head back down to reclaim her mouth firmly with his own, his lips beseeching her to let him consume her. 

She was only too happy to do so, parting her mouth so that his tongue could slide in and dance languidly with hers, as he reached between them, gripping hold of his aching length and positioning himself at her entrance. 

The first brush of his hot, velvety tip against her folds broke their kiss, both gasping at the new yet intoxicating feel of the other’s most intimate area. 

Giyuu braced his free arm by her head, his fingers stretching to run comfortingly through her hair, as he pressed his forehead against hers. “If it becomes too much, just tell me, and we can stop.” His voice shook ever so slightly as he waited for her signal, the ache in his groin becoming nearly painful. 

The Miko grazed her lips against his throat. “Don’t stop.” She murmured. She hitched her legs higher up on his hips, angling herself so the trembling man above her would have better access to her. 

Slowly, so very slowly, the tip of Giyuu’s length began to push into her, and Y/N felt herself temporarily forget how to breathe. Above her, Giyuu’s eyes squeezed shut in a concerted effort not to sheathe himself within her in one stroke. 

“Y/N,” Giyuu panted, unable to stop the shaky moan that fell from his lips as he sunk into her warm heat that wrapped tight, so impossibly tight around him.

The shrine maiden winced at the unfamiliar and slightly uncomfortable sensation of being slowly stretched and filled by the Pillar. She felt as though she was a wave, crashing and breaking and parting around a rocky shore with every inch gained by the press of his hips against hers. 

Giyuu hardly had a quarter of himself seated within her when he felt his head brush against a thin barrier. His eyes opened to look down at the Miko, panting beneath him, her eyebrows pinched in slight discomfort. When she noticed he’d stopped, she peered up at him through her thick eyelashes, her cheeks flushed. 

The hand Giyuu had held at his base to help guide himself within her lifted to grip her hip, her legs relaxing as his fingers massaging soothing circles into her flesh. Giyuu removed his forehead from its resting place against hers and he buried his face into the side of her neck as he pressed his body flush against hers. The hand he’d used to brace himself found hers, and he lifted to rest above her head, his fingers twining tightly with her own. 

“I’m okay,” she whispered, pressing a sweet kiss against the shell of his ear. Giyuu nearly shuddered at her words, and he pressed his hips forward, his cock finally breaching that thin, inner barrier to the rest of her welcoming heat. 

Y/N cried out at the bright spark of pain that flared through her as Giyuu claimed her as his own, but the Pillar held her steady, pressing open-mouthed kisses against her neck. 

A hitched gasp blew past Giyuu’s lips as he became fully seated within her heat, her core gripping him like a vice. He panted against the sweat-dampened skin of her neck as they both adjusted to the sensation, her nails digging harshly into the skin of his back as she waited for the discomfort to subside. 

Giyuu pulled his face back to look down at her, the hand he’d had on her hip rising to cup her face as he brushed his lips across her cheeks and eyes. 

“My beloved, are you all right?” His breath came hard and fast as he panted, the growing friction between where they were connected becoming hotter, more demanding the longer he remained still. 

Y/N’s eyes slowly opened to meet his, he felt her relax as he kissed her, slow and gentle. 

Her lips broke from his and she nodded, shakily. “You can move — just hold me. Please.” 

Giyuu let his full weight fall against her as he wound an arm tightly around her waist, his other hand tilting her face up so he could kiss her fiercely, eager to show her what she meant to him when his words otherwise failed to do so. As she opened up to him, tongue flicking out shyly along his lip, Giyuu rolled his hips experimentally against hers. 

Both the shrine maiden and the Pillar cried out in unison as Giyuu’s movement stoked an intense pleasure where they were joined.

It was like a spark of flame had ignited between her legs before shooting up to her belly, making her insides clench and pulse. 

It was addicting, and, judging by the way the raven haired swordsman above her hissed, he’d felt that jolt of electrifying pleasure, too.

“Oh,” Giyuu moaned as he began to move atop her, his cock sliding in and out of her heat as he worked to set a pace. “You feel – this is –” his stutters broke off  into ragged pants that melted into broken moans with every movement as he found his rhythm.

The grip he had on her hand tightened as he pulled back from her neck in favor of watching her body jolt and bounce with each of his thrusts. 

His head dropped down to study how his length, now coated in something shiny, appeared with every long draw of his hips out before disappearing back into her warmth. 

He threw his head back. “Heaven,” the Water Pillar groaned out, a tendon throbbing in his neck as another cracked moan slipped free from his throat. “You are heaven.” 

Shallow thrusts turned deeper, more purposeful, as the Water Pillar settled into his tempo. Each push of his hips opened her up more, bit by bit, until Y/N’s limbs liquified and she was left moaning and whimpering in time with his movements.

One particular thrust made her cry out, caused her legs to reflexively tighten around Giyuu’s hips as something hot flared deep within her stomach. 

“M-more,” she managed, her voice tapering off with a squeak. She needed to feel that spark again, wanted to feel that jolt of electricity that made her stomach clench. “P-please — ah!— Giyuu —“ 

With something between a moan and a growl, Giyuu  angled himself to thrust deeper, his weight pushing her hips back from the floor. Her legs were forced to hike higher up his waist, her ankles locking instead against the dip in his spine rather than his backside. 

The new angle meant that Giyuu was able to hit at a spot that sent a bolt of lightening between her legs, and she could feel herself tighten around him. 

The combination of her walls fluttering and pulsing around him and the strange fullness she felt was both overwhelming and exhilarating. She did not think she could stand to feel empty again; to not feel him consuming every inch of her.

Gradually, the small garden hut was filled by the sounds of their pants and moans, weaving together to form the melody of a song meant only for them.

Giyuu began thrusting harder, and soon, a dull clap of skin began to reverberate off the hut’s slatted wood walls, adding a steady beat to the rhythm of their pleasure. Though the air inside the hut had been nearly as frigid as what lay beyond its door, both the Miko and the Slayer found themselves coated in a thin sheen of sweat that made their skin glisten in the faint, orange glow of her lantern.

Above her, the Water Pillar was as lost in his pleasure as she. Guided purely by instinct, Y/N arched her lower back away from the floor until her breasts were flush against his sternum, desperate to feel that jolting spark between her legs. 

She felt the walls her of her core clench tighter around Giyuu’s length with her movement, and he answered her with a deep growl as his arm cinched tighter around her waist.

Deep; he was so deep within her, that she wondered whether he might reach her soul before they had to part.

Giyuu’s thrusts quickened, the base of his groin grinding against that sensitive spot between her thighs that had her wanting more as she moaned, her thighs squeezing the Hashira’s hips.

His head was thrown back, his eyes tightly shut as the most beautiful sounds of pleasure Y/N had ever heard poured from Giyuu’s mouth.

“I — fuck.” He growled as one arm tightened around her waist to the point of pain, the other grabbing her hand to bring it to his lips in a futile attempt to stifle the sounds lilting from him like song. 

His name fell from her lips like a hallowed oath and Y/N’s legs fell to the side, allowing Giyuu to chase the crescent of his release, as hips pistoned into her with wild abandon. 

“Y-Y/N,” her black-haired beauty of a lover grit through clenched teeth, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. “My treasure, I-I’m gonna-“ 

The Water Pillar buried his face into the side of her neck, cradling his groans into her throat, and Y/N could feel his length twitch within her.

As Giyuu’s hips slammed into her one final time, so to did the realization that she loved this; she wanted always to be this close to him, wanted always to be unable to tell where she ended and he began.

She loved him. 

But the bitter truth was that she’d never again get to hold Giyuu the way she was right then, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as she felt something warm gush through her, a pleasured groan, so beautiful and husky tumbling from the Hashira’s lips as he pressed a sweet kiss against her collarbone. 

She would not get to love him past this most sacred rite. 

If she were honest, she’d likely never again experience this intimacy with anyone, for as long as she lived — for how could anyone else ever possibly compare? 

She supposed she’d been doomed to never hold onto the people who were meant to love her since the day she was born. She should’ve known better.

But as the roll of Giyuu’s hips into her heat slowed, and his labored breaths eased, Y/N could not find it within herself to regret it; to regret him. 

Because, fool though she was, she loved him. 

Giyuu collapsed against her, his face nuzzling into the crook of her neck as he came down from his high, still buried inside her as the two panted. 

Her hands moved of their own accord to card through his raven hair, fingertips massaging his scalp as his breathing slowed, his breath adding further moisture to the already sweat-dampened skin of her neck. 

She wished they could remain like that always; that the dawn creeping over the horizon would not herald forth the sun, and they could stay on the floor of the garden hut forever, wrapped in one another’s embrace. She desperately wanted to memorize the tempo of his heart as it beat steadily against his chest, the vibrations of which she felt against her ribs. Such a beautiful melody, it was, and yet it filled her with such despair to know she might never again hear its sweet song; that it might cease playing forever, the moment Giyuu resumed being the Water Pillar once more, and walked through the shrine gates for the last time. 

But Y/N had never had anyone she could call her own, and as much as she loved the man nuzzling her neck as he whispered sweet nothings against her skin, he’d never been hers to keep. 

“My beautiful, beautiful Y/N,” Giyuu murmured, kissing his way up her throat to her lips. “Are you alright?” 

She held his lips for a moment before breaking away, letting her eyes roam his face, and she nodded. “Are you?” 

To her utter surprise, the Water Pillar chuckled softly, his laugh breathy and his smile heartbreakingly beautiful. “Yes, my treasure. I am more than alright.” 

He brushed a kiss against the tip of her nose. “After all, I am with you.”

———-

He’d brought her against his chest and they’d laid there together, simply staring at one another, trading soft kisses as Giyuu traced a finger over every feature of her face at least twice. 

If he was to die, he knew his last thoughts would be of her, and he wanted to be sure he’d committed every last detail of her face to memory.

Soon, far too soon, the deep indigo of the night sky was broken by the first, watery rays of morning light, and both the Miko and the Slayer knew their time was up.

The lovers dressed quickly, their backs to one another as both steeled themselves for the goodbye they could no longer avoid. 

And now, that time had come. Though it was Giyuu who walked to his likely doom, Y/N felt as if she was embarking on her own death march as the pair drew near the towering Shrine gate. Perhaps she was; after all, he would be taking her heart with him, and she was unlikely to get it back.

Y/N did not know whether to lean in and kiss him, one last time, or whether such a display of affection would only scratch at the gaping, open wounds they now bore on their chests, where their hearts had been. 

Giyuu, apparently, did not know what to do either, so the two only stood there beneath the Torii, eyes swimming with emotions neither could bear to voice. 

There was a beat, and then the two moved toward one another, drawn together like magnets as they locked themselves in a tight embrace. Giyuu’s hand cupped the back of her skull as Y/N pressed her face hard into his shoulder. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his haori, desperate to keep him rooted to her — to life, safe and away from demons. 

