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therogueflame · 28 days ago

Text

Mercy

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enjoy your food. based on this ask.

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Summary: An arranged marriage forces two guarded strangers into an unexpected reckoning. What begins as duty becomes something far more dangerous—intimate, unraveling, and quietly consuming.

WC: 5.6k

Warnings: 18+, sex (p in v), oral (m!recieving), first time, arranged marriage, light angst, emotional repression, power play (light d/s), sub!aemond

Aemond Targaryen x Baratheon!Wife!Reader

MDNI!!!

They say the match is a strong one. Baratheon blood, storm-forged and loyal. Valyrian blood, sharp as steel. A union to steady the realm. A bond to bind two great houses. They say many things, and none of them matter. The only thing that matters is him.

He stands beside the altar like he’s being sentenced. Stiff, composed, unreadable. Aemond Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, kinslayer in waiting, heir to something not quite the throne but close enough to taste. His hands are clasped behind his back, knuckles pale, shoulders square. Not an inch of him moves that doesn’t need to. Not an inch of him gives anything away. You have seen statues with more expression.

He does not look at you when you approach. Not when your father gives your hand to the crown. Not when the septon calls you lady, wife, good and faithful. Not when your vows are spoken with a clear voice and he answers them in turn. His eye tracks the floor. His mouth stays in a line. When the kiss comes, he does not flinch, but you feel the breath he holds like a man bracing for the gallows.

It is not fear of you. It is not disgust. It is something older. Something buried so deep beneath pride and purpose that most men would not know to look for it. But you are not most men. You are not soft. You are not blind. And you know what it looks like when someone spends their life trying not to be seen.

You have heard the rumors. The boy who lost an eye to a cousin’s blade and never wept. The boy who tamed a dragon older than time and never once smiled. The boy who walks like a blade and breathes like a storm but keeps his nights silent, untouched, unspent. Some say he’s devout. Others say he’s cruel. You know better. You’ve seen what he does when no one is watching.

You see it in the way he hesitates when someone reaches for his shoulder. In the way his fingers twitch before they curl into fists. In the way his breath catches when your sleeve brushes his at supper and he does not move for the rest of the meal. He does not touch. He does not take. He does not want to be wanted. And yet.

The court celebrates. Music swells. Wine is poured. Your names are toasted. But he does not drink. He does not dance. He stands to the side like a ghost wearing silver and black, and the flames of the candles lick his profile in gold. His mother watches him with narrowed eyes. His brother laughs too loudly. You sit beside him and say nothing, and he is grateful for it.

When the hour grows late and the guests grow restless, you excuse yourself first. He follows minutes later, quiet as a shadow, and joins you in the chamber they’ve prepared. The bed is wide. The sheets are clean. The fire is low, and the silence is louder than the drums had been.

He does not speak. He does not undress. He stands by the door with one hand on the frame, breathing through his nose like he’s waiting for orders. You watch him for a long time before you say anything at all. And when you do, it is simple.

“Are you going to look at me?”

He does. Slowly. Carefully. His gaze finds your collarbone first, then your throat, then your mouth. He stops there. You let the moment stretch. He does not move.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you say.

That gets his eye. His good eye. The sapphire stays hidden under its leather patch, but you see the flicker beneath. Something brittle. Something caged. He holds your gaze for a breath too long before his lashes drop and he turns away.

“I do not require affection,” he says. His voice is low, nearly flat. “Only cooperation.”

You hum, noncommittal. “Is that what this is?”

He says nothing.

He’s afraid you’ll see too much. Afraid of what might slip out if he lets himself want anything at all. Because want is weakness. Want is hunger. And he was taught that hunger must be hidden, starved, shamed. His mother taught him to swallow it. His brother taught him to ignore it. His own reflection taught him to flinch from it. But you are not them. And you are not interested in performance.

You sit on the edge of the bed, gown pooling like poured ink, and you let him stand there in his silence. You do not take your eyes off him. You do not reach for him. You simply wait.

And after a long pause, you ask, “You’ve done this before?”

His jaw clenches. He doesn’t answer.

“Then why,” you murmur, “do you look like I’m going to hurt you?”

He doesn’t breathe for a full second. Then another. Then another. The silence swells, thick and hot, stretching taut between you until you almost feel it crack. He closes his eye. Not in frustration. In surrender. For just a moment, he looks like a man unarmed.

You don’t press him. Not yet. You let the silence bloom. Let him sit in it. Let him feel what it’s like to be watched, not judged. Seen, not claimed. His hand slides off the doorframe. He takes a step forward, slow and measured, the way you’d approach a wild thing that might bolt if startled.

You tilt your head.

“Take off your boots,” you say softly.

It’s not a question. Not a plea. A command, calm and unhurried. The words settle in the room like falling ash.

His gaze flicks up, uncertain, almost startled—but not angry. Not offended. Just… confused. Like no one’s ever told him what to do in the quiet, and meant it. Like he isn’t sure if it’s real.

Still, he obeys.

His fingers go to the leather, movements precise, too controlled. He keeps his eye on the floor as he works, lashes low, lips parted just slightly. When he finishes, he straightens—and hesitates. You don’t tell him what to do next. You just look at him.

“Closer.”

Another order. Not cruel. Not cold. But clear.

He comes.

And when he stands before you, close enough to feel your breath, you rise slowly from the edge of the bed and reach up—not to touch, not yet—but to hover your hand beside his cheek. He flinches anyway. Only a flicker. But you catch it.

You don’t move. You don’t blink. You let the space speak for itself.

“You’re not used to this, are you,” you murmur. “Someone who doesn’t want to take from you. Someone who waits for you to give.”

He swallows.

You lower your hand.

“Then you’ll need to ask.”

His throat works. His eye closes again. He doesn’t move.

“I said—” your voice dips, velvet over steel “—you’ll need to ask.”

His breath comes faster now. You see it in the rise of his chest, the flush beginning at his collar, the way his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. But he nods. Just once.

You smile.

“Good,” you whisper. “Then let’s begin.”

"What would you have me say?" His voice is barely audible, a tremor beneath the surface of carefully maintained control.

You step closer, close enough that the heat of him reaches you, but still not touching. "The truth. What you want."

His jaw works, and for a moment, you think he might retreat. But then: "I don't know what I want."

"You do," you counter, circling him slowly. The silver threads in his doublet catch the firelight as you move. "You've just never allowed yourself to name it."

When you complete your circle, standing before him again, his breathing has changed—shallow, uneven. The prince who tamed Vhagar, who strikes fear into the hearts of men twice his age, looks lost in this quiet room.

"Would you like me to touch you?" you ask, voice neutral, offering rather than taking.

His eye widens slightly, and he gives a single, sharp nod.

"That's not asking," you remind him gently.

The muscle in his jaw tightens. You watch his pride war with something deeper, something starved. When he speaks, his voice is rough with disuse, as if these particular words have never left his throat before.

"Touch me," he says, then adds, "Please."

You raise your hand slowly, telegraphing every movement, and rest your palm against his cheek. His skin is warm, feverish almost, and you feel the slight tremor that runs through him at the contact. His eye closes briefly, lashes dark against his pale skin.

"Where else?" you ask.

His breath catches. "I—"

"Show me," you suggest, letting your hand fall away.

After a moment's hesitation, he takes your wrist—his grip surprisingly gentle—and guides your palm to his throat. His pulse hammers beneath your fingers, quick and desperate. His eye opens, meeting yours with something raw and unguarded.

"Here," he whispers, his voice barely a breath.

You press your palm flat against the column of his neck, thumb tracing the hollow at the base of his throat. He shivers, a full-body tremor that he can't suppress, and his hand tightens fractionally on your wrist—not to stop you, but to anchor himself.

"And here?" you ask, letting your other hand hover near his chest.

He guides it to rest over his heart, which pounds so hard you can feel it through the layers of silk and leather. His breathing has gone ragged now, all pretense of composure abandoned. When you begin to work at the fastenings of his doublet, his hands fall to his sides, useless. The fabric parts under your fingers, revealing the pale expanse of his chest beneath. He stands perfectly still as you push the doublet from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a whisper of silk. His skin is marked with old scars—thin white lines that speak of training yards and real battles—but he doesn't flinch when your fingertips trace them.

"You're beautiful," you murmur, and he makes a sound low in his throat, somewhere between protest and plea.

"I'm not—"

"You are." Your hands map the planes of his chest, the sharp cut of his collarbones, the lean muscle earned through years with sword and dragon. "And you're going to learn to believe it."

His head falls back slightly, exposing the long line of his throat. When your lips brush against his pulse point, he gasps—a broken, desperate sound that he immediately tries to swallow. His entire body tenses beneath your lips, as if the simple contact has sent lightning through his veins. You can feel the war within him—desire fighting against the instinct to withdraw, to protect. Your mouth moves slowly along the column of his throat, tasting salt and warmth, and his breathing fractures into something ragged.

"Tell me to stop," you whisper against his skin, "and I will."

His hand finds your waist, tentative at first, then gripping with sudden urgency. "Don't," he says, the word rough-edged. "Don't stop."

You smile against his pulse. Progress.

Your fingers find the laces of his shirt, working them loose with deliberate patience. He stands perfectly still, watching your hands with an intensity that makes heat pool in your belly. When you push the fabric from his shoulders, revealing more of him to the firelight, his breath catches.

You step back to look at him—truly look. His chest rises and falls rapidly, skin pale as moonlight save for the flush spreading down from his throat. The firelight plays across the lean planes of muscle, the elegant architecture of bone and sinew. He's all sharp angles and careful control, but beneath that you see the hunger he's kept leashed for so long it's become part of him.

"Lie down," you say softly.

He hesitates, uncertainty flickering across his features. The bed looms behind him, vast and intimidating in its implications. When he doesn't move, you reach for the ties of your gown, loosening them with slow deliberation. The fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling at your feet.

His breath stops entirely.

You stand before him unashamed, letting him drink in the sight. His good eye travels over you with something approaching reverence, as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing. The leather patch over his other eye seems darker in the dim light, a shadow against his pale skin.

"Lie down," you repeat, and this time he obeys.He sits at the edge first, then reclines slowly, his body rigid with tension. The firelight plays across the planes of his chest, casting shadows in the hollows of his collarbones. He looks both powerful and vulnerable, a contradiction made flesh.

You approach unhurried, watching how his eye follows your every movement. When your knee dips the mattress beside him, his hands clench in the sheets.

His eye widens slightly, darting away and then back, as if he's fighting the urge to look at you fully. The struggle is visible in the tension of his jaw, the way his fingers curl into fists at his sides.

"Do you want to see me?" you ask, voice steady despite the vulnerability of standing naked before him.

"Yes," he whispers, the word escaping before he can catch it.

You step closer. "Then look at me, Aemond. Not at the floor. Not at the wall. At me."

When his gaze finally rises to meet yours, there's something almost painful in its intensity—like a man who's been dying of thirst suddenly confronted with water. His eye traces the curves of your body with such focus that you can almost feel it like a physical touch. The flush spreads down his throat, across his chest. You watch it bloom beneath his skin and something primal stirs in your belly at the sight. He's beautiful in his hunger, in the way he tries so hard to contain it.

"Touch yourself," you say quietly.

His breath hitches. "What?"

"You heard me." You settle beside him on the bed, close enough that your thigh brushes his hip. "I want to watch."

"I don't—" His voice cracks slightly. "I can't—"

"You can." Your hand hovers over his chest, not quite touching. "Show me how you've touched yourself when you thought of this. Of being wanted."

A tremor runs through him. His eye closes tight, as if he's fighting some internal battle. When it opens again, there's something desperate there, something that's been caged too long.

"I haven't," he admits, the words barely audible. "Not... not like this."

You tilt your head, studying him. "Never?"

His throat works as he swallows. "I was taught that desire is weakness. That to want is to be vulnerable."

Something aches in your chest—not pity, but understanding. You shift closer, your naked hip pressing against his clothed one.

"Then I'll show you," you murmur.

You take his hand in yours, guiding it to your waist. His fingers tremble against your skin, hesitant yet eager. You slide his palm upward, over the curve of your ribs, until it cups your breast. His breath catches, a small, broken sound escaping his lips.

"Feel," you instruct softly. "Learn what pleases."

His touch is tentative at first, then grows bolder as you arch into his palm. His thumb finds your nipple, circling with surprising gentleness, and when you gasp softly his eye widens as if the sound has shocked him.

"Like that?" he asks, voice rough with wonder.

"Yes," you breathe, and guide his other hand to join the first.

