#copper x silver

[thisbluespirit]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sapphire and Steel Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Copper/Silver (Sapphire and Steel) Characters: Copper (S&S), Silver (S&S) Additional Tags: Ficlet, original elements, Prompt Fic, Kissing Summary:

Silver/Copper, kiss as a yes.

[muntadhiralqahtani]

EOG AND RIVER OF SILVER SPOILERS BUT

CAN I JUST SAY i remember SO badly feeling robbed of so many scenes I wanted in EOG. I remember being so sad that we didn’t get a single nahri + muntadhir scene after seeing how interesting and complex their dynamic was in KOC. I remember being so bummed that so many big muntadhir moments were offscreen like muntadhir and jamshid at the end and i am SOOO HAPPY THAT SHANNON GAVE US EXACTLY THAT IN RIVER OF SILVER LIKE I FEEL SO VALIDATED IN HOW MUCH FUN THE NAHRI + MUNTADHIR EXES DYNAMIC WAS I LOVE THEM SM, AND GODDD “COME HOME WITH ME” ??????? CRYING I AM DECEASED MY HEARTTTT and GOD getting muntadhir’s POV on how he feels after everything that happened???? the way he views himself????? the way he sees everyone around him as brave and for having acted like heroes and the way he sees himself and what he did in the wake of everything as a monster?? CRYING LIKE MY POOR ANGEL BABY IT IS SO SAD BC NO ONE REALLY KNOWS THE SHEER LEVEL OF MADNESS HE HAD GONE TO IN THOSE PRISONS like him calling himself out for approaching everything with betrayal and politics and cheating and calling himself a monster for it when i remember reading it as a reader in EOG and being so impressed by him (both as a character and for how much even his tiny parts really carried EOG for me) i’m just so content with this extra scene i’m so so so happy rn

[sigalrm]

Zaun by Pascal Volk

[zwhoreo]

can i request some slutty luffy? just fuck me up fam ☠️

AHH i think this is so beautiful and one of my fav smuts i’ve written!!! :’)

hunger - luffy x f!reader

smut

summary: luffy gets incredibly horny, and he’s confusing lust with hunger

contains: mating press, praise, marking (reader receiving)

words: 2.4k

_______________________________

Luffy’s alone. He thinks, right now, of touch. And his body is sweaty from the day and from his yearning mind, he’s shirtless because an hour ago he lit on fire beneath his skin, he’s been simmering ever since, and it’s healed, somehow, by touch. So his fingers dig into the grooves of his abs, he likes to feel them flex and shift as he traces every corner, mouth open, drooling onto the glass of the porthole. He left his bed an hour ago when he lit on fire beneath his skin. His blanket became too hot, his mind too full to fall asleep. He’s thinking about food now, juicy fruits that drip down his throat, melted cheese, the greasy, fatty pieces of steak that slide so slowly along his tongue.

He rubs his stomach because he’s hungry, that’s it. There’s a burning within him, starvation but if it was beautiful. He needs food right now but he knows, somehow, that food won’t do anything for him, not really. And if he rubs his stomach because he’s hungry then why does his hand go lower, down beneath his waistline, tugging at the hair down there because, why? Why does this feel good? Why is he moaning, little whimpers that fog the glass, what does he need? He thinks of touch. Skin on skin. That’s it, skin on skin.

You’re probably alone. Moonbeams sail one by one from the east with the wind and blackening sky as the sunset turns lilac, fading, gold waves turning silver, copper. Translucent silk the color of the sunset hangs from your shoulders, a slip so loose it barely covers your chest. It isn’t cold tonight and you’re not tired. You saw dolphins this evening and you wonder if you can see them again before the water disappears in the night. Everyone else is already asleep. You hope that when you’re tired you can find Luffy, who’s probably asleep, and curl up with him as everything drifts away.

But as the ocean laps at the ship and you’re calmed by the gentle rocking you feel, suddenly, arms from behind. Arms that run over yours, hands massaging your wrists up to your shoulders. A distinct smell, the feeling of hot rubber, this is Luffy and he’s so, so warm. And his breathing is so heavy in your ear. He places his chin on your shoulder and it’s covered in drool, he begins to slowly lick your neck as he pulls you closer. You haven’t even said hi before he has you in his lap, squeezing your waist from behind. His licks turn to kisses, and then to bites, all over your upper back and then a wet, raw trail up to your jaw. He’s groaning with want, no words yet, he has too many things he wants to say.

“Hi Luffy,” you murmur with a little smile, reaching back to pet his face which is burning up and flushed. His tongue laps your cheek, he’s an excited puppy, you feel his teeth now so you ask gently, “what’s up?”

“Gonna eat you,” he says in a quiet, gravely voice, right into your ear. He whines after this in desire, in hunger, he’s lustful and desperate.

“Yeah?” You lean back against him. His arms are so tight, he’s trying to wrap you up and crush you like a python. And you can feel his heartbeat race in every muscle.

“Mh, ‘cause you’re real pretty. And I’m hungry so I’m gonna eat you.” He’s almost trying to take a bite out of your neck now, his teeth are sharp but his tongue is soothing, he moans because he likes the flavor. “Real pretty…” he hisses again beneath his breath.

You turn so you’re facing him. He needs a kiss right now and he doesn’t hesitate to grab your face and dive in, writhing tongue slipping greedily between your lips. And there’s a gentleness here too, his hand moves to the back of your head, stroking your hair adoringly. He isn’t going to hurt you he just needs you so, so bad and he doesn’t really know how or why or what he should say.

“God, Luffy.” You’re quiet, muffled by his mouth. And just hearing your voice again clouds his mind.

“Love ya, love ya so much,” he says in between moans and kisses. His nails scrape at your chest, delighted by softness, something to grab onto, more to squeeze. “I wanna play, please can we play?”

Trying to get on top of you he’s leaning over you and pulled by instinct, he wants you straddling him but he wants to be on top at the same time. He’s just a tangle of limbs right now, saliva dripping messily onto your neck.

“Of course I’ll play with you.” You’re blushing, eyes closing but he’s squeezing your cheeks and forcing you to look at him, huge sparkling eyes as deep as the Mariana look down on you.

Luffy begins to laugh. Just a breathy giggle at first, blowing air between his teeth in a little joyful hiss. And then his mouth opens, he laughs more, louder, that’s what he does when he’s excited and when he knows he’s about to get something that he wants so, so bad. And then it fades to giggles again, and he stills for a moment, no movement except his chest. Rise and fall, rise and fall. He’s just looking at you.

And then he licks his lips. He dives in.

You make a small sound, surprised and unable to react in time, as Luffy plants his feet firmly on the deck, your thighs slamming his stomach as your legs are thrown over his shoulders. And you’re bent, folding tighter and tighter as Luffy crouches over you. His arms encircle your legs and your back and your waist and constrict again, his legs are spread and ready, twitching, hips pressing yours. He’s forgetting, probably, that you aren’t as flexible as he is.

“This is good, Lu, this right here,” you manage to choke out because you often have to remind him what your body can and can’t take.

He mumbles a little apology and does a once over with his eyes, he wants to make sure that you aren’t hurt but, at the same time, he’s letting his gaze linger on your body, on the silk slip that’s fallen as your waist curls upwards and your breasts are bare now, so delicious, he’s drooling again. You’re tasty, you’re his.

This must take so much strength, the way he’s perched on his toes over your body, his thigh muscles clench and ripple against yours. Shared sweat, shared warmth. His balance is perfect even as he reaches for your chest, rubbing, holding, kissing, now he’s kissing your lips, now your neck. He doesn’t want this ever to be over.

And he says, “I love ya so much.” That’s the third time he’s said it.

“I love you too,” you say with such joy even as you’re breathless still, but before you can finish he’s pressing his mouth to yours hungrily. You said you loved him and he wants to taste it — the flavor of those words — it’s all-consuming.

“Tastes so good, mmh,” Luffy gasps as he takes you into this hot, wet kiss, “can’t wait, wanna play now.”

You’re not sure how he did it from this position, but his pants are off, kicked to the side. His cock is aching and leaking already and smoldering against your stomach, you can see it from here, throbbing and waiting, skin so smooth and thin and perfect like auburn moth wings over red-hot iron.

His chest crashes against yours in a tidal wave now because this new vulnerability makes him want to be closer. Now you can’t see it anymore but god, it’s so hard it feels like he’s denting you, so long and thick like a python, he’s still holding you, and squeezing more and more. Like a python.

With so much pressure he wraps his hands around lower, lower, snapping your panties, thrusting against your stomach in a way that shakes your body but he’s got you. You’re in his arms.

Begging eyes so close to yours, mouth on your lips and cheek, breathing so fast and so warm and he whispers, “can I?” And it’s so scratchy and kind and needy so deep in his throat.

So you pull his hair, you kiss him, yes.

Rolling back on his heels he finds his way, sloppy thrusts that don’t quite make it but god when they do, he isn’t going all the way even though his every nerve craves you but you’re his baby and he can’t hurt you.

Thick tip so soft and gentle, butterfly wings and flowers, impossibly hard and aching in heartbeat rhythms against your clit, moving you with every pulse, searching and desperate like a moth to a flame he finds you.

Shivers that make you clench your legs against his shoulders as he rubs and rubs back and forth and hugs your body and bites your cheek and murmurs, “that feel good? Ya like that?” with such curiosity like he really wants to know, he wants an answer.

“Perfect, so perfect. Please, I need you.” Words in his ear like shooting stars lighting up his body like the darkening sky. He’s made of ochre sunbeams.

He smiles and laughs and with another quick kiss he’s finding you more. Muscles flex and as he leans forward onto you he’s there, right there. He starts to moan loudly and whisper about how happy he is but it’s Luffy so it’s not a whisper, really. He’s not even inside you yet. He’s just so, so excited.

“Feels so good, so good. C’mere,” he giggles against you happily and makes sure he holds you as he’s pushing into your body, you’re filled in an instant and more and more every second.

Amid the panting and moaning you can almost hear that heartbeat and those pulsing veins buried in you. You’re dented again but from the inside now. With a little mh, Luffy finds his home so, so deep. You’re in a cocoon of warmth, wrapped in the sun, filled by the sun, melting.

“My girl’s so pretty, gotta bite, gonna bite.” Those teeth again and their practiced, hungry chewing. He swallows on instinct, abs vibrating and tightening against your skin as his stomach purs. And he’s rocking into you, back and forth on his toes, enjoying that deep, tight massage. He’s inside you, he’s trying to eat you, trying to get you inside him, too.

You’re going to be covered in marks but that’s ok. You like hearing him groan and laugh against you, and something about that swallowing, his throat flexing against your shoulder, that’s so beautiful to feel.

“Mine, ‘kay? Mine.” Luffy’s talking the whole time through his laughter and you’re swept away by him as he continues to crush your body from the inside over and over, tidal waves on a cliff’s edge, he makes whirlpools in you.

“This is so fun, you’re so fun, so pretty,” he keeps huffing and you hear this over and over as he squirms and wriggles on your body, thrusts shallower because he can’t bear to pull out of you any more than he needs to. Luffy wants to be close and never leave.

He tries to have conversations with you that just spill into unending praise. You’re too dizzy and lost in this world of feeling to respond most of the time but you kiss him whenever he wants, you tell him he’s beautiful and that he feels so good whenever your voice is there.

He’s swelling in you, veins bulging and rubbing so far up inside you that you feel him throbbing in your stomach, his twitching cock encouraged by your clenching, leaking, every muscle wracked with craving and overstimulation.

“Gonna fill you up ‘cause you’re real pretty,” he laughs against your lips, twisting into you deeper still, “gotta make ya all mine.” He still sounds so sweet and so soft, just a playful little puppy.

Even as he groans and begins to pump you full.

Love feels like this, love is raw and endless like this, love makes you float away. You close your eyes and now he lets you, you just hold him, you let the rhythm carry you and it feels like so long until he’s done. He doesn’t want to pull away but his legs give out. His knees finally hit the deck, he squeals in delight as he’s pulled from you with a wet little sound. But he’s still hugging you, of course.

“Heh, felt so good.” Luffy’s smiling with all his teeth, his chin sparkles with saliva, and your neck is dripping too, “thanks, darlin’. Love ya so much”

“Love you too. I love you, Luffy.” You don’t want to ever leave from his arms and you feel so empty now. But you’re soaked in him, neck and thighs both shining.

His hand rests gently on your back, helping you sit up, your slip falls back down over your body and it’s all wrinkled now. Luffy smooths your hair, he pets you, now is when he just wants to stare at you and not say a word. But when he sees the blooming red and purple trailing from your ear to your collarbone he starts to shake a little bit.

“Aw, this ain’t hurtin’ right?” he murmurs, tracing the bruises and teeth marks with his fingers so softly, carefully. There’s no blood, it’s just glossy with layers of drool, he’s proud but he needs to check on you first.

“No, it’s not bad. Don’t worry, I like it.” You kiss him right next to his mouth but he turns, quickly, because he wants your lips. “Whole crew’s gonna know I’m yours, that’s all.”

This makes him smile. He sees no reason for embarrassment or shame, you’re his so he can bite you when he wants. You feel his muscles twitch against you again as he laughs. And he’s flushed all red, hibiscus on his warm honey skin. Those eyes, dark brown eyes melting with that lavender of the sunset which is almost gone now, fading silently. So orchid blue then, on loving, deep Bulgarian rose.

“Good! I want ‘em to.” he rubs his head against your cheek, still biting just a little. And now he’s moving like he wants to pick you up and carry you, even though you’re both tired. But it’s because he’s hungry, and in that throaty little voice he asks, “wanna go get snacks?”

[hildergard]

Could you do something where Aemond is already married/betrothed to a highborn lady that’s been approved by Alicent and Otto but he has a relationship with a low born woman (a brothel worker or any lowborn really) and once he becomes Prince Regent he starts bringing her around the castle, giving her a room to herself, treating her better than how a lowborn should be treated in Alicent and Ottos eyes and they don’t like it but Aemond doesn’t care.

MINE TO PROTECT ★ AEMOND TARGARYEN

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Lowborn!Reader

TAGS | Suggestive content, swearing, possessive behaviour, classism

WORDCOUNT | 4k

NOTE | I have seen a lot of fanfictions where the Reader is a brothel worker so I made her a baker instead. I hope that's alright with you! Thank you so much for this great request! I had so much fun writing it <333

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

In the seedy streets of Flea Bottom, rumours travelled in a precise order, memorised by all.

A Lord, drunk with lust, would disclose the Crown’s secrets to a simpering whore, who would be quick⏤once the gold dragons were in her purse⏤to repeat what she had just heard, noble semen still running down her thighs. The other, much less wealthy, customers would then talk about it loudly in bars, attracting the attention of patrons who, once sober, had only to spread the news.

Today, the rumour burst into your little shop when Old Gerald came through the door, looking for his daily loaf of bread. 

 “Prince Aemond’s been made Regent," he said. 

For a second, you did not move. The dough fell on wood. Your floured hands remained stuck in the sticky, flabby mixture. It would have to be kneaded again. The sight of your dirty fingers woke you from your torpor. You gripped the towel from your apron and wiped your palms roughly before turning your back on your customer⏤less to get the fresh loaves of bread out of the oven than to regain your composure.

He had done it. 

Your shovel rasped against the burning slab of clay and peeled off the loaves. 

A few days earlier, when night had enveloped the citizens of King's Landing in its thick cloak, he had told you of his plans and dreams⏤the two were always intertwined, for Aemond Targaryen provoked fate rather than waited for it. His touch had done nothing to soften the brutality of his words. Sordid tales of fire and blood, the kind that filled the tomes of the Citadel. 

Even the Targaryens could not play with fire indefinitely. Aemond rose in the flames. For how much longer? You had protested, your voice hoarse from the moans he had managed to draw from your throat, but he would have none of it and simply told you to trust him, as if all this were far too complicated for you. 

And perhaps that was the case, for what did you know of war and power?

“What about his Majesty?" you asked.

Old Gerald tossed you three coppers, which you pocketed, before handing you a thick piece of cloth. 

“They say he perished in dragonfire. Seems Targaryens are closer to men, after all. With all this quarrel for t'throne, it were inevitable. And, let me tell you, it'll happen again. Today, a brother sits on t'throne. Tomorrow, it'll be an uncle or a sister. Things like that never end.”

You carefully wrapped the golden loaf in the cloth. 

“Wi' Rhaenyra in Dragonstone and his brother's heir dead, he’ll no doubt be crowned King. And the Lady Baratheon, Queen.”

You winced at the name but immediately hid your reaction with a tight smile. Gerald, bless him, took no notice of your torment. You handed the loaf of bread to the old cobbler, who nodded at you and returned to his shoes. 

The rumour ran on and kept you thinking all day. You burnt a dozen loaves of bread, spilt two sacks of flour and forgot to deliver her apple pies to Dorthy Porter, making you lose a silver stag and a customer.