But he couldn’t stay; she knew that. And so, with a deep inhale in a desperate attempt to memorize that mahogany and citrus scent of his she so adored, Y/N pulled away. She made to step back from him entirely, to put distance between them, but those warm fingers caught her under her chin, tilting her head up to face him before his hand slid to cup her cheek. 

The emotion swimming in the azure depths of his irises threatened to chisel away at the lock she kept on her own. Tears burned in her eyes, but she would not let them fall; she would not make this harder for herself — for him — than it already was. 

“If you do not hear from me, leave the mountain. Go to the city, and do not go out at night. Keep your dagger and wisteria on you at all times, even when you sleep,” Giyuu’s eyes were serious, the hand on her face holding her in place. “Live, Y/N. Grow to be an old woman. Die only from age.”

The shrine maiden closed her eyes as she willed herself not to cry. “And if you win?” 

Giyuu hesitated for a moment and Y/N knew better than to ask him to make a promise he could not keep. 

“Send a crow, if you can.” She whispered, feigning a small smile. “It would be nice to not be afraid to go and gather night-blooming herbs.”

The Water Pillar nodded, his hand smoothing through her hair one last time as his lips pressed against her forehead. “Thank you, Y/N.” 

She didn’t need to ask what for.

She hoped she’d never forget the way he said her name; the longing and the breathless passion that dripped from every syllable, and the way it sent shivers down her spine. 

Giyuu broke away from her and set off towards the east. Y/N watched until he was nothing more than a speck on the horizon, before he disappeared entirely. 

He did not look back. 

————————

He hadn’t trusted himself to look back at her, though every fiber of his being had screamed at him to turn around and behold her beauty one last time. But the Shrine Maiden had become his largest weakness, and Giyuu knew if he’d looked back, he would never make it back to his estate; to the Corps. 

And if you win? She’d asked him, and he hadn’t been able to form the words of the answer he’d so desperately wanted to give her.

Because while Giyuu Tomioka never made promises he couldn’t keep, that did not mean he didn’t hope. Right then, more than anything, his greatest desire was to win this war; win it, and come back and tell Y/N that she no longer needed to fear the night. 

In any other life — if Giyuu had been any other man — there would be no question as to who he’d choose to spend the rest of his days with. 

And so, Giyuu thought as he forced himself to march forward, his eyes burning, if he made it out of this war alive, he would go back to the Shrine and tell Y/N of their victory himself.

And perhaps she’d then allow him to make her his wife.

Keep an eye out for Part II to see if Giyuu comes back and makes good on his promise!

COMMENTS, REBLOGS, AND LIKES ALWAYS APPRECIATED!

[smutmind]

When it Doesn't Fit ft. Tzuyu

idol x bbc

The moon hung low over the Eastern Palace, its silver glow shimmering across silken banners and jade-tiled floors.

In her private chamber, Lady Tyuzu reclined upon a cushioned dais—long legs draped in violet silk, delicate fingers idly twirling a jade hairpin.

Tonight, she had been promised a rare gift—a "specimen" from the far Western lands.

A soft knock.

“Enter,” she called.

Two eunuchs entered, flanking a towering figure—a black slave, stripped to a simple loincloth—muscles gleaming under the lanterns.

“Your gift, my Lady,” one whispered—bowing low.

Tyuzu’s gaze sharpened.

Her breath caught.

The man was massive—towering, sculpted—his dark skin a stark contrast to the pale silks around them.

But it was the bulge beneath the cloth that made her throat tighten.

“Leave us,” she ordered softly.

The eunuchs withdrew silently.

Tyuzu rose slowly—bare feet gliding over the cool floor.

“Remove it,” she commanded.

The cloth dropped.

Her gasp was sharp, unbidden.

His cock hung heavy and thick—veined, monstrous—far beyond anything she had seen.

“It’s… too large,” she whispered—pulse racing.

A soft moan broke the silence.

Tyuzu turned.

One of her young handmaidens, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, had remained hidden behind a screen.

“My Lady—may I?” she whispered, voice trembling.

Tyuzu hesitated—then nodded.

“Show me.”

The girl knelt before him—small hands trembling as she stroked the dark shaft.

“It’s so heavy—so thick—”

She leaned in—tongue flicking across the tip—then swallowing it slowly.

He groaned deeply—cock thickening further.

“Mmmphhh—so big—” she moaned, tears streaming as he fucked her throat.

“Enough,” Tyuzu breathed—eyes dark with lust.

“Take her.”

The slave lifted the girl easily—laying her on the silk cushions.

His cock pressed to her tight entrance—forcing its way in.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH—IT’S TOO BIG—”

He thrust deeper—slow, relentless—stretching her tiny Asian cunt to the brink.

“AHHHHHH—no—please—it hurts—”

Her cries grew ragged—tears flooding down her cheeks.

Blood trickled around the thick shaft as it forced deeper.

“AHHHHHHHHH—you’re—splitting me—AHHHHHHH—”

Tyuzu watched—pussy throbbing, breath shallow—one hand slipping between her own thighs.

The girl came hard—body shaking—cum and blood dripping from her ruined cunt.

Tyuzu could no longer resist.

“Now—take me—NOW,” she commanded, silk robe falling from her shoulders.

Her pale breasts heaved—nipples hard—thighs slick with need.

The slave knelt before her—lifting her easily.

First, he sucked her nipples—rough, hungry.

“AHHHHHHH—yes—suck harder—”

Then he lowered her slowly—massive cock spearing her tight Asian cunt.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—”

Her nails raked his shoulders—eyes rolling back.

“It’s—it’s too deep—you’ll break me—AHHHHHH—”

He began to thrust—slow, deep strokes—cock stretching her impossibly wide.

“AHHHHHHHHH—it won’t fit—I can’t—AHHHHHHH—”

Tyuzu straddled him—hips grinding—nipples in his mouth.

“YES—YES—fuck me—fill me—break me—”

Her climax hit hard—squirting around his cock.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—more—I need MORE—”

He flipped her easily—ass high—cock slamming deep.

“AHHHHHHHHH—yes—yes—break me—I’m yours—”

Her screams echoed through the chamber—voice hoarse, mind slipping.

He pinned her beneath him—legs wide—fucking fast, deep, brutal.

“YES—AHHHHHHHHH—yes—cum—CUM IN ME—”

With a final roar, he buried deep—spurting thick seed inside her overstretched cunt.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—”

Tyuzu collapsed—overstimulated, twitching—cum leaking from her abused, gaping cunt.

She had never known such pleasure—nor such ruin.

Her mind swam—body trembling—addicted already.

She smiled faintly—voice a breathless whisper.

“You’ll return—tomorrow—again—”

And so a new hunger was born.

[mimiiis]

Strangers (Remmick x Fem!Reader)

summary: “Dont talk to strangers or you might fall in love.”- Run away from home, you find yourself begging God to send someone who will love you.

warnings: 18+ mdni— !Not Proofread! , like a lot of religious trauma, heavy mentions/talk of death, death, mention of abuse, freaky ahh vampire, smut, sliight dry humping, boob play (?), munch Remmick, drool/saliva , piv sex, raw sex, creampie, blood, biting, blood sucking during sex, desperate and needy bitches, its a bit gorey and dark but nothing too much

word count: 14.5K

a/n: named after and inspired by the Ethel Cain song. I had a vision, blacked out, woke up to find about half of this written, then it took me two weeks to finish the rest 😔 Mostly because this is my first time writing smut! I hope it’s good as I’m still learning and trying to get the hang of it 😅!! This is lowkey also Nosferatu inspired but kinda of not? Idk, I hope you guys enjoy !!!

You don’t know how you found yourself out here. Alone in the dark, skin damp with sweat from the summer's humid and sticky air. Near an old dirt road, littered with flickering lightning bugs and the sounds of crickets singing throughout the tall grass and wheats. It was dead of night, when the only souls awake were creepers and those made of sin lurking within every shadow. The darkness surrounded you, covering you like a thick and heavy blanket under the night sky.

Your chest heaved, lungs burning and heels aching from how long you’ve been running. You could not even recall when you started running, so lost in your grief and guilt. At this point, you felt so far that you didn’t even care where you were going.

Adrenaline rushed through you, fighting and pushing back all the sadness and anger that wanted to burst up and out of your body. Your tears blinded you, eyes cast to the moon. You used her light as a beacon of hope, following and chasing its end for any kind of safety. Maybe it was the hot summer breeze, or simply your body burning from running for so long, but you swore you felt her rays cast a kind of warmth upon your skin.

You stared into the sky, combing through stars and clouds. Searching the high heavens for any kind of answer to where it was you were going. Distracted, dazed, and mind foggy, it all happened so fast. Just a second ago you were upright, head tilted high and unaware of the earth around you. But suddenly, it all came crashing into you at once. As if the world knew you were lost, it placed a rock in your path. You stepped on it without looking, only noticing when a sharp and jagged pain made its way through the sole of your foot. 

It made you fall, sending you flying through the air and landing onto the hard dirt floor. Pebbles and sharp sticks scrapped against the palms of your hands and knees, leaving the ache of parted skin and seeping blood in their path as you caught yourself.

You groaned, cussing out loud at the sudden fall. Your limbs were spread everywhere, cheek and forehead now resting against the ground and having scrapes of their own from the fall. Time had suddenly stopped, the wind no longer brushing your cheeks and the moon nowhere in sight. The realization sent a wave of panic through you. 

Your body begged for rest, but the pounding of your heart and mind yelled at you to keep moving. “I have to keep going,” you mumbled to yourself, quickly curling and lifting your body up until you sat on your knees. “I need to keep going.” The harsh burn of your lungs had finally caught up to you, leaving you dizzy and tired. You tried to collect yourself, to set your mind back into running but all that managed to come from it was the word where. 

Where were you going? 

The thought made everything stop. Your heart slowed its pounding, your breath began to steady, and the faint ache you felt in your heart exploded like a thousand tiny suns inside your chest.

What was your plan? You had run from home. Jumped out the window without a penny or scrap of clothing and didn’t think to look back. You just ran, fighting the feelings and consequences that now caught up to you in the middle of nowhere. Miles from home, you felt all the sadness and frustration you held on a tight leash being to break.

Your mama never understood, your papa didn’t care. No one else in the small town which you came from ever listened to you, they didn’t even want to look at you. So why did you run thinking they would come chasing? You thought they would send out the dogs. Wake every young man and boy to come looking for you when your mama realized you were no longer in bed. But the hours passed and you’ve heard no barks, no shouts of your names and haven’t even seen a single oil lamp since you left home. How foolish you are.

It all came crashing down and out at once. The sadness, the anger, and frustration that had been building up in your chest for years. It wracked into your body all at once, sending you crashing back down into the dirt with heavy sobs and whimpers. You were alone, always had been. But here, in the middle of a wheat field on a hot summer night, it was the first time you truly felt it.