He learns quickly, watching your face for every reaction, cataloging what makes you sigh and what makes you arch against him. There's something almost scholarly in his attention, as if he's studying a text written in a language he's never been taught to read. When you rock against his touch, seeking more friction, his breathing becomes ragged.

"I want to taste you," he says suddenly, the admission torn from him like a confession.

"Then do it."

He sits up slowly, eye never leaving yours, and leans forward until his breath ghosts across your throat. His lips find the hollow beneath your collarbone, hesitant at first, then growing bolder as your breath catches. His mouth trails across your skin, exploring with careful precision, as though mapping territories previously unknown. When his lips close around your nipple, a soft moan escapes you, and you feel him shudder in response.

His hands find your waist, steadying you as he draws you closer, his exploration becoming more confident with each sound you make. The leather patch brushes against your skin as he moves, a reminder of what he's lost and what he's guarded. You reach for it, fingers hovering at its edge.

"May I?" you whisper.

He freezes, tension rippling through him. For a moment, you think he'll refuse, retreat back into that carefully constructed fortress. Instead, he nods once, a sharp, decisive movement.

Your fingers slide beneath the leather, gently lifting it away. The sapphire gleams in the firelight, a brilliant blue stone fitted perfectly into the hollow where his eye once was. It catches the flames and throws them back in fractured pieces, beautiful and terrible at once. You've heard whispers about it—the Targaryen prince's pride, his defiance made manifest. But seeing it now, this close, you understand it differently. It's not pride. It's armor.

Your fingertips trace the scarred skin around its edges, gentle as a prayer. He flinches but doesn't pull away, his remaining eye watching you with something between terror and desperate hope. The scars are old, silver-white against pale skin, mapping the violence that stole his sight and gave him this cold, careful beauty in return. You tilt his chin toward you and make him look. There is no resistance, only hesitation, the kind that trembles at the edge of need. His jaw tightens. His breath shortens. His hands stay still, clenched in the covers like a boy holding himself together. You press your lips just below the corner of his mouth, soft, not teasing, not tender, just sure. Then lower. The line of his throat. The hollow of his collar. Each kiss is placed like a seal, like a mark only you are allowed to give. He shudders. Not because of fear. Because he is losing the last of whatever he thought made him strong.

You sink to your knees between his legs and he doesn’t breathe. The silence stretches. He looks down at you, blinking like he’s not sure this is real. You wait. One second. Two. Then your fingers find the laces at his waist and he stiffens again, breath hitching as you begin to undo them. You move slowly. No rush. No ceremony. Just deliberate, unhurried control. One knot, then another, until the fabric parts and his breath leaves him in a slow, uneven exhale. You peel the breeches down over his hips and let them fall to the floor. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare.

"Hands behind your back."

It comes out quiet. Flat. Unshakable. You watch him hesitate. Then obey. Elbows stiff, shoulders tense, wrists locked behind him like you’ve bound him there. You smile, not kindly. Not cruelly. Like this is the only thing that’s ever made sense. He is shaking already, legs tense, chest rising too fast. You lean in, brushing your mouth along the inside of his thigh, and feel him twitch beneath your breath. He’s already falling apart and you haven’t even touched him properly.

You glance up, eyes sharp.

"I'll tell you when you can let go."

His response is immediate and visceral—a sharp inhale that catches in his throat like he's forgotten how to breathe. The tendons in his forearms strain where his hands are locked behind him, knuckles white with the effort of staying still. You can see the war playing out across his features: the desperate need to touch warring against his ingrained obedience to command.

"Good," you murmur, letting the word ghost across his skin.

Your mouth finds the sensitive junction where his thigh meets his hip, lips barely grazing the heated flesh there. He jerks as if struck, a strangled sound escaping him that he immediately tries to swallow. The effort of holding himself still is written in every line of his body—the rigid set of his shoulders, the tremor in his thighs, the way his head falls back as if the weight of sensation is too much to bear.

"Please," The word escapes him like a prayer, raw and unguarded. It hangs in the air between you, this confession he cannot take back.

"Please what?" you ask, your lips hovering just inches from where he strains, hard and aching. "Tell me exactly what you want."

His breathing fractures, ragged and uneven. The prince who commands armies, who speaks with authority in war councils, struggles now to form simple words. His head is still tilted back, throat exposed, vulnerability written in every tense line of his body.

"Your mouth," he finally manages, voice barely above a whisper. "I want... your mouth on me."

You reward his honesty with a slow smile he cannot see but surely feels. "Was that so difficult?"

Without waiting for his answer, you grant his request. His reaction is immediate and violent—his hips buck involuntarily, a harsh sound torn from his throat that seems to surprise even him. His entire body goes rigid, trembling with the effort not to move further, not to reach for you, not to break the unspoken rule you've established.

You take him deeper, watching his control fracture with each movement of your tongue. His eye is squeezed shut, head thrown back, lips parted in silent gasps. The prince who never shows weakness is coming undone before you, and the power of it rushes through your veins like wildfire.

When you pull away, he makes a sound of such raw need that satisfaction curls hot in your belly. His eye snaps open, finding yours with desperate intensity.

"Did I say you could stop?" he asks, voice hoarse.

You rise slowly, letting your body slide against his as you stand. "Did I say you could speak?" you counter, and watch his pupil dilate, black swallowing the violet of his iris.

His mouth opens, then closes. The muscle in his jaw jumps as he clamps down on whatever words were trying to escape. You can see the effort it takes, this man who's used to commanding dragons learning to submit to your will.

"Better," you murmur, trailing a finger down his chest. "You're learning."

You step back, just far enough to drink in the sight of him—naked, trembling, hands still locked behind his back despite the obvious strain. His cock stands rigid against his belly, flushed and weeping, and the sight sends heat pooling low in your core.

"Look at you," you say softly. "The mighty prince, reduced to begging."

A flush spreads across his chest, but his eye never leaves yours. There is something in his gaze now—not shame, but recognition. As if he's finally seeing himself clearly for the first time.

"Do you like it?" you ask, circling him again like a predator studying prey. "Being told what to do?"

His throat works, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. When he speaks, his voice is barely audible. "Yes."

"I can't hear you."

"Yes," he says louder, the admission seeming to cost him. "I like it."

You stop in front of him, close enough that your breasts brush his chest with each breath. His nostrils flare and his hands flex behind his back, but he doesn't move to touch you.

"Then you'll do exactly as I say," you murmur, letting your fingers trail down his stomach. He shivers, muscles jumping beneath your touch. "Won't you, my prince?”

"Yes," he breathes, the word barely a whisper but weighted with surrender. "Anything."

The raw honesty in his voice makes something dark and satisfied unfurl in your chest. You step back, putting space between your bodies, and watch him struggle not to follow. His eye tracks your every movement, desperate and hungry.

"Lie back," you command.

He obeys immediately, sinking onto the bed with careful control. His hands remain locked behind him even as he settles against the pillows, and you can see the strain in his shoulders, the tremor in his arms from maintaining the position.

"You can let go now," you say, and watch relief flood his features as his arms finally relax. But before he can reach for you, you catch his wrists. "Here," you guide his hands to the headboard. "Hold on to this. Don't let go unless I tell you."

His fingers wrap around the carved wood, knuckles white with tension. He looks almost painfully vulnerable like this, stretched out before you, unable to hide or deflect. The sapphire eye catches the firelight, throwing fractured blue across his cheekbone.

You climb onto the bed, straddling his thighs but not touching where he needs it most. He watches you with a desperate intensity, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. When you trail your fingernails lightly down his chest, he arches into the touch, a soft sound escaping his throat.

"You've thought about this," you murmur, rocking slightly against him, close enough that he can feel your heat but not enough to give him relief. "Haven't you?"

He nods, then remembers himself. "Yes," he says, voice rough.

"Tell me." You lean forward, bracing your hands against his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath your palms. "Tell me what you imagined."

His eye closes, a flush spreading down his throat. "I... I can't."

"You can." Your lips brush against his ear, voice soft but implacable. "You will."

The command hangs in the air between you. You feel the moment his resistance crumbles, the subtle shift in his breathing that signals surrender.

"At night," he whispers, so quietly you have to strain to hear. "When sleep wouldn't come. I would think of... of hands that weren't gentle. Of someone who would take what they wanted."

"Like this?" You shift against him, drawing a sharp gasp.

"Yes. No." His hands tighten on the headboard. "Worse. Better. I wanted—" His voice breaks.

"What did you want, Aemond?”

"To be used," he gasps, the confession torn from him like it's been clawing at his throat for years. "To have someone take control so I wouldn't have to be... to think..." His head thrashes against the pillow, eye squeezed shut. "Gods, I can't—"

"You can." Your hand finds his throat, not squeezing, just resting there. A claim. A comfort. "You already are."

His eye opens, wild and desperate. "I thought about being helpless. About someone who wouldn't ask permission, who would just... take. Make me feel without having to choose to feel." The words pour out of him now, unstoppable. "I'm so tired of choosing. Of being responsible for every breath, every decision, every consequence."

You absorb this confession, this raw honesty that he's probably never spoken aloud. The prince who carries the weight of kingdoms on his shoulders, who commands dragons and armies, wants nothing more than to surrender that burden to someone else. The irony isn't lost on you—that absolute power breeds the deepest need to relinquish it.

"Then stop choosing," you whisper against his lips. "Let me."

You rise above him, positioning yourself carefully, watching his face as understanding dawns. His grip on the headboard tightens until his knuckles are bone-white, his whole body taut as a bowstring. When you sink down slowly, taking him inch by careful inch, his back arches off the bed and a sound escapes him that's part prayer, part curse.

"Look at me," you command when his eye starts to drift shut. "I want to see you break."

His gaze snaps to yours, violet fire and desperate need. You begin to move, setting a rhythm that has him gasping beneath you.

His gaze snaps to yours, violet fire and desperate need. You begin to move, setting a rhythm that has him gasping beneath you, his body straining upward to meet each roll of your hips. His fingers clutch the headboard so tightly you can hear the wood creak in protest, and you wonder if it might splinter beneath his grip.

"Good," you murmur, watching his face contort with pleasure he can no longer hide. "So good for me."

The praise undoes something in him. His eye widens, pupils blown so wide the violet is just a thin ring around bottomless black. You can feel him trembling beneath you, every muscle taut with the effort of restraint.

"Please," he gasps, the word barely recognizable. "I need—"

"What do you need?" You slow your movements, hovering just above him, denying the contact he craves.

"More," he chokes out, hips bucking desperately upward seeking friction you refuse to give. "Harder. Please, I can't—"

"Can't what?" You sink down fully, drawing a broken cry from his throat. "Can't handle it? The mighty dragonrider?"

His response is incoherent, a string of broken syllables and gasped pleas. Sweat beads along his hairline, and the flush has spread down his entire torso now. You've never seen anything more beautiful than Aemond Targaryen coming apart beneath you.

"You're close," you observe, feeling the tension coiling through his body. "I can feel it."

He nods frantically, past the point of speech. His breathing has devolved into harsh pants, and you can see him fighting against the approaching edge with everything he has left.

"Not yet," you whisper

His body goes rigid beneath you, a sound escaping his throat that's pure anguish. "Please," he begs, voice cracking. "I can't—please, I need—"

"You need what I give you," you say firmly, stilling completely. "Nothing more. Nothing less."

He writhes beneath you, desperate for friction, for movement, for anything. But you remain perfectly still, watching him struggle against the bonds of his own obedience. His knuckles are white against the headboard, tendons standing out in sharp relief along his forearms.

"Tell me who you belong to," you command softly.

His eye flies open, meeting yours with something wild and unguarded. "You," he gasps without hesitation. "I belong to you."

"Say it again."

"I belong to you." The words come easier now, like a dam breaking. "Only you.”

"Again," you demand, beginning to move once more, but slowly—torturously slowly. Each roll of your hips draws a shuddering gasp from him, each withdrawal a whimper he can no longer suppress.

"I belong to you," he repeats, the words tumbling out like a prayer. "Gods, I belong to you."

You increase your pace, watching as his composure shatters completely. His head thrashes against the pillow, throat exposed, every defense stripped away. The sapphire catches the firelight as he moves, flashing blue against his flushed skin.

"Let go," you whisper, and for a moment he looks confused, still clutching the headboard like it's his last anchor to sanity. "Not your hands. Let go of everything else. Give it to me."

Understanding dawns in his eye—wild, desperate understanding. His breathing hitches,and then he's sobbing—not tears, but raw sounds torn from somewhere deep in his chest, years of careful control unraveling in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His body convulses beneath you as everything he's held back comes crashing down at once.