When the key finally turned in the lock of the shop and cut you off from the rest of the world, your shoulders slumped. The sun and all its problems gave way to the moon. Under its silvery eyes, other rumours would no doubt spread but you did not wish to hear them. You longed for your straw mattress and the comfort of your dreams⏤perhaps your love would visit you there, also freed from the pressure the Gods were piling on his shoulders. 

Tiredness weakened your knees⏤you dragged your body more than you climbed the stairs to your modest bedroom. In the middle of the room, the bed and its pillow stretched out its arms to you. You let yourself fall into the feathery embrace and closed your eyes for a moment, praying to the Gods that you would find sleep easily. 

They ignored you. 

The doorbell rang. 

Your eyelids struggled to open. Sleep paralysed them⏤it clutched at your eyelashes and tried to keep them closed but you fought the temptation and, at last, gazed into the dim light of the room. Another series of blows, more hurried, struck against the wood. The whole  shop seemed to shake. 

“I’m coming, I'm coming…” you mumbled. 

You gasped as two members of the Kingsguard appeared on your doorstep, their cloaks far too white to be dragged through the muddy streets of Flea Bottom. 

“The Prince Regent, His Highness Aemond Targaryen, summons you.”

They did not care for your reply and seized you. You protested, demanded to be told the reason for this summon, but nothing would do. The guards dragged you like a rag doll through the streets of King's Landing, indifferent to your screams and struggle. Above and around you, the candlelight in the windows intensified. Some people poked their heads out to watch the racket. You lowered your chin and remained silent, but the damage had been done. 

Already, rumours were spreading. The baker had been arrested. What had she done? Who would make their bread from now on?  

The dizzy shadow of the Red Keep loomed larger and larger. Just the outline of it made your skin crawl. For the first time, you would be treading on the floor of Kings and Queens. You were being plunged headfirst into this unknown, powerful and dangerous place, populated by men and women who despised people like you. One of the guards tightened his grip around your arm. You yelped. Why were they taking you there? Aemond always came to you, not the other way round. 

Did someone know? You blanched. Impossible, you thought immediately. You had been cautious. 

But what if... What if someone had seen you, despite all your precautions? 

 Were they taking you to the Keep to put you to the sword?  

 A flash of fear stabbed you in the guts.  

You finally passed through the large gates of the castle. They were still open, yet, no one was in the courtyard. The swords were resting on the workbenches and the horses were asleep. Only a few guards patrolled the ramparts, their heads turned skywards in search of a dragon. 

“Hurry up, girl. The Prince is waiting.”

A solitary, proud figure emerged at the top of the stairs, in front of the entrance. His long white hair fluttered in the wind and the bluish moonlight accentuated his strict features and pale complexion. The mere sight of his face reassured you. You defied the guards and walked towards him. 

His rough hand⏤hardened by duty and war⏤gripped yours before thin lips kissed it. The Prince pulled you towards him. Your heart slowed as his familiar scent enveloped you and your shoulders relaxed. For a second, you surrendered to the comfort of his warmth and love. The smell of musk and leather soothed your body, but your head kept its wits about it.

“What's happening, Aemond?”

He closed his eye as his name fell from your lips and smiled. His hand came down and grasped your waist in a possessive embrace. You leaned into the touch. 

“There are rumours that Aegon–”

You squeaked. His fingers had dug painfully into your flesh at his brother's name. 

The mere mention of him brought back painful and humiliating memories, which your lover had confided to you, his head on your pillow. Even today, the wounds had not healed. They continued to transpire in every aspect of his life. You are the only thing he has not stolen from me, he had told you one night. Saying that name was like throwing his past back in his face and breaking your promise. He'll never succeed, you had replied, but today, Aegon was on your mind. What did his wound mean for the Crown, for you?

“Is it true?" you managed to articulate. 

“The Council has made me Regent," he nodded. “We will not need to hide any longer, my love.”

“What do you mean?”

But Aemond did not answer you. He smiled, tucked a lock of hair behind your ear and let his fingers brush your neck. With a nod, the kingsguards left. The clink of their armour echoed for long seconds, but the din faded with the tenderness of his gestures. His finger traced the veins in your chest. They led him to your breasts, hidden by your dress. Aemond grunted⏤terribly offended by this affront⏤and pulled at the fabric but it held on. 

Claere Linstar's work was reknown throughout Flea Bottom. You could not find a better weaver⏤today, you were thankful for the two silver stags you had spent. The garment would become the guarantor of your dignity, the bulwark against your desire. 

When you realised that your Prince was not going to answer your question, you took a step back. His hand fell limply between the two of you as a brief look of pain clouded his face. 

“Aemond?”

He straightened up and held out his hand to you. 

“Follow me.”

The labyrinthine corridors made your head spin. You lost count of the turns you took, the staircases you climbed and the alcoves you passed. The beauty of the mouldings and frescoes drew admiring sighs from you several times, but Aemond did not care. He walked past them without giving them a second glance. He's used to all this, you reminded yourself. People of his rank bathed in this luxury and grandeur since birth.  

On the way, maids dressed in red and white stopped at your sight. Their gaze fell on your face, on your body, on your hand locked in the Prince's... Your cheeks heated and you tried to pull away, but Aemond tightened his grip. Out of habit, his thumb caressed your skin. This time, his touch only made you tense. You bowed your head, ashamed. 

They knew. 

The thought stayed with you. 

You only lifted your head when Aemond stopped in front of an ornate door. The mouldings curved into flowers and birds⏤an ode to spring and renewal. Your eyes swept the decor, stopped on a bush of camellias and, finally, met the Prince's satisfied gaze. 

“We've arrived," he announced. 

Aemond opened the door with a confident gesture. Inside, an immense room stretched out and seemed to never end. Wealth oozed out of every corner, from the four-poster bed to the dressing table adorned with sapphires. On the wall, frescoes of flowers had been painted to match the powder pink drapes⏤an explosion of colour that turned drab the corridors you had been raving about just a few minutes before. 

“Is it to your taste?”

You turned back to Aemond. Although his chin was up and his back was straight⏤proud as ever⏤red bloomed on his cheeks. Your lover seemed embarrassed, a far cry from his usual composure. Almost timidly, his hand sought yours. He couldn't help it, you realised. His fingers always found yours⏤skin against skin to find what he had been deprived of all his childhood. 

“I don't know anyone who wouldn't like it," you replied.

“Hmm. Good.”

He pulled you to him. His hands went down to your buttocks and pressed you against his chest. Your pelvises collided. Suddenly, the room made sense. You let yourself drown in these familiar gestures. Your hand caressed his muscular shoulders, moved up to his jaw and brushed against his lips. Aemond kissed the pad of your thumb before replacing it with your lips. Soon, the wet sound of saliva echoed through the room. The sweet melody ignited a fire in your lower abdomen and moved down between your thighs. 

Your hand resumed tracing arabesques on your lover's smooth skin. It stopped at the buttons on his doublet and hastily undid them before wandering lower and lower…

Aemond stopped you before you could take him in your hand. His hand grabbed yours. He kissed your palm and pressed it against his cheek. 

“These will be your quarters.”

The fire went out, leaving you frozen with shock. Your heart skipped a beat. 

“What do you mean?" you asked breathlessly.

“Now that I am Regent, we will not have to hide any more.” 

A new glare lit up his eye. Purple turned black and made you shiver. Flames seemed to dance in his pupil, crushing all remains of the second son he had once been. That Aemond was dead. In his place was a Regent who thought himself above laws and men.  

“It's not proper, Aemond," you tried to protest. “If it gets out that I'm here... If the Dowager Queen or the Hand–”

“They have no say in the matter. My word is law now.”

 “If you want me here… Perhaps I could serve the Crown, join the kitchens. Anything but that, Aemond," you said, gesturing to those quarters, far too luxurious for someone of your breeding. 

“You do not belong in the fucking kitchens," he scoffed. “No. You will be by my side, as my equal.”

“You're engaged," you retorted. “The Lady Baratheon won't take kindly to my presence here. You nobles can make Small Folk disappear in a blink of an eye and no one would notice or care.”

Alira Merchin's story was remembered as a cautionary tale for young girls naive enough to think love could conquer blood. The fable was classic⏤hundreds of similar romances filled libraries, and perhaps it was these very ones that had encouraged the girl to seduce the heir of House Harte. The man fell in love and made the pretty merchant his lover. 

This did not please his wife, the daughter of Lord Chelsted. 

She got rid of the merchant with disconcerting ease. The poor girl was found trampled by horses in white and green bards. That day, Lord Harte lost his true love and spent the rest of his life suffering the consequences of his betrayal. 

Your heart dropped. What would happen to you if you tickled the stag? Ours if the Fury. Their motto was an ode to their rage, to their thirst for violence. If Floris Baratheon found out that Prince Aemond was bedding you... and in the Keep nonetheless…

The storm would come for you and you would perish in its eye. 

“It's not a good idea, Aemond," you finally said. 

“Do not fret, my love. Nothing will happen to you as long as I am here to protect you.”

The Prince pulled you into bed. 

Your protests died on your lips, muffled by moans and the exquisite feel of his skin against yours. 

Your fingers tightened around your thighs. The soap made your skin slippery but did nothing to wash away the shame that had been clinging to it for days. It colonised your flesh and left it tainted, eating away at your muscles and weighing down your heart. 

On the first day, after a passionate night, maids had arrived to prepare you, but you refused their care. You were no Lady. You had bathed alone all your life and would continue to do so. More than anything, you wanted to escape their watchful eyes, which would no doubt have noticed the hickeys on your chest and thighs. 

You did not know how rumours got around in the Keep, but you were sure that they first burgeoned on the maids’ lips. They blossomed as quickly as in Flea Bottom⏤the inquisitive nature of man was innate⏤, but it would not be Old Gerald getting wind of it. No. The stakes were much higher in these parts, and the consequences even more dire. 

The door to your quarters stood in the way of the horror surely awaiting you, but for how much longer? 

Your hands massaged your calf, hoping to rediscover a cherished routine. You longed for the feel of dough beneath your fingers. What would become of your shop? Would you have to sell it? Maybe someone had already moved in⏤abandoned houses never stayed so for long in Flea Bottom, the cradle of the poor and the homeless. 

You could not cherish the roof above your head, yet, you supposed you had to learn to appreciate it. Aemond did not seem eager to let you go.  

Aemond. 

Every day, the sun tore him away from you. His hours were devoted to the Small Council and military strategies, only half of which you understood when he explained them to you. Your Prince needed to talk, to get rid of the weight that was arching his back. You became the shoulder on which he rested, the ear into which he poured his doubts, the flesh in which he forgot himself. 

“I wish to be with you every hour of the day, to attach myself to your side, but the Gods will only grant me this pleasure when I win this war. I am fighting for you⏤for us,” he had told you. 

The moon brought him back into your arms. Every night, without exception, he would cross the threshold of the door and wrap you in a reassuring embrace. His arms would block out your gloomy thoughts and chase away shame and regret⏤all seemed worth it if it kept him close to you. The stars looked down on your love. When the bells rang the hour of the owl, you indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, whispered sweet nothings or simply enjoyed the peaceful silence that the other's presence guaranteed. Sometimes, Aemond, lying on the bed with your head on his stomach, would read you stories with his hand buried in your hair. 

And then, the hour of the Nightingale would sound, its tranquillity burning away in the first rays of sunlight. The enchanted interlude would close and you would spend the day dreaming of a life where sun and duty did not separate you. 

Shame would reappear, its weight with it, and fear⏤tangible and vibrant⏤would turn your stomach. 

The spectre of Floris Baratheon never left you. It haunted you. In the frescoes of camellias on the wall. In the bouquets of flowers dotting your quarters. In the venison served for dinner. The tales of her beauty reached you and left you bitter, but what they said about her quiet authority made your blood run cold. 

She would come for you. 

The Lady Baratheon occupied all your thoughts, so much so that you forgot about another much more dangerous threat. 

One day, Alicent Hightower stalked into your room. 

You dropped your embroidery in your lap and hastily sat up. The needle fell to the floor with a disturbing chime. The bell was tolling⏤this farce had gone on far too long and it would now end. 

The Dowager Queen dropped a small leather bag on the table. Its contents clinked and masked your gasping breath for a second. Your heart was pounding against your temples. Soon, the air would run out. Already your throat was closing up and you were struggling to swallow. 

“What is it?" you asked weakly. 

“Five thousand gold dragons. Enough to buy you a new life, far from the Keep, far from Westeros.”

Away from my son, she meant. 

“I won't leave Aemond.”

He needs me, you thought. 

“The Prince Regent does not need you," the Queen scoffed as if she could heard your mind. “He is engaged. Or have you forgotten that? Whoring yourself in the way you do… It would appear so. Have you thought about the repercussions of your actions when people find out about you? The risks it means for Aemond? Your very presence here jeopardises this entire war.”

“I have tried to–”

“He does not love you, you fool. He just wants a cunt to fuck without having to spend a single penny.”

You recoiled, surprised to hear the famously pious queen speak so vulgarly. 

War transformed souls. It made them ugly. Alicent Hightower’s wide eyes and pursed lips twisted her face into a terrifying expression. 

She sighed and, for a moment, her features became those of a compassionate woman. 

“I don't know what… hold my son has over you," she continued in a calmer voice, “but you seem smart enough to understand this will end badly. You must leave. Take the gold and let us be done with this farce.”

The door slammed against the wall before you could even consider the proposal. 

Aemond reached your side with a confident stride. 

“What's going on here? Mother?”

When the latter did not answer, he looked to you for answers. You lowered your head, unable to bear the look of concern in his purple eye any longer. 

It fell lower, onto the table and the leather purse.  

“What is the meaning of this?” he raised his voice. 

Silence stretched before Alicent Hightower relented. 

“You cannot… support a lowborn in such manners, Aemond. The girl must go.”

The Prince ignored his mother and took you in his arms. His nose nestled under your ear as his hands buried themselves in your hair. He guided your head into his neck and whispered comforting words, which you could not hear. You did not care. His familiar scent embraced you and brought tears to the corners of your eyes. They wet your cheeks and his collar. 

You should never have come here. 

“Out.”

His mother protested. 

“Imagine the shame for your future wife, the Lady Baratheon! For her house! If we lose Storm's End because of... because of this w–” 

“Hold your tongue and leave.”

“Aemond, if you do this, we are lost!”

“Get out!”

Footsteps retreated. A door slammed. Aemond sighed. His hand drew abstract symbols on the back of your head for a moment before encouraging you to look at him. 

“Oh, my love," he said, seeing your misty eyes. “All is well now. She will not hurt you any more.”

The danger you had put yourself in was greater than you had thought. Fear dried your mouth and exhausted your words. You stammered a few excuses before taking a deep breath. Your Prince's fingers did not weaken. They continued to comfort you and, at last, gave you the courage you needed to finally speak. 

“Maybe I should return to Flea Bottom. I–” 

“No," Aemond’s voice cracked. 

His hands framed your face and pulled you closer until your noses were touching. 

“You are not leaving me.”

His lips were harsh, covering every inch of your skin. He kissed the bridge of your nose, your warm cheekbones, your wet eyelids. Tears ran aground in the cracks of his lips and dried up under his exquisite tenderness. No beauty spot, no eyelash, was spared. His lips erased his mother's words and the doubts in your heart. 

“You belong here, with me. I do not care for blood or war. I only wish for your love.”

Aemond filled the space between your mouths. His hands reached down and grasped your breast. He feasted on your lips and the taste of them like a hungry man. Tingles caressed your spine and tickled your lower abdomen. You rolled your hips, searching for his, but your lover pulled away.

You didn't want him to stop. 

The Prince shushed your complaints and pushed you to the bed. Your back bounced on the goose feather mattress. Eager to feel his skin against yours, you sat up and tried to pull him to you, but Aemond took a step back. A petty smile stretched his lips as he heard you whimper. He ignored you and stood silent, admiring you. His eyes, now black, gazed down at your body, contemplating its shape and softness.

“Aemond, please…”

Your lover grabbed an ankle and kissed it. You moaned. He moved up your calf, caressing your knee and digging his fingers into your thighs before spreading them apart. His teeth nipped at the flesh, which his tongue immediately soothed. Your breathing quickened and breathy moans fell from your swollen lips, intoxicated by his touch. He skipped over your dripping cunt, his hands grazing your hips and sides.  

Suddenly, Aemond stopped touching you, placed a farewell kiss on your belly and sat up on his elbows. 

“I will take care of everything, my love. You will never have to fear for your life. It is mine to cherish, mine to love, mine to protect," he said before reaching up to capture your lips with his. “Mine.”

“I love you," you sighed. 

Aemond smiled, as he did every time the words fell from your lips. One could not get used to the sweetness of love. It forever stirred the heart and soothed the soul. Your Prince placed a chaste kiss on your lips before moving down and disappearing between your thighs. 

His words vanished in desire and pleasure. You forgot them the next day, when the hour of the Nightingale struck.  

You should have known that Aemond Targaryen would keep his promise.

Three days later, the Lady Baratheon was found dead in the Kingswood, impaled on a stag's antlers. 