Alone. The word rang like a bell throughout your body, twisting and digging itself deeper into the wound of your heart. A pain that had been there for so long and finally began to fester, infecting the rest of your body until it physically hurt. 

God, you’d been lonely for so long now, haven't you? 

As a girl, you remember praying for a friend. Someone to come and love and treat you like you were wanted. Someone to sweep you off of your feet, who would ride with you into the sunset for a happily ever after. Back then, you had so much faith in God. How delighted you felt to sit upon your bed and stare out into the night sky every single night. To softly clasp your hands together and talk to the Almighty. To whisper about your day and wants, hoping that he would answer, show you that he truly loved and listened to you. The years went by and you never made a friend, no one ever made you feel wanted. You prayed harder, begging to the point of tears for any kind of sign. But it never came. No one ever did. Not even God wanted you.

You haven't prayed in years. The desire to beg and pray to something you could not feel or see went away long ago. And yet, here, under the silver light of the moon, you felt yourself grasping onto any scraps of faith that were left in your body. Your hands began to clench together and your lips began to tremble. You were desperate, searching and clinging onto any kind of comfort the action brought to you.

 To who or what you prayed to– you did not care. As long as someone or something answered. 

“Please,” you whimpered like an injured dog,”Anyone.” 

“Come to me…” You whispered into the darkness, words so faint you could hardly hear them over the sniffles of your nose.

“Come to me,” You began to beg over sobs., whimpering the words over and over again between gasps. “Anyone… just save me. Show me I am loved.” Fat tears fell onto the earth as you bent over to place your head onto the dirt. All that you were is now gone, and all that's left is a scared little girl begging for a friend. 

In your desperation, you hadn’t a clue what you were calling for. Never believed in those dark spirits your mama and aunties warned you to be weary about. You did not know what was in the darkness and unknown. What it was that waited in the shadows. Had you known what would show up you would have never uttered the words. 

Out of all the prayers you ever muttered or begged, why did God choose to answer this one?

Of all the things to bring you, why him? 

☆

Minutes passed and exhaustion began to eat away at you. Sleep gnawed at your eyes and made you yawn, not caring about where you were. You stayed hunched over and on your knees, as still as a rock laying in wait. Tears still fell onto your cheeks, the feeling of hopelessness eating away at you.

You were sure you were going to die, letting your own misery and body eat away at itself until you were nothing but a shell. The only thing you could think of doing was to wallow in your shame and sadness, all you could focus on were the thoughts that ran through your mind. You were so lost within yourself you did not even realize that there was a man now standing next to you.

The sudden sound of the tall grass rustling made you look up, and the sight that you were met with made your blood go cold and had you jumping to collect yourself. 

He was pale, skin sweaty and glowing under the moonlight. His body was strong, compact and lined with soft muscles and broad shoulders. A white and blue striped button up clung to his body, suspenders coming from beneath his trousers and a glimmer of light caught on the necklace wrapped around his neck. His arms and body were bent in a surrendered position, palms away from his sides as if to show you he meant no harm. Your heart pounded from the fright his presence suddenly gave you. 

You hadn’t heard footsteps at all. Even in your state you surely would have heard the loud footsteps of a man his size. You almost blamed it on the loud chattering of crickets and cicadas, but when you listened you found that you heard none. As if the earth went silent, put on pause by the looming presence of the man before you. 

You looked up at him, still on the dirt floor. His face was strong, but with a kind of edged softness that made him seem less threatening. A soft half smile lingered on his lips, parted like he was waiting for you to ask something so he could reply. You didn’t, not yet. Did not know what to say. You were alone with a white man in the middle of a wheat field, in the dead of night– what could you even say?

The moonlight revealed him to you. Every fold and curve of his body, each wrinkle and twitch, you could see it all. All but his eyes. They were shrouded in darkness, a void of light and hidden beneath the shadows of his own face. It all felt wrong, too strange to be normal. 

Sweat dripped from your forehead as chills began to run up your spine. The sadness you were feeling was now long gone, fear creeping in slowly to take its place. You felt your mouth open, lips parting and searching for any words to say, but none came out. All you could muster up was the first thing that came to your mind.

“What’s a man doin’ out here…this late at night?” You managed to stutter out, voice hushed but loud enough for him to hear from the distance between you two. They were not the smartest words to say, but it was all you could manage to spit out . The hairs on your arm stood on their ends as you felt him look you up and down. 

The half smile of his lips formed a sly grin, and the sound of a chuckle escaped him. “It ain’t nun for you to worry ‘bout right now, darlin.” His voice and words were as smooth as honey. Velvet like and with a deep grumble that made you shiver. His words had no malice, in fact he said them as softly as a lover. “Was just walkin’ ‘round when I saw the path in the grass, followed it out here.” He began to step closer, as slow as a wolf stalking its prey. “What’s a sweet girl like you doin’ out here, all alone, at this hour? Hmmn?”

 Concern and kindness dripped in every word he spoke. He slowly bent down towards you, sitting on his haunches a meer foot away. You stared at him, holding in your breath. No man was ever this kind, such a thing didn’t exist. You followed every motion of his body, studying him and trying so hard to peer into his eyes. He was so close now, every dimple of his face and curl of his hair so close, merely a breath away. 

You should be terrified, start screaming and trying to defend yourself. Never talk to someone you don’t know, your mama always said. But he didn’t feel like a stranger, no. Despite the unease you felt being around him, he carried an air of comfort. A type of welcoming softness that made you want to spill all your secrets to him if he said the word. He looked like the type of man you woulda begged your mama to let you marry. He was rugged, hands thick and scarred from whatever labor he did. The sight of him made you shiver, in ways that were both good and bad. God, he was so close. When did he creep closer? 

“C’mon now… tell me what happened to ya, dove.” His hand was brushing your cheek, wiping away a tear that glistened atop your cheek. And that was it, the breaking point. With a single stroke, your fate was sealed the moment he touched you and spoke those words. It all came tumbling out from your lips. Incoherent and almost all mumbled together, the sobs that you had once stopped all came back from his kind words that were more than your poor and fragile heart could handle. 

“Mama and papa, they- they wanted to marry me to that ugly ugly man!” Tears began to blur your vision once more and your dusty bloody hands came to wipe them away. “He’s already had three wives. Beat all of ‘em senseless and left nasty bruises for the world to see after he took ‘em to bed. Then they all died in childbirth, along with the babies who were too big to even come out and take their first breaths… Oh those poor babies, sir.” You hiccuped between every sentence, struggling to catch your breath. 

“I don’t want that.. I couldn’t have that, I-i could never,” You leaned into his presence, “No one ever helped me, they never understood. I did what I had to, I swear.” You looked at him with pleading eyes, begging for any sign of understanding from him. Your cries steadied, the wave of immense guilt washing over you like a tide once you said the words aloud. Like a chain snapping free. You began to mutter something more, but he quickly shushed you.

His hands came up to cup your face, holding you as delicate as a flower. “Shh, It’s alright, it’s alright darlin’. You won’t need to be dealin’ with all ‘at any longer. I’m here, okay?” He holds your cheeks in his hands, face lining up with his. He was so close, you could feel your breaths mingling. His warmth seeped into you, deep into you as you stared into the dark void of his eyes. So dark, they practically absorbed all the light they came into contact with. They were as cold as an unforgiving winter, older and more rotten than everything you’ve ever seen before. 

It should have scared you, made you want to run and hide in the ends of the earth. But it didn’t. 

“I don’t know what to do now, sir.” You whispered, suddenly feeling so shy under his gaze. 

“T’s alright. I’m here, I’m here.” His voice was so low, you could feel the rumble in his chest as he spoke. It sent tingles up your spine and down between your legs. It was like a siren song, pulling you under the tide and sweeping you away. “I’ve come, I’m here. I’m all you need, you’re all I need.” The words come out like a mantra, repeating them over and over like he was trying to convince himself what he said was true.

He leaned in closer, placing his forehead against yours. You sighed and closed your eyes at the gesture, feeling his hands begin to wander down to your neck. Something about his hands so close to you made you want to run, to flee and escape the false sense of security you undoubtedly fell for. But you’d rather any false touch than return to the reality of what faced you outside of this moment. 

“You just needa feel good, sugar. I can make you feel good.” His tone was dripping with seduction now, each word feeling so sensual you weren’t sure if it was real. He shuts his mouth, moving in closer before placing his lips atop your cheeks, giving them soft butterfly kisses. Your eyes shut, lashes fluttering at the sweet sensation. You surrendered yourself to this unknown sweetness, not knowing it would damn you for all eternity. He kisses down your face, towards your neck, hands angling your neck back to expose more of the sensitive flesh. 

You feel his hands wander your body, gripping and searching for more exposed skin. And when he could not find any, his fingers made their way to the buttons on your blouse and began undoing them. His mouth latched onto your neck, leaving soft bites and long kisses along the base as he made his way further down. Your breath hitched at the sensation, a tiny whimper escaping from your throat and your hands came up to grip his shoulders. An attempt to ground yourself to earth, to this moment that felt like heaven hath come at last. 

Your body felt like it was on fire, hotter than any summer sun could make you feel. You were burning from the inside out, whimpering like a dog in heat when his hands exposed your chest to the soft night breeze. Ripping the fabric of your blouse, he squeezed the soft flesh of your bare breast. His calloused hands squeezed hard, fingers pinching at your nipple in such an achingly sweet way all you could do was arch your back. You wanted more, your body practically begged for it. You needed it. 

Your heart was pounding, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. He held you like if you were going to disappear in an instant, mouth stuck on you and kissing and licking all the flesh he could find.

You threw your head back, arms going limp as you surrendered yourself to the sweet pleasure he brought you. Flimsy scraps of clothing was all that separated you two from being flesh to flesh. Your soft moans and his groans filled the air, a symphony of damned and doomed souls not caring to hide this open, raw, and filthy desire. 

His mouth went further down, kissing along your collarbones and shoulders. His hand came back to your neck, holding it and craning it so you could still see him from the corners of your eye. His lips part from your skin, eyes looking up to search for yours. Drool dripped from the corners of his mouth, the bewildered and bewitched look in his eyes sent goose pimples rising all over your body. A wolfish grin formed after he took and savored the vision of your surrender. 

“I’ll try not to make it hurt.” He slowly whispered, diving back down to the junction of your shoulder and neck. By the time you realized what he said, it was already too late. A sharp and searing pain struck you, sending your body writhing and thrashing against him. You gasped, his soft grip had turned to iron as he pinned you down. You tried to cry, to scream, to fight and push him off but it was no use. You got yourself into this mess, how were you going to get out?

Stupid, stupid girl! The words your mother and father had screamed to you your whole life came rushing back to you. The little life you had lived flashed before your eyes, memories of being a girl and growing up. Soaking in the summer sun, hot meals on cold winter nights. Was this truly it? You felt the sticky liquid of blood begin to drip down your neck, sharp teeth biting and sinking into you. The man beside you groans into your skin, and you realize that this was it. 