"That's it," you breathe, riding him through the storm. "Give it all to me." The sounds he makes are broken, desperate—part pleasure, part release of something far deeper. His hips buck wildly beneath you, seeking more contact, more friction, more of anything you're willing to give. The careful prince is gone entirely, replaced by something raw and needy and utterly yours.

"Now," you command, and his body obeys before his mind can catch up.

He comes with a cry that echoes off the stone walls, his back arching so sharply you think he might break. His hands finally release the headboard, flying to your hips in a desperate grip that will surely leave bruises. You don't reprimand him for breaking your command—not when he's shaking apart beneath you, vulnerable in a way you suspect no one has ever witnessed. His eye is squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream as wave after wave crashes through him.

You ride him through it, watching every flicker of emotion cross his face. When your own release builds, you don’t fight it, letting pleasure spiral outward as you clench around him. Your combined cries mingle in the heated air between you.

In the aftermath, he lies beneath you, chest heaving, utterly spent. His hands have fallen limply to his sides, and his eye stares unseeing at the canopy above. The carefully constructed mask he wears for the court, for his family, for himself—it’s gone completely, leaving behind something raw and new. You don’t touch him. You don’t speak. You just stay there, legs still wrapped around his hips, watching the rise and fall of his chest. There’s a stillness to him now, a quiet so deep it doesn’t feel like surrender—it feels like silence after a storm.

Eventually, you shift. Gently. You climb off of him and gather the discarded fabric from the floor. He doesn’t move. Not for a while. When he finally does, it’s slow, mechanical, a man retreating into armor. The moment dies quietly.

By the time morning light filters through the heavy curtains, he’s already half-dressed, facing the window with his back to you. The silence has changed. It’s not peace anymore. It’s defense. He won’t look at you. Not directly. Not now. He’s afraid of what you saw. Afraid of how much he gave. Afraid you might speak it aloud.

You brush past him on your way to the basin, your fingers grazing his shoulder just lightly enough to make him tense.

“Sleep well?” you ask, not bothering to wait for an answer.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

But when you cross the room, you feel his gaze follow you—slow, heavy, almost reverent—like he’s still trying to understand what you’ve taken from him.

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shadowkoo · 1 month ago

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Love At First Hex

→ Summary: Still nursing the sting of his Lupercalia heartbreak, Yeosang finds unexpected solace in you, his friend, classmate, and favorite co-conspirator. What starts as playful companionship shifts the night he helps you bind a particularly wicked hex. Something changes. Suddenly, he doesn’t view you as just a friend. And he’s done pretending otherwise.

↠ yeosang x f.reader | 4.7k words | 18+ ↠ genre: warlock & witch au, friends to lovers, smut

→ Prompts: #20. "Who are the flowers for?"

→ Warnings: y/n and yeosang are getting over heartbreak, you want your ex to suffer from an evil hex (lol), explicit & unprotected sex, magical sex, aphrodisiac potion, soft sex, breast play, nipple play, breast worship, body worship, orgasm control, heightened senses, light bondage, riding/cowgirl

→ Networks: @ksmutsociety @k-vanity @keopihaus @lapydiaries @cosyhomenet @pirateeznet @cromernet @illusionnet @othersideoutlawsnetwork

→ Author Note: Thank you for requesting Aeris @aeristudios! LOVEEE that you referenced Disgraceful Dreams, consider this a follow up with Yeosang’s story. If you haven’t read that fic, I def recommend doing so before reading this! This fic takes place the following spring, and y/n from DD is also named Lia in this fic to keep things less complicated. Once again, the specifics relating to Ostara are stretched to fit this fic. And a big thank you to Booki @kwanisms for beta reading this for me!As always, all likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated <3 divider credit [ mini requests are now closed as I catch up on all the submissions ]

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5 months earlier, during the Lupercalia Matching Ceremony

Yeosang steps closer to the flames that surge in the iron vessel before him, casting flickering shadows across his face while he waits. If he looks closely, shapes begin to form within the flames, dancing and twisting as though something is being forged in the heat. A sudden flare of sparks erupts from the fire—it’s ready.

With a steady hand, he pulls an envelope from the fire. The edges of the paper are still smoldering while he opens it with precision, watching as the magic ink slowly manifests on the paper, revealing a name.

A brief frown crosses his face as his mind drifts to Lia, but it vanishes just as quickly. “Polly Petrify,” he announces smoothly, his voice steady, betraying nothing as he steps back into place.

Yeosang stands frozen as his friend steps forward next for his turn. Wooyoung calls his crush's name, and that’s when his heart shatters into a million pieces.

5 months later, on the cusp of Ostara

“Want mine?” You ask, offering your lunch to your best friend. “My stomach is still hurting after drinking that potion Haechan made in Mixology today.”

You look up at Yeosang, as he hasn’t responded. Following his gaze, you see that his eyes are glued to the couple that just walked into the Grand Hall holding hands.

Wooyoung and Lia.

His eyes drop back down to his plate, “No, I’m not that hungry either.” Yeosang pushes the food around with his utensils before looking wistfully toward them again.

He sighs, dragging himself out of his daze, only to watch you leaning back with a hand pressed to your grumbling stomach. “You’ve only got yourself to blame for drinking it after watching him dump in blind worm slime. My stomach turned just from the smell. I honestly don’t know how you let that past your lips, but wouldn’t touch the birthday cake I made for you last week.”

His gaze strays again, diverting back to the couple now settling at a table.

You scrunch your nose at him. “Don’t make me hex you, Yeosang. Focus!”

His eyes flick back to you, reluctantly.

“And that cake was bubbling, ‘Sangie. Bubbling. I have some standards, sometimes I actually care what goes into this body.” You pause. “Plus, Haechan dared me. What was I supposed to do, say no?”

“Yeah, saying no is exactly what you’re supposed to do,” he mutters. “And for the record, it’s the thought that counts. No one else made you a cake, bubbling or not.”

He sighs again, this one sharper, angling his head toward a burst of laughter. “God, I wish they’d just leave already.”

You glance over your shoulder. Lia is giggling at something Wooyoung whispered in her ear, her laughter loud enough to draw glances. They’re undeniably cute together; an unlikely Lupercalia match that somehow stuck. You never would’ve imagined them together before, but somehow, it makes sense.

Your eyes drift past the couple to the table just behind them, where Minjun sits with his friends and next to his latest flame of the week.

Minjun was your boyfriend until a few months ago. He’d pleaded with you not to take part in Lupercalia, made it sound like it would break his heart if you were paired with someone else, only for you to find out later that he fully intended to participate himself. You dumped him shortly after hearing his name called at the matching ceremony.

“I wish he’d fall off the face of the earth,” you mutter, sneering as you nod in Minjun’s direction.

Yeosang follows your gaze, his expression darkening. He’s never liked Minjun. “You know…we could probably arrange that. Or something better. I happen to know a pretty impressive witch with a nasty little habit of hexing people who piss her off.”

You arch a brow, “Tempting. Want to help me tonight?”

He grins. “Give me two hours.”

Yeosang meets you at your dorm right on time. Swinging the door open, you wave him in before leading him straight to your altar, where everything is already laid out and ready.

“So,” he begins, eyeing the setup with curiosity, “What are we thinking? Temporary blindness? Toad transformation?”

You scoff. “Please. Those are baby curses.” You hand him a neatly folded slip of parchment with your freshly inked spell.

He unfolds it and reads:

With moonlight, spite, and visions red,

May foulness bloom where charm once led.

Let every taste and every smell,

Turn lovers' bliss to vile hell.

No cleansing spell, no unholy decree,

Shall lift this curse ‘till wrongs are free.

He raises a brow after finishing.

“It’s a spell that basically curses Minjin to have the worst-tasting and funky-smelling semen. The next poor soul who hooks up with him is going to have quite an interesting discovery. Word will spread like wildfire. It’s petty. It’s precise. It’s perfect!” You clasp your hands together, impressed with yourself for coming up with this wicked idea.

Yeosang gapes at you, eyes wide with delight. “This is incredible. Remind me to never cross you, like ever. How long is it supposed to last?”

“Until he properly apologizes to me and to every other girl whose heart he broke. Which could mean a while. Unless he realizes that he’s been hexed and does a removal spell. Hey, want me to write up a hex for Wooyoung while we’re at it?”

Yeosang huffs, debating it. “No,” he starts once he’s finally decided. “He’s my friend. He didn’t know I had a crush on Lia, or if he did, he didn’t know it was that serious. I’m happy for them. I just gotta get over it.” He finishes, handing your spell back to you.

“Whatever you say.” You take it from him and place it next to the candles on the altar.

To prepare for the spell, you rub oil over each candle, then roll them gently through a shallow dish of crushed, dried flower petals. “This is the last of my flowers,” you sigh, brushing some dust off your fingers. “I hope the fields bloom soon. I’ll have to forage for more before any future spellwork.”

“Good thing spring is just around the corner,” Yeosang points out.

“True,” you murmur, passing him one of the covered candles. “Hold it steady,” you murmur, grabbing the bundle of thorn-vines you’d gathered shortly after. The vines are thin but stubborn, coiled like they still remember how to climb.

Working carefully, you begin wrapping the vine around the candle, starting from the base. The thorns scratch at the wax, digging in just enough to hold. Yeosang follows your lead, his brow furrowed in concentration as he mimics your movements.

“Think he’ll feel it?” he asks out of curiosity.

“Down there, probably not. In his heart, and where it counts? Absolutely,” you say with a devilish smile. That same smile is quickly wiped away as a thorn slips under your nail as you tighten the last loop.

You wince. “Ouch.” A sharp sting shoots through your finger, and you lift it instinctively to your mouth, lips wrapping around the wound to suck the blood away.

Yeosang glances up. His eyes catch sight, and he falters for a second, eyes fixed on the way your lips close around your finger. He blinks it off a moment later, wondering what just came over him.

“Um,” he clears his throat, “Here.” He hands you his finished candle, and you place it carefully on your silver tray next to the others, all spaced with intention. Then, with a shared breath, you and Yeosang recite the spell together, your voices merging as one.

Magic flickers through your fingertips, and all three wicks ignite at once.

You sit back, satisfied. “And now we wait.”

“Wait for what?” he asks.

“Until they melt and burn out. That’s when the hex seals.”

Yeosang's eyes follow the very small trail of melting wax; it’s gonna be a while before that happens. At least he has an idea of what could pass the time.

“Want a palm reading while we wait?” he asks, already scooting a bit closer. “I need the practice before midterms.”

You stretch your hand toward him. “Sure. Maybe you can tell me when I’m finally going to date someone who treats me more than a doormat.”

He takes your hand in his and is surprisingly gentle. His fingers are warm, a little calloused from herb work, and they linger just a second longer than necessary as he turns your palm upright.

“Let’s see…” His brows furrow in exaggerated seriousness as he traces a finger lightly along the lines of your hand. “Your heart line is dramatic as hell. That checks out.”

You snort. “Careful, ‘Sangie. I’ll hex your lips shut.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Okay, okay. Focus.” His gaze softens a bit as he studies your palm more closely. “You’ve had your heart broken…but who hasn’t?”

You hum in agreement, watching him study your hand.

He continues, fingertips lightly skimming the skin of your palm. “You’re guarded, but loyal. You give second chances when you know you probably shouldn’t. And you hide how much you want to be chosen first.”

That one lands a little too close. You blink, shifting slightly. “Is that the palm talking, or you?”

“Little of both,” he says, his voice lower now.

You look away, suddenly more aware of how close he is. “Alright, oracle. So what’s next for me, romantically speaking?”

Yeosang’s eyes flash back to your palm, then to your face. “You’ll meet your next love interest…” He pauses, lips twitching with something unreadable. “Sooner than you think.”

Your heart stutters. “Vague much?”

“Timing’s tricky,” he shrugs while still holding your hand, not ready to let it go. “But you’ll know soon enough.”

By the following afternoon, the factual rumors about Minjun are already spreading through campus like wildfire. The spell worked just as planned. Humored whispers of something about a gagging girl running from his room and a smell that won’t wash off.

It also happens to be the last day before the Ostara break, which doesn’t help everyone’s lack of attention in classes today. Much like the mortals’ spring vacation, The Onyx Academy of Dark Casting closes its doors for a week of rest, renewal, and magic steeped in celebration.