[serpentandlily]

Lost in a Labyrinth - Azriel x Reader

Lost in a Labyrinth I - Azriel x Reader

Summary: Lonely and heartbroken after his near kiss with Elain, Azriel finds himself at the door to the most exclusive pleasure house in Hewn City, The Labyrinth, taking Rhysand’s cruel advice. What he expected to find was a pretty girl to warm a bed with him for a single night. But instead he finds something he never thought existed—his mate. A mate that is tangled up in something far more sinister than he could ever imagine. 

Warnings: smut (minors dni), reader is a prostitute

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Part I

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

“So you will leave Elain alone. If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure house and pay for it, but stay away from her.” 

Rhysand’s words had played over and over again in his head since the Winter Solstice, three months ago. Azriel wasn't sure why he was taking him up on his shitty advice now but by some will of his own, he was standing in the shadows of the alley across the street from The Labyrinth—Hewn City’s most exclusive brothel. 

Azriel only knew of this place because some of the high ranking nobles he spied on talked about it often. It was known for its secrecy, for making sure their clientele had confidentiality. There were far more pleasure houses that were known to the public, even one in Velaris, but the last thing Azriel wanted was word getting around that he had been seen visiting one. Partly because he liked keeping his love affairs secret, but mostly because he didn’t want to give that satisfaction to Rhysand. 

When his shadows came back with no reports of any sightings of faeries nearby, Azriel crossed the distance to The Labyrinth. He knocked five times on the plain looking, unassuming door, following the instructions he had overheard. 

A sliding peephole opened revealing a pair of dark eyes. “A bargain, Shadowsinger,” a male voice said through the door. “A copper for your eyes.”

“A silver for your tongue,” Azriel agreed. He felt a burning sensation behind his ear, the bargain tattoo forming. 

This was another thing he had learned from spying— the secret bargain that would grant you access to The Labyrinth. A bargain that he wouldn’t speak of the people and things he might see here so long as they kept their silence in regards to his identity. 

The door swung open a second later and the male guard ushered him in. The guard gave him a once over, his eyes stopping on the dagger sheathed on his thigh. 

“No weapons allowed, Shadowsinger,” the guard ordered. “Especially around the girls.”

Azriel wordlessly unsheathed Truth-teller and let his shadows take it away. He didn’t tell the guard that it was pointless, that he could summon it back at any time regardless of whatever wards they had set up around here—his shadows didn’t abide by the typical rules of magic. But the guard didn’t need to know that. 

The guard held out a gloved hand. “The entrance fee.”

Azriel reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch filled with coins. He set it in the guard’s palm without question. 

The guard gave him a dip of the head, satisfied, before gesturing for him to continue on. Azriel strided down the dim hallway. He could already smell various aphrodisiacs and drugs amongst the intoxicating scent of arousal in the air. It spurred him on, kept his feet moving on the dark red carpet, not allowing him the chance to second guess his decision to come here. 

He wasn’t sure what magic was at play, or if they specifically scented the hallway to further get their clients in the mood, but something was tugging him forward. 

He finally made it to the other end of the hallway, where a black door was awaiting him. He opened it slowly, cautiously and when no threat appeared, stepped through the threshold. The door opened up into a large foyer of sorts with a large candle chandelier hanging from the ceiling. 

Straight ahead was a grand staircase that led to the second floor. On both sides of the foyer were large double doors with masked guards standing in front of them, swords strapped to their backs.

Waiting for him in the center of the room was an older, High Fae female with generous curves, dressed decadently. A polite smile graced her pretty but aging face as she took him in. 

“Shadowsinger,” she greeted with a dip of the head, her hands clasped in front of her. “Welcome to The Labyrinth. My name is Lydia. I will be your point of contact during your time here. Please follow me, I will show you to the girls so you may make your selection.” 

This wasn’t the first time Azriel had visited a pleasure house. Gods, when they were younger, him, Rhysand and Cassian had gone to some together. Had even taken the same girl once. But this felt…different. The atmosphere was soft, sensual—not rowdy like the other brothels he had been to. 

He followed Lydia into the first set of double doors, which led down another long corridor with more doors lining the wall, all numbered. Until they reached the end where another set of double doors waited. As soon as Lydia pushed them open and gestured for him to continue, soft music crept through the air.

Azriel walked into a heavily perfumed room, dimly lit much like everywhere else in this place. Dark red, velvet settees and cushions lined the walls and floors. Silks hanging from the ceilings gave each space a bit of privacy. A bar was on the opposite wall, fully stocked with various alcohols. Males and females, alike, were milling about the room in various states of undress, some paired up on the couches and chairs. 

At the front of the room was a wall made entirely of glass that overlooked a courtyard. Hanging plants and flowered vines decorated the space. A large fountain bubbled in the middle of it. Girls in lingerie and silk robes sat on the stone benches and cushions on the floor, lingered near the fountain, danced to the soft music in corners of the courtyard—all giggling and chattering with each other.

“These are the girls in The Labyrinth,” Lydia explained. “If you would like to see our selection of males, let me know.” 

His eyes wandered over the girls, all so beautiful and unique. Every single type of fae was here—from nymphs to firelings to High Fae. But his gaze was drawn towards a lone figure in one of the second story alcoves. 

His breath was sucked from his lungs the minute his eyes fell on her. She was…she was so beautiful. The most beautiful female he had ever seen in his five hundred years of living. She was dressed in a light pink lingerie set, a sheer robe hanging over it with white fur trims. She was alone, resting an elbow on the stone railing with her chin plopped in her hand as she gazed out into the carved mountainside within Hewn City. 

He couldn’t rip his eyes away from her. 

“Are any of them suited to your tastes, Shadowsinger?” Lydia questioned from beside him, knocking him out of whatever spell he had been put under. 

“Her,” he answered, his voice a mere whisper, as he dipped his head towards the female he couldn’t help but stare at. 

Lydia murmured something to one of the masked servants walking around with trays of champagne flutes. A moment later, one returned and handed the female a slip of paper. She clicked her tongue at whatever she read. 

“Apologies, Shadowsinger,” she said, “But it looks like she’s already been chosen for tonight. Do any—”

“By who?” Azriel growled before he even realized, his shadows whirling around him. Lydia looked up at him with a stern look that accentuated all the fine lines on her face. 

“You know I can’t tell you that,” she chided. Azriel gave her a sheepish look, not knowing what had come over him. “It looks like any of the other girls are still up for the taking if you’d like to choose another?” 

But Azriel couldn’t stop staring at the girl in the pink. Couldn’t help but be mesmerized by her. None of the other girls caught his attention. He had come here looking for a quick, no strings attached, fuck but that desire, that need—it was like it had been sucked right out of him. 

“I…” he trailed off, suddenly reeling back into his body. Lydia was staring up at him expectedly but he took a step away. “N-no. I’m sorry. I should…I should go.” 

Not a second later, his shadows swirled around him, whisking him away. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Azriel wasn’t sure what drew him back to The Labyrinth the next night. Or the night after. Each time he came, he asked for that girl in pink, and each time, he was told she had already been booked for the night. It would’ve been easy to accompany Mor to Rita’s and find a plethora of females that would fuck him for free. But none of them would’ve been her. 

He wasn’t even sure why he was becoming so obsessed with a girl he’d never even talked to. Obsessed enough to travel to Hewn City, pay the copious entrance fee, just to leave when he was told she was still not available. 

But here he was. 

Again. 

Standing at the doors to The Labyrinth. 

It had become such a reoccurrence that Lydia would merely shake her head no at the sight of him, already knowing what he was there for. He was sure tonight would go more or less the same. But he was surprised when he caught sight of Lydia standing in the large, intricate foyer and she shook her head yes. 

“Well, Shadowsinger,” she said, “I admire your persistence. It seems it is your lucky day. The girl you’ve been waiting for is available. Please, continue on up the stairs and into The Labyrinth. She will be waiting for you behind the ninth door.” 

Azriel gave her a dip of the head before striding past her to the staircase. His shadows were swarming him—excited about something. He tuned them out, pushing open the black doors waiting for him at the top of the stairs. 

He paused for a second, feeling like he had suddenly been transported somewhere else. Instead of one long hallway like he’d been expecting, the doors opened to a maze of large pillars, multiple pathways lit by candles placed on the floor. 

He sent his shadows forward to scout the place and locate the ninth door that Lydia had mentioned. He followed their trail which led him to a red door with a number nine painted on it in a darker shade of red that looked suspiciously like blood. 

He let out the breath he had been holding as he wrapped his scarred fingers around the doorknob and slowly pushed it open. 

Slow, sultry music met his ears and the scent of pomegranates and cardamom flooded his senses. It was intoxicating, beckoning him forward. He softly shut the door behind him before he completely paused in his tracks as he turned to face the room. 

There, standing with her back to him, was the girl who had been utterly consuming his mind since he had first laid eyes on her. She was wearing a light pink nightgown that laced down her lower back. She was bent forward slightly, lighting a candle on a coffee table set up in front of a pair of red velvet couches. 

His eyes trailed over the room for a second, trying to gather his bearings. It was a large room, large enough to have a sitting area separate from the four-poster bed covered in silk and textured fabrics. Everything fit the same color scheme as the other rooms he’d been in, red and black. Lit only by candles, the soft lighting only added to the sultry atmosphere. 

Some smoke lingered in the air, making everything a bit more hazy. He recognized the scent as a popular aphrodisiac often used during parties with high nobility. His shadows seemed lulled by the music, drifting around him lazily as he stood in place. 

He stood frozen as she finally turned around and met his gaze. He had thought her beautiful that day he had seen her up on the balcony, but this close, well… beautiful was not strong enough of a word. She looked crafted for the Gods, a being not meant to walk alongside man. His breath was sucked right out of his lungs again, his eyes widened as his shadows reacted by lowering themselves onto the ground, leaving him bare. 

“There you are,” she purred, her voice as smooth as silk and honey. “I’ve heard you’ve been waiting for me.”

Azriel swallowed harshly, his throat bobbing with the motion. He watched her eyes track it, watched how her smirk slipped into a soft smile instead. He opened his mouth to speak, to say anything, but it was like no thoughts existed in his head except for an image of her. 

“A bit shy, are you?” She teased after he failed to speak, walking towards him and holding out a hand with well manicured nails. “That’s okay, my love, let me take care of you.” 

She grasped his hand in her much smaller one, not even flinching when her skin met contact with his brutal scars. He let her guide him to the couch and push him to sit, entranced by her very presence. She moved to the bar cart behind him, running a delicate hand over his shoulders as she did, before pouring two glasses of whiskey. 

She meandered back over to him, plopping on the couch next to him before handing him one of the glasses. She clinked her glass against his. “For the nerves, my love.”

Azriel wanted to tell her that he wasn’t nervous, but that would be a lie. He had no idea why he had been reduced to the shy teenage boy he had been in his youth but he couldn’t shake himself from the feeling. Her presence was overwhelming, intimidating. Like she somehow held his entire being in the palm of her hands. 

“Thank you,” he grunted out, his voice rough. He cleared his throat before downing his glass of whiskey in one go. She followed his lead, her smoky eyes never leaving his as she swallowed her whiskey. Beneath the exaggerated desire he found in them was a more calculating look, like she was trying to figure him out. 

A bit of the whiskey slipped out of the side of her mouth, dripping down her chin and neck to the crevice between her breasts. Azriel’s gaze followed it, his cock tightening in his pants as he wished to lick it off her gleaming skin. 

“Oops,” she giggled, swiping it up with a finger and sucking it into her mouth. “Would you like another glass?” 

He shook his head. He didn’t want to be drunk for this. He wanted to savor every second of his time with her, the girl who had been plaguing his thoughts night and day. 

“You seem tense, Shadowsinger,” she purred with a pout, making his eyes dip to her full, red painted lips. “I can fix that.” 

She reached forward and ran a slender hand up his chest and he nearly moaned at the feeling of her touching him. His hand latched onto hers, stopping it in its tracks. 

“What’s your name?” Azriel asked, finally speaking. He needed to know. Needed to taste the way it felt to say it on his tongue as much as he needed to taste her. 

“Serenity,” she replied with a coy smile. “But you can call me anything you like, my love.” 

His eyes searched hers. “That’s not your real name, is it?” 

“Of course not, darling,” she giggled. She leaned towards him, close enough that her breath fluttered over his ear. His cock twitched in his pants, his skin heated. “I think the real question is, what would you like me to call you, Shadowsinger?”

“Azriel,” he breathed out. “Just…just Azriel.” 

“Azriel,” she repeated in that voice of silk and honey. 

His eyes darted down to her lips again. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t help how turned on he felt. Was it the aphrodisiacs in the room? Or perhaps the whiskey had hit just right? He didn’t care. All he knew was he needed to have her. 

Azriel let go of her hand, letting her continue her travel up his chest until she grabbed the empty glass in his hand and set it down on the table in front of them. She made eye contact with him again, slowly moving to straddle him on the couch, wrapping her arms around his neck lightly. He bit back a groan as her weight fell on his hardening member.

“What is it you’re here for, Azriel?”

His brain couldn’t focus with her in his lap. Her eyes were so mesmerizing, her scent one he could get high off. His hands found her waist, the silk fabric of her nightgown so smooth against his rough skin. 

“You,” he whispered, honestly. Because that was the truth. He had seen her and knew he needed to have her. 

“I’m yours, Azriel,” she giggled. “Any way you want me.” 

If he were a better male, perhaps now would be the time he realized this might be a mistake. But he wasn’t a better male. He couldn’t be. Not when her body was pressed against his, not when she looked so beautiful staring up at him with her large, expressive eyes, and certainly not when his body was singing for her—hungering for her like she was the only sustenance he needed. 

So Azriel surged forward and kissed her. 

Lightning exploded, skittering over his skin, the moment his lips touched hers. He groaned at the feeling of their softness. She let out a small sigh as she kissed him back, melting in his lap, pressing herself closer to him. 

Azriel slid a hand up her exposed back until he grasped her by the back of the neck and tilted her head so he could deepen the kiss, finally taking control of the situation. His cock hardened painfully as she spread her legs further, allowing her heat to rub against him. 

He kissed her like a starved male, licking along her bottom lip, compelling her to part her lips for him. She let him consume her, let him slip his tongue into her mouth and taste her fully. 

So sweet. 

So divine. 

Azriel broke the kiss, letting her gasp for air. The scent of her arousal had his eyes rolling back in his head. Still holding her by the back of the neck, he twisted her head to the side and pressed his lips just below her ear before trailing down her jaw and to her delicate neck. 

She moaned, squirming in his lap and rubbing against his hard length, only spurring him on more. His other hand started working on unlacing her nightgown. His fingers fumbled over the ribbon, until finally, it came undone and fell, pooling at her waist. 

Azriel pulled back to look at her, now bare before him from the waist up. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly with her breathing, her eyes dilated and full of lust, her lips swollen. The perfect image of desire. 

“So beautiful,” he growled, before leaning forward and latching his mouth around her right nipple. She gasped, arching into his mouth as her hands fisted his hair. 

“Azriel,” she whimpered, pushing her hips down against his bulge. He growled again, thrusting his hips up to meet hers. 

His lips made a path back up to hers, taking her breasts in his palms as he kissed her deeply. She grinded down on his cock again, pulling a whine from the back of his throat that had her smiling against his lips. 

He wanted to take his time with her, wanting to draw this out as long as he could. But he knew he wouldn’t last. Not when the need to be in her was causing him to strain against his pants to the point of pain. 

Azriel stood, lifting her up with him with an arm under her ass and the other wrapped around her. He let his shadows swarm them, stepping out right in front of the bed. She was breathless as he dropped her onto the soft pillows and sheets, her hair fanning around her head like a halo. 

An Angel. 

That’s what she was. 

A godsdamn Angel. 

He couldn’t keep his hands off of her, running them down her body as he pulled her nightgown all the way off, leaving her entirely bare before her. She moved to sit up, reaching for the buttons of his shirt but he lightly grasped her throat in his hand and pushed her back down.

“How do you want me, Azriel?” She hummed, seductively, wrapping her hands around his wrist.

Azriel leaned down, running his nose along the column of her throat until his mouth was beside her ear. 

“First, I want you coming on my fingers,” he commanded, his voice husky with desire. “Then my tongue. And then my cock. Do you understand?”

She swallowed audibly, nodding her head. 

“Words, angel,” he smirked. “Use your words.” 

“Yes, Azriel, I understand,” she whimpered, the scent of her arousal peaking. 

He inhaled deeply before pulling away and dropping to his knees before her. She sat up on her elbows, letting out a small cry as he hooked his arms around her thighs and yanked her towards the end of the bed. 

Her sex was glistening with her want and Azriel groaned at the sight, unlacing his pants with one hand to relieve some pressure. He watched her as he dipped forward and ran his tongue up her slit, his eyes rolling back at the sweet taste of her. 

She tossed her head back with a moan, spreading her legs wider for him. Azriel didn’t waste any time. He sucked and licked at her clit with a hunger he’d never felt before, his cock twitching every time he drew out a moan or cry from her lips. 