You couldn’t even cry anymore, the exhaustion of your mind and body finally hitting you. This was it. Your sins had caught up to you and this was your punishment. You stopped fighting the moment you realized no one was coming to save you. God hadn’t come. Even at the end of your life, he sent no one to save you. 

Or maybe, he had. Maybe this cruel man sucking on your skin was really the angel of death. The sweet release he brought was your salvation. Lead you in with the feelings you always wanted to feel, the soft touch you always craved. Words were lost to you, but for some odd reason you wanted to thank the man. For ending your life, freeing you from the misery that shackled you onto this earth. But you felt so weak, so tired and just wanted to sleep. So you brought your hand to his cheek, your dirty bloody hand.

You caressed the side of his face, looking down at him as if you understood. He looked up at the sudden touch and met your gaze. And for a second, he stopped. His mouth parted from your skin, and he raised his head to meet yours once more. Shock seemed to choke him, making him forget what it was that he had been doing to gaze into your soul.

The moonlight glimmered and reflected in your eyes, all the sweetness your heart had left pouring out of them. You looked at him as if he had hung the stars, and in the darkness of his heart he felt a kernel of hope ignite. Familiarity, love, and something so old and forgotten that it no longer had a name struck him all at once– you could see the regret in his face. But it was too late. He began to mutter out some words, muddled as his grip fell soft once more and he tried to keep your eyes open. But it was no use. You shut them a few seconds later, succumbing to the darkness and exhaustion of your body, hoping to be far from this world when you opened your eyes.

But when you woke up, you were still here on earth. Still in that wheat field with your face in the ground with bloody hands and knees. It was around midday, when you felt a young man shaking you awake and pouring water down your throat. The summer sun had already burned your skin, making it feel tight and tender from how long you had been laying in it. Your memories flooded

back to you the instant you opened your eyes. You looked around frantically, heart pounding and breathing so heavily that the boy had to help calm you down. He explained how he found you, alone, saw no sign or trace of anyone else being here. You could’ve easily chosen to believe him–fall into a fantasy that the night was nothing but a dream. But the aching bruise and scar of teeth marks across your shoulder and breast made you remember it was real. His face, his hands, the tender kisses he gave you before he almost bled you to death. Even the look he gave you just before you passed out– all real.

You shook in terror, desperately trying to tell the young man your story. Unintelligible mumbles fell from your lips, he simply looked at you with understanding and gentle eyes. “It’s okay, Miss. How ‘bout we get you cleaned up and somewhere safe first?” Was all he said in response, quickly lifting you up and taking you away before you could say another word. 

You may have still been alive, breathing and blinking, but you knew that some part of you had died in that field. Marked for death and damned to hell, you knew he would come back for you. 

☆

5 years have gone by since that night. Your body grew into itself and the bruises healed, leaving only a faded scar behind. Your face was fuller, mind and soul grown into a woman that had finally made a place in the world for herself. You grew out of your timidness, taking what you wanted before anyone could steal it from you.

You found a home in a town west from where you had run from, living with an elderly woman who paid you to clean her home and keep her company. You made the young boy who found you your lover as well, snatched him up and made him promise to you that he’d never leave. He gave you a silver ring to place on your finger 2 years after being together. You finally had somewhere you belonged. You didn’t feel lonely anymore.

And after that night, you never allowed yourself to be. Never once let yourself wallow in pity or crawl back into the dark hole that led you here in the first place. But on the rare occasion when you would slip up and let the shadows creep in, you could feel him.

Shivers crept up your spine and made your hair stand each time you looked outside during the night. He followed where you went, stalked and waited for the day he could finally take you for his own once more. You could often feel him call you outside, singing a sweet melody meant for only you to hear. Sometimes you swore that the scar would begin to ache. Feeling like it would rip itself open and spill blood all over again, inviting him to come and finish the job. 

You knew what he was. A Vampire. A blood sucking demon. A human soul cursed and trapped inside of a dying body forever. Unable to walk in the sun, their hearts turning darker and more rotten with each passing year their bodies stayed on this earth. 

The old woman you lived with was superstitious, her house full of herbs and smelling of incense. She had been the one to tell you all of this. She knew secrets and the way the world worked. She would cast and brew spells that warded off evil every other moon. You liked to think that she kept you safe with them. Believed that she was the one that held him back from coming to you.

“If he had continued drinking, you would be one too.” She had once said, spilling the words over breakfast like it was nothing. But to you, they were everything. 

The words kept you up at night. Consuming your mind and every waking moment for weeks with the questions of What if? Was that the fate that awaited you? If he turned you, would your heart stop beating or would you still be able to feel its phantom pulse in your chest? How lonely was eternity? Were you ready to face it? At the time, they were all useless questions. Outlandish scenarios you convinced yourself would never come to fruit. 

But now, the old lady was dead. Her spells and magic were gone. The protection and security the woman brought to you had vanished. 

You confided in your lover with your worries, and he called you mad. He grew distant, never made love or kissed you anymore. You clung onto the scraps he gave you, convincing yourself it was all fine. Until one night, when he got up and left. You found out from the townsfolk he stole a case of booze and ran off. He took that silver ring with him too.

You spent the past few years building a life, then it all came crashing down on you. 

You started to feel like the girl in the field again. Cold and shivering. So lost and scared in a world that failed you time and time again.

Were you truly destined to be alone?

Your heart sunk into your chest, falling deep into the pit of your stomach, when something else began to take its place. Something so old and forgotten that it began to creep and crawl out of your throat, plaguing you with a truth you had been denying yourself of all along. 

You tried not to think about the way you cried and begged God to bring you someone who could love you. Made it a point to not even think about it. Embarrassed by the fact you felt so desperate enough to confide in Him. But for a long time, you truly believed it was your lover. You thought him to be heaven made, sent for you. His careful and sweet touch was just what you thought you needed. “He will never leave, he will always be here.” Words you would repeat over and over to soothe yourself. But he ended up leaving like you meant nothing to him.

You couldn’t ignore it anymore. The light was gone and the darkness stared at you dead in the eye. What you thought all those years ago was true then. That man who bit your neck and breast, the reason behind the scars and fear you carried with you all those years. He hadn’t marked you for death, he marked you as his.  

☆

You were always weak to your impulses. Ruling your body with feeling over logic. You did what felt right in the moment, not caring for the consequences. And now, at your most tired and lonesome, you weren’t going to make an exception. 

It was summer once more, and the familiarity of it all came rushing to you. Hot, humid air blew in the wind. The heat that had seeped into the earth during the day now rose up to greet the night, the sun's lingering presence not giving you a moment of peace. Every window of the house was open, welcoming the slight breeze that rustled the leaves outside. You sat on a pillow by the front door, leaning against the frame. You fanned yourself with a makeshift paper fan and breathed so slowly for fear of sweating if you moved too fast. You stared out into the sky, watching the last light of the sun fade away and dip into the earth before the stars came out to shine. 

Pink and blue hues began to color the world as the sun winked its final light, making a sudden pang of loneliness pull on your heartstrings. You had decided what you were going to do earlier that day. Felt no remorse or regret. But still, the sadness began to creep in and surprise you. Of all the things you could be feeling– fear, shame, or guilt– sadness was all that came to mind. Sadness and the worn out feeling of spending years waiting and molding yourself into what others wanted you to be. You changed and broke apart pieces of yourself to fit into a narrative that wasn’t even yours. Only for it to all crumble away within a month. You had nothing left to lose anymore. 

With a deep breath, you reached into your heart. Clung onto the desperation and small scrap of faith still hidden deep within your soul, and whispered the words you hadn’t dared to utter in years.

“Come to me.”

He didn’t take long to respond to your call. You closed your eyes only for a few seconds, and when you opened them, there he was. Walking through the tall grass, coming from the trees like he had been waiting for you to call. He walked like he owned the very ground he stepped on, purpose in his slow stride. The moon was out by now, shining in her full glory. She illuminated his path towards you, as if she knew where he belonged and led him there herself. 

He looked the same as he did in your dreams. Wearing the same thin cotton button up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and unbuttoned at the top of his chest, exposing a dark colored tank top underneath and a gold necklace that clung onto his neck. He seemed disheveled, hair a mess and clothes wrinkled. Sweat dripped from his forehead, skin damp and making his clothes stick to his skin. Every curve and muscle contoured, you could see it all. 

He walked right up and onto the porch, the wood creaking and whining beneath him as he slowly made his way to the door. A smirk painted his lips when he saw you looking at him. So frightened, like a little lamb who called for her mother and instead ended up with a wolf at her door. Just as beautiful as when he’d last seen you. 

“Took you long enough, darlin.” His voice sounded just as sweet as you remembered. As gravely and thick as sugar. Your blood went cold at the sound. 

He was here. Truly here. Most nights you wondered if the light stubble of his chin and the soft expression of his eyes were things you had imagined, made up on the long nights you would think of him– but they weren’t. He was just how you remembered him, how you dreamed him. You weren’t sure what to say. You spent countless times imagining how this meeting would go. And here you were, mouth gone dry and at a loss for words.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.” You managed to rasp out, voice catching and cracking slightly as you looked up at him. You were still sitting on the floor of the house, body curling into itself in response to your now pounding heart. 

That made him grin, “Now how could I ever resist you? Sweetest thing I’ve ever had,” He looked right into your soul, stripping you bare with just a glance, as he said the words. His eyes roamed over your body, tracing your curves over the thin nightgown you wore. “Sweetest thing to look at, couldn’t stay away. Wanted to come and take ya sooner, but the ol’ witch knew how to keep me away from you.” His voice sounded so soft, so gentle. The kind of tone you’d use to call a pet out of a hiding spot. “It was torture.” 

Shivers crawled up and down your spine, breath hitching and catching in your throat. He spoke the words so freely, so casually– like they weren’t dripping with sin. They made your back straighten, hands shake and stomach flutter. Had you been any smarter, you would have run inside, Locked the doors and shut the windows, waited him out until your own death came for you. But it was already here though, wasn’t it? Standing right in front of you with a smirk, ready to eat you right up. 

You knew that what he said was fake. A show and act put on and practiced to perfection just for you. It should've made you cower, rethinking your decision and push him away. But all you could think about was how it’s been so long since you last heard such sweet words. Spoken by a man who knew what he wanted, like he needed and craved you so badly he was starving. 

“You’ve been waitin’ for me too though, haven’t you sugar?” He hums, cocking his head to the side and swaying closer to the door. “Jus’ finally worked up the courage to ask for it.” He bends down, meeting you eye to eye. A large and almost nasty smirk decorticated his lips, flashes of teeth showing that made a cold sweat drip down your neck. 