Ostara is one of the oldest witch holidays, honoring the equilibrium between light and dark, day and night, life and death. It's a sacred time that’s fertile with possibility, chaos, and charm. Witches and warlocks mark the equinox with personal rituals to honor the Goddess Ostara, each one a little different.

Altars bloom with daffodils and tulips, wrapped in pastel silks and dotted with dyed eggs, polished seeds, and hand-woven nests. Some will spend the week in nature, barefoot in enchanted meadows, while others prefer city rooftop circles lit by candlelight and wine.

Yeosang hasn’t decided how, or if he’ll celebrate. With exams looming and graduation not far off, he’s opted to stay behind on campus to get ahead on his studies.

But right now in his Advanced Warding, Binding, & Banishing lecture, he’s struggling to focus on anything but you.

You’re sitting a few rows ahead, leaning in close to one of your girlfriends, whispering something that makes you both break into laughter. There’s a lightness to you today, a glow he hasn’t seen in weeks. You're wearing pastel purple eyeshadow dusted across your lids and your curly hair down instead of twisted up into your usual two buns.

Yeosang watches you like someone under a spell. You’re vibrant and gentle in all the ways he thinks real magic should be. He’s known you long enough to recognize when you’re carrying pain, as you had been for the last couple of months, but today you’re just you. And he adores you like this.

And possibly, he's beginning to realize it’s not the shared spellwork or the familiarity that’s drawn him to you all along. It’s the way you bloom.

He spends the entire lecture in a daze, barely absorbing a word the professor says. His notes are a mess of half-finished glyphs, broken sigils, and the occasional doodle that might’ve been your initials disguised in runes. His mind is obviously elsewhere. On you.

By the time he gets back to his dorm and dumps his satchel on the floor, he realizes something. Something that he’s been ignoring, which has finally clawed its way to the surface.

He sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinks about the way he’s feeling. Sure, you’ve been friends for two years now. Occasional study partners. You’ve shared snacks and secrets, staying up all night for last-minute cramming sessions. Through breakups, and even worse, group projects, you’ve been by each other's side. And yeah, you're both top students, competitive as hell, and he’s always had this unspoken respect for you. A kind of platonic loyalty.

Or at least…that’s what he thought it was.

His thoughts spiral further as he thinks about the way you smiled today, glowing like spring.

About the soft, surprised sound you made when you pricked your finger. It was just a tiny hiss of pain, and then quickly it turned into something else when you wrapped your mouth around it. That image plays in his mind again. And again. And again.

He wonders how your fingers would feel trailing across his skin in more than just a friendly way. How they’d feel scratching down his chest. And tightly wrapped around him. He shifts on the bed, jaw tight. Every imagined version of you is clearer now. What you might taste like. The heat of your breath. The noises you’d make when he finally touches you the way he wants to, needs to–

Fuck.

Yeosang exhales hard, running a hand through his hair. This isn't just a passing thought, nor does it have anything to do with platonic feelings. This is a floodgate broken open, and he’s not sure he can close it again.

Not that he wants to…

Restless, he slips out of his dorm just as the sky turns twilight. The halls are quiet, and the fading light outside is soft, almost dreamlike. He tells himself he just needs air, maybe a walk to clear his head will help him shake off the thoughts that have been plaguing him since class ended.

But as he moves through the outer gardens, something catches his eye.

Flowers.

Tiny, tender blooms are pushing through the thawing earth. It’s too early for most species, but here they are. Daffodils, violets, snowdrops. All delicate and defiant, just like you.

He crouches down, running a gentle hand over a cluster of them. It’s like the universe was listening closely to your conversation yesterday. This is definitely a sign. Yeosang starts to gather a handful. He’s careful not to smush them, being as gentle as he can be.

Good. Now he has an excuse to see you.

By the time he knocks on your dorm door, his heart is racing like he’s under some type of spell.

You open it, surprised to see him. “Yeosang?”

“Hey,” he mumbles, nervously twisting the small bouquet in his hands.

Your eyes are drawn to the movement. “Who are the flowers for?” you ask with a knowing smile.

“For you. Well-uh-for your altar,” he says quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “Since it’s almost Ostara. I…I found them blooming. And I remembered you ran out yesterday.”

Your smile grows bigger reading his nervous energy.

“They’re not dead yet,” he adds, then immediately winces, willing himself to shut up. But he can’t stop. “They will be. Dead. Or–dying. You know, soon. Since I picked them. For your spellwork. Because that’s what you need. Dead flowers. Eventually.”

You squint at him, clearly amused. “Are you feeling alright?”

Goddamn it, Yeosang, pull it together.

“I don’t know,” he says with an exhale. “Got anything up your sleeve that’ll help me stop sounding like a complete idiot?”

You raise a brow, lips curling as your thoughts start to wander. Is he flirting? Is this what flirting looks like on him?

Either way…you’ve got just the potion for that.

You crack your door open a little wider, stepping aside with a smirk. “Get in here before you embarrass yourself any further,” you tease.

Yeosang squints at you, half-offended, half-pleased. But he walks in anyway, setting the flowers down on the closest surface.

While he lingers, you move to your potion shelf, eyes scanning your carefully labeled bottles. You're not looking for something innocent, no sleepy teas or clarity tonics tonight.

“Ahh,” you murmur, fingers curling around a sleek violet glass bottle. “There you are.”

You hold it up to the light. Inside, the liquid shimmers like starlight and ink, the surface swirling even when still.

“You’re not about to poison me, right?” Yeosang asks, eyeing it warily but not backing away.

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Not unless you give me a reason.”

“What is it?” he asks, peering at the strange liquid.

“It’ll take the edge off,” you say nonchalantly. “Make you a little less nervous.”

He doesn't move, not sure if he’s convinced just yet.

You sigh, holding the bottle up between you. “It’s called Siren Serum.” His eyes narrow slightly, but you continue before he can ask what it does. “It boosts confidence, sharpens the senses, and opens a mental link. No room for mixed signals. No miscommunication for what’s about to happen.”

You take a swig before extending the bottle toward him.

He hesitates. “And what exactly is about to happen?”

You smile sinfully, “Drink it and find out.”

You watch as Yeosang lifts the bottle to his lips, taking a slow sip. The shimmering liquid glides down his throat like silk, and you can already see the change taking place in his demeanor. The subtle drop of his shoulders, the way his pupils dilate just slightly, the jumbled-up words that are beginning to flow over from the shared mental link.

He hands the bottle back, and your fingers brush. The moment lingers between you like the universe is holding its breath, waiting to see who will be bold enough to cross the line from friends to something far less safe.

Setting the bottle aside, you take a step closer to him. Then, your lips meet his.

He stiffens at first, startled, but it only takes a second before he’s sinking into you. His arms slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s been waiting for this for far too long.

Finally.

The word, his word, echoes into your mind and it’s all the confirmation you need. Your hands weave up into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck as you dig in deeper. His lips part willingly beneath yours, using his tongue to explore your mouth.

A soft moan rumbles in his throat, and you feel it vibrating in his chest. Not just the sound, but the feeling behind it. Desire, surprise, heat, need.

It surges through the connection, through the kiss, and into your core.

Yeosang’s hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, his knuckles grazing your bare skin. He breaks the kiss just long enough to tug the fabric over your head and toss it aside, his eyes darkening as they take you in.

His hands return to you instantly; they roam your back, mapping the curve of your waist, gripping your hips. Then they trail upward until they find your chest. He cups your breast through the thin fabric of your bra, thumb brushing over the peak as he watches your face.

More.

The word pulses in his mind, as clear and urgent as if you’d spoken it aloud. You feel it thrum through him, his body already answering.

He closes the space again, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, trailing kisses down your neck. You tilt your head, offering him more, and he accepts like a man starving.

He licks and nips his way down the slope of your breasts, pausing in the valley between them. A low hum vibrates from his chest as he breathes you in.

Yeosang snaps his fingers, and your bra disappears, along with the rest of your clothes.

You blink, caught off guard by his magic. “That’s not fair,” you say, frowning. But any complaint dies on your lips the moment his mouth closes over your nipple. The soft drag of his tongue and his warmth make you moan out, “Oh, god.”

“Not god,” he grins, “Just your ‘Sangie.” He suckles gently, then with more pressure, his hands steady on your waist as your body arches toward him.

He pulls back just enough to let his teeth graze the hardened nub before shifting to the other breast. This time he teases it with a flick of his tongue, then twists delicately with his lips and teeth, while his free hand massages the one he left behind.

Every nerve feels lit from within. You can sense not just the pleasure, but the intent behind it—how much he’s feeling you, not just physically, but through the bond.

So perfect.

When he finally releases you from his mouth, your skin feels chilled from his touch. Without breaking eye contact, he lifts one hand and makes a small flick of his fingers.

One of the flowers he picked earlier lifts gently from where it rests nearby, floating through the air as if enchanted and lands delicately in his palm.

He brings it to your chest, trailing the soft petals along the curve of your breast. You shiver as he brushes it slowly around the tender skin, circling closer and closer until it grazes your nipple, already hardened from his mouth, now teased by the gentle tickle of velvet petals.

He watches your reaction like he’s studying magic in motion.

“You always were the most beautiful flower I've ever seen,” he murmurs, the thought blooming in your mind even before the words reach your ears.

The flower continues its path down your ribs, past your stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake until it hovers just above your core.

He pulls the flower back and lifts it to his nose, inhaling slowly. A sly glint flickers in his eyes as he exhales. “I’m willing to bet your petals are sweeter,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. “Now go get on the bed and spread your legs for me, let me see what I’ve been missing. What I’ve been dreaming about.”

A fresh flush creeps over your skin, and heat pools low in your belly. Your legs feel shaky beneath you, but you obey, crossing the room with slow steps. You can feel his gaze, it’s heavy and possessive, dragging over your naked form as you climb onto the bed.

You glance back at him as you lie on your back and part your thighs, opening yourself up under the soft light.

His thoughts roll through your mind, unfiltered.

Fuck…soaked already…need you…you’re mine.

Your breath hitches. You feel through the bond how hard he is, how badly he wants you. It pulses in your head like a second heartbeat, syncing with your own.

He raises his hand again and snaps his fingers. In an instant, his clothes vanish, magic shedding them like whispers.

Your eyes widen the moment you see him fully, his tall, lean frame striding toward you, every line of him taut with want. His cock bobs with each step, thick, flushed, and already leaking at the tip.

You swallow hard, body instinctively arching in anticipation as he approaches. He hovers over you, his breath ghosting across your lips, eyes locked on yours.

He doesn’t speak aloud, but you hear the question through the bond, clear as day.

Are you sure?

You answer instantly.

Yes.

That’s all he needs to hear. With a ragged breath, Yeosang positions himself and begins to sink into your waiting heat. The stretch steals the air from your lungs, your walls clenching tight around him, pulling him in like he belongs there.

Because he does.

He groans as his hands grip your hips when he bottoms out.

The perfect fit.

He stills inside you, chest heaving as he fights the primal urge to drive into you hard and fast. Not yet. Not this time. Right now, he’s too undone by how impossibly good you feel wrapped around him. It’s overwhelming. Like the universe crafted you specifically for him.

He leans his forehead against yours, grounding himself while savoring every quiver, every flutter of your walls around him.

Next time, he thinks, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to hold himself back. Next time, I’ll ruin you.

But for now, he just wants to worship the way you deserve. His hips begin to move in a slow, sensual rhythm. Like every stroke is a spell crafted just for you.

Your nails dig into his back, every nerve lit up, your mind nearly blank with how perfectly he fills you.

It’s maddening, the way he takes his time. Every drag of his cock inside you feels divinely unholy, causing a delicious ache to swell in your core. Tension tightening, cresting–

Faster. Please. More.

The words pulse through the bond, desperately. But he doesn’t give in. “Not yet, petal,” he murmurs against your throat.

You gasp, trembling as he slows his thrusts to drag out every second, making you feel every inch, every pulse of him inside you.

He kisses down your collarbone, across the swell of your breast, lips and teeth teasing your skin while your body screams for more.

“I’m not done worshiping you,” he growls, “You deserve to be fucked in silk sheets, under moonlight, in every way you’ve ever dreamed of.”

And gods, he means it. You can feel it. Not just in his words, but in the weight of his love, his obsession, his unrelenting devotion as he rocks into you, over and over.

Your moans echo into the night air like a sacred chant. It’s too much, and not nearly enough at the same time. Every thrust pushes you closer to the edge, but the ache still burns and you’re greedy for more.

With a sharp inhale, you summon the strength of your whole body, along with the help of your magic, and a surge of raw magic, to flip Yeosang onto his back. He grunts in surprise, but the look in his eyes is nothing but dark, delicious approval.