True to his word, his finger swirled around her entrance, causing her hips to thrust closer and closer. He continued his ministrations as he slid a single finger inside of her, cursing as he felt how tight she was wrapped around him. 

“Azriel,” she cried out as he added a second finger before slowly thrusting in and out of her. “Fuck.” 

He continued to suck that spot that had her crying out, pure waves of euphoria crashing through her body. His fingers began to thrust inside of her faster and faster as her moans became more frequent.

“That’s it, angel,” he praised as she rutted against his fingers. “Fuck yourself with my fingers.” 

She whimpered, her movements frenzied as he latched his mouth back on her clit, sucking in rhythm with his fingers. One of her hands gripped his hair while the other fisted the sheets and she squirmed in pleasure until he pushed her over the edge. 

“Az…Azriel,” she cried, arching her back as flames licked their way through her body. “I’m gonna—”

Azriel didn’t stop, palming himself with his free hand as she orgasmed, pulsating around his fingers with a loud moan. He slipped his fingers out and replaced them with his tongue just in time to feel the aftershock ripple through her. 

She tried to pull his head away, but he didn’t relent. He needed her on his tongue, needed to fulfill the hunger inside of him. It wasn’t long before he had her screaming through her second orgasm, lapping at the wetness pooling between her thighs. Azriel didn’t let up as he rode out her orgasm with his tongue, not until her body was writhing in pleasure and she was begging him to stop. 

He stood, sticking one of the fingers covered in her juices into his mouth, eyes rolling back in his head as he groaned. “Gods, you taste so good.” 

He left her panting on the bed as he made quick work of ripping his clothes off. His eyes were black with lust, his shadows spilling all around him in his craze. Gods, he needed her so bad. Every piece of her. 

He climbed onto the bed, hovering over her and crashing his lips against hers. His tongue was still claiming her mouth as her hands roamed the muscles of his chest, sliding down to his cock. He groaned into her mouth as she ran her hand up and down his shaft. 

“Please,” she begged. 

“Please what, angel?” He nipped at her bottom lip. “What is it you want?” 

“Please fuck me, Azriel,” she whined. 

The noise that came out of his throat at her words was one he’d never made before. He sat back on his haunches, replacing her hand with his as he guided himself towards her entrance, rubbing up and down against the wetness that was waiting for him. 

Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as he slid himself inside of her slowly. She moaned as Azriel let out an animalistic growl at the feeling of her wrapped around him. It wasn’t until he was all the way in her when they both finally released a breath.

“Fuck,” he grunted, falling forward and peppering kisses along her throat. “You feel so good.”

She whimpered at his praise and felt him smirk against her neck before he started to finally move, pulling himself all the way out her before thrusting back in, faster this time. She cried out as he slammed into her.

Azriel set a punishing pace, thrusting into her again and again. His shadows seeped from him until nearly every crevice of the room was taken over by his darkness. 

Her nails raked down his back, between his wings as she let him take her. He claimed her mouth again, passionately swallowing each moan he pulled from her. Her hips began to meet his with each thrust, pushing him deeper and deeper inside of her. 

“Gods, Azriel,” she cried, squeezing around him as he hit that sweet spot inside her. 

“Are you going to come on my cock, angel?” he cooed. 

“Yes,” she mewled. “Yes, gods, yes.” 

“Good girl,” he growled, nipping at her throat with his canines. 

His words pushed her over the edge into the hot bliss of pleasure. She screamed his name as the lightning shot through her, her core pulsating with each strike.

“Fuck,” Azriel groaned. He rode out her orgasm and then his thrusts became harder, faster but sloppy with no rhythm as his own release slid up on him.

His tongue swirled around the base of her neck before an utterly feral growl ripped through him. And then he bit down on that spot. His canines ripped through the skin, sinking down into her flesh as he came, thrusting once, twice and one final time—burying himself in her. 

They both panted in silence for a moment, coming down from their highs before Azriel slowly slipped out of her with a small whimper. He pulled away from her and she smiled up at him, her eyes glazed with pleasure and satisfaction. 

And then something happened. Something he never thought would. Something he had only dreamed about but never wished for because he had thought it a waste of breath. 

A golden string of light unwound itself and shot across the darkness, all the way to the beautiful girl before him. 

The mating bond snapped. 

His mating bond.

Azriel let out a choked noise, rising fully. He stumbled back in shock, his eyes wide as he stared down at her. Her brows furrowed in confusion and she sat up. 

Fuck, his mate…

She was his mate.

His godsdamn mate. 

This couldn’t be happening. Not like this. Not after he had just paid her to have sex with him. Not after he had come here for a shameless fuck. She’d never want him now. Why would she? 

He hastily began picking up his discarded clothes and dressing himself. She did the same in her confusion, slipping her nightgown back on as she frowned at him. 

“What happened?” Her voice was meek as she hugged an arm around herself, looking at him. “Have I…have I done something wrong?”

“N-no,” he stuttered, not looking her in the eyes. Gods, she would hate him if he told her now. She would not want anything to do with him. “No, I’m sorry. I-I need to go.” 

“But you paid for the whole night,” she said, perplexed with a hint of insecurity. “Please, if I wasn’t good…if you didn’t enjoy it…I can do better, I swear it.” 

He finally looked at her, at his mate. His heart sank in his chest at her words. Fuck, he was making this worse. He couldn’t stand the sight of her looking at him like she’d done something wrong. She was perfect. She had been perfect. It was him who fucked up.

“No, no, don’t. It’s not you," Azriel tried to reassure her. “I…it’s me. I need to go. I’m so sorry.” 

“At least let me get you your money back,” she said, rubbing her arm. He felt sick to his stomach.

“No! No, please keep it,” he murmured, buttoning up his shirt as fast as he could. “I’m…I’m so sorry. This was a mistake.”

And then he disappeared in his shadows, her confused and hurt face the last thing he saw. 

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

a/n: so obvious this was entirely from Az's perspective but it will be reader y/n just in case it wasn't super obvious! Hope you guys enjoyed it! If you asked to be tagged but don't see your username, it wouldn't let me tag you for some reason :((

(also, now that the whole chapters out, if this isn't what you thought you were signing up for, no hard feelings if you asked to be removed from the taglist)

taglist: @itsswritten @impossibelle @lilah-asteria @heartless-tate @sheblogs @jesskidding3 @landofpetrichor @thecollegecowgirl @5onedirection5 @cherry-cin @fayeatheart @brieflyclassymortal @saltedcoffeescotch @glitterypirateduck @eyebagsanonymous @chxosangxl @daardyrnitta

[yandere-daydreams]

file #4: the body mod fic.

part of the FREAK SHIT MARCH evidence packet.

pairing: yandere!wriothesley x reader (genshin).

length: 3.1k.

warnings: non/con touching + groping, nonconsensual piecing, dubiously consensual tattoos, permanent body modification, intimidation, needles, obsessive behavior, and unbalanced power dynamics.

“Just one?”

The question had been hushed, meek, directed more towards your lap than the man sitting across from you. The warden – Wriothesley, you chided yourself, biting the inside of your cheek and attempting to remember what he’d asked you to call him, Wriothesley – broke into a wry smile, but nodded, leaning back in his armchair. “Just one,” he reassured. “And you’ll taken care of until your release date.”

You didn’t respond, but he must’ve seen the way you paled at the suggestion. “Having second thoughts?”

“No, it’s just—” You grit your teeth. Your eyes flitted up momentarily, but fell back to your legs just as quickly. “I… I’ve never really liked needles, I guess.”

You could see his eyes light up, his grin broadening as he tried to stifle his laughter. You scowled, but couldn’t blame him. He was used to dealing with hardened criminals, the scum of Teyvat, thieves and spies and murderers, and here you were – on the verge of fainting because he asked you to get a tattoo. “I promise, you don’t have anything to worry about.” At least he was trying to sound comforting, even if it was clearly a half-hearted effort. “I’ll make sure you’re in good hands.”

And he had, in a way.

You just wished he would’ve mentioned that those hands would be his own.

Calloused fingertips dug into your bicep as a scarred palm pressed into your skin, keeping one of your arms loosely secured against the mattress of the cot while the other was pinned between the bedframe and his chest (the placement unintentional, or so you hoped). You’d been shaking when he brought out that terrible machine – a vial of dark ink trapped inside of a cage of copper and steel; a single, silver needle protruding out of one end and a leather grip wrapped around the other – but it’d only taken an hour for fear to fade into boredom, another for boredom to drag on into a rotting, discolored sort of exhaustion. For as much as you’d been dreading it, there was more pressure than pain. It was repetitive, if anything – a monotonous pierce, stab, pierce, stab that you could only try your best not to focus on. You could already feel an ache settling below the skin of your shoulder, already knew that you wouldn’t be able to lift your arm for days, but you tried not to—

His needle stabbed into the thin skin over your shoulder blade, and you couldn’t stop yourself – letting out a low hiss as you flinched into the cot’s thin mattress. You expected Wriothesley to laugh, to drag a damp cloth over the affected area and mutter something like ‘bear with me’ or ‘my bad, love, my bad’ like he had a dozen times before, but instead, there was a muffled click as he switched off his awful machine, a dull clatter as he dropped it onto a bedside table already crowded with bottles of disinfectant and the nurse’s bizarre tools. “We’ll stop here. It’ll take another session, but I think you’ve been through enough for one day. For a virgin, especially.”

You were only half-listening; the phantom of his machine still buzzing in your ears. “Are you sure?” You asked, trying to hide how desperate you were not to spend another night in the empty infirmary with a man you barely knew. “It’s not that bad, I can go for another—”

“I’m sure. Sit up, I’ll let you have a look.”

You pursed your lips, but didn’t protest. You could see how Wriothesley had gotten into such an authoritative position. The way he spoke, his constant undertone of stern stability – it was hard to so much as imagine talking back to him, let alone breaking one of the rules that’d been meticulously and painstakingly drilled into you when you’d arrived at the Fortress of Meropide a little under a week ago. Still, you’d been terrified – too scared to so much as speak to another prisoner for the first two days. You weren’t dangerous. You couldn’t hold your own in a fight, or protect yourself if someone else, someone stronger decided they had a problem with you. You could barely even call yourself a criminal, but apparently, the Iudex hadn’t agreed. You’d been on your way to the fortress before he could finish reading out your sentence, and now, you were trapped in the darkest, deepest place in all of Fontaine, alone and so, so painfully vulnerable. If it hadn’t been for Wriothesley, you probably would’ve requested to forgo your imprisonment entirely and be sent straight to the gallows.

A hand on your shoulder, a softened lull to his voice. “You can sit up, can’t you? I’ll have to call Sigewinne, if you’re in that much pain.”

“Right, I— uh, sorry,” You stammered as you shook your head and pushed yourself up, careful to keep the thick, overly starched cot sheet pressed to your chest. The infirmary was empty, the door locked and sealed, and while Wriothesley hadn’t seemed to think much of ordering you to take off your shirt and lay face-down, you couldn’t bring yourself to brush off the stark, damp chill that came with any amount of exposure in the fortress so easily. You guessed that, after enough time, you’d get used to it. You guessed that, when you did, the thought of not being so cold so constantly wouldn’t make you feel so sick. “I…  I think I’m still getting used to this,” you went on, with a strained smile. “Still a little out of it, I guess.”

“That’s alright, love. We all take a few months to find a way to cope.” When you glanced over your shoulder, there was already a mirror in his hand – a compact, small enough to fit in his palm. You had to crane your neck to see it, but Wriothesley knew how to strike the right angle, and soon enough, the sprawling, spiraling pattern stretching from the lower curve of your shoulder blade to the ball of your shoulder came into view. It took you a moment to make out the pattern, but relief accompanied the delayed realization. Lumidouce bells, all blossoming and linked together by a single vine. He’d finished the linework, and there was a smattering of color in the bottom corner – only, oh, he’d gotten the shade wrong. Rather than deep violet, he’d used a light blue, more similar to ice than the water nearly everything in Fontaine stole its palette from. Judging by his expression, though, all beaming pride and low-brewing mirth, he hadn’t caught the mistake. “What do you think? Don’t keep me in suspense, now.”

“It’s… nice,” you said, the sentiment sincere despite your hesitance. And then, laughing, “I was—Well, it feels a little silly now, but I was terrified you’d leave me with, I don’t know, a sea monster or a giant wolf or something.”

“Maybe next time. Not a wolf, though - you don’t strike me as that vicious.” You bit your tongue, forcing yourself not to tell him there wouldn’t be a next time and opting to focus on the soreness starting to knot in your shoulder, instead. You swung your legs over the side of the cot, moving towards where you’d left your shirt draped over an unopened crate, but Wriothesley caught your wrist, tugging you gently back onto the thin mattress. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his playfulness suddenly more irritating than it had been, a few second ago. “I don’t think we’re finished, yet.”

Not for the first time, your smile wavered. “I… I thought we only agreed to one, sir.”

“Of course.” He squeezed your wrist teasingly. “One of each.”

Something heavy and spiked dropped into the pit of your stomach. This time, you couldn’t help the way your expression dropped. “Sir, that’s really not what I—”

“It’ll be worse the longer you put it off.” You weren’t dangerous. You weren’t a criminal. You weren’t strong, but Wriothesley was. Before you could so much as push yourself to your feet, his arm was around your waist and he was perched on the edge of the cot, one leg tucked underneath him to make more room for your body, soon pulled between his thighs. The back of your shoulder screamed where it pressed into his chest, but you managed to swallow the little, pitiful sound threatening to bubble past your lips and clung to your sheet – suddenly so much thinner than it’d seemed, seconds prior. If Wriothesley noticed your apparent panic, the distress of his prisoners was an inconvenience he was willing to endure. Only half-consciously, you tried to shove yourself away from him, but his muscle-bound arm was snaked around your waist before you could gain any distance, keeping you flush against his broad chest. He was so much bigger than you’d realized, when he was on the other side of that desk, when he was engraving something intrusive and permanent into the very fabric of your being. This had been a bad idea. Trusting anyone here had been a bad idea. You should never have—

Your elbow slammed into his diaphragm, and Wriothesley let out a slow grunt, his fingers burrowing into the plush of your side. “Easy now, love,” he half-muttered, half-breathed, bowing his head to speak into the side of your throat. “We had a deal, remember? Can you tell me what it was?”

“You—you said I wouldn’t get hurt if—” You forced yourself to stop, to swallow, to breathe. “But, I only agreed to get one tattoo, and you—”

“I said I’d take care of you. Get you a nice, cushy job with the fortress administrator, keep you out of any over-crowded bunks, make sure the other prisoners don’t cause you any trouble – that kind of thing. I’m really not supposed to play favorites, so even doing that much is going to take more than a little discretion on my part.”

“But, you offered to—”

“I said I’d take care of you, and I’m going to.” You could see him fishing something off of the bedside table with his free hand, but you forced yourself not to look, not to make the ever-growing pit in your stomach feel that much more hollow. “You’ve heard a few stories about what it’s like in the underworld, right? I try to keep all of you nice n’ safe, but a few are bound to fall through the cracks. Rehabilitation can only do so much and—well, I’m sure you know all about how bloodthirsty desperation can make someone.” There was a pause, an ebbing lull to the tenderness in his voice. “I’m just trying to keep you safe, sweetheart. Are you going to help me get a little practice in, while I do that?”

Practice. If he wanted practice, you were sure there were another hundred prisoners who’d willingly lay down and let him carve a hole through whatever he wanted to. Still, you did your best to calm yourself down, to stop thrashing, to shut your eyes and try to ignore the large, pulsing thing you could feel pressing into your ass. You didn’t nod, didn’t give him permission, but when his fist balled around the infirmary sheet and tugged it away from you, the only resistance you managed to scrape up was a slight frown and a wary glance in his direction. “You’re already in for a rough night,” he explained, as if that was any excuse. “Might as well get the hardest one out of the way first, right?”

You refused to let yourself linger on the implication that this wasn’t going to be the last, too.

You clenched your eyes shut as his large hand pawed at the right side of your chest, kneading into the softened flesh with an almost delicate sort of care. “It’s easier after a little stimulation,” he murmured, as if that meant he had to spend so long circling your nipple with a calloused thumb, occasionally swiping over the sensitive bud in a way that made your thighs twitch and your face burn. When your nipple was stiff and pebbled, he pulled away, but it was a momentary reprieve – torn away from you with a splash of freezing disinfectant. It dripped down your chest and filled the stagnant air with a thick, chemical haze as Wriothesley caught your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching tightly. You felt the long, curved tip of his piercing needle against your skin, and braced yourself for the pain. Wriothesley wasn’t kind enough not to drag it out, though. “Wanna count me down?”

You shook your head, pushing yourself that much closer to his chest, desperate for any kind of stability. You’d hoped that Wriothesley would take your clear obstinance as a sign not to drag it out any longer, but he seemed to savor it – the agony of the wait, the way the dread seemed to multiply tenfold every time you forced yourself to suck in a ragged inhale. Seconds seemed to pass like frozen honey, only just beginning to drip. You’d started to think he wouldn’t do it, that he’d just laugh and admit this was all part of some bizarre, invasive hazing ritual when Wriothesley let out an airy chuckle and plunged his needle into you.