“I know you thought about me every night.” His voice lowered, gaze darkening. The cold void of his eyes caught the light of the oil lamp hung above your door, consuming all its warmth. You could see yourself in the reflection, all wide eyed and pale with fear. “I did too, dreamt of you.” He got on his hands and knees, inching and crawling closer towards you. 

Something told you that he enjoyed it. “How I wished I could touch you again,” he groaned, the sound coming from deep within him. He reached out to touch you, hand shaking in excitement. His fingers came close to your cheek, the tips right about to graze the soft skin, before he flinched away. A hiss leaves him, shaking his hand and bearing his teeth from the sudden pain. If you listened closely, you swore you could hear a faint sizzle.

Ah, right. 

You had forgotten about that rule. The most important rule the old woman told you about his kind. He couldn’t touch you, not while you were inside of the house. Vampires weren’t allowed to enter homes unless invited. Weren’t allowed to cross the threshold and take everything that they wanted, when they wanted. To him, it was a minor setback. To you, you thought it was some kind of divine protection. At least, just for a moment. A few more minutes to live, time to muster up the courage and ask what you had been aching to for all those years. You would let him in sooner than later.  

He chuckles, lip curling back to flash the fangs of his teeth as he begins to soothe his hand. “You gon’ let me in or not, baby?” He says it inbetween a whiny little laugh, almost whimpering. The cool collectedness of his voice was starting to slip, pulling back to reveal a type of growing and longing desperation. The sound made your heart stutter, stomach leap, you don’t think you were supposed to hear it. “I came all this way.”

The way his eyes softened, lip pouting and body begging to hunch over, made you want to believe him. Take every word he says and let it fill your fragile little heart with the illusion that he loved you. Made you want to say the words that will ruin what was left of your life. You had to take a long, deep breath to collect yourself. 

“Not yet.” You reply softly, meeting his pleading gaze. 

You turned to sit up on your knees, mirroring his own position. Your back was straight in contrast to his, head shaking as you tried to muster up the little strength left inside of you to fight off the fear that crawled all over you. You were so close to the door, hands almost slipping across that invisible line he couldn't move past. 

So much time, so days and hours spent wondering what this meeting would be like. He had taken over your mind, your body, your very soul since that first night. He knew how to lure you out. His sweet words and voice, seduction rolling off of his tongue like syrup. Yet, looking at him now. Bent over, almost begging to have you– it may be what will break you. 

God, you wanted it so badly. To have that taste of delicious sin. Feel the high of life before crashing and plummeting to your death. Feel his hands roam and touch your body, lips pressing against your skin. Your very being ached for it.

But you couldn’t. Would not allow yourself to give into the pleasures you had longed for. Not after you spent years wondering over the reason you’re still here, the reason you even called him again. Your life, your death. 

You leaned in closer to the door, hands touching the warm wood below you. Eyes slanting, seducing him back as you asked, “Why didn’t you kill me?” 

You dragged the words out, making sure he heard each one. Soft and slow, like a blade against skin, cutting deep. You stared into his eyes, making sure you didn’t leave his sight. Though the longer you looked, you swore you felt a warmth grow inside of their relentless cold.

He blinked, brows furrowing at the words. Startled and taken aback, he leaned away from you ever so slightly. As if he had never expected you to ask that. In the perfected and practiced scenario of his mind, he never thought it a possibility. He almost looked hurt, face slowly falling and the polished act had begun to slip away. You hit a nerve. One you did not even know existed. 

“You had me in your palm. I was willin’, I was ready.” You continued when he did not answer, “I still am.” You inch closer, your turn to crawl to him. To the beast outside of your door. “What changed?”

If you were the lamb, and he the wolf– why did he looked absolutely terrified all of us sudden? Petrified. His eyes widened, staring at you.Trying to look right through you and your intentions. Like you found out something only he knew. He scrambled for a response, trying to figure out the game you began to play. 

“When you taste something so sweet, wouldn’t you wanna savor it?” He whispers through nervous chuckles. 

You frowned at his response. He was lying to you. You didn’t want anymore lies. You didn’t think that you deserved them. How much longer were you supposed to follow his rules, play his games. Even at the end of your life, as you handed yourself to him on a silver platter, why could he not just say things plainly?

“Don’t lie to me.” Annoyance and ire begin to bubble. 

“Not now. Not anymore,” But the feelings fell away as fast as they came, revealing and leaving you with the tiredness you’ve felt all along. “Please.” You whimpered, not wanting to fight for it anymore. 

The words fade into the night, leaving the two of you in silence. Lightning bugs flutter and flickered their lights in the darkness. Crickets string their song in the tall grass and in a nearby tree, a lone mourning dove sings. 

You weren’t sure for how long you were like that. On your hands and knees, looking and begging at him to tell you the truth. While his eyes pleaded and begged for you to grant him mercy. Both merely an inch apart, separated by a door frame and three little words.

You had always thought that vampires didn’t have hearts. That there was only a rotten and empty shell inside of their chest where a heart must have been instead. So, why could you hear his pounding? His chest rose and fell as he attempted to steady the relentless beat, but it would not stop thumping. Not while you were in front of him, not while you looked at him like that. 

You supposed that he never understood or grasped his own desperation for you until now. Didn’t know or acknowledge just how badly he wanted you. How could he resist you? The second you called, he came crawling. He’d crawl for miles if you asked. 

“You wanna know why I couldn’t kill you?” He speaks suddenly, voice sounding like a shout in the silence. “Why I couldn’t finish it?” He gulps, inching back to you. The desperation was still there, but he made it his own. He stared you down as you did him, and you could see that he was just as done with games as you were. You nod lightly, pursing your lips shut. He rises from his position, sitting back on his knees to tower over you. 

“Caue of that..” He takes a deep breath. “Cause of that damned look you gave me.” He sighs, almost embarrassed to admit it. 

The words confused you, sending you down a spiral of questions in your mind. He answers them before you can even ask. 

“The look you gave me, right before ya fell asleep.” Ah.

You had forgotten that. Forgotten the way you thought he was your savior and looked at him like so. Like he hung the stars, like he was the first person to have ever loved you. With a mouth and face full of blood, you thought that the angel of death was sent to collect you. You would’ve never have thought to see your angel begging for you outside of your door.   

“No one’s looked at me like that. Not for a long time. Made me realize something. The reason I was able to feel you, to know you needed me.” The words sent a chill down your spine, and you felt your cheeks heat. Your breath caught, eyes widening and you saw him reach his hand towards you once more. 

“You’re mine darlin’. You’ve been mine for longer than you’ve known.” His fingertips brushed against your cheek, caressing the skin so lightly you weren’t even sure that he was. “You feel like sunlight.” Passion and defeat dripped in every word he spoke. He knew what it was he felt, he didn’t need to convince himself of it anymore. 

You’re sure that you heart was trying to escape from your chest. Pounding at your ribs, sending all the blood of your body to your head and face. You felt your hands shake, knees wobbling and every inch of you felt like it was burning. So hot, the summer heat and his touch only made you feel hotter. Your mouth went dry, and your eyes still hadn’t left his. 

He told the truth. The whole hearted, raw and bloodied truth. The rot and cold in his eyes fell away, and beneath it just lay a man. He looked so human.

“How could I kill the one thing that feels like sunlight?” He whispered so softly. You felt your chest and something so deep inside of you begin to ache at the words.

His hand wiped a stray tear you didn't even know had fallen. And just like before, your fate was sealed with just one touch and a few sweet words.

You knew what awaited you if you let him in. The death that you’re sure would’ve still followed even after this. Yet, you did not care. You’ve been waiting for each other for a long time now. Longer than either of you could recall. You needed him, the same way he needed you. Even in life, even in death.

“Come to me.” You whispered once more, and the spell keeping you from him broke. 

He crawled to you like a starved man, ready to pounce and devour the feast set before him. 

He kissed you so fast, so desperately, it took a second for you to realize that his lips were on yours. 

At the taste of you, a deep groan escaped him. You felt pure, sweet, just like before. Tasting like a sweet summer wine made just for him to devour. It had his head spinning, arms wrapping around your back to pull you against him. Holding your body close, feeling and groping all he could to make sure you were real. 

You felt your heart pound faster than before, surely  making its way through your skin and out of your chest by now. You could feel it leap out of you, along with all sense and reason. 

From the way he kissed you, the way his hands wandered and linger over your body, you knew he meant to devour. Could feel the way he meant to consume your very heart and soul from the inside out. Your body and mind surrendered into his touch, having been no longer yours since the second he came crawling back to you. You felt your knees ache, shaking and going numb from the surge of pleasure that began to spread throughout your body. 

He was the spark that reignited an old flame deep inside of you. One that had died out the second your old lover left you.

You kissed him deeper, hands grasping at his arms like some kind of tether to the world. Holding you up and pulling you closer, chest to chest like you were trying to stick yourself onto him. 

They wandered up, feeling and caressing the soft muscles of his shoulders beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. He felt like fire in the summer heat, burning you with every graze. 

Your hands soon find purchase in his hair. Fingertips running and combing through the soft locks, lightly grasping at small bunches. It tickled, sending shivers down his spine and forming goosebumps down his body from the way you pulled and clung onto him. It made his cock twitch. 

He hummed, mouth parting from yours to let out a soft chuckle and moan. A small trail of spit clung onto both of your lips, connecting you for a second more before breaking off and dripping down your chest. You gasped for breath, chest heaving in time with his own— panting likes dogs. Breathing so heavily, it left you lightheaded. You didn’t know where he started and you ended anymore. 

Waves of pleasure washed over you, crawling down your back and in between your thighs with the sweat that dampened your flesh. It made the fabric of your nightgown stick to you like a second skin, the feeling growing more uncomfortable and irritating by the second. It hugged your curves, bunching around your hips and thighs until it felt like you were being covered in heavier layers. 

A whine left your throat, sweet and high pitched from the way you felt his hands begin to roam down your body. Feeling you up, caressing all the bare skin he could find until all that was left to touch was the thin fabric. Thick hands stopped at your thighs, playing with the ends of the dress, running calloused fingers across the soft sensitive tops and stopping right before the place where your thighs met. 

You looked up at him, eyes pleading and begging him to undress you. To take you. Help you with the growing ache that grew in your cunt. 

You swore you felt like you were going to die. Body shaking and searching for any type of release. All you could feel, see, hear, or even think of was him. The smooth, deep musk of his body filled your nose. He smelled like pinewood and salt, tasted like iron and whiskey.  The low groans and moans that rose from within his chest shook you, the vibrations running down deeper than you would’ve thought they could. 

He had barely begun to touch you, and you were already drunk off of his very being. 

Thoughtlessly, your hips began to rut against the knee he had placed between your thighs. Having spread them and sat you over his lap when he began to kiss you. The fabric of his trousers was rough and coarse, but if you angled your hips a certain way— it felt like bliss. You grinded against his thigh, swaying back and forth as your fingers dug deep into the skin of his shoulders. Nail forming tiny crescent moons, trying to hold him still as you used him. 