With a flick of your fingers, glowing threads of magic coil around his wrists and pin them to each side of your iron headboard. He tugs against the invisible bindings, testing them, but doesn’t fight them.

You climb over him, straddling his hips with a teasing look. His chest rises and falls as he looks up at you like you’re a goddess. Once you sink down onto him, his head falls back with a groan, his body twitching beneath yours.

So good, his thoughts whisper through the bond, shaky and open. So close. Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.

You move with purpose, hips rolling and rocking as you chase the high that’s threatening to consume you both. Every inch of him fills you perfectly, dragging over all the places that make you see stars.

“Bloom for me, baby,” he groans, his voice wrecked.

And gods, you do.

Your magic pulses out of you like a heatwave, body trembling as you ride him harder, chasing that exquisite edge. The bond flares white-hot between you, thoughts tangled, hearts racing, bodies in perfect, frantic harmony as your releases weave together.

Your bodies are one, moving perfectly in sync until there's no telling where you end and Yeosang begins. The world around you blurs; nothing exists but the rhythm of your breath and the heat of his skin.

Your trembling body collapses against his chest, every muscle singing with satisfaction, every nerve still buzzing.

Sighing softly, you murmur a soft incantation against his collarbone, your breath warm on his skin. The magical threads vanish with a glimmer, releasing his arms. They instantly wrap tightly around you, holding you like he never wants to let go.

And in the haven of his arms, wrapped in the scent of sweat and spring flowers, you feel safe. Wanted. Loved. Home.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

Text

Winter's King 20

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: Have a good day.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The crackling of the fire grows clearer as the tides of sleep swirl and still. Your eyelids part to the flicker of the hearth, a figured limned in the rustic haze, looming over you, lifting you, moving you with ease. You stir and fidget, pressing a hand to the firm wall against your arm. The woolly tunic scratches against your palm as you feel the pulsing of a heartbeat beneath.

You look up at the square jaw of your accoster. King Geralt lays you on the mattress, your disposed clothes cleared away from the corner. He's gentle as he sets your head on the pillow, caressing your cheek and your hip as he draws away. He stands, looking down on you as his fingers curl and extend, a hot breath rushing from his nostrils.

You watch him as the the world sharpens around you and a flow rolls over you like cold water. You push yourself up on your elbows as the king's eyes rove your figure beneath the thin shift. He sways and brushes his hand over his chest, letting out a deep rumble.

You want to say something. Anything. Just a word to break the fragile tension between you. You can't get a single noise out. He stares down at you with his gold eyes, like coins shining, forged in flame.

He sits on the edge of the bed, snug to you as he rests his hand on the other side of you, tenting his arm over you. His other crawls along your shoulder and down to your wrist, walking back up again. His fingertips spread goose prickles along your flesh as you lay frozen in his fiery exploration.

The haze of the fireplace, the gleam of his eyes, and the dregs of your drowsiness make you doubt the realness of it all. Are you dreaming still? Everything is so much more than it should be. His heat, his touch, the way you can feel his need radiating from him.

You fall flat, staring at him, entranced by him. He brings his calloused palm to cradle your face. You gasp and latch onto his wrist.He lets his fingers flutter away and turns his arm, looking down at your grasp on him, cautious but firm. You see how his cheek strains and he sits up, grazing his other hand over yours.

He covers your hand with both of his and draws it up. He unveils it like some precious treasure and kisses each knuckle. You shake as each brush of his lips tingles through you. He pulls back and keeps hold of you, lowering your hand between you.

"You fear me," he says, "you fear what I want from you." His voice is low and sonorous, "I want nothing from you. I only want you, my summer maid." He inhales deeply and lets it out with a quaver as you feel the tremor in him, "my treasure."

Your eyes sting and tears soften the lines in your vision. You shake your head, a knot in your throat, a pinch in your chest. He brings your hand flat to one of yours and twines his thick fingers between yours. The difference is drastic, a reflection of your status. He is all-powerful and you are a speck in the wind.

"I have worn a heavy crown, I have raised an army, I have bled in battle, and not of it can compare to this, my treasure. You are my greatest achievement. By fates, I found you. I thought that I was destined to sit the throne, to unite these peoples, to hold it all in my hand," he squeezes, "but this is all I need have in my grasp. This is what called me to your southern plains. All of it for you. I have won it and so quickly as you bid me, I would give it up."

Your lashes flick as your heart swells. He cannot mean it. Not any of it. You are only a maid.

"You have your fear, little maid, and I have mine. They are one and the same," he gazes down at you, eyes wrought in layers of pain, sadness, and longing, like the sediment of the earth, worn and weathered through the years. "I fear myself all the same as you. I have withheld myself for as long as I can and yet I feel myself dwindling. I feel the rope fraying."

You sniff and shake your head, "your highness..." you croak and your voice seems to crackle in the air, "Queen Jazlene--"

"Do not speak her name. I beg of you. Treasure, I beg. I will beg you anon."

He keeps hold of you and shifts off the bed. He brings himself to his knees at the side of the bed, clinging to you as he once more kisses your hand. As you lay helpless to him.

"Do not fear me. How can you when I only mean to worship you," he rasps. "As any treasure, I only mean to prize you, to hold you dear, to keep you from those who would steal you away. To keep you for my own. Treasure, you are mine, all mine. By rights, I, King Geralt of Rivia and the Hinterlands, claim you. No other shall have you. Upon my life, I could not bear it."

You close your eyes, ice trickling into your veins at his declaration. He is king, he is the almighty, and you are his. You are sworn to serve and by rights of marriage, you are bound to him. Even if it wrong, even it transcends the vow he spoke to another, a king may bend the laws as serve his purposes. A maid may only obey.

"You have forsaken me," you whisper.

He kneels in silence, lowering his head to rest on your hand. You lay in tableau, strangled and solemn, as he prostrates himself at your side. As a mourner might do for some tragic corpse. Is that not what this is? Grief for the treachery of it all.

"I belong to you," he speaks at last, rising as he releases you. Your eyes roll open and pinpoint on him.

He turns away and pulls at his tunic, stripping it from his broad shoulders, revealing a back ridged with muscles. He drops it on the seat of a chair and sits in another. He is patient as he unbinds the straps of his boots and removes each in turn, placing them neatly aside. He undresses piece by piece, rapt in the task of his dissembling.

He remains only in his braies, the short garment ending at the top of his thick thighs. His stomach is as thick as the rest of his, muscles wrapping around his arms and chest, fur like the very wolf he's sewn into his cloak. He approaches the bed and you steel yourself for him.

He lifts himself over you, hovering just above, his hands above your shoulders as he holds himself on his knees, straddling as he once did in the moonlight of your unconscious. He peers down and breathes a scalding plume upon you. You shiver and meet his eyes, unable to repress the wash of terror that comes over you.

He pushes himself to the other side of you, folding his arm to fall upon his side. His other stretches over your stomach as he nestles against your side. He lays on his shoulder, facing you, and his nose brushes your temple. You clutch a fold of the blankets in your hand as his traces the shape of your side, playing with the seam of your shift.

His touch creeps over your stomach and his lips dance on your cheek. He exhales your name into your ear and his hand cups one side of your chest. A whimper escapes your throat as your nipple hardens, poking him as he fondles you. He is gentle but diligent, eager as he explores your body, as if you are another map to be conquered.

He trails up to your neck and his thumb draws a line along your throat. You feel his gaze but cannot face it. It burns hotter than the heart. He touches jaw and chin, as if he's never seen anything like you; cheekbones, nose, forehead, as if he is an artist moulding a statue.

He presses his straight nose to your cheek and drapes his arm around you once more. He embraces you from the side. He tucks his fingers under you and you bring your hand to his thick forearm, feeling the soft hair along it. You claps onto him and shudder at the ceiling.

"You will not always fear me," he whispers, "when you see the world for what it is, when you see me truly, you will feel as I do." He snarls as he leans his weight into you. "You cannot fight fate, my treasure. Even a king cannot bid what is written by destiny."

You let every ounce of strength drain from you. You sink into the mattress, surrendering to his will. Whatever he might do, whatever he might demand of you, you will give in. That is your duty.

He purrs as his own body relaxes, "I only wish to feel you, little maid. My soul needs yours close." He closes his eyes and bows his head to rest against yours. You shut your eyes once more but know you will not rest.

You are afraid. You are terrified. All your life you've served but this is more than you've ever been asked. The peril is all yours. A king would never face the same atonement as a maid.

⚔️

The king enshrines you in his warmth. You examine the white strands of his hair as you lay in his arms. Your gaze wanders further to his rounded muscle, the unmatched strength woven in his body. His statue matches the intangible authority attached to his very being. He is power incarnate.

You feel smaller as you lay beside him. The night passes, as it will not matter water. Time marches on like the very army that invaded your homeland at the behest of the man now clinging to you. Just a maid. Just a deceiver.

You turn your eyes past the king's sleeping form. His rumbling snores underline the soft crackle of embers breaking down. You cannot remove the danger buried deep in your chest. Memories only drive it deeper and deeper.

Your remember when Jazlene was only a girl. You've known her through every year of her life. You've seen her grow from cradle to crown. She might be flawed, she might be selfish and rotten and mean, but she is still that life you watch round the duchess' stomach when you were but yourself a child. She is still a living being.

There was a time when she did not obsess over jewels and silks and bottle. When you both were just young and naive. When she counted and you hid, then switched places. When you revealed yourself form behind your hands and she giggled in amazement. That time is gone and you only see doom ahead of you.

You can't lay there any longer.

You move the king's arm off of you and sit up. You put your back to him and bend over your lap. How you could melt to a puddle like the icy outside those castle walls. How you might wilt away like a flower without shade.

You do not dare leave the bed. Your emotions cannot overrule the man behind you. You flinch as he quiets and his snoring turns to a long groan. A tickle crawls up your back as he touches you. He pinches the fabric, tugging it as if to get your attention.

"Are you well, treasure?" He asks with grit in his throat.

"It is morning," you say, though the shutters block out the day, "shall I fetch you something to break your fast?"

He sighs and his hand fists the back of your shift. He pulls until you twist to look at him. He props himself on one elbow, holding his head as he looks at you. His expression is not as stony as it usually is. He is not the statuesque king, he is just a man, entirely vulnerable in nothing more than a piece of cloth.

"I don't want you to be maid this day," he touches your hip, his eyes dipping to watch his hand. "I want to... show you something. I want you to know this land. Once you do, you will know me."

"As you wish, your highness."

His brows lower and he pushes himself up, sitting against the pillows, "it doesn't need be. What do you wish, treasure? Tell me and I will grant it?"

You push up one shoulder, "I wish for nothing. A maid does not..."

"Not a maid," he insists again, "you, what do you wish?"

You lower your head and turn back to the chamber, "I would see your land. Show me then what I have not already seen."

His forceful breath uneases you. He is disappointed, though you say exactly what you should. What he should want. You will heed his desire, he only need declare it.

"Very well," he jostles the bed as he moves to sit beside you, "you will need to dress warmly. I will have gloves and a hat. Some boots," his arm is snug to yours, "

"Thank you, your highness," you utter.

"No, Geralt. My name is Geralt."

Your chest racks and your shoulders feel as if there are pins stuck in the joint. Your lips part then clamp together. You try to muster your voice but it catches like phlegm. You nearly choke.

"Will you say it?" He asks gently.

You turn to glance at him. It feels next to blasphemy. You blink and he reaches to frame your face with his large hand.

"To hear my name on your lips would me like a sacred melody. Please, treasure, just for me, you can say it," he pleads.

You take a breath through your nose and let it out in a wisp, "Geralt."

He smiles and his thumb runs along your chin to your lower lip, "again."

"Geralt," you say louder and he toys with your lip, his golden eyes narrowing on it, hungering for it as if a starving man looking upon a fine citrus.

"Again," he commands once more.

"Ger--"

You cannot finish is name as he covers your mouth with his. He smothers you in his need, pulling you against him, snaring you in his arms. He brings you over him as he falls onto his back, moaning as he delights in the taste of you, nibbling at your bottom lip. He hums and draws away as you breathless stare down at him.

"I have never known paradise, not in the hinter or the summer, but I find it here," he growls, "upon my very chest, in my very arms. If only it could be forever."