Oh, archons.

You really thought the tattoo would’ve been worse.

It was faster, at least; a bright shock of pain followed immediately by a steady, throbbing sort of ache that seemed to drown out every other sensation and fill your mind with a buzzing, numbing static. You didn’t realize your eyes had shot open on reflex until tears blurred your vision, until you glanced down just in time to watch as he dragged the needle through and replaced it with a small, silver stud – a barbell, as wrong as it felt to think of yourself having something so vulgar attached to you. You were crying unabashedly by the time he finished, pain and humiliation dripping down your cheeks in hot, wet streams, but Wriothesley’s shallow pool of sympathy must’ve run dry. “Ah, don’t make that face, sweetheart – we’re only halfway done.” You felt him panting into the crook of your neck as his hand found the other side of your chest. The last threads of his veil of composure frayed and broke apart as he groped unabashedly at your chest, toying with your nipple as your sobs echoed off of the clinic walls. You felt something thick and hot and wet crash against your collarbone and drip down the curve of your chest, and forced yourself to believe it was only disinfectant. That there was nothing it could’ve been except disinfectant.

Wriothesley’s hips rocked against your ass, the rigid outline of his cock pressing into you, incinerating any lingering delusions you might’ve had of helpful prison wardens exchanging one favor for another. Five fingers bit into the plush of your chest as he brought his needle to your unmutilated nipple, his hand surprisingly steady despite the airy, drawling moans he was pouring into your throat. “P-please don’t,” you managed, fighting to speak above the pathetic cries and choking fear doing their best to strangle out your voice. “Please, I can’t—I don’t want to—”

But, Wriothesley wasn’t listening. It wasn’t a spark, this time, but a red-hot knife, stabbed deep into your chest and twisted as far as it could go. You heard Wriothesley let out a rough groan, felt something warm and damp against your ass, and then, you were gone.

~

You startled awake hours later; bolting upright as you heaved in jolting, uneven inhales. Immediately, pain knocked you out of your panicked daze – sharp and piercing, imbedded into the back of your shoulder and either side of your chest, strong enough to remind you to measure out your breathing and calm down before you blindly threw yourself back into a seething pit of violent criminals. It took you a second to realize that you weren’t on an undersized infirmary cot, anymore, and another to piece together where he’d taken you – a bedroom nearly triple the size of your bunk. The warden’s chambers, you figured, as you scanned over the limited decoration and piles of dust-coated paperwork stacked onto every possible surface. Wriothesley’s room.

Wriothesley’s bed, at that. A cold chill ran down your spine as you realized that he’d taken the time to strip you out of your ill-fitting coveralls and redress you in a shirt sizes too big to be one of yours – the bleached, threadbare material a stark contrast to the satin sheets draped over your legs. You started to push them away and move towards the edge of the mattress, but froze as a door on the far side of the room creaked open – Wriothesley slipping inside and letting the door shut behind him. He moved away from it quickly, but as it closed, you could’ve sworn you heard the muffled, deafening click of a lock sliding into place and cutting you off from the rest of the world – or, the rest of the underworld, rather. As if there was anyone out there who would bother to save you, even if they could try.

“There’s my sleeping beauty.” He grinned as he lowered himself on the side of the bed, positioning himself closer to you than he absolutely had to. He reached out, moving to cup your face, but quickly let his hand fall back to his side when you flinched away. His smile dimmed, but didn’t fall away. “Get a chance to see the improvements, yet?”

After a second of hesitation, you shook your head, and he nodded to your chest - the gesture more of an order than a suggestion. Reluctantly, you pinched your collar between two fingers and peeled away from your skin. Through the narrow sliver, you could see his handiwork: a pair of twin rings hanging from either nipple, connected by a thin, lax, silver chain – so light, you could barely feel it brushing your diaphragm as the air caught in your chest.

You dropped the collar before you could give in to the nausea beginning to coil in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t bear to look at Wriothesley, so you kept your eyes on the sheets, kneading at the fabric half-consciously as you struggled to find your voice. “That wasn’t what we agreed to,” you muttered, mostly under your breath. “Can I go back to my bunk, now?”

His smile took on an almost apologetic note. You tried again. “Am I... Am I going to be able to leave?”

This time, when he reached out, flinching away wasn’t enough to stop him – his hand catching your chin and drawing you that much closer to him. You tried to lurch away, but it was too late, his lips were already crashing into yours, his tongue already slipping past your teeth and raking over your own. While your eyes widened in shock, his went half-lidded, closing just a second too late. Abruptly, it occurred to you that you’d never really noticed the color of his eyes – a pale, faded blue. The color of the half-formed flowers currently stretching across your back.

Wriothesley’s hand slipped to the nape of your neck. You let your eyes fall shut, and did your best not to think at all.

[frantic-fiction]

Secluded Evening 18+

(GIF: leopardmuffinxo)

Astarion x F!Reader, Astarion x Tav

Warnings: 18+ MDNI pretty much pure smut, fluff, nipple piercings, nipple play. Skinning dipping, unprotected sex, Late Act 1 Astarion

Summary: Astarion catches reader during a midnight swim. Playful flirting becomes physical. Basically, my take on reader and Astarion's first time in act 1. There is way more implication of Astarion's real attraction for reader, not just a manipulation tactic.

Word Count: 2.8k

The shadow curse land is just a few days west, and a sickly feeling has crept through the camp. The party is on edge, fighting a constant headache as you attempt to mediate the tension in a group of solid personalities during highly stressful events. Shadowheart and Lae’zel are at each other’s throats, bickering and pulling daggers when either sends a quip in the other's direction. Karlach is still burning hot despite her upgrade, and with Dammon already far along the path, all you can do is promise to get her to Baldur’s Gate as quickly as you can. Wyll is fine, but he’s Wyll, so that’s not surprising.

Gale, however, might be the one pushing your buttons the most, or at least he is testing your patience past your limit now. “Tav, I don’t believe I have to express again how important it is to acquire a magical artifact soon.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, and you get the sudden urge to whack him over the head with the book you held unread in your hands. “I will be glad not to have to feel my chest be ripped in two, but I will repeat: if I do not consume an artifact, I will die and level the general vicinity with me.”

You push off the log, slamming the novel down. Level-headedness has been one of your strong suits. It’s the main reason you found yourself leading these misfits across the kingdom. You can keep your cool under the most extreme sources of stress, but everyone is just annoying you today.

“Look, I get it. You need a shoe to chew on, or you’ll go boom. But guess what? I have given you every spare artifact I have to give. Our coins are down to silver and copper. So unless you are willing to chomp down on the stupid circlet you just ‘had to get,’ then you can suck it up and wait until we reach another town.” By the end, you’re yelling, and Gale looks like a kicked puppy. The rest of the camp has turned to look at your outburst. You burn with regret for everything immediately.

You reach out a tentative hand, “Gale, I didn’t—”

“No, you are absolutely right. Apologies for my inconvenience. I hope you enjoy the rest of the night, Tav.” He quickly returns to his tent and pins the flaps close.

Sighing, you rub your hands down your face. You feel terrible; Gale’s condition is excruciating, and you hate to be unable to get him something to alleviate the pain, but your supplies are down to the bone. “Fuck,” you breathe, picking the book back up and storing it away.

“I must say, my sweet, I could get used to this more dominating personality of yours. It certainly gets me excited.” Astarion practically purrs in your ear. You turn face to face and stumble back slightly at his proximity.

Brushing your hair behind your ears, you avoid his eye contact. A warmth spreads across your face. “Oh, I'm sure,” you smirked, clearing your throat and recovering quickly.

It was a game between you two, ignited on the beach with a knife to your throat. Harmless flirts, playful banter with no attention to go further. Attraction is thick, but neither dares to press in this dance.

He crowds into your space. His nose practically tickles yours. He plays with your hair, fingers tangling in the locks. His face dawns an emotion of concern. “Darling, I’ve noticed you’ve been very stressed these last few days.”

His breath fans your face. You grab the edge of his shirt. “I think it would be a good idea to release some tension. Some alone time, maybe?” His pointer finger traced the bone of your jaw.

You smirk and pull away, trailing your hand up the contours of his chest. “You're right.” His wicked grin widens like a cat playing with prey. “I think I'll call in early and have a night to myself. I hope you will be okay hunting tonight.”

When you were scouting the perimeter, you stumbled across a small alcove. It was breathtaking. Several willows enclosed a small lake, water beautifully sparkling in the sun. You love swimming and have been thinking about the lake ever since. You occupy yourself with finishing your book until the sun sets. Once the camp settles for the night, you grab your pack and sneak your way out to the forest line.

Astarion’s grin drops, and his arms go limp. You slip away, lifting the edge of your tent. “Thank you again. Do you mind telling the others as well?”

He glares knowingly, and with a wink, you drop the flap and sit on the floor. You gather your supplies: a change of clothes, your only towel, and your washing bag.

The lake isn't too far, and before you know it, you're there. It's different in the moonlight. Fireflies buzz around the cattails, the willow branches sway softly above the water, and frogs croak on lily pads. You set a blanket to place the rest of your stuff around, quickly tossing your clothes off and wading into the water.

It's not as cold as expected, but you still gasp at the initial sting. You adapt quickly and soon dive fully, submerging into the fresh water. You stay underwater; ears plugged, giving a warped vibration through your head. Once your lungs begin to burn, you surface and gulp air.

“Well, isn't this just a coincidence?” Astarion chuckles, standing at the shore with pale forearms crossed over his chest. “I was just out on my hunt when I came across such a delectable treat.”

You bite your bottom lip, pulling your hands back and forth, sucking water in and out around your form. “Well, now that you've found me, what do you plan to do with me?”

You move onto your back and float, exposing your entire front half to his eyes. The water on your skin chills in the air. Your nipples pebble, and you hear a groan.

Floating in the water, you close your eyes. It's quiet momentarily before a large splash startles you and you're pulled under. You kick instinctually, and Astarion grabs your foot and drags you closer.

His strong arms circle your waist, and you resurface. You smack his chest. “You asshole.”

He laughs, and before you know it, you're laughing too. You sway in Astarion's arms as he carries you deeper into the lake. Grabbing a flower floating in the water, you begin to pick some of the limp petals. You look up and slide the flower into his hair. It's adorable.

Astarion pinches your chin and pulls your face close, staring deep into his eye. There are no words; you feel the line shatter when the reality of what's happening sinks in. There is no performance in his eyes. No formulaic flirtatious lines or sexy words. What is happening? You don't know, but when he crashes his lips to yours, you really fucking want to find out.

It's like a rubber band. The kisses open the damn, and soon your legs are wrapped around his hips. One hand threads through his pale curls, the other encircling his neck.

Astarion breaks from your lips and trails sloppy kisses down to your neck. "I have waited long enough to ravish you, my dear,"

And then you are moving; he's quickly wading through the water, not once removing his lips from your throat. You know it will bruise, and the idea of another mark of his sends heat lower down your body.

You sigh when Astarion nips your neck, pressing you down on the blanket. Wet skin slides against damp skin. Grabbing his hair, you pull him back up, capturing his lips. It is messy, sloppy, and all too much to handle.

You arch up, pressing your breast against his chest. He pauses, and you whine when he pulls away.

"What are these?" Astarion practically growls, pinching your hard nipple. You gasp his name as he twists the small metal bar through the nub. He grinds his hips against your leg. He's hard, his cock presses against his stomach.

"Jewelry," you moan, clutching his shoulder. "They make me more sensitive."

"Oh, my naughty girl," he lowers to take your neglected breast into his mouth. His skillful tongue sucks your breast, his hand paying equal attention to your other. Feeling a scrap of his fangs, you let out a cry of ecstasy, rolling your hips, seeking any source of friction.

Astarion pins your hips down and pulls away from your breast with a wet pop. "No, no, my sweet. I think you have not been fair keeping least lovely tits from me. I can't remember ever seeing such unique body modifications." He gives a sharp bite to your breast, just deep enough to pierce the skin.

Droplets of blood beaded to the surface; it was quickly lapped up with his tongue, a groan crawling its way up his chest. He slips one of his legs under yours, and his hips slide his stiff cock between sopping wet folds. You choke out his name, and his mouth moves to the other breast. "I think I'm owed a bit longer exploring such a beautiful chest."

"My, my, you're so responsive. I could spend hours pleasing you with my tongue." Astarion trails his tongue up between your breasts, eyes boring up into your flushed face. "Just imagine the delightful words I could pull from your beautiful lips as I lay between your thighs, playing your exquisite body like a bard's violin."

Your breath is uneven, panting while Astarion takes his time lavishing your breasts. Soon, your nipples are on fire, swollen from the ruthless attention Astarion has provided. Tears sting your eyes. You are desperate for anything, nothing; you are not sure, but you are moaning and pleading up into the night air. All available skin was victim to your desperate fingers.

"Starion, ugh-please, they're too sensitive." You tug at the small hairs at the nape of his neck. His lips tug the metal bar just enough to pull another cry from your lips. He releases your breast with a wet pop.

You bite his neck (almost the same spot he uses to feed from you) and all semblance of his control dissolves—you're back on the blanket in a show of Astarion's speed. Air was knocked from your lungs. "Fuck, my dear," Astarion grinds against you coating his cock in more of your juices. "I believe we've waited enough time to enjoy each other. So, I think I fuck you, deep and slow, until you can only scream my name. And if you're lucky, spend the rest of the night pulling lovely whimpers from your over-sensitive cunt."

His husky voice purred in your ears. Your thighs clench, arousal dripping onto the blanket. "Star," you breathe out, grabbing his face and crashing your lips together. Teeth clashed, and tongues fought for dominance. Wrapping your legs fully around Astarion's slim hips, you roll up. Using his distraction as leverage, you twist your hips and maneuver the two of you.

Astarion is now on his back, curls silver in the dark, and his eyes are wide with shock. You comfortably sat on his hips, hands pressing on each of his pecs. "You have my full permission to do that, but if you don't fuck me right now, I will be taking care of myself in my tent." Lips are back on his before you chuckle in his ears. "We have teased each other for months. I think it's about time you do something about this pretty boy."

Astarion doesn't leave a moment to respond before he impales you with one deep thrust. Your nails dig into his shoulders. Astarion grabs your calf, raises your leg, and sets a brutally slow pace.

You were matching each of his thrusts with a roll of your hips. Your mouth at his chest and throat, sloppily leaving kisses and spit on his pale torso. "Ug-fucking Gods, you so tight," The sounds of skin slapping against skin and collective cries of pleasure break up the quietness of the lake.

Astarion presses his forehead to yours, breathing in your whimpers of ecstasy. The force of his thrusts is jostling your breasts; your nipples rub against his cold skin.

The moans roll off your tongue; you put a hand into his hair. "A-astarion fast…faster," you choke, snaking a hand between your conjoined bodies to rub small circles over your clit. The warm tightening coils in your lower abdomen. "P-please, Star."

"Beautiful." Astarion's pace picks up, his balls slapping against your pussy. He quickly pushes your hand away and replaces your fingers with his own.

He doesn't need to be asked twice, and the cold pierce of his fangs digs into your throat. You choke on gasp, hips stuttering. Astarion is dragging, mouthfuls of your blood down his throat, his fingers picking up pace, rubbing tight circles on your clit.

The coil is tightening, and soon, you cannot form words outside of Astarion's name between pleases. "Oh, my sweet girl, so lost on my cock. I...fuck...I know it feels good."

He pinches your left nipple again and you whimper. "Your body is exquisite. I won't be able to last much longer, my love." His voice is hoarse, and he rambles between frantic ruts. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply.

Astarion presses kisses and licks to the hollow of your throat. He is asking for permission, and you quickly press him closer. "Yes, please," you groan. All the sensations Astarion was giving you were becoming too much. You were quickly approaching the edge.

The pain mixes with pleasure, and it's too much. Tears prick at your eyes. You ticken around hos cock and a rumble ruptures through his chest. He takes a few more gulps before pulling away. Astarion's tongue licks, ensuring no waste of your blood.

As soon as he pulls away from your neck, he's pushing his tongue into your mouth with a quick thrust—the metallic tang of your blood mixes between your mouths. "I'm close," you breathe, running your nose against his. Your panting, feeling like no breath can satisfy your burning lungs.

His thrusts are becoming sloppy, devolving into more grinds of hips. His fingers drag over your clit in tight, fast circles. "Me too," he's just as breathless, hips stuttering with pleasure. "Come for me, darling, let me hear you."

It's like your body was waiting for his honey-slick words to give you permission. Because the moment those words leave his devilish lips, you snap. You scream his name, legs pulling him close.

You didn't expect post-sex cuddles from Astarion, but gods, you could fall in love with this man if you weren't careful. But would that be too bad? To fall in love? You kiss his collarbone and pull your towel over the majority of your body.