The feeling of it was electric, fire coursing and flowing through your veins with every move and touch. It was in your bones. So strong and consuming. You’ve never felt this way before. 

If your mother could see you now, she’d damn you to hell twice over. Shout and call you words that a good church lady should never even know. It wouldn’t have mattered, couldn’t find it in you to care. You gave yourself to the devil long ago, ached for him to swallow you whole. 

“Poor baby,” He teases breathlessly, a smirk making his way onto his lips at your display. “Really need me that much, do ya?” His lips were at your ear, licking and biting the shell softly. His hands came to your hips, gripping at them to stop your frantic movements.  

You whined, but quickly nodded in response, all too eager. The reaction made him laugh, mouth moving down your cheek. 

“T’s alright, I’m here to make you feel good.” He whispered against your skin, before diving back in to kiss your lips. 

It was softer this time. Slower, more tender. His head dipped into yours, lips meeting in a soft sweet peck. He closed his eyes, hands crawling back up your hips before gently laying you down. The hard wooden floor hit your back, the smoothness of the boards cold against your skin. Time seemed to slow down at the sudden softness of his actions, the pulsing want of your body burning down into soft embers. 

He wanted to enjoy it now. Savor every bit and taste he took of you. No longer rushed, he realized you weren’t going anywhere. 

He kissed along your mouth, wandering down slowly to your chin and softly to your neck. Your head tilted back, exposing the sensitive skin for him to breathe in. Your skin was salty, tongue darting out to taste and lick along the lines of your collarbones as he made his way closer and closer to the junction between your shoulder and neck. Your blood was pulsing, rushing and filling each part he dared to touch. 

His hands roamed your waist, rising to grope at your breasts. He took them in his hands, feeling your heartbeat through the fat, before giving them a soft squeeze that had you moaning. Your back arched at the touch, and you had to bite your lip shut. Your nerves felt like frayed wires, everything a thousand times sensitive. Every feeling and sensation heightened in a way that had you reeling. You could feel the wetness between your thighs grow, legs starting to shake and wanting to rut against him once again. 

His lips finally made their way to your shoulders, kissing every throbbing pulse point he could find. His teeth grazed your skin, lightly biting and sucking. 

He left your chest, hands coming up to pull the flimsy straps of your night dress down. He yanked on the fabric, pulling it down so harshly that it ended up tearing right down the middle. Revealing your skin to the night breeze, your breasts and stomach clear for him to see.

On instinct, your arms moved swiftly in an attempt to cover up yourself. Embarrassment leaving your cheeks hot from the sudden exposure which came all too quick. He grabbed you by the wrists before you could even place a hand on yourself, a faux frown forming on his lips as he raised his head to look at you. Eyes wandering over your naked body, taking in every curve. 

“Ain’t no hiding from me, sugar.” He whispered hoarsely, a possessive tone beneath the words.He placed your hands to your side with force. Keep them there. 

“It's all mine anyways.” 

He dove back in quickly, meeting your breasts again. His calloused fingers were rough against the soft and plush flesh. Your nipples hardened, aching for attention in the cold air. When he took note of them, he wasted no time. Pinching and flicking at the sensitive buds, you let out an almost whimper like moan. A whiny, needy, little noise that came from the back of your throat. The sound had his cock leaking with want. 

He brought his mouth down, gently sucking one in between his lips. His tongue rolled over the bud, circling so softly it felt faint. Spit rolled down between the valley of your breasts as he moved onto the neglected one. He sucked just as softly, and you felt your desire leak. 

You pulled at his clothes, trying to tear the wrinkled shirt off of him. You wanted him naked, skin bare and flush against yours. You needed to feel him. Craved his warmth. You clawed at him, hips bucking and back arching until he got the hint.

He raised himself up, messily undoing the buttons of the shirt before throwing it off and behind him. He glistened in the moonlight, the paleness of his skin glowing with the thin layer of sweat that clung to his skin. The sight of his broad shoulders and soft muscles made your skin crawl, hands going numb and pulling away. You stared at him dumbfoundedly, like he really did hang the moon and stars.

You had never really looked or took in the male form before. When your old lover would have you, your face was always stuffed in the pillows or pressed against his head. Blind to his body, you always pictured him clothed even when he was bare and pressed against you. 

But now, looking up at this man, you realized why a woman would crave sin so badly. The way his muscles flexed with every move, the lines that contoured his chest and stomach— going all the down, down, down, to his hips. Your eyes lingered at the small patch of hair that trailed from his belly and disappeared from beneath his pants. The sight made your knees weak.  

You squeezed your thighs, taking in a shaky breath. You met his eyes once more, and behind them saw a cool darkness. Focused, pupils red and burning with lust as he admired the sight of you.

He tore the remaining scraps of your nightgown, leaving you naked as the day you were born. Body free and open for only him to see, his eyes wandered and explored every part of you. Taking in every fold, every birthmark, dimple, and scar that littered your body. 

His hands felt across your skin, squeezing and making their way across the smooth expanse so slowly. Down your thighs, up to your stomach, between your chest, caressing and worshiping every inch he touched. And where his hands went, so did his lips. He leaned his head down, kissing and licking his way up your body, savoring the taste and smell of desire that exuded off of you. 

He came up so slowly, planting open mouth kisses across your collarbones and neck. Leaving a hot, wet trail behind. His lips smiled at every squirm and whimper that left you, mouth coming to bite and kiss your puffy lips. 

Deep and harsh, you felt his tongue push past and into your mouth. Drool and saliva dripped from the corners, smudging over your cheeks and falling onto your chest. It had you gripping at his shoulders, gasping for breath with every break of your lips. Your cheeks felt so hot, like a fever has come down on you. He parted for a few seconds , breathing in the air you exhaled, before you felt a sharp sting at your bottom lip.

You winced, eyes blinking shut and brows furrowing at the sudden pain. A dullness spread throughout your skin, and suddenly the taste of iron and a thick substance melts into your mouth. Blood. 

Your eyes opened, searching for his own to find him looking right at you. A smirk decorated his lips, blood smeared all over him like it was rouge. The deep crimson color was stark against his skin, shining in the light as you looked at him. The sight made a small sense of panic crawl up your back, pleasure starting to slowly to creep away. 

He seemed to notice, quickly moving back into you

and sucking at the small puncture wound he created. He groaned, hips grinding against your core as he kissed you harder. You could feel his hard throb against your thigh, a small wet patch forming where the head rested. The action made all doubt melt away. 

You shuttered, body going limp in his arms. 

“That’s right,” he slurs against you, “Just let me handle it, yeah?” His voice was soft, almost reassuring as you felt him push away. His hands grabbed at your thighs, strong hands gripping the flesh as he parted them slowly. “Let me take care of you.” 

He slid down your body, lips kissing and mouthing along your skin once more. He left small bites and a faint trail of blood everywhere he touched. You arched into the sensation. He went lower than before, kissing down your stomach onto your pubic bone before he was face to face with your cunt. 

He laid his head between your thighs, hands holding the flesh of where your thigh and ass met in an iron grip. He moaned by simply looking at you. You could feel his burning gaze, closely watching the way your arousal and pleasure dripped out of you. 

You wanted to close your legs shut from embarrassment, a whimper leaving you as you felt his breath on the wetness that coated your folds. You bucked your hips, incoherent pleas and whiny little begs leaving your mouth. 

Your movement only made his grip tighten. His brows furrowed, sending you a glare. 

He tuts, playfully shaking his head and scolding you like a child. “If you can’t wait, I won’t do it at all.” He threatens, voice dripping with lies. God he wanted you. Craved you. He believed that if he went one more second without tasting the sweetness of your cunt he was sure he was going to die. 

“No, please,” You immediately begin to beg, “I’ll be good, I’ll be good.” You stutter over your words, head shaking and eyes glistening with tears as you look down at him. “Please.”

He grins in amusement at the display, watching you squirm beneath him. He took it in, all your desperation and neediness. The way you still slightly bucked your hips into him, your fingers gripping and clawing at the wood beneath you. 

You were right under his thumb. All his.

“Mmn, good girl.” He whispers huskily, softly nodding his head before leaning in to kiss your cunt. It was a small, faint peck. But the touch had your head dipping back with pleasure. 

His hand came around, rubbing two fingers over your lips. He gathered your wetness, smearing the stickiness all over before parting your folds. He spread you open, fingers caressing and exploring the tender skin before dipping down to tease your hole. The feeling had you shivering, a pathetic little whine escaping your throat as you felt his fingers suddenly push inside of you. 

Thick and long, his digits filled you up entirely. Your cunt clenched around them, gushing when he entered you. Your eyes squeezed shut, softs gasps escaping your lips at the feeling. He filled you so sweetly, almost entirely. 

You were so tight. Hole aching and throbbing around him. Heat spread over your body, pleasure filling and taking over every thought and sensation as he touched you. 

You could feel your wetness drip out of you and onto his skin, a light squelching noise coming from between your thighs as he began to thrust in and out of you. Your face went hot, almost going lightheaded from the overwhelming feeling.

Deep and soft, his fingers curled and stretched you out. Loosening you up, pulling you apart and picking you back up again. They touched and prodded at your sweet spot, teasing you like he already knew you from the inside out. 

Your gasps got louder, turning into soft breathy moans. Your hips began chasing his touch, trying to keep up and follow his pace for more.

His mouth latched onto your clit, tongue swirling over the sensitive bud. Sucking and licking at it so softly that each flick sent a chill crawling up your back. You arch, nipples hardening and sweat dripping down your skin as you try so hard not to close your thighs. 

 He lapped at your arousal hungrily, licking up all that flowed out if you like one would to a melting ice cream cone. He moaned into your cunt with each taste. 

He drank it all up, fingers curling and beckoning more of that sweetness out of you. It was like the tastiest honey, dripping and flowing just for him. You were sweeter than any human blood could be, more addictive than any booze or drug. He couldn’t get enough. 

Your fingers ran through his hair, pulling at his locks in a sad attempt to pull him away. But you were too weak, muscles having gone numb the second you felt him suck on your bundle of nerves. He took all your strength, taking it for himself as well as every other thought that filled your head. 

You ended up pulling him closer to you, hand guiding him into a smooth rhythm as he continued to eat you out.  

It almost felt like a dance, the way he loved. He would start off soft and slow, fingers and mouth lapping and thrusting into you like he was the world's sweetest lover. Kissing and touching all your sweet spots, whimpering against your skin like he had wanted nothing else in the world. 

Only to switch it up suddenly. Start sucking so harshly that you could feel the pleasure in your fingertips. Fingers thrusting so fast you could feel yourself spill over his palm, that nasty wet sound getting louder until you were crying from embarrassment. Tears stained your cheeks as you moaned in pleasure with each movement. 