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #the witcher #winter's king

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mythals-whore · 30 days ago

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WIP Wednesday

I happened to come across @sugar-peanut-cat WIP post so I'm taking that as the official WIP Wednesday kick-off 🫡

In that spirit, I am tagging @basedonconjecture @biowarebisexualdisaster @becausedragonage @bg3daydream @ofcrowsanddragons @glitteringdust @gingervitus @operative-arrow @muqington AND @woundedsoul12

I have been in WIP hell because I wrote like three chapters that I'm now in the midst of re-writing but I did manage to get something down that I don't entirely hate, so here is a small excerpt(:

"Harding won't be pleased if I have to tell her you spent your life to get her back." The Inquisitor murmurs in a tone that's familiar only from his childhood. "Especially in something as unnecessary as that." magic leaks warmly into his chest cavity, stealing his breath as his ribs snap back together. "Neither will Cyri." the Inquisitor adds softly, sharply. At the mention of her name, Davrin bristles. "It wasn't unnecessary—" "It was." she insists in a tone that brooks no argument. Davrin scowls at the cavern wall. "You were reckless." Davrin vehemently disagrees, but knows his counter argument is of no real use. The truth is that he'd grown too used to it—having Cyri at his back, forging ahead at his side. You leave your right side open, she told him once, her dagger poised just below where the Inquisitor's magic leaks in now. It coats his insides like syrup before it begins to itch, flesh knitting itself back together. For several minutes, they all endure a silence marked only by the faint hum of magic and the striking of flint on steel as Stalgard works on starting a fire. Assan lets out a small warble as he plants himself at Davrin's side, ruffling his own feathers almost like he agrees with the Inquisitor's assessment. Davrin slides a slightly resentful hand over the creature's head. Intentionally reckless or not, Davrin needed to be more careful. For the team, for Assan. the hand that isn't on Assan's head slides to his pocket. For Cyri. "Did you know her before?" Davrin hears himself ask, and the Inquisitor shoots him an odd look, thoughtful as she sits on an old stone chair, the back of it having been half-hewn off. "You don't call her Rook." he says by way of clarifying the question.

#wip wednesday #my writing #davrilla #i will have a chapter up this week #I WILL #davrook

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onthewaytosomewhere · 9 days ago

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okay my luvs today's wip wed words come form the the newly starting to post Something About Dragons!!!! - that's right not only does dragon alex have a title but we're starting to post - eeeeep!!!!

but today i bring you some kisses from it cuz I've yet to do that for this (prolly cuz it took so long to get to them lolz)

Alex moves forward to once again press his lips to Henry’s. Henry meets him there, closing the final inch, lips touching like the first notes of a song neither of them has ever dared to hum aloud. It is not frantic or burning. No hunger, only longing fulfilled. Their kisses are soft, slow, and steeped in the kind of tenderness forged in fire and fear and finally, safety. Their mouths move together like a language only they know, a careful exploration of all they have waited for. It’s just as good as the first kiss, as good as they all are sure to be. Alex sighs into the kisses, and Henry mirrors it, the breath between them becoming one. They pull closer without even realizing, legs tangling beneath the blanket, hands roaming over each other's shirts with featherlight curiosity. Alex’s fingers find the slope of Henry’s hip, the ridge of his spine, the soft skin just behind his ear that makes Henry shiver. Henry’s palm brushes along Alex’s jaw, then his neck, then the hollow just above his collarbone. Every touch is new, every reaction cataloged like treasure. They keep kissing until their lips tingle, until the world outside the bed and room ceases to exist. They kiss until it feels less like discovery and more like something they have always known. There is nothing more in that moment—no kingdom, no titles, no war, no expectation. Just them. Alex and Henry. Dragon and prince. When they finally part, it is only by the barest breath, and even then they linger, noses brushing, foreheads resting against one another again. “You kiss me like you’ve been waiting your whole life to,” Henry whispers. Alex huffs a laugh and nuzzles closer. “Maybe I have.”

OPEN TAG TO ALL WHO WANT TO PLAY TODAY AND

tag ur it (in a no-pressure all that jazz way) @adreama-writes @alasse9 @bigswitchenergyy @blueeyedgrlwrites @bluemarkbennett @caterpills @cha-melodius @dezinthecloud @dizzymisslizzie @dreamtigress @emmalostinwonderland @eusuntgratie @everwitch-magiks @faketrex @firstprincehornyramblings @firstsprinces @forever-fixating @freyjaexplores @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @iboatedhere @jafffacakess @jmagnabo92 @judasofsuburbia @kj-bee @lfg1986-2 @miharaikko @mikibwrites @msmarvelouswinchester @myheartalivewrites @piratefalls @porcelainmortal @priincebutt @royal-chandler @run-for-chamo-miles @sophie1973 @sparklepocalypse @stellarmeadow @suseagull5914 @tailsbeth-writes @taste-thewaste @theprinceandagcd @thinkof-england @typicalopposite @thesleepyskipper @thighzp @tinyarmedtrex @zwiazdziarka

#wip wednesday #firstprince #rwrb fic #something about dragons #darastrix alex #dragon alex #kisses #i luv them

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nvirskies · 1 year ago

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little snippet of the clarisse x daughter of hephaestus thing that blew up a couple days ago in the works!

title (wip): it's getting hot in here

unedited rough draft!

lmk if you wanna be on the taglist for this and/or future clarisse pieces!

It was no secret the kids of Cabin 9 ran a side business to make some extra cash. It was pretty lucrative, given that there would always be a line of demigods waiting to have their weapon(s) of choice customized. Custom engravings, patterns cast into handles, ergonomic handpiece add-ons, and so much more. Name it, and it would be done for the right price, forged with impeccable quality.

And that was how Clarisse La Rue found herself heading to the forge just east of the strawberry fields with a thin paper in one hand and a small bag of golden drachmas in the other. The edges of the slip were just barely singed, and the writing on it looked nearly incomprehensible to many eyes, scribbled notes of her order confirmation and gods only knew what else. It didn’t matter to her, she just needed it to get her dagger and go.

Crowds parted for her like the Red Sea, once-lively conversations coming to a grinding halt as she walked straight through crowds and groups with nothing more than a glare and a sharp look in any general direction.

In no time at all, the familiar sounds of machinery clanking, fire hissing and crackling, and hammers striking metal filled the air. The forge, the singular place where one could guarantee there would be at least one child of Hephaestus in there at all hours of the day.

She pushed open the heavy metal door, swinging it wide open soundlessly despite its obvious weight. And what a sight she was greeted with. You were there alone, hunched over a piece of blisteringly hot metal, pounding away at it with a hammer in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other.

Something about you entranced her.

#🗡️ nvirspeaks #🖋️ nvir writes #clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue x fem reader #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x fem!reader #clarisse la rue x y/n #clarisse la rue pjo #clarisse la rue x you #clarisse pjo #clarisse larue #cabin 9 #daughter of hephaestus #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo tv #percy jackson and the olympians

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brandileigh2003 · 7 months ago

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Wolfstar Hogwarts era fic recs. This list was requested. (A lot of these extend into the war both divergent and non but hope that is ok)