With one, two, three more deep thrusts. Astarion comes with a breathy moan spilling deep into your core. You two lay there, tangled in each other's body. Hearts are pounding as you breathe each other's air.

Astarion pulls out and rolls to his back. You curl onto his chest, laying your ear over his silent heart. He plays with your hands and peppers kisses over your hairline.

You wish to stay the night in his arms right here, just having him hold you. But Astarion stiffens slightly when a shiver rolls through your body. It's like the bubble of serenity pops. Astarion is quick to remove himself from you.

"I don't believe cuddling wet and naked with a vampire is good for one's health." He's pulling his clothes on. And reluctantly and with shaky legs, you follow his lead. Astarion is quiet on the walk back, lost in thought. He plays with a coin mindlessly.

You don't push, knowing Astarion better than to pry. So you let him walk you to your tent. And just as you move to duck into your bed for sleep, Astarion grabs your wrist.

You turn and look up into his scarlet eyes. His expression is hard to read; his confusion, hesitancy, affection, and anger are fluidly behind his eyes. They could all fit, but nothing seemed to reflect Astarion's eyes. "I…" He pauses, thumb rubbing the back of your hand. He opens his mouth again but clicks it back close. Astarion searches your eyes as if they held the answer to his unspoken question.

Astarion doesn't seem to find what he's looking for because he shakes his hand—pressing a light kiss to the apple of your cheek. He drops your hand reluctantly. "Have a good night, my dear,"

Then he's gone, leaving you alone, the tingle of his lips still lingering on your skin. Your fingers trail across your cheek, and a small smile stretches your lips. Yeah, you could very easily fall in love with that man. Maybe you already have.

Okay let me know what you thought? I haven't written smut in forever and have never been super confident in it.

If you liked this how about checking out my other two Astarion pieces.

Happy Birthday **** Reoccurring Nightmares

[necronomicorn]

Scorned Sympathy ( Aegon II Targaryen x Reader)

Fandom: House of the Dragon, Aegon II Targaryen x Fem! Hightower! Reader

Summary: Alicent Hightower's sister has always hated the King, and transversely, he has hated her back. But, that all changes after he returns from Rook's Rest.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: none? I think, I don't know, its HOTD but mostly hurt/comfort and fluff

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They say that burns are a sacred death. The death of  dragon riders, honoring them among the living, and the dead. In his history lessons, Aegon had heard it was peaceful. Yes, there was supposed to be a screaming,  agonizing pain, but as flesh burned away, it took nerve endings with it, leaving them to feel nothing, numb. 

But Aegon hadn't been so lucky, he had only wished he had died back on the battlefield, died on impact of the flames. Then he wouldn't have had to suffer through spiraling to the ground, snapping his bones, or feel his armor being peeled away after it had merged with his flesh. He wouldn't have had to sleep nearly every hour of the day, waking up only to experience excruciating pain, relearning to walk when every step made him cry out in agony. 

The once comforting walls of his bedroom had turned into a torture chamber as he was forced to his feet by the Maesters, only to hobble around the confinements of those walls, good hand gripping the cane with enough force to drive splinters in his hands and cause his knuckles to turn white.

He cried out as the Maester pushed him into another step, holding him upright as best he could. Larys Strong stood in the patch of sunlight in the room, giving him an angelic halo, ironic as it was his devilish idea to make Aegon start walking so soon, only weeks after he had returned to the Red Keep.  

"Impressive," the club-footed man says, heads turning in his direction, "But I'm afraid you must work harder."

Aegon screams as Larys reaches around his other arm, cries of pain sounding like twisted laughter as together, they move him another step. Burned tissue stretched as they did, a blinding pain seeping through his barely-healed broken leg. 

The men pause in their persistence as the large bedroom doors swing open, silver-draped guards pushing them back to reveal the figure of Y/N, the youngest Hightower daughter. Her frame was draped in a long black gown, tied around her center with a golden chain that stopped several inches above the hem of her skirts. Long copper hair draped down her back, just as her eldest sister, yet that was where the similarities stopped. 

While Alicent was looked up to, a regal Queen of the realm, her sister had all but denounced her high-blood status, working in the streets as a herbalist, giving medicine to the poor, healing wounds, and delivering children. It wasn't until Viserys had died that Alicent welcomed her into the castle, for her protection, she had explained, though no man nor woman would dare to touch the 'witch'.

"Return the King to his bed, my Lords," the woman says, striding into the room, hands folded neatly in front of her gown. 

"The King must regain his strength, my Lady, he must practice," Lord Larys calls over his shoulder, dismissing her command.

Y/N smiles curtly at his defiance, "How would you like to disfigure your other foot, Lord Layrs?"

The man stops, struggling out from underneath the King's arm, "The King-"

"The King is too busy moaning in agony to give a shit about what you think," the woman interrupts, a boldness frowned upon in the castle, "Return him to bed, and leave us. I'm sure there are whispers to attend to."

Reluctantly, the Maester carries Aegon to his bed, allowing him to fall back onto the sanction of his covers. The Maester moves to lift the King's legs, despite his protests, earning a painful cry as they hit his sheets.

Vhisrya watches as the King rolls to his untainted side, arms curled up against his chest in defeat, body trembling as whimpers escape his scarred lips. The Maester exits quickly, Lord Larys slowly following, glaring at her with every step. It is only when she hears the large doors latch shut behind the men that she makes her way over to the King's bedside. He resembled a small child more than a man, curled around himself in loosely fitted clothes, eyes squeezed shut as his body shook.

He takes a ragged breath as he senses her presence beside him, eyes opening just the slightest to glare at the black-clothed woman, "Come to finish me off, witch?"

The witch makes no remark against him, only motioning for the boy to sit upright in the bed. He does so, grunting in pain, bracing himself on his good arm as he slides up to prop his back against the headboard. 

Y/N makes note of his trembling hands, the way he still insisted on putting up a bitter front despite not being able to move even a foot without collapsing in pain. It reminded her of his father. 

Regardless, she reaches for the buttons of his nightgown, pulling them apart hastily till his chest was exposed. Blistering red wounds stretched across the expanse of his left side, charred and black in some places, while in others, the skin had been cut away in jagged marks from separating melted armor from the King's flesh. 

"What-what are you doing?" Aegon trembles, fear lacing his voice. 

The woman's eyes move from his chest, to his face. He watched as they drifted from his swollen eyelid, to the top of his head, where silvery-blonde hair parted from vibrant burns, to where his ear once was, reduced now to a small lump that opened into his eardrum. He knew it was hideous, he wouldn't lie to himself, trying to persuade his own mind that he was still the beautiful boy the kingdom worshiped. He knew that if he healed, he couldn't even be seen in a pleasure house, not even the whores wanting to be fucked by a monster such as himself.

"Your grace?"

A soft voice draws him out of his own mind, one that was nearly unrecognizable coming from the woman beside him, "I have an ointment, one that should assist in healing your burns. But, I require you to remove your sleeves."

"Can't", Aegon grunts, talking becoming an exhaustion.

"I can assist you," the woman cooes, dragging the soiled fabric down his good arm first.

Aegon whimpers as her hand moves to his burned side, gently peeling the fabric from his neck, then down his shoulder, drawing near his bicep. He could feel the fabric stick to his skin, the pus that leaked from his wounds drying, attaching itself to the coarse fabric.

"I'm going to lift your arm," the woman says, earning a series of pleading "no"'s as she does.

The prince groans in pain, feeling the blistering skin stretch, muscle burning as she peeled the fabric away from his body, letting it pool around his waist.

Y/N could see the King's murderous gaze as she finished, pulling his arm back immediately, heavy breaths filling his chest, followed by shaking exhales. 

She makes haste, placing a mortar on the nearby table, filling it with oils and herbs, grinding it till the scent fills the room, overwhelmed by lavender. The King watches as she pulls a small vial from the pocket of her dress, opening it to reveal a nearly clear, thick liquid.

"What is that?" the King asks, the filth of his mind overpowering common sense.

Y/N looks back to the burned man, unaware he was watching her, "It's dragon saliva. Something in it prevents the dragons from being burned when they breathe fire, and proves itself to assist the healing process quicker than the Maester's brew alone. It only took me so long to bring it to you as your brother won't let me near his dragon, Sunfyre has not returned from Rook's Rest, and Helaena won't speak to me as she thinks I had something to do with your son's beheading."

Her last words come out as an aggravated shout, making the boy flinch. With a deep breath, she regains herself, carrying the mortar to his bedside, black dress fanning out on the sheets beside him, "I apologize, your Grace. You all think of me as some plague here to ruin the sanction of your home, yet Alicent refuses to let me leave the castle walls."

It was strange, hearing his mother's name be used so plainly, everyone else referred to her as the Queen, even Aemond and him referred to her as  "your Grace". 

Aegon clears this throat as the woman begins to spread the paste across his chest. It burned at first, but not to the level of the Maester's concoction. Perhaps dragon saliva was the key.

"She believes you would flee to Rhaenyra, aid her conquest for the crown," he grunts, intently gazing at the greenish mixture spread across his skin.

"And she is right," Y/N states plainly, "Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and you have usurped her crown."

"I could have your head for that," Aegon jokes, a faint smile, one of the first since he had returned, spreading across his lips. 

The woman smiles back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she continues to coat his torso, " I could have already had yours."

"Why haven't you, then?"

The hand that holds the brush hesitates, as Y/N searches for an answer. In all honesty, she has had many opportunities to kill the man, yet the thought never truly crossed her mind. She takes a deep breath before continuing her strokes, "You may be a monster- the sins you have committed are so terrible that you'd burst into flames if you ever set foot in the Sept. But, I know you did not choose to be King, just as I did not choose to waste away in this castle. I do not wish to punish you for something you cannot control, you have suffered enough."

Aegon says nothing, only faint whimpers coming from his lips. His breathing stilled as the woman traced a line of ointment across his face, delicately placing it across the edge where untouched skin met charred flesh. His body jolts as she accidentally brushes over an open wound on his cheekbone, where his helmet had melted, merging itself with his flesh. Despite how careful the Maester had been when removing it, deep gashes still marred his face. 

The King yelps in pain, eyes shut as the oils burn their way through his open wound, sending a new wave of intense pain across his face. His body curls against itself, a position he found himself in more and more often these days. But rather than digging the nails of his good hand into the palm of his fist, he found a softer, more delicate hand in his , softly stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, "I'm sorry."

Aegon whimpers, the comfort of her touch calming the scarred boy. It was rare that he obtained touches like these, not even from his mother, despite how much she claimed she loved him. No, she was more focused on being Queen than being a mother.  His wife was the same way, more fascinated with her bugs than her husband, only laying with him when they were forced to produce an heir, before returning to her own quarters in solitude. He would watch Helaena with their own children, interacting with them, holding them, reading to them, only wishing that his mother had done the same. 

So Aegon welcomes the warmth of the witch, clutching her hand with the intention to never let go until his scars had healed and he could hold his head with as much dignity as a true king. "Tell me a story," Aegon whispers, distracting himself from the pain that stretched across his body with every breath.

Y/N smirks, placing the mortar between her legs so she could continue placing the ointment with his hand still clutching her own. 

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful Princess, who was locked away in a tower guarded by a fierce dragon. Her parents, the King and Queen, missed her dearly, and declared that any knight who were to rescue her from the dragon's keep, would marry the lovely Princess.

Not far from the kingdom lived a beast, alone. He was happy that way, till a power-hungry Lord wished to take the beast's land for himself. Upset, the beast made a deal with the Lord, in exchange for his land, the beast would rescue the Princess from her dragon's keep, so the Lord may marry her. True to his word, the beast saved the girl, yet as they traveled back to the Lord's castle, the beast found himself falling in love with the Princess."

Beside her, Aegon's breath slows, muscles relaxing against her grip, yet his violet eyes stay fixated on the woman. He listens to her intently, soft voice ringing through the silent room, as airy as wind blowing his curtains in the night. 

"One night," Y/N continues, brushing the ointment across his scarred forearm, "The beast sought to confront the Princess, yet when he came to her cabin, he heard vile words coming from her mouth, ones solely describing such a monster as the beast. Furious, he gave her to the Lord, returning to his swamp alone. Yet, he couldn't forget the Princess, as even if she despised him, he loved her. So, he returned to the Lord's castle the night of the wedding.

As the sun fell that night, the beast watched as the beloved Princess transformed before his eyes, to a beast herself. Cursed by a witch many years before, the Princess turned ugly, monstrous, every night, the curse only to be broken by true love's kiss.

Together, the beast and the Princess slayed the Lord, and wed that night. Yet, when she kissed the beast, her appearance remained disfigured. The Princess then realized, that love's truest form was not based in beauty, but in happiness. She returned to the swamp with her beloved beast, and the two lived happily ever after."

Vhisrya finished her story with a smile, placing the brush back in the mortar. She looks down at the King, whose eyes were shut. For a moment, she thinks he has fallen asleep, but Aegon grunts, indicating he is still conscious, "Was there a moral to that story?"

He had only thought of the question after listening to one of Jaehaerys's lessons, one of the few times he was sober while the sun was still high in the sky. It made him feel like a child himself, curled along his tutor's side as she read him tales of past Kings.

The woman beside him rolls her eyes, placing her hand atop his own, "The moral is that even though someone may appear hideous, it does not make them a beast."

A deep flush overtakes Aegon's body, understanding her words. Still, he purses his swollen lips, "What if one's insides are as hideous- as hideous as their outsides?"

"Then that is truly a monster," Y/N replies, watching as the boy's face turns to a scowl.

A few moments of silence pass before the woman lets out a heavy sigh, "The beast was known for killing villagers set foot near his swamp, yet after he rescued his bride, he never killed again. He changed, Aegon, and you can too."

A chill is sent up Aegon's spine when she says his name. Like the rest of his court, she only addressed him "your Grace", and even when she did refer to him indirectly as "King Aegon", spite laced her words, bitter as poison. In every sober moment he had believed that she had hated him, yet her presence and aid in his time of need dismissed the notion from his mind entirely. 

Not even his mother had looked at him for this long, or made conversation so kind. Aegon had seen her, several times, hovering behind the Maester's as they tended to his wounds, yet she never dared to approach him, so close to his gnarled flesh. He couldn't blame her, he knew it was hideous, and the Queen's stomach was not meant to see such obscenities. 

In all honestly, neither should Y/N, but her previous line of work made her accustomed to such sights. The King swallows thickly, pain stretching up the left side of his neck, causing him to let out a small whimper. 

He feels the woman's hand stroke through his matted hair, hair that hasn't been brushed, or even washed in days. It shamed him, that he was incapable of keeping up his own appearance, needing the hands of servants to take the place of his own in combing his hair, washing him, dressing him, feeding him. 

"Will you stay with me tonight?" he whispers, discarding the last bit of dignity he held.

Y/N looked to the boy below her. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that she had never seen before, a glisten of sadness, despair, hopelessness. "Of course."

Aegon grunts as the weight shifts on the bed as she lays beside him, on his good side, not wanting to damage him in his slumber. The tormented King watches as she discards her jewelry on the furthest bedside table before fluffing a pillow to join him in the bed. Her long hair splays across the pillow as she grasps his hand, leaving several inches between the two of them. 

"Come closer," Aegon pleads, pulling gently on her hand, as much as his muscles would allow without excruciating pain.

"I don't want to harm you," Y/N says quickly, concerned etched in her features. 

"You won't" Aegon replies, sinking into the warmth of her body pressed against his own.

His body aches from his burns, the ointment only soothing his pain so much. It was nights like this, when Aegon couldn't sleep, when his body caused him so much trouble that he trembled and moaned until the morning sun rose. But as he curled against the woman, his pain began to subdue. He knew it wasn't literal, that her presence made his hurt go away, but he wished to believe it that simple, that she was his cure.

Y/N listened to his wheezing breaths slow as she held him, hand tight in her own. She felt the King's nose bury itself against the nape of her neck, a small grunt escaping his lips. She could feel his  chest rise and fall against her own as the King falls into a dreamless slumber. 

Darkness fills the room as the final candle burns low, the witch finally closing her eyes for her own rest, holding the broken, tortured boy in her arms, keeping him safe through the night. 

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (III)

AU MASTERLIST || FINAL CHAPTER

PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)

WORDCOUNT: 12.0k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, body horror, horror, angst, mutilation, violence, wounds, blades, death, many religious imagery/references, nudity, protective!Simon, NSFW, soft/loving smut, fingering, mating press, implied virgin!reader due to time-period standards, pretty vanilla, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Simon’s skin is bare to the moon, and he can taste your blood on his tongue. 

Eyes wide, the man’s lips are loose; jaw slackened at the horror that lays below him as crimson drips down the swell of his Adam’s apple and between the dip of his chest. He can’t move, even as the chill sets into his spine, the hair over his arms and on the back of his neck standing on end. 

All he can see is your body. 

You don’t move, you don’t smile or send him that stern look of stubbornness—the snow falls to your head, it collects on the side of your face and limp corpse. Your torn clothes show the weeping wounds and jagged remains of flesh. 

But none more so than one on your neck. The gaping tear made from his fangs. 