His movements were unpredictable, slowing and speeding whenever he felt like it. He took in every moan and shake of your body, greedily trying to pull out as much as he could. 

It was beginning to feel like too much. The way his hand gripped at your skin, pulling you closer so he could taste you deeper. His nails were digging in so deep you swore you felt the skin puncture, small droplets of blood forming at the tiny tears. 

His mouth and chin were wet, dripping with your desire. He would hardly part from you, only doing so to take in a deep breath and dive back in. He groaned and moaned loudly into your cunt, the vibrations settling deep inside of you. His eyes were closed in bliss, brows furrowed in concentration as he continued his assault. 

Pleasure began to boil over, a burning sensation filling your chest and lower abdomen. Waves lapped at your core, beckoning you to fall apart and let go. You felt your body shake, hips desperately chasing his mouth for relief. 

You clench around his fingers, back arching and fingers pulling at his soft locks in an attempt to keep his mouth on you. You got wetter by the second, hole spasming with each thrust and lick he continued to give you. 

You were so close, loud moans escaping your lips as you inched closer and closer to the edge. You were going to fall, tip over into the sweet abyss of relief, until he pulled away.  

Stopping all motion and movement, he basically forced himself off of you. Fingers slipping out and mouth moving away, he left you high and dry. 

Incoherent mumbles fell from your lips, cries and begs pleading for more tumbled off of your tongue. You chased his touch, hands searching for his face or shoulders but he had already pulled away. 

He sat up, panting like a dog as he stared down at the sight of you. Legs spread wide, body covered in a thin sheet of sweat, lips still bloody from his bite and the trail he left over your skin. He wanted to let you finish, he really did. To taste your release on his tongue, lick it up until the very last drop and hear your sweet little voice pitch and whine for him. But his cock was too hard, aching and dripping with need for you. It twitched in his pants, so close to spilling from the mere act of him tasting you. He couldn’t take it anymore. 

He gulps, settling himself between your legs and laying over your body. His hands touch you once more, groping at your waist and breast before grabbing  your chin. He makes you look at him, eyes half lidded and filled with tears as he kisses you. 

“Need you baby,” He moans into you, lips wandering over your face. From your cheeks, to your temple, and down your chin. You humm, hands grasping at his shoulder until he slips back away. “Need you so bad.” His voice is nothing short of a whimper. Raspy and thick with desire, it sounds like a cry from deep within his chest. 

His hands let you go, rushing to unbuckle his pants. You watch him fumble with the belt, groaning at his shaking hands for not staying still. Excitement fills him the second he's able to actually pull his cock out, sighing in relief when it escapes the confines of his pants. 

It bobs a bit when he pulls it out. Thick and achingly hard, the tip leaks with a stickiness that drips from his head. It's heavy, a soft pink with a nice long viens that starts at the base and makes its way to the very top. He moans when he wraps his hand around himself, stroking the member and spreading his own need over himself. 

He aims it down, dipping the cockhead between your folds. Teasing and rubbing himself full of your wetness, he nudges at your clit. You whimper, closing your eyes as he teases you. He rubs himself all over, fucking your lips and coating every inch with your slick until he finally nudges the head against your hole.

You’re shaking by now. Vision white and blurred as you whimper and whine beneath him. He grabs your hips, holding you tight and steady. Drool drips from the corners of his chin, falling onto your lower belly. He groans, taking in a deep breath before finally inserting himself inside of you. 

It’s filthy, the way both you moan and whimper when you feel each other. His cock stretches you out, the ache of it easing into pleasure as you adjust to his size. Your warmth envelopes him, clenching tightly and he whines at the feeling. You're panting, catching the breath that left your lungs while you feel him all around you. 

He gives you a few more seconds to adjust, before moving his hips. 

Slowly, he moves back and forth. Pushing in and out at a steady pace. His eyes are closed shut, mouth slightly parted as he tries to control himself. His grip is iron on you once more, knuckles white and nails digging in as he holds back. 

He wanted to savour it, take in and absorb every second of this into his memory. Your breathy little moans, the way his cock throbs inside of you, the way your back arches and head tilts back. You felt like heaven, sunlight, and every other divine feeling that had been out of his reach for hundreds of years. 

He leans in closer, chest pressing against yours as he thrust in deeper. Filling you up to the hilt, his cock reaching a place you didn't even know a man could touch. 

You feel him in your stomach, the weight of him inside of you. The way the tip kissed your cervix and nudged at your sweet spot each time he moved had your eyes rolling into the sockets. Every movement he made was like he was plucking at the strings of your nerves, already raw and overstimulated. 

Your hands claw at his back, leaving tender scratches across his skin. Your legs wrap themselves around his waist, pulling him in deeper. Your skin is pressed against his. Chest to chest and he covers your body like a blanket. Placing all his weight over you and trapping you underneath him. 

He moans like a bitch in heat from just being inside of you. Louder than you have been the whole night, his body so sensitive and overwhelmed from just feeling your heat. 

He pulls his hips back, leaving just his tip inside before gradually filling you back up. His cock is thick, leaving you feeling like he’s splitting you in half with each thrust. 

Your arousal coats both of you, a loud squelching sound coming from where the two of you meet. It's everywhere, coating the inside of your thighs and his own. You even feel it drip down your ass. Utter embarrassment fills you at the way he slides in so easily, body showing just how much it wants him. 

You can feel your cunt clenching around his cock. Keeping him close and not wanting to let him go. 

You lift your hips to meet his, following where his length went to keep him inside no matter what. 

“Yeah, darlin, just like that.” He mewls when he feels you start to move with him. He lets out a sigh from deep within his chest, the rumble of it makes you gasp. You could feel it inside of you, everywhere and all around. 

You lips meet his, kissing desperately and messily as he keeps fucking into you. 

His pace begins to grow faster, needier. Hips starting to slam into you. His balls slap against your ass, heavy and full of cum with each brutal thrust. You're both moaning into each others mouths, 

He groans into your skin, breathing your scent in. 

“So good, f-fuck- dreamt of this pussy baby.” He whines, licking up your cheek and down your neck. 

“She’s grippin me real tight, knows who she belongs to.” He’s hardly moving his hips anymore. Just desperately humping and grinding into your cunt— not wanting to part from your wet warmth. 

Your head is tilted back in pleasure, exposing the long expanse of your neck and collarbones. You looked so beautiful beneath him. The way you writhed and whimpered in his hold. Eyes all teary and looking up at him with need. 

“Mnh, You and I gon’ be together forever, right darlin?” He whimpers into your skin, sucking a love bite into a pulse point at the side of your neck. It makes your body bolt, frantically nodding your head and whispering little “yes”es out like a prayer. 

“Yeah, just like we was meant to be.” He kisses lower down, passing and licking at your collarbones before coming to the junction where your shoulder and neck met. 

He had seen it the second he walked up to you,  the scar.

It was only a small mark, healed and lighter than the rest of your body. It had a wrinkly texture, looking a bit mangled from the way your flesh melded itself back together. It was in the shape of an oval, faint little holes circling it that made it look like someone tried to chew and rip the skin off. The way an apple looks when you bite it. Clear punctures of teeth. 

The scar from when he bit you. 

“Really left my mark on you, didn’t I?” He hums against the skin, kissing it so tenderly you almost didn’t feel it with the way he was fucking you. 

In more ways than one, you wanted to reply. But your mouth was dry, throat hoarse from the moans he kept dragging out of you. You wanted to run your fingers through his hair, kiss his forehead, and pull him even closer to you until your bodies basically melted together. But all strength left you. Gone along with your mind, solely focused on the way he touched and made you feel. 

So you said nothing, did nothing, but let out a high pitched cry when you felt him bite you. 

Sharp teeth tore through your flesh, opening the scar anew. You could feel him groan in delight, cock twitching inside of you as he started to suck your blood. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, pure bliss on his tongue as he tasted you. 

It awoke a primal urge inside of him, taking over his very mind and controlling his body. You were his, and he needed the world to know that. To mark you up and claim you as his in any way possible. He grew harder at the thought, pounding your poor pussy faster and biting you harder. 

Pain ran through your body, teeth grinding and hissing at the sensation that spread throughout your shoulder. You wanted to shout, tears falling from the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming sensations that took hold of you. 

Blood spurt from your neck, dripping down onto your breasts over your body. You could feel the burning heat of it flowing across your skin. The thick liquid went down to where your body met his, chests covered in the sticky crimson as he continued to eat away at you. 

His mouth was stuck on the wound, lips wrapped and suctioning around it as he drank up all that he could. His chin was covered with you, licking at your shoulder the same way he had your cunt. 

His cock dragged itself over your sweet spots, nudging and fucking your walls with a passion so intense it had you seeing stars. You could feel your body betray you, cunt clenching and fluttering around him so tightly like it was scared to let him go. 

The mixture of pain and pleasure soon started melting together, leaving only a euphoric sensation humming throughout your body. The ache of your shoulder began to dull, fading into a numbness that left every other feeling heightened. 

It shouldn’t have felt this good. The way he kept rutting into you, sucking and fucking you over a ledge and into oblivion.

His hips were flush against your, the thick hairs above the base of his length brushing and stimulating your clit. 

His mouth leaves your neck, blood dripping down his chin as he goes to kiss you. Red paints your lips, and you can taste the bitter iron of it all over. You whine, feeling him whimper and suck at your tongue. It's all messy, filthy, and so disgustingly erotic than anything else you’ve ever experienced. 

You can feel the knot of your stomach begin to tighten once more, walls fluttering around his length. You flutter around him, wetness dripping out to coat both of you and the obscene sound of it has your head spinning. 

He feels your release ready to take over you and he fastens his pace slightly. A needy little whine escapes your throat, breath catching.

“Hah- Need you, baby.” He moans into your mouth, hands gripping your shoulder to keep you in one place. “Need you so bad.” He’s close too, hips rutting desperately into you, balls tightening and threatening to spill. 

“Say you need me too.” He almost cries, movements beginning to stutter.  He’s begging for it, repeating the words into your skin over and over. Like if you said it it meant this was real. You felt so good, too good— he thought that he finally reached heaven. 

“Need you, need you.” You breathlessly managed to gasp, fingers clawing at the tender skin of his back. 

With one harsh thrust, you feel yourself falling over the edge. Waves of pleasure envelope you, drowning until white blurs your vision. Your body shakes, going numb at the feeling of his own spend filling you up. 

He lets out a wanton moan, finally cumming deep inside of you. His hips continue to rutt into you, working through both of your orgasms as he empties his balls into you. His body collapses over yours, his weight crushing you as he groans and bottoms out. 

You can feel it start to drip out of you, a white ringlet forming around his base as he finally slows his relentless pace. It's thick and needy, like he deprived himself of release for so long until he was able to give it to you. You gush all over him, walls fluttering and taking all that he gave you. 