Let me know what I missed including self recs. (I love getting y'all's self recs 💙)

~~~please give these authors love, comments and interaction means more than you know. ~~~

-The Standard Book Of Spells by Imparfait no voldy hogwarts au (this is one of my absolute favorite series!!!)

--Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations by @TheQueerTailor Sixth year has just started and Remus is barely keeping up. He's just sixteen but it feels like his body is falling apart.

--Tic Tic Boom by @fictionboysarebetter : Hogwarts fic, remus has tourettes (wip)

-The Ups and Downs of Inevitability by depressed_and_nauseous (check tags deals with heavy topics) remus is in Poppy's care for his safety (wip)

-The Shoebox Project: look back at Hogwarts years overall happy

-we grew up in spite of it by peachyybabe wip, remus has a twin, mcd

-Would That I by third_crow (wip) soulmates, canon divergent, no voldy, autistic remus

-Burning and Buried With the Rest of It by @kalegreeneyes Remus is bitten summer before 5th year, and how it affects friendships, and his mental health mind the tags!

-Of Initials and Postscripts (Hogwarts era, remus is homeschooled and sirius is his penpal) both by @irrationalmoony & LadyAmina

--from white-hot anticipation to cold-blooded fear and back again by @drowsyanddazed ravenclaw remus unimpressed by prank idea and they get close

-this is erosion by cruelrage : modern magical, texting at Hogwarts, remus homeschooled

-shifting Lines by dovahtobi (wip currently updating

-Befriending A Ravenclaw by @kreestars slow burn with pining. Remus is ravenclaw prefect

-summer you let your hair grow out By ladymemebeth : Sirius goes to remus instead of James'

- Heavy In Your Arms by @mollymarymarie : slytherin Sirius as padfoot finds injured ravenclaw remus and takes care of him

-Light in August by orestesfasting : summer at the Lupins

-Into the Fire by @wilteddaisy (taotu) triward tournament

-The Other Side of Sorrow by @thehufflebean Hogwarts divergent, Snape dies in prank

-shorn and scarred and yours by @lynxindisguise : Slytherin sirius, Hogwarts divergent

-Motion Sickness by oscarwildechilde : summer post prank. Lily and remus friendship

-if i could give you the moon by malecstsc fake dating, no voldy, Slytherin remus

-Scar-Crossed Lovers by Middleofamoment: soulmates

-Lie to Me (Another Secret) by Whoops_e

-Engaged for 43 years by @halfravenhalfclaw divergent first meeting to death (but they get to be old men)

-Snakes and Lions by @her-smile-forges-galaxies Slytherin remus, moonwater friendship focus. He's very morally gray.

-It takes a village by @kaymardsa fluff and snow burn

-sirius black and the "mystery girl" by anon

-Let Me Love You by anactualpirateship soulmates (scars)

-We are the Champions by @redadidassneakers Triwizard cup, different schools

-No Matter the Wreckage by @greyeyedmonster-18 5th year getting together

-Moony and Padfoot by linettisetgo: slow burn, moonflower friendship

-TransFigured [+podfic] by @picascribit ft trans remus

-we can be heroes by @blitheringmcgonagall long fic 💙

-I Want To Be Good @mightyd0lphin sirius pov unlearning things from family

-Do I Wanna Know? By @shadow_prince

-i've loved you in a million different ways by @dotty456 no voldy divergent

-We Were Infinite by tazmanic

-waterloo by frogsandfairies fake dating

-Wereapples by GreenIbis : wolfstar from several perspectives

•reddit rec post here

Jegulus main but wolfstar is heavily featured

-just lovers by bizarrestars: divergent fic, fake dating (wolfstar isn't main but )

- Only the Brave by Solmussa

-Choices by MesserMoon canon

New wolfstar addition:

•Brave Face by zoe_millin_writes @zoemillinwrites WIP multiple pov but Sirius is primary. It's so good

#Hogwarts era #mwpp era #wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #marauders #fic recs #fanfic recommendations

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anghraine · 3 months ago

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Happy WIP Wednesday, y'all! Consider yourself tagged if you feel up to it.

I had fun poking at a femslash Spirk scene that's been percolating in my mind for awhile, from fairly early in the mission, I'm imagining not long before the T'Pring/Stonn romance takes off. (In the AU, S'paak is betrothed to Stonn rather than T'Pring.)

Stonn had his own life as much as S’paak had hers—or nearly as much. Thankfully. Only now and then did S’paak register the nauseating intrusion of his mind through their betrothal link. The connection was too weak and distant for him to see what she saw or know her thoughts, no security risk at all, just a tug, an assertion of himself. It wasn’t done with precision or elegance, though she had a lingering impression of his spoken voice, how it must sound these days. The impression pressed as forcefully into her mind as the fragile bond would allow. Sa’dzhasifik Raelyek T’sai S’paak, parted from me and never parted. Never and always touching and touched. S’paak, child of Sarek, child of Skonn, child of Solkar … soon, joined. She set her teeth and blocked him from her awareness as much as possible, focusing on her responsibilities. The effort was unpleasant, like fire flashing through her nervous system—their bond, however weak, was not intended to be closed off in such a way—but, as she told herself, pain was a matter of the body, subordinate to the power of reason and will. When the bond had been forged between S’paak and Stonn as children, nobody foresaw this future for her, standing at the science station on the deck of a massive Federation starship. But the fact of it could not be changed. She always ignored the dull throbbing in her head except to grant her captain even greater than usual sympathy. It was on one of these occasions, with her internal composure disrupted by Stonn’s distant intrusion, that she agreed to a chess game with Captain Kirk. “In my quarters, if you don’t mind,” S’paak said without thinking. Kirk just arched a brow, rather as S’paak might have done, had she felt like moving any muscles of her face at all.

“Of course I don’t,” Kirk said smoothly, and they scheduled the game for later that evening.

S’paak had hoped her headache would have vanished entirely by that time. Stonn never fought her barriers; it was enough to remind her of who she was, what she was, and what he would be to her within a few years. They were already thirty-six; his pon farr would arrive soon enough, even if her human heritage granted her the one grace of freedom from it. At any rate, blocking her sense of his mind should not come at so high a price that the piercing pain of it would linger hours later.

And yet it did, without reason or logic. She did her best to conceal it from Captain Kirk that evening, refusing to allow Stonn to strip this small pleasure from her. If she could have, she would have excised him from her mind altogether while in Kirk’s presence, something in her repulsed by the idea of him having any part in her relationship with Kirk.

Illogical, she thought again. Five months ago, she had never set eyes on Jessica Kirk and knew nothing about her. It was unreasonable for their pleasant companionship to seem more sacrosanct than her years of service with Captain Pike. Nothing, however, could dislodge her judgment that it was nevertheless true. She could only accept the fact for what it was.

Kirk was studying the placement of the pieces with an unusual degree of puzzlement. She rarely bothered to hide or perform emotions when alone with S’paak, so here, nothing inhibited S’paak’s observation of her brows pulling together, a line creasing the skin between them.

“Is something wrong, captain?” S’paak asked.

Kirk glanced up at her, dark eyes steady. “I was going to ask you the same thing. You usually play better.” Then she gave a quick laugh. “I hope you aren’t letting me win.”

“Not at all,” said S’paak immediately. “I was simply … distracted. I apologize.”

“You, distracted?” Kirk said, with a flattering degree of surprise. “I mean, no apology is necessary, of course. We can play another time. But S’paak, you can just say no if you don’t want to.”

“I did—as you say, want to,” said S’paak. She could at least thank her headache for ensuring that her expression gave nothing away. “That isn’t my difficulty. I ...” She could not imagine telling Kirk the truth, even alluding to pon farr in her presence, yet couldn’t bring herself to altogether conceal it either. She settled on: “I received a message in relation to a task I must perform in the future, and have been considering how I might approach it. But I would rather continue this.” She gestured at the board.

“I see,” the captain replied, though of course, she didn’t. Even she seemed aware of that, her brows still knitting together. “I hope I didn’t assign this task.”

“You did not. It will be a Vulcan matter, not a Starfleet one,” said S’paak, blinking against the light that pooled painfully around just about every inanimate object in her quarters, and Jess as well.

Kirk’s voice lowered into sympathy. “Bad news, I’m guessing?”

“Not news,” S’paak said. “But disagreeable, yes. It was simply a reminder.”

“Well, I won’t ask any more, if you’d rather not talk about it,” Kirk replied easily. But her gaze was still sharp, studying S’paak with the flitting, half-subconscious observation of humans. “Actually—sorry, I’m going to immediately renege on that. Are you sure you’re all right? You look a bit off color.” Even in the reddish cast of S’paak’s quarters, and even through the haze of discomfort, S’paak could not miss her sudden flush. “Ah, not literally. I mean sick or unwell. I really can go if you need to lie down or get something from Bones.”

“No. Don’t go,” S’paak said without thinking, her voice still thankfully composed.

Kirk smiled at her and nodded, absently rubbing her palm with one hand. “If you’re sure.”

If you’re sure. You can just say no. With a piercing ferocity, S’paak wished that either were true: that she could simply refuse Stonn’s pon farr, that she could have refused the bond when she was a girl of seven with no concept of what she would or would not find distasteful in the future, that she could turn away from almost anything she disliked with no greater rationale than I do not want to. It was, she supposed, a human failing; but from Kirk, it was also a human consideration, a kindness. Some return felt necessary.

“I am certain,” said S’paak. “I have a slight headache, but it shouldn’t impair me further.”

“A headache?” Kirk said, her expression clearing. “Why didn’t you just say so?—And you can’t take anything for it?”

“Nothing would be helpful. It really is not a great concern, captain,” S’paak said.

The captain looked more obstinate than usual. “I may be no doctor, but tension headaches are rather my specialty.” She lifted her voice slightly. “Lights—Kirk speaking, captain’s override four-two-seven-one. Lights, twelve percent.”

The illumination of the room dimmed so suddenly that S’paak blinked again. She could see the board, Kirk’s shadowed face, but the rest of the quarters were shrouded. It did, in fact, help.

“I’ll be right back,” Jess said, and with no further warning, she hurried out through the doors of S’paak’s quarters.

She was sometimes very human. S’paak had no idea what the captain was doing—not a new form of ignorance, to be sure—and did not care for the fact that she, S’paak, had failed to conceal such a trivial weakness, that she’d allowed Stonn to affect Jess in any way. But it bothered her less than she would have thought, all the more as her eyes adjusted to the lowered lights.

Right back turned out to amount to eleven minutes and twenty-nine seconds, but Jess was true to her word otherwise. She returned with slower, more cautious steps, detectable even before S’paak saw her, attended by a distinctly new smell. It was herbal without doubt, some combination of plants that S’paak’s tricorder could unquestionably have identified, but which she was in no condition to detect beyond the amorphously pleasant scent. As Jess came more clearly into view, S’paak saw that something was cradled between her hands and steaming.

Tea.

“Here,” said Jess, setting the cup down beside S’paak’s wrist. “You like tea, right? And this one is my favorite for headaches. It might not affect you the same way, but …”

S’paak did not know what to say, but then, the circumstance didn’t require words. She eyed the liquid in front of her and took a cautious sip.

“This did not come from a replicator,” she said, then took another sip. It was very different from the beverages she’d grown up with on Vulcan, and even those her mother sometimes drank, but the blend of mild, half-familiar flavors was pleasant, as was the warmth of the liquid and steam.

“No, my brother sent it to me,” said Jess, sitting back down. “I don’t drink a lot of tea, but he knows I can be … a bit tense at times, and he’s done all kinds of experiments on what’s safest and most helpful for this kind of thing—he’s a botanist, so … well, anyway. Do you like it?”

S’paak drank a little more. Her head still ached, but the gift, the lowered lights, the easy understanding of the woman across from her, combined to settle the intensity burning under her skin. She could sense the thin bond to Stonn’s mind, as ever, but in that moment, he seemed very far away.

“I do,” said S’paak. “It’s helping. I would not have taken a family gift, however, had I known its origin.”

Jess shrugged. “There’s more where that came from. Let me know if you ever want another cup.” Without another word, she studied the board and moved her rook to the middle level. “Your turn, S’paak.”

#i do know that most of fandom goes for spock's full name being from... some other source than the show or movies #i am a free spirit however and just looked for something with the right vibes for how he talks about it to leila #anghraine babbles #long post #meme prattle #meme #wip wednesday #fic talk #fic talk: the lesbian spock agenda #s'paak #c: i object to intellect without discipline #jessica kirk #c: who do i have to be #star peace #otp: the premise #genderbending

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finniigan-fr · 1 year ago

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Modelled a little forge for my blacksmith Pearlcatcher, Ember :3

Yes, he has a wooden workbench and a barrel full of coal next to an open flame,, his ass is NOT sornieth osha compliant!

also i may have forgot his pearl and whiskers uhhh just pretend he left the pearl inside and he burnt his whiskers off when he leaned over the fire one time (again... he is not operating a safe business by any means)

plus some wip pics if youre into that sort of thing

and heres what hes gonna look like once i gene him up! still need to save up for a trans scroll and all the genes lol

#fr fanart #flight rising art #flight rising #pearlcatcher #blender 3d #low poly #3d model #flight rising pearlcatcher #flight rising fanart #fr fanart friday #what even is the fr friday art tag anymore asjdhsfdsjh it changed at one point and idk what it is now #anyway this took me like 3ish days? im putting it in wip hell for now but it looks pretty good as is so im happy #i havent messed around in blender for a long time cos i made like 3 attempts and did so terrible each time #but apparently i learned something each time from the failures since it felt a lot easier this time #i can tell im not using the cleanest or most efficient techniques and i know nothing about nodes xD but im slowly improving!!#anyway im taking a break from modelling to work on comms again now! and to look for a job sdkfj #mine #my art #finn.txt

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theink-stainedfolk · 30 days ago

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New WIP!!!

Viper In Velvet

---

In the shadowed heart of Caelinholt, where art is power and secrets are painted in blood, Rui Meinert is no longer the boy who lost everything. Once shattered by grief, he’s remade himself as the Viper in Velvet—a charismatic curator with crimson hair and a wardrobe as daring as his tongue.

Hired to resurrect the reputation of the Grand Adelpho Gallery, a gothic monument to beauty and betrayal, Rui navigates a world where every canvas hides a lie. When a series of unsettling paintings surfaces, each whispering memories he’s tried to bury, Rui is drawn into a dangerous game. A clandestine society, a past tragedy, and faces he thought were gone forever pull him toward a truth that could unravel his carefully crafted facade.

With a detective who knows too much, a grieving matriarch with hidden motives, and a nervous assistant sketching secrets he can’t remember, Rui must decide whether to chase answers—or keep running from the ghosts that made him. In a city where art doesn’t just reflect reality but shapes it, the price of truth might be more than Rui can pay.

---

Character Introduction

RUI MEINERT

Age: 27

Birthday: March 3, 1862

Zodiac Sign: Pisces

Ethnicity: Mixed European (Dutch/French)

Height: 5'11" / 180 cm

Build: Slender but toned, with elegant limbs and a dancer’s grace

Eyes: Silver-gray, sharp and calculating, like polished steel under moonlight

Hair: Crimson red, collarbone-length waves, often half-pinned with ornate accessories

Skin Tone: Porcelain with a subtle warmth, flawless but faintly scarred at the wrists from the fire

Dominant Hand: Right

Style: A daring blend of late-Victorian opulence and modern provocation—deep V-neck silk shirts, high-slit trousers, floor-length tailcoats in emerald or wine, adorned with serpent-shaped pins, antique cufflinks, and silver chains. Every outfit is a statement, both armor and weapon.

Moodboard: Crimson velvet, shattered mirrors, gold embroidery, black lace, a single white petal pressed in a book, gaslit streets, a silver key on a chain, spilled wine on marble, a forged painting glowing under candlelight.

Appearance:

Rui is a vision of calculated allure—tall and lithe, with crimson hair that cascades like blood over his shoulders. His silver-gray eyes cut through pretense, and his movements are deliberate, each step a performance. His wardrobe is scandalously revealing for the era: open-back shirts that bare the curve of his spine, trousers with slits that tease pale skin, and coats that sweep the floor like royal capes. A tarnished key pendant—Raban’s—hangs at his throat, the only hint of vulnerability beneath his polished exterior.

Past:

Born into a minor aristocratic family with a fading name, Rui and his twin Raban were inseparable, raised in Caelinholt’s Veiled Quarter among artists and schemers. Their mother, a disgraced art restorer, taught them to see beauty as power. After the catastrophic fire at the Grand Adelpho Gallery that killed Raban and Roysia Du Toit, Rui was shattered. He spent months in isolation, haunted by guilt for prioritizing a trivial errand over attending the gala with Raban. From that ash, he forged the Viper in Velvet—a money-obsessed curator who trades in secrets and spectacle, working in the very gallery where his brother died, seeking answers while hiding his grief behind charm and couture.

Personality & Traits

✔ Razor-tongued, with a wit that disarms and wounds

✔ Emotionally guarded, buries pain under performance

✔ Criminally charming, draws devotion without trying

✔ Secretly protective of those who get too close

✔ Savant-level eye for art and forgery detection

✔ Plays ignorant to manipulate, always five steps ahead

✔ Desperately afraid of being seen as weak

Hobbies:

Collecting rare antique jewelry to repurpose into outfit accents

Sketching forgeries in private, never to sell but to understand them

Visiting Caelinholt’s underground cafes to eavesdrop on gossip

Writing coded letters he never sends, addressed to Raban

Quirks:

Adjusts his gloves dramatically before speaking in tense situations

Always carries Raban’s key pendant, touching it when nervous

Hums a lullaby their mother sang, but only when alone

Refuses to drink anything but red wine, claiming it “matches his aesthetic”

Likes & Dislikes

✅ Likes:

Money and the power it buys

Silk gloves with intricate embroidery

Dramatic entrances that silence rooms

Cryptic paintings that hide secrets

Being underestimated, as it gives him an edge

Quiet, unspoken loyalty from others

❌ Dislikes:

Sudden loud noises that remind him of the fire

People who ask personal questions without tact

Cheap, uninspired art

Emotional vulnerability in public

Being touched without permission

The smell of ash or smoke

Favorite Food:

Blood orange sorbet, tart and vivid

Duck confit with rosemary, rich and indulgent

Black sesame macarons, delicate and unexpected

A Line That Defines Him:

“Darling, if I wanted to be honest, I’d charge extra.”