Not me, Simon’s fingers twitch at his sides, your body in a pool of red. Not me. 

It was him, though, wasn’t it? 

He doesn’t remember what happened, cannot recall the memories in his brain—a demon, the Lord of this forest, and a prisoner all in one. You hadn’t killed it, no, there was no way to do that. Silver could only do so much.

But it had done something to you, to make your scent twist and rot. Your soul didn’t smell right.

“I…” Simon’s voice fails him. 

His body is broken and bent, his entire side burning with pain, but none of that matters. Brown eyes quiver, and the man goes to lick his lips only to gag at the taste of copper, snapping his eyes away to pant quick breaths into the tree line. 

Simon’s hand raises to hover above his stomach, shaking. 

“I didn’t bloody do that,” he mutters, the evidence on his chest and stuck in his pores. The forest is silent. “I didn’t do that.” The man says it louder. 

You stare forward numbly with a broken neck and a torn-out throat.

Foot twisting him around, he levels his back to you, hands coming up to his head as his jaw clenched so tight his molars scream at him. What had happened? What had gone on? Simon closes his eyes and hunches his shoulders forward. 

“No,” he growls. “No, I didn’t fucking do that to you.” 

The night continues to keep him in its black hold, the snow absorbs the blood and black liquid. He can smell the rot—the infection under your skin as it brands your corpse. 

This forest was like a beacon to every monster in its vicinity. It called them here and made them lose themselves. Under the light of the moon and sun, whenever its branches told him to run and hunt as a beast, Simon Riley had no option but to obey. He would come here on a moment's notice when he felt the change coming over him, to his hut and his glade. 

There were few times he could predict it, and no matter how much he wanted to stay with you, that just wasn’t how it worked. 

Every monster that was called here was bait for that demon, and no monster had the ability to wield anything that could kill it. No silver. No holy water. 

But a mortal could. 

Every hunter entering these dark bounds had been hunting the wrong colossus and never had the chance to know it. 

Simon bends slightly forward to hold his head tighter, grunting out whimpers as if trying to keep his brain from falling out. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. Then louder than a scream and longer than the first, “Fuck!” The trees shiver. 

Simon harshly pulls at his hair, feeling the strands snap before he slides his hands up and down his face; trying to push off the crimson yet he only succeeds in spreading it. He can’t hear your heart beating anymore, can’t hear the swell of your lungs. Nothing. 

Hand lashing out, his knuckles connect with the hard bark of one of the tree’s trunks and he sends it back and forward three more times until his fingers crack and bend. When he’s done, the man doesn’t even notice the tears freezing on his cheeks as his breath puffs out in clouds. 

Simon silently stifles a ragged inhale and sags forward, unable to turn back and look at you—he can’t bear it after everything he’s been through. Forehead tapping the rough bark, his pain-filled body flaring, the blond clenches his fists like an angry child.

He should have told you in the glade—in the safety of consecrated ground where holy men and women had been buried for time immemorial. He should have explained why it was only you that made him whole.

But Simon was a silent creature; a creature of silent glances and hidden softness that borders on a fear of abandonment. He would never tell you until you happened to figure it out yourself or if it became undeniable.

Oh, you should have stayed away. 

His knees threaten to give out, so he lets them go until he can move his body to the side and lean against his tree. Barely breathing, he cares not about the cold. As he did when he was a child, all those years ago yet still shrouded in pain and hate, he loses any and all expression from his face—brown eyes dark as they stare at nothing. 

There had been a moment that he’d come back to himself as the Ghost. A brief moment. 

Simon wants to hang for the memory he now holds. 

Your eyes, blood-burst, looking into his own as his fangs rend your flesh in two. The feeling of your neck snapping under his jaws. Tongue lolling in blood and licking its muzzle; whiskers dripping.

This time Simon gags, but he also hurls up his guts, too. 

Bending his aching spine, his forearm keeps him up, bare thighs tensing and nerves quivering as his abdomen bunches. Simon pants staring blankly at the bile in the snow, saliva pooling in his mouth. He still can’t look at you. 

With little left for him, the man curls up in the snow and resigns himself to freezing to death, arms loose around his waist and injuries screaming at him. 

He’d killed you—is death not the only option left for him as well? 

Simon lays there until his eyelids grow heavy, only thinking of you and how you had been. Your kindness, your wit. He enjoyed your loudness, and there was no one to perfectly challenge him but you. 

From the first time he’d seen your form, it had only ever been you. He was yours, utterly; wholly. He should have told you to stay away.

“M’sorry, Love” he whispers into the ground, shivering violently, lips blue. His head is turned away as the trees hold their breath. “All my bastard fault—should’ve been me. It…fuckin’ hell,” Simon breathes, clenching his jaw. “Should’ve been me.”

He mutters his self-hatred until he falls silent and his chest rattles. Until the forest listens. 

Until it answers.

Simon’s eyes snap open to the sound of a world cracking in two and finds your body gone. 

—

This place isn’t real. 

You sit in a mirror vision of your shop, but nothing is correct. Looking into the corners, shadows slip away with quiet laughter, and the door rings but no one walks through. It’s…repetitive. It never stops, but you can’t seem to leave. 

You think it’s been days, weeks, even. Always it feels like there’s something watching you, and the window of your shop shows nothing but black night outside and flickering lamps. 

It doesn’t feel right to speak. 

If you speak, whatever is standing out in the street will know you’re here. 

You shake as you watch it now, silent and swallowing down saliva. Its eyes have been ripped out, and the chains along its wrists drag so loudly you can hear them even through stone and wood; they make you flinch and shiver. For whatever reason, the phantom of the man cannot find you, though he has been looking. 

He even knocks on the door.

It was a clanging, dead, thing. With a slam of a gnarled wrist and a raspy cry of your name on his slit tongue. You don’t want to ask how it knows your title, so you only hold your hands to your mouth to stifle your sobs. But for all of this, you still contained self-awareness.

You’re in Hell, or some strange, twisted version of the middle point. Purgatory. 

But why? Why here of all places—your soul had been branded, you heard that curse and felt the blackened nectar in your flesh. Had known what Simon had…

You blink quickly, looking away from the twisted man and taking down a shaky inhale. 

Whatever this place was, you and this shade were the only ones here. The only once-human ones, anyways. You didn’t exactly want to go out and meet him. 

“Please!” It bangs on the door again and your head snaps up in panic, hand whipping to your mouth to hide the sharp gasp. If you ever got out of here, you never wanted to see your home again. This version ruined it. “Please, let me in. I can’t see—it took out my eyes! Please, please I need my eyes.” 

Your eyelids close tightly, your heart clenched and beating fast. 

All of this terror lets you think about Simon. And so you do, and try to not blame him for what he did even if you know in your heart it’s not his fault. 

You remember the first time you met him, and you think that’s perhaps one of the best memories you hold. 

“If you expect me to fix this, you’ll need to hand over half of your soul and a blessing from God himself,” you frown at the remains of a pair of tweed pants, blinking with your mouth agape. “I’d ask what happened, but I think that would put me on a list of some kind, Sir.” 

Simon stares.

“How much?” You sigh and shake your head. 

“Really, there’s very little I can do here short of just offering you a new pair.” Placing the scraps on the table and lightly pushing them forward, the man moves his large hand out to take them from you. 

Your fingers touch, and you blink as a slight spark makes you flinch. Simon as well, you remember, had snapped his hand back to him, his eyes slightly widening and his throat holding down a breath. 

“Woah,” you mutter, touching your head as you suddenly go lightheaded. “S-sorry about that, I don’t know what—”

“Both.” Simon slides the fabric back to you. 

Your senses come back in a slow sweep and you clear your throat. “...Both?” 

“Fix the pants and sell me another, yeah?” A quirked brow, but something else swims in that dark gaze, something that fights with itself. “I’ll pay. Money’s no problem.” 

“Oh,” you blink, taken aback. The both of you stare at each other. 

You’re struck by the thought that this man’s eyes are far more deep than anything you’ve looked into before. 

“Of course, if that’s what you want.” He grunts, tipping his head and looking to the side for a moment. He wears that strange covering, too. The one that sits on his nose. 

“Good.” Simon backs up a step before pausing. “You have a name, then, Tailor?” 

You tilt your head and cross your arms, eyes narrowing carefully. “Just as you do.”

That silk fabric twitches, gaze sparking. 

“Simon Riley.” Your smile slowly pulls at your muscles, and for the first time throughout the day, you truly mean it. 

You don’t know how time works here, but you also can’t really understand that you’re dead. Of course, the thought of an afterlife crossed your mind in your living hours, but you’d never thought you’d go to one so soon. 

But every time you blink, you don’t think you’re meant to be here.

So, again, why? The question was mulled over incessantly after every memory of Simon, and you start to believe he’s the catalyst. 

What were you missing? 

The man himself had hinted at it, talking about how your scent to him was opium—like a drug. It kept him…him even when a monster. 

“Please!” You’ve discovered that all of the windows are bolted and the front door is locked, but it never becomes daytime here. A perpetual night and a pleading soul guarding you. In the long hours where you sneak from one empty room to another, so similar to real life that it makes you sick, you wonder if this place is an exact replica of the city you called home.

If some of the other houses are not so vacant after all; the inhabitants hiding like you are. Purgatory sounds about right.

Chains drag and there are garbling sobs and you stare at the door without the key to open it. 

The thing was blind—if you could sneak past it…your eyes looked out the window to Simon’s home across the street. There was a pull to all things that included him. A sanctity. Despite how your life had ended, how you’ll surely still think about it and sob out of pain, you can’t blame him for it. 

He didn’t have control.

You begin to think of a plan to break out without making any noise as you close your eyes tightly, hands clenching at your sides. 

“Back again, Mr. Riley?” Your bell rings and you glance at the intimidating figure walking through. He takes a deep breath when he enters, nodding in greeting before lumbering to the counter. 

“Any trouble?” He had a habit of asking this when he’d been gone on a longer trip of his, always back disheveled and with bags under his bloodshot eyes. As if he gets back and the first thing he wants to do is come see you.

The thought didn’t bother you. 

You laugh, “I’m happy to report the only thing that happened was that a pigeon ran into the window.” 

Brown eyes glance over his shoulder to blink at the impression of feathers on the front glass.

“Poor Bastard,” he huffs, amusement in his accented tone as he slips his hands into his pockets. “Get any feathers out of it? New pillow if you’re lucky.” He tilts his chin. “If you know how to pluck a bloody corpse, that is.”

“You’re incredibly strange, Mr. Riley,” you laugh, nodding your head at him. “I’ve never heard a man state such things.”

“I wrong?” Simon grunts, but you hear his slight smile in his tone. 

You only roll your eyes. “I highly doubt a pigeon would give you enough feathers for a pillow.”

“Well, you’re just not fuckin’ trying hard enough then, yeah?” 

“Are you here for a reason, Sir?” You can’t stop smiling, holding back your loud laugh as happiness is plainly stated on your face. “Or are you just here to speak to me about the feather-quantity of the local birds?” 

Simon’s eyes are crinkled slightly, and you try very hard to imagine him beaming just as you do, though you know it’s slim. 

You want to make him smile; you want to be the reason he does. And you don’t even know why. 

Your very soul leaps when you see him from across the street, it tightens and calls out like a reaching hand desperate to grasp into another counterpart. You’d never felt like this about a man before, much less one you barely knew anything about on a personal level. 

You liked Simon Riley.

“I was thinking ‘bout a new undershirt. Black.” A hand moves up and a pile of money is placed on your counter. “Anything’ll be good, just need a new one.” 

“Of course,” you easily slip into business, not bothering to look at the sum. “Special occasion?” You pause before fake laughing. “A lady to impress, perhaps?”

Your heart sinks more than it should; nearly hurting. Did Mr. Riley have a courtship? 

He blinks at you carefully, long lashes caressing his scarred cheeks. You swore his lips under the silk twitched. 

“No,” is all he says, blunt and casual, thighs shifting. 

You stare, hands touching themselves on the counter as heat burns your cheeks. 

“Okay,” you mutter, embarrassed, though you don’t know why. “That should be no trouble at all. I’ll just need your measurements.” 

Simon nods once, staring at your hands before he takes off his jacket and places it on the wood. You grabbed your long measuring tape and slipped to the front, asking lightly for him to hold out his arms. 

Heart hammering, he does so; great torso flexing and face blank. 

You begin with the chest, sliding your hands along his clothed body to flatten out the tape until you can see the mark it rested at. It would be false to say you didn’t lose your breath slightly, being so close and able to freely feel the swell of his muscle. Under your fingers, his pulse was like a hammer, and he was so large you actually had to give him a hug to connect the other side around him.

“S-sorry,” but Simon’s eyes are entirely blown, body tense and slightly shivering as your hands feel him. 

“Don’t be,” he breathes, and you feel the push of his lungs to his ribcage; molten heat. 

Your lips tingle, and heat seeps into your stomach as you shift your thighs to quell it. 

Simon grunts, and his head turns down incredibly fast. 

You blink. “Mr. Riley?” 

“Nothin’,” his lips flinch, and his brown eyes, more like black now, dart to your lips. “M’fine. Keep going.” 

You do so, oblivious to the coil in the man’s gut that mirrors yours, flaring with every gentle poke and prod.

It was when you’d almost given up that there seemed to be something else on your side in this god-forsaken place. You found your knife. 

It was in the same drawer where your tape measure should be, just sitting there where all else was absent. You stare and slowly reach for it, sliding your fingers over the hilt and the glint of the blade before picking it up. 

But you’d checked this drawer a million times over, what had—

There’s the sound of a fluttering of wings outside of your shop, and you’re unimpressed with yourself at how your mind immediately goes to a helpful pigeon spirit. You hold a hand to your lips to stop yourself from laughing, despite it all.

A spark alights in your heart. 

“Thank you,” you whisper to nothing, turning the blade over in your hands and smiling. 

Walking slowly, you avoid every creak in the wood—unlooping your belt for the small prong that would come in handy. Placing the blade into the slit of the lock, you insert the prong above it, twisting and waiting to hear a series of clicks; putting your ear next to the wood. 

The dragging of chains is far off, the loud wailing distant. 

Now or never. 

You hold your breath and listen to the sounds of the lock, sweating and grimacing. It’s so very silent outside—you’re so used to the clanging of metal and the clop of hooves that it scares you more than the monster. Like you’re standing out in a field but there’s no wind, no air even. Unnatural nothingness. 

So hard at focusing, when the click of the door lets you know it’s open, you don’t notice the heavy breathing on the other side. Standing and taking out your knife, you silently celebrate plucking your belt away just as the handle jiggles. 

Only you’re not touching the handle. 

Blood leaving your face, you can only skitter to the side as the hinges squeal like a dying animal, the barrier slowly opening as your back flattens against the wall. At first, nothing happened. 

The door is open and you stare wide-eyed as no sound enters your ears. Lamp-light seeps in, creating a long glow along the floors. 

A ragged breath makes you want to shrivel up, and then the wailing starts. 

“Please, please, where are my eyes?” Too close. 

You flinch wildly as chains are dragged into the room, the scent of dead wood sticking to your nostrils. Up close, the man’s skin is dripping water—seaweed over his shoulders and hanging off his restraints. 

He walks inside and the gaping wounds of his eyes make you nearly gag. “Where did you take them? I want them back, please, let me borrow yours until I find mine again.”

He drags his heavy silver chains far into the shop, stumbling and groaning through sobs. Those things seem to have no end to them, and he bumps and walks into the back room right as you slip outside. 

Immediately, you rush out into the street, crossing the cobble and hopping the long metal ahead of you as you re-loop your belt with one hand and grip your knife tightly. Getting to Simon’s house, you grasp the handle of the door and pull.

It jerks with a bang of metal.

Locked. 

“Shi…” you trail your curse and bite your lip. Silently, you take a step back to quickly think as the warden still calls hopelessly from your shadowed shop. Where else would you go? The inner city? The town?

Your eyelids blink. 

The forest. That had to be it—there had to be answers there, right? 

You were beginning to grow more fearful that you would be stuck here forever, in between life and death. A branded soul and yet, you weren’t in Hell. Or, at least, you imagined Hell far more hot than this. 

Turning, you slip down the steps and speed walk down the road, not running for fear that your shoes would make too much noise. That was also strange—all of your clothes were mended here, stitched back together as if never cut; wounds healed and nonexistent. You weren’t one to complain.

“Where are you going?” The Warden is on the steps, and he falls down them in a shattering of bone and a slurp of wet skin. “Please, give me my eyes! I can hear you running away—I can smell your souls! Let me have what little is still free! Let me see!” 

Souls?

You start sprinting as the great wail of chains lets you know you’re being pursued. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Your lips expel, skirts swish, and muscles tense all at once. Like a race, the man’s panting breath is almost felt on your neck, bare feet far faster than he should be. “I don’t have your eyes—I’m sorry, but you’ve really got the wrong person! T-try down the block?!”

You call loudly behind you in hopes that it will get him to give up on you, legs pumping harder as he screams with rage and you curse yourself with every breath. He’s gaining on you, somehow, this blind beast is gaining on you.