Emotions rush through you as you come down. Delight and bliss, relief and happiness fill your chest. You’re breathing so heavily, mind and body becoming exhausted from the way he took you. You could feel yourself growing tired, the rush of adrenaline passing over. 

In its place, a strange cold began to set in. Your fingertips and toes turned numb. It pulled at your mind, whisking away all strength and energy. Your eyes grew heavy, threatening to shut. 

The familiar song of sleep called to you. Lulling you in with her sweet melody. 

You wanted nothing more than to succumb to the darkness. Wrap yourself in its embrace and not feel anything else. And you were going to. So close to falling over and closing your eyes.

But then you felt his hand come to your cheek.

Warm, wet, and sticky. It brought you back to life. 

You suddenly became aware of your blood on your skin, already beginning to dry and crust along your skin. It covered you like a thin layer of sweat, painting you red. You could feel the wound of your shoulder ache, throbbing softly as it slowly stopped bleeding. 

Right. He had bitten you. Ripped and tore your flesh with his teeth, marking you as his own. 

You were dying. 

His fingers grabbed at your chin, softly turning your head to his. His eyes glowed faintly, a deep red piercing into the veil of your soul. You were already naked. Body and soul having been torn apart and stripped to your very core by his own hands– yet his gaze had you feeling embarrassed. It felt so intimate, full of a love you’ve never seen before. Your heart ached at the feeling. 

“Fallin’ asleep?” He asks in a whisper, soft smile flashing his sharp teeth. They were full of blood, the pearly whites now a deep crimson. 

You nod lightly, eyes blurry as you look up at him.

From this angle, he looked like something heavenly. Moonlight covered his skin, surrounding him in a faint glow. The lamp above your door gave off a ringlet of warm light, his head centered around it in a way that made it look like a crown. Your blood covered his mouth and chest, all messy and filthy. A glimpse into the ravenous beast he truly was. 

The sight should be terrifying, have you crying and saying your prayers. But all you could think of was how beautiful he looked. Unearthly. Your angel of death. 

Your weak response made him chuckle, leaning down to plant a kiss on your cheek. 

The cold you had felt started to settle into your bones, making you shiver in the summer heat.

His lips wandered to yours, kissing you with a softness that almost hurt. 

“Am I dying?” You croak out. Your voice was quiet, so low and hoarse you weren’t even sure you said the words. It was a silly question, one you already knew the answer to. But asking made you feel better for some reason. Made it feel real. 

He parted from you, eyes softening and brows furrowing with concern. His hand moved to your forehead, wiping away the hair and sweat that had stuck to your skin. The feeling brought you comfort, you leaned into his touch. 

“It’s only for a bit. You’ll be with me before you know it.” His response is sweet. Holding no trace of malice or lies. 

Be with me, the words echoed throughout your head. 

What was left of your mind struggled to understand the words, unsure of what being with him meant. Until it all hit you at once.  

Oh, so this is what it felt like. 

The feeling you had been running from since the day you met him. The feeling you were always told to be terrified of as a girl. The feeling you now embrace and longed for, finally come to you. 

You can’t help but to think of the despair and sadness that lead you to this moment. From your parents' absent love to your struggling faith. You wondered if this was always how it was meant to happen. 

Was this truly the very thing you were destined for? 

“I used to be so lonely,” You start to think aloud, “I would beg God to send someone who loved me.” Your voice is frail, shaking and thin. “ I’d look for him everywhere, trying to find a sign he was listening, but I never found one.” Your own bloodied hand comes to touch his cheek, fingertips leaving a red mark beneath his cheekbone. 

“I stopped believing in him for a long time after that.”  

You can feel your mind slipping, the hand that touched him falling away back into your lap. Your mind grasped at your fading soul, but it was too weak to hold on.

“But now,  I realize he’s real. He has to be,” Small tears fall from your eyes. “He sent you to me. You were his plan all along.” Your words were dripping with hope. The belief of a girl who had nothing but her faith, coming back up and out of you like a confession. 

“Nah, ain’t no God, baby.” He replies, voice so soft and gentle. Speaking to you like how one would a weeping child. “It’s just me.”

His hand grip your hips, holding you steady as he slowly pulls away, slipping his softened cock out. The feeling has you both wincing. Sadness fills your chest at the seperation, scared that he’ll leave you alone if you weren’t feeling him. 

As if he knew, he leans back in immediately, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling you close. His strong arms pull you up, body already half limp as he fixes you tightly against his chest. He holds you in a half hug, almost like how a bride is carried down the aisle. 

You watch his every move, awe and love filling your now faintly beating heart. You’ve never felt so warm, so loved and cherished. 

“I don’t even know your name…” You rasp out, eyes finally start to close for good. 

Your head falls, strength leaving you at last. Your mind is drifting off, heartbeat slowing by the second. 

You can’t feel anything but him now. His faint warmth seeped into you, being your small tether to the world still around you. 

You don’t even care if you wake up after this or not. At the moment, you’re just happy to have him there. To have been loved and taken by a man who made you feel like he truly loved you. Right now, that was all that mattered.  

The last of your consciousness fades, letting go of your final breath as hear him reply. 

“Remmick. It’s Remmick, darlin’.” 

His name is like a song. The way he says it like a melody. The southern drawl of his voice is gone and replaced with something so old and distant, you’re sure you must’ve known it in another life. Something so beautiful that you’re upset you even forgot about it. 

You use the very last of your strength to smile, finally falling into that deep and familiar sleep you would always come back to. 

You were always told to fear death. To cower at the very thought and run whenever it was mentioned. Foreign and horrific, everyone described. They never told the truth. How could they, they never knew it for themselves. And if they did, all they would do is talk about how sweet it truly was. 

You wake not long after. With him still holding you in his arms.  

He denies it, but swore you saw tears fall from his eyes as soon as you opened yours. 

No longer lonely, now loved and cared for, you raised your head up to give him kiss. Thanking him for finally giving you a home, a place to belong.

Thank you for reading </3!! Comments and reblogs are v much appreciated! If you have any insights please leave them kindly!!

a/n: i lowkey fear it kinda fell apart at the end, but we still ballin 😗✌️I hope the story and smut were good, im proud of myself for finally finishing something (FOR ONCE LOL)

[venusveil]

Synastry observations-

➬Sun in partner’s 8th house —The 8th house person could get lowkey obsessive. Like I'm not willing to share you with anyone.

➬Some people be like negative aspects makes a Synastry chart interesting. Okay mama, NO!

➬Moon-Pluto (esp. hard aspects like conjunction, square, opposition) Straight up obsessive. It's intense, karmic, soul-binding—like you know each other from a past life and unfinished business is on the menu. “I feel you in my bones. You leave? I'll lose my senses."

➬Venus-Pluto (esp. conjunction, square, opposition) so deep that people stay trapped in it even when it hurts. There’s sacrifice here, possession, jealousy, and lots of “If I can’t have you no one can” type of vibes.

➬8th House overlays (esp. personal planets in the other’s 8th) If someone’s Sun, Moon, Venus, or Mars falls into your 8th, you both might feel like you were born to merge—like literally, you lose sense of where they end and you begin. Obsessive.

➬Mars-Pluto aspects, Mars is drive, Pluto is death and rebirth—when they aspect in Synastry, it’s "I’ll fight the whole world for you, and burn it down if I have to." Could go to war for you. Could also burn your house down if you cheat. Can be toxic asf.

➬Composite Pluto in the 1st / 7th / 8th house, The composite chart shows the relationship's energy. If Pluto sits strong here—it’s not casual. Literally “you changed me forever. No going back.”

➬North Node conjunctions (esp. Pluto, Moon, Venus, Mars)This screams fate. The North Node person feels pulled toward the other like a cosmic black hole. It’s intense and often comes with the vibe of "I don’t know why, but I would do anything for you." Even if it's self-destructive.

➬Uranus hard aspects (esp. Uranus square or opposition Venus / Moon / Sun)This is the "hot and cold AF" placement. “I want you so bad right now...but also don’t text me tomorrow” energy.

➬Uranus brings chaos, inconsistency, and detachment. When someone’s Uranus hits your Venus? They’re attracted to the thrill—but that sh*t burns out fast. “You were a moment, not a forever.”

➬Venus square Neptune- Ah yes, the gaslight-gatekeep-ghost combo. Neptune clouds things. Venus is love. This is the classic “I love you” one minute then “I never said that” the next.

Super romantic...until you realize they were selling a fantasy, not the real thing.

➬Mars square or opposite Neptune- Sexual confusion. Manipulative seduction. Ghosting after sex. This person might not even intend to hurt you—they just live in la-la land and can’t commit to anything grounded. You’re left like: “Was that real or did I hallucinate this entire relationship?”

➬5th house synastry overload (with no Saturn) If their planets fall all up in your 5th house, that’s the flirt-and-fun zone. It’s giving passion, creativity, romance—but short-term. Without Saturn (aka glue), this person is here for the plot, not the vows. "You were a muse, not a partner."

➬Lack of Saturn or North Node contacts

No Saturn = no seriousness. No glue. No maturity.

If your Synastry has zero Saturn, especially to personal planets (Sun/Moon/Venus), it often means: “There’s nothing holding this person accountable.”

It might feel good...until it crumbles.

Saturn is “I’ll show up.” No Saturn = “I’m just here for fun, not the consequences.”

➬One-sided - Pluto/Venus/Mars stuff

If your Pluto is all over their Venus and Mars, but they got nothing back for you? That’s a you-loving-them situation. They’re just soaking up your obsession like free validation.

➬Moon-Uranus or Venus-Uranus double whammy

Both of y’all got Uranus wildness hitting each other’s hearts and love planets?

That relationship will be off-and-on more than a damn light switch. Someone will get hurt. Bad. This is the: “I wanna be with you—but also I’m not free right now... or ever” energy.

➬Composite Neptune square Venus/Moon/Sun

In the composite chart, this is THE indicator of lies, illusions, and disappointment.

At first? Magical. Eventually? You're crying on your floor at 3am listening to sad playlists wondering if they ever loved you. Spoiler: They loved the idea of you, not YOU.

➬I think no Saturn aspects = no commitment.

In short, if you see...

Uranus = inconsistency

Neptune = lies/fantasy

No Saturn = no commitment

5th house overload = casual flings

One-sided Pluto = obsession imbalance (Girl they’re not serious about you. You’re a detour not the destination.)

➬Did you ever experienced someone's Pluto in your 1st house? As your rising? Pluto person be like “I’d burn the world down to keep you” They might lowkey stalk you. Not always literally but like... mentally?? Spiritually?? They fixate.

Pluto in 1st house – “You just exist and I lose my damn mind.”

➬Pluto conjunct/opposite Venus – Obsession meets romance. Can't unsee each other. Ever.

➬Neptune conjunct Venus – Delusional in love. “You’re my fantasy.”

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