~~~

DETECTIVE KAESO ALBAN

Age: 30

Birthday: October 16, 1858

Zodiac Sign: Libra

Ethnicity: Mediterranean-European (Italian/Greek heritage)

Height: 6'2" / 188 cm

Build: Lean and broad-shouldered, with an athletic frame hardened by years of chasing truths through Caelinholt’s alleys

Eyes: Deep brown with golden flecks, shadowed by suspicion and sleepless nights

Hair: Dark brown, short and windswept, with premature gray at the temples like brushstrokes of ash

Skin Tone: Olive, weathered by sun and city grit, with faint scars on his knuckles from old fights

Dominant Hand: Left

Style: Late-Victorian practicality with a touch of defiance—long charcoal trench coats, slightly frayed at the cuffs; tailored vests in navy or black; leather gloves worn thin at the fingertips. Always carries a silver pocket watch and the cuff used to arrest Rui, tucked in his pocket like a guilty secret.

Moodboard: Rain-soaked cobblestones, a flickering gas lamp, a worn detective’s notebook, spilled whiskey on a desk, a single handcuff glinting in moonlight, a faded sketch of an artist, cigar smoke curling in the air, a cracked pocket watch, a shadowed alley in Caelinholt.

Appearance:

Kaeso Alban is a study in contrasts—rugged yet refined, with a detective’s slouch and a soldier’s posture. His dark brown eyes, flecked with gold, seem to see through lies, but soften when they land on Rui. His weathered olive skin and short, tousled hair give him a lived-in look, like a man who’s fought too many battles but hasn’t surrendered. His trench coats, always slightly damp, hang heavy with the weight of his past, and the silver cuff in his pocket is a constant reminder of Rui’s arrest—and their unfinished story. He moves with quiet intensity, every gesture deliberate, as if measuring the cost of each step.

Past:

Born to a Greek merchant and an Italian seamstress in Caelinholt’s Halo Walk, Kaeso grew up in the shadow of the art world, his younger brother an aspiring painter. After his brother vanished during a mysterious gallery commission, Kaeso joined the Cultural Crimes Unit’s Forgery Division, driven to uncover the truth. His arrest of Rui Meinert for art fraud years ago—charges dropped due to lack of evidence—left him both fascinated and frustrated by the red-haired enigma. Now a freelance detective, he’s drawn back to the Grand Adelpho Gallery when murders mimicking Roysia Du Toit’s paintings surface, suspecting a connection to his brother’s disappearance and The Petal’s shadowy influence.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Stoic and cynical, with a detective’s knack for patterns and lies

✔ Morally gray, bending rules for answers but anchored by buried guilt

✔ Grudgingly witty, his dry humor a shield against Rui’s flirtations

✔ Deeply protective, especially of Rui, though he hides it behind gruffness

✔ Haunted by his brother’s loss, sees echoes of him in Rui’s grief

✔ Reluctantly charmed by Rui’s Viper in Velvet persona, torn between trust and suspicion

✔ Obsessive, unable to let go of a case—or a person—once it grips him

Hobbies:

Reading old detective novels, annotating margins with his own theories

Sketching crime scenes in a small notebook, a habit learned from his brother

Visiting Caelinholt’s quietest cafes to think, always alone

Polishing his pocket watch, a gift from his brother, to calm his nerves

Quirks:

Taps his left thumb against his cuff when deep in thought

Always smells faintly of cigar smoke, though he’s trying to quit

Keeps Rui’s cuff in his pocket, touching it during tense moments

Mutters case details under his breath when pacing

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

Bitter coffee, black as ink

The sound of rain on cobblestones

Old novels with dog-eared pages

Rui’s rare, unguarded smiles

Solving a case before anyone else

The weight of his pocket watch in his hand

❌ Dislikes:

Art galleries and their pretentious silence

Liars who lack finesse

Rui’s reckless charm (or so he claims)

Crowded, noisy ballrooms

The smell of turpentine, tied to his brother’s studio

Unfinished stories

Favorite Food:

Bolognese, made from his brother’s recipe, rich and comforting

Baklava, a nod to his Greek roots, sweet and layered

Smoky whiskey, sipped neat from a chipped glass

A Line That Defines Him:

“You can’t charm your way out of truth, Meinert. But damn if you don’t try.”

~~~

LADY SOLENNE GAUME

Age: 47

Birthday: January 6, 1841

Zodiac Sign: Capricorn

Ethnicity: French aristocracy

Height: 5'9" / 175 cm

Build: Regal and statuesque, with a dancer’s grace and a predator’s poise

Eyes: Ice blue, heavy-lidded, piercing through veils like a blade

Hair: Silver-blonde, coiled in elaborate chignons or draped under mourning veils

Skin Tone: Ivory, smooth as marble, betraying no age or weakness

Dominant Hand: Right

Style: Mourning gowns of black or midnight silk, high collars adorned with jet beads or lace; jeweled pins shaped like thorns or ravens; veiled hats that cast shadows over her face. Carries a lacquered violin case, rumored to hide a weapon, its surface etched with faint floral patterns.

Moodboard: Black silk rippling in candlelight, a raven’s feather, a violin case locked with silver, a pearl choker, a cracked marble statue, a single red rose wilting in a vase, a coded letter sealed with wax, a gaslit ballroom, a hidden dagger under lace.

Appearance:

Solenne Gaume is a vision of mourning made weapon. Tall and regal, she moves like a queen exiled from her throne, every gesture deliberate and commanding. Her ice-blue eyes cut through pretense, and her silver-blonde hair, always impeccably styled, gleams like moonlight. Her gowns, though somber, are exquisitely tailored, with high collars and intricate embroidery that hint at secrets sewn into the fabric. The violin case she carries is both accessory and enigma, its weight suggesting more than music. A pearl choker at her throat and a faint scar on her wrist—barely visible—are the only cracks in her polished facade.

Past:

Born into French aristocracy, Solenne married into Caelinholt’s powerful Du Toit family, aligning herself with their art-world dominance. Her husband’s mysterious death left her a widow of immense influence, but her son’s tragic loss years later hardened her heart. She became a patron of the Grand Adelpho Gallery, using her wealth and connections to shape its legacy. Her ties to Roysia Du Toit, a distant relative, run deeper than she admits, and her knowledge of The Petal’s machinations makes her both a player and a target. Hiring Rui as curator was no accident—she sees in him a tool, a mirror, and perhaps a way to atone for past sins.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Composed and calculating, her grief is a masterful performance

✔ Ruthless yet maternal, treats Rui like a son she must both protect and control

✔ Speaks in poetic riddles or veiled threats, always commanding

✔ Admires Rui’s Viper in Velvet charm but sees through his mask

✔ Fiercely loyal to those she chooses, but betrayal is unforgivable

✔ Master of emotional manipulation, using mourning as power

✔ Secretly fears her own vulnerability, buried under silk and steel

Hobbies:

Playing the violin in private, composing elegies no one hears

Collecting rare poisons, disguised as perfumes in crystal vials

Studying ancient heraldry to decode Caelinholt’s bloodlines

Writing coded musical scores, possibly linked to The Petal

Quirks:

Adjusts her veil before speaking, a ritual to center herselfTaps her violin case lightly when impatient or plottingAlways wears a pearl choker, a gift from her late sonSmiles faintly when Rui sasses her, a rare crack in her composure

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

The resonance of a perfectly tuned violinIntricate lies told with elegance

Pearls and jet jewelry, symbols of her status

The thrill of outwitting an opponent

Rui’s audacious outfits, though she’d never admit it

The scent of lavender, calming her nerves

❌ Dislikes:

Messy emotions without purpose

Betrayal by those she trusts

Cheap sentimentality, an insult to true grief

Being underestimated as “just a widow”

Garish, tasteless art

Unfinished plans

Favorite Food:

Lavender honey tarts, delicate and refinedRed wine, aged to perfection, sipped slowlyButtered radishes with sea salt, crisp and sharp

A Line That Defines Her:

“Mourn beautifully, Rui, or don’t mourn at all. But never let them see the cracks.”

~~~

LUBIN SPITZ

Age: 22

Birthday: May 2, 1866

Zodiac Sign: Taurus

Ethnicity: Germanic-French

Height: 5'7" / 170 cm

Build: Slim, slightly hunched, as if carrying an invisible burden

Eyes: Soft hazel, wide with nerves, often hidden behind oversized glasses

Hair: Chestnut, tousled and messy, falling into his eyes

Skin Tone: Pale with freckles, flushing easily under stress or embarrassment

Dominant Hand: Right

Style: Ill-fitting Victorian attire—oversized wool sweaters, mismatched scarves, trousers too short or too loose; oversized glasses that slip down his nose. Always carries a worn sketchbook, its pages stained with charcoal and secrets.

Moodboard: A tattered sketchbook, smudged charcoal, a cracked teacup, a flickering candle, a forgotten gallery corner, a pressed white petal, a trembling hand, a gaslit shadow, a half-remembered dream.

Appearance:

Lubin Spitz is a bundle of nerves wrapped in mismatched clothes, his slim frame dwarfed by sweaters that seem borrowed from someone larger. His hazel eyes, wide and anxious, dart behind glasses too big for his freckled face, catching details others miss. His chestnut hair is perpetually unkempt, falling into his eyes as if hiding from the world. He moves like a startled deer, quick and hesitant, clutching his sketchbook like a lifeline. A faint scar above his left eyebrow, from a carriage accident he doesn’t fully remember, is the only mark on his pale skin.

Past:

Born to a family of art forgers in Caelinholt’s Undertow, Lubin’s childhood was spent learning to mimic masters before he could read. His talent caught Roysia Du Toit’s eye, and she hired him as an intern, teaching him to see art as truth. After a mysterious carriage accident left him with partial amnesia, he was recruited—possibly coerced—by The Petal to spy on Rui at the Grand Adelpho Gallery. His loyalty to Rui grows despite his secret task, and his sketchbook, filled with drawings he doesn’t recall making, holds clues to Roysia’s survival and The Petal’s experiments.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Nervous and sweet, with a disarming innocence that hides pain

✔ Secretly brilliant at decoding art, a savant trapped by fear

✔ Loyal to Rui, but torn by his obligations to The Petal

✔ Worships Rui’s kindness, mistaking it for salvation

✔ Haunted by amnesia, terrified of his own sketches

✔ Brave when pushed, with a quiet strength that surprises

✔ Falls for Rui’s Viper in Velvet charisma, seeing him as a hero

Hobbies:

Sketching obsessively, often Roysia’s art or Rui’s silhouette

Drinking bitter espresso in gallery corners, avoiding crowds

Reading old art catalogues, searching for familiar images

Wandering Caelinholt’s tunnels, seeking solitude

Quirks:

Pushes his glasses up his nose when nervous, which is often

Hums a tune from Roysia’s studio, unaware it’s hers

Clutches his sketchbook tightly when Rui is near

Blushes furiously at Rui’s teasing, stammering in response

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

Roysia’s haunting paintings, etched in his soul

Bitter espresso, his only constant

Rui’s approval, a rare warmth

Quiet nights in empty galleries

Velvet-bound journals, soft to the touch

The smell of charcoal, grounding him

❌ Dislikes:

Loud confrontations, they make him freeze

Sudden touches, triggering panic

Forgetting his own past, a constant fear

The last pages of his sketchbook, they scare him

Rui’s anger, it feels like betrayal

Crowded, chaotic spaces

Favorite Food:

Burnt toast with marmalade, simple and familiar

Instant noodles, a cheap comfort in lean times

Cinnamon tea, soothing his frayed nerves

A Line That Defines Him:

“I don’t know why I drew you, sir. But… it feels like I was supposed to.”

---

My ♡s: @paeliae-occasionally @willtheweaver @drchenquill @wyked-ao3 @the-inkwell-variable @corinneglass @seastarblue @keeping-writing-frosty @oliolioxenfreewrites @vesanal @orphanheirs @dauntlessdraupadi @oros-ash3s @pheonix358 @ominous-faechild @loveyouloatheyou @write-with-will

#writeblr #creative writing #writers #writers on tumblr #writing #writers of tumblr #writers and poets #writerscommunity #writblr

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