There was no way you were making it to the forest.

In a split-second decision, your shoes skid over the street, and, steeling yourself with what little sanity you have left, you turn with your knife at the ready. 

Hell, you’d already died once. 

But you’d never forget the image of this beast running towards you with a wailing mouth and dragging chains, the things so heavy they wrench back his arms. You falter for a moment, but shake your head and raise the knife in one hand, gritting your teeth despite your unimaginable fear. 

Bravery was far too hard at this moment, but there was no more running. You take down a shaky breath and will your arm to stop vibrating with its sweaty palm.

“My eyes!” It screams. “Give me your eyes!”

Seven feet, five, four, three—

A familiar rageful roar takes over, and a black shadow covers the street lamp light from above as if a storm of vengeance. You watch as the gargantuan body flies over you and wastes little time for pleasantries.

The Ghost slams its body into the Warden, and they go down in a flurry of feral snarls and wails. You watch, frozen still with shock, as black claws can be heard tearing through flesh and rending meat, a slick slapping of pig slop as black blood spills to the streets. 

In the utter absence of all else, you listen with a quivering body, the fear extending down to your spine. Not of the other thing on its back, wailing and sobbing about its eyes even as its gut is invaded by a large muzzle and ivory fangs, but of that muzzle-owner itself.

You didn’t realize how much of a shock it would be to see Simon again. Like this. 

Your eyes stare blankly at how an arm is ripped from its socket, shredded from a shoulder, and tossed to the sidewalk with a rabid jerk; the body of the Warden lifted as the Ghost rises to his back paws and grips tightly. Hands on the lower half, mouth on the top, your jailer is torn in two with nothing more than a tear and a sound of vertebrae popping. 

Black splatters over your cheeks, but you make no move to swipe it away. 

Simon drops the body to the ground, and it twitches—it speaks as it bounces. Brown eyes dig into its mangled face, ears erect. 

“My eyes…M-my…eye—” A large paw pad is pressed into its head, and pressure is leveled. Brought down like an anvil. 

The Ghost crushes a skull under his foot and the resounding pop is enough to make you snap out of your frozen terror. He turns to you seconds later, mouth stopping its snarling and going silent all at once. 

The beast blinks slowly, ear twitching once.

Averting your gaze, you completely give up in light of this new arrival and clench your eyes shut. Your neck hurts—burns—like it’s being ripped open over and over again, snapping, and the light getting sucked away. 

Great feet take lumbering steps forward; you take one back. 

“I…I don’t,” you shudder and shake, hand holding your knife. Your mind can’t comprehend him being here—in this void with you, leaping in a great bound to tackle the monster to the ground. No, no, this was another phantom. He was going to kill you again. 

Wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t his fault.

You back up some more until there’s a soft huff. It’s tiny, small as if coming from a lap dog that Mrs. Ida would own. Your eyes are firmly shut, yet he tries again. 

A wet nose is leveled to your forehead, pressing in and tapping you lightly. A chuffing noise echoed in the back of his throat, gruff and low as he breathed you in. You hide a whimper as that nose dips to your neck, imagining the ways he’s going to sink his teeth in and how your bones will—

The Ghost sags into you, and with a flick of his ears, the large head begins to rub into your flesh as he grunts. Your eyes snap open as his gargantuan hands circle your waist, anchoring you to his chest as he leans back on his haunches; small noises bouncing from his breast as he curls his head behind yours. You’re lifted gently as you squeak, hands snapping to dig through fur and, like logs, your feet dangle from under you. 

You don’t speak as Simon begins running out of the city, down the black outskirts. Into the midnight shadows the two of you disappear in the direction of the mirrored forest, your body in his grip and the side of his head never failing to lean into yours. You can feel his eyes roving, darting down and around, before always coming back to you regardless of the things he smells here. 

Like a candle in the dark, he had already scoured the bounds of this purgatory for you—waiting for that small flicker of something to grasp onto that would let him find your light. And it hadn’t been your scent or the way you’d yelled. It had been the very call of your soul, or, at least, souls. 

Because that was what it was. 

The reason you were here instead of Hell was because that corruption had only marked your soul. Not realizing that half of it didn’t belong to you. 

Simon knew little about how it worked, but sometimes people are only born with a fraction of their soul as theirs—the other pieces snapping into place when a match is met but still not held as theirs. Your other half, the reason you stayed here, was because Simon’s soul had held you up like a rope to an anchor.  

That spark in the tailor’s shop; the longing and the insatiable pull to be near you—marked as two pieces of a puzzle sitting right next to each other, the image leaking from one to the other. 

A Fated Pair.

The Ghost breaks through the treeline and you curl into him as he covers you with his arms, eyes watching the black trees and the void of space above him. There were no stars here—no moon. You can’t see anything, but he can. 

Simon rushes your intertwined souls back to the place he had dragged himself through; a great fissure in the earth that had opened and swallowed your body who knows how long ago. Weeks, months—years, even. It didn’t matter, none of it mattered. 

His instincts brought him through, and his guilt had kept him going; this all-consuming and deathly guilt. He’d never forgive himself, but he can’t leave you here. 

Simon finds the fissure as great screams begin to wail out from the city, echoing off the trees and over the air. A scream and a plea. Hundreds, thousands. 

He doesn’t bother to stay, because you’re in his arms and his nose breathes in your scent. You grip onto him tightly, shaking with a fear-bathed quiver to your lips, and those large arms hold you ever closer; a large grunt and a rub of his chin. 

Simon stands on the very edge of a void, and he jumps. 

—

You wake to the large dog curled around you, softly breathing and using his body to shield you from the gentle snowfall. So warm does his blood run, that you don’t even feel the cold on you, only the brush of silk and the hard press of his hands. 

Simon’s breath ruffles your hair, his spine shaped in such a way that not a sliver of you is visible to the world beyond your head in his neck, resting on the swell of his softness like a pillow. As if he was a swan, keeping you in a bed of feathers.

Your eyes flutter open, and you take air down to bathe in the scent of earth. 

The Ghost shifts, grunting and not letting up on his grip. 

You’re in the very same place you died, yet there’s no evidence of that—the blood is gone, the broken trees are surrounded by young ones, and the snow is deeper than it had been before. But your clothes are…

You shift, and the beast lets you go easily, though his eyes don’t leave your face. He stays on the ground as you sit up, looking down at yourself. 

While the forest may have moved on, you, it seems, have not. 

Your clothes are back to the state they’d been in before—torn and ripped open, long gouging marks and stains that would never come out. You tense at the sight, swallowing saliva down as if wine with a grimace. Like a magnetic link, your eyes slowly turn up to meet Simon’s. 

He waits. He watches. That muzzle of his closed and his breath slow. If you told him to get away, there would be no doubt that he would—he would disappear and never come back to you, a memory that fades into a dream and then farther on. 

Your fingers twitch as his large claw lifts, a finger pointed and slowly coming up to your face. You try not to balk away as it draws near to your nose, where a tiny snowflake rests. The blackened sickle pauses, Simon’s chest expands, and then he slightly brushes it away with little more than a twitch of his finger. 

The knife is only a foot away, sitting bright and glinting in the morning light. You look to the sky to distract from your burning cheeks; your internal war. 

Light. Real and glowing above you from a globe set into the heavens. 

Gazing at it with wide eyes, your sockets fill with stinging tears, blinking until they slip down your cheeks and you put a hand over your mouth as a small sob wafts out. You bend your spine forward and cry, gasping. 

Simon keeps himself away, unknowing if he should reach out or if he would only make it worse. His great body is tight with agony, souls raging with pain. Everything in this form was more instinctual, more in tune, he wanted to comfort you—to make it alright again, but even as a human, when had he ever been good at that? 

The Ghost watched, body wound up but still deathly still; ears pointing straight. His hands twitch. 

You sob until your lungs hurt and your head feels light, not knowing how to process this in the slightest. When you’re done you numbly stare at the ground below you, trying to rid your mind of death, demons, and wool. 

A human hand on the top of your head makes you startle. 

Snapping your red eyes up, you meet tight orbs of brown, a face twisted with remorse and a deep inner hatred. 

“I…” Simon’s lips utter out, his voice low and pale skin in the snow. “M’sorry, Sweet Girl. I can never fuckin’ give you an apology that matters, eh? But I need to say it—I need you to know.” You stare and feel his fingers caress your scalp. He looks away, breath small. “It’s all my bloody fault, yeah? So don’t you dare think for a second that anythin’ comes back to you.” 

The hand threatens to leave you, to slip back down and return to his side, but with a small noise of alarm—one that had Simon’s eyes widened in concern—your body darts forward. 

Connecting with him, you make him grunt as his biceps press into your side, shocked as his first reaction is to make sure you don’t fall. 

“Get me out of here,” you plead. “Please, Simon, get me out of here.” 

There’s no hesitation as he lifts you upward, a bridal hold like the same he had used to lift you above the thorns and mutters into your hair as he quickly walks into the trees. 

“C’mere, I’ve got you. Don’t cry, c’mon now, you’re back. You’re back.” The knife is left far in the past, and there it will stay—far away from the two of you. “Breathe, then.” 

You bury your head into his neck, breathing hard and shaking not from the cold but from memories; things you shouldn’t know. 

“M’sorry,” Simon says again, voice cracking. “Christ, I’ll never say it enough.” 

If you hated him he understood—would welcome that Hell in its own right. Of all the things he’d done, this was the worst sin he could have ever committed. He’d spend the rest of his life thanking whatever power was out there that had broken the earth for him; had led him to you. His tailor.

You sob through a panicked chuckle. “Y-you already have, you brute.”

Simon rubs his face into your hair, holding your quivering souls together and opening his mouth in a shaking exhale as his eyes flutter. 

“Breathe,” is all he says, repeating everything like a record and an order as you hone on the stiff tone—getting you to focus. 

You follow the pulse in his neck, lips pressing into his flesh as your head tilts. 

You’re both back at Simon’s hut as you still try to calm yourself, the man’s face turned into yours and his forehead pressing into your scalp. There’s so little for you to grasp onto besides him—how he feels, the dig of his fingers, and the sound of his breath. 

He sets you on the bed and he pauses, kneeling down slowly as his hands come to gently clutch your cheeks. 

“Can you look at me, Love?” Simon asks you, voice gruff in its low tone. You shiver, sniffling, before your eyes stutter over his features and land on those burial mound browns. He releases a tiny puff of breath—a flicker of his lip.

“Atta girl, jus’ like that, then.” The man blinks slowly, tilting. Simon looks you over with a heavy expression, one that shows the pain and the weight he carries. “Need to get these off, okay?”

A finger lightly travels to your neck, tapping the remnants of your shirtwaist as a few more tears slip out when you blink, shakily nodding. Simon’s lips tighten. 

“Want to do it yourself,” he breathes, “or is it alright if I touch you, Sweetheart?” Your hands are too unstable to do it yourself, he knows that just as well as you do. 

So, in a small broken whisper, you simply utter out, “Please.” 

Simon nods once and the topic is settled; he knows.

The man’s fingers deftly undo the buttons, one after the other as the light from outside seeps into the small square of a home. He doesn’t comment—doesn’t make a sound—just does what he can to help you and get you sorted out; Simon could hear the rapid set of your heart, feel your pulse like a rampaging storm. 

When you’re down to nothing but your flesh, the man grabs the covers from behind you and wraps you in them, his eyes not once flickering downward until you’re entirely swamped by fabric. A hand on your waist squeezes. 

By now the brush of his skin atop yours had sucked you in as if lighting had struck with every pass or small press. The glide of his scars and calluses grounded you here. 

There were very few beings that would hunt for you through life and death and fewer that stayed that course. Thumbs once more brush away the water on the swell of your face. 

“Sleep,” he utters, even if there’s light outside. 

You gaze at him, at his stubble and his pale complexion; the wind rustles outside. What would he do? Guard the door most likely, perhaps even think of how to get into town and grab new clothes for the both of you, food, and necessities. Simon’s mind was fighting itself, just as it always had but now there was the largest stain on his consciousness that he could ever remember having. 

He was worried if he handled you, you might break under him. You…you already had. Avoidance, even if it killed him inside, was the best course of action.

Your mouth is filled with wool, tongue heavy, but in your heart and whatever feeling you have burning in your chest, you know you can’t let him move away from you. Simon being this close made it…easier. Even if a piece of you was still hesitant about black fur and sharp teeth. He had said it himself, hadn’t he? 

Simon wasn’t the Ghost, but at the same time how could they ever be apart from one another? 

Yet, your lips are already moving just as he’s about to stand up. 

“Stay?” Simon’s lungs take in a silent breath, a moment of long silence as he tries to understand why you would want to be around him at all. His hands twitch, your eyes catching the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a slow swallow. “Please, Simon,” you breathe. “I don’t…I can’t be alone again.”

He grunts and is already lifting you. 

Simon shifts your body back and lays you nearest to the wall, shuffling his body until he can lie with his spine facing you; his face to the door as he stays unblinking. 

“Nothing's going to happen to you,” he says, and you turn so you can lightly rest your head into the span of his shoulder blades. Simon’s jaw clenches. “It’s safe here. We’ll figure it out when you’ve got your energy back.” 

You want him to explain, but perhaps right now sleep was the best option. For all intents and purposes—you can’t even remember when you last had true sleep. So you stay there, skin to skin, and breath to breath as the sun still shines outside; the wind travels slowly. 

As you slip off, Simon has to restrain himself from turning around and pressing you into him—leveling his head above yours and breathing you in like how he wishes he could. But no. Too much. 

He’d explain it all when you were better. 

So he settles on the fact that all he can do is watch the door with a far-off expression, his body sagging back into you as your heat meets his.

—

You slept for three days, and in that time, Simon had only left once. On day two he went into town where he’d snuck like a thief—and there truly was no better analogy. Wearing only a blanket once more, the man breaks into your closed Tailor’s shop; boards on the windows and a sign out front to set it for sale. Inside, everything was as it had been left. Dust and layers of stale air, but there was never a better place to be for Simon.

It was where he met you, after all. 

He takes everything he’s able to carry. A large trunk of clothes, personal belongings, and anything that looks of great importance; clothing himself in a simple undershirt and pants along the way. With that, he goes to his own home and grabs all manner of money. Come morning, people would believe it was a robbery, and that was perfectly fine with him. 

Mostly everything belonged to you, anyway. They could have his sparsely furnished home and its cracking foundations. It mattered not. But he knew you needed your work—your passion. 

As he grunts and lifts the trunk, a knicker echoes out behind him. Blinking, dark eyes look behind to find a meeting pair—a long horse’s neck leaning out of a stall. They stare at each other before Simon huffs a chuckle and turns to the shadows.

When you finally did open your eyes again, deep in the third night, everything was different. 

You blink at the bright roar of the fireplace, the flickering of the candles that push back any darkness—curtains on the windows to hide the blackness of midnight. There are your belongings on the cleaned table; the foot of the bed and, there, on the desk. Measuring tape, fabric scissors, and yards of materials are stacked in the spotless corners. 

There’s no doubt that the broken window is fixed for the moment as well. 

New sheets sit on the end of the bed, waiting for you to get up before he can fit them. Jaw loose, you glance all around as the fabric pools at your waist, bare body glistening in the light as your head moves like a bird back and forth slowly. Dare you say it, the place felt…homely. Warm. Small, yes, but the definition of comfort rarely mattered when speaking on size. 

There’s a shuffling sound outside the door and you realize you’re alone. 

Face stuck at the door, your sudden tension is somewhat lessened by the small grunts and puffs of a large nose and heavy, clawed, feet. Somewhat. 

An open maw bites down on your throat with a tearing of flesh before your neck fully snaps.

Your hand lightly comes up to your throat, pressing very loosely as the sounds continue, spiking your cautious curiosity. You know you shouldn’t be holding this against him, but, you had…died. You had felt your neck snap and your blood coat his fangs. 

Somehow, Simon had brought you back from that, but he had been the one to do it in the first place. 

No, you think, feet very carefully sitting on the floor. No, not Simon. The Ghost.

Yet again—aren't those the same? It was a constant question.

Your lips are thin as the dagger in your heart digs ever deeper, but it is your dagger, and it is also your heart, too. Yours. Standing, you cover yourself with the thin sheet, hearing it drag behind you as your body takes you to the door with quiet and even steps. 

So much the two of you have gone through—it seemed hard to comprehend it in this world of black fire and battling beasts; hell and purgatory. He’d tracked you down…how? As your hand meets the handle, slowly walking feet coming closer from beyond it, you tighten your hold on the fabric near your neck and breathe slowly. 

You first see crimson, and then the beady brown eyes of a large dog and a stained muzzle. Breath tight, you stare at the dead bodies of two sheep in the Ghost’s maw, limp bodies hanging from the legs out of puffed cheeks. The both of you halt your courses. 

Simon’s eyes slash down your nearly-naked form, and he drops the animals to the ground before his head darts to the side; snow splattered with blood and the imprint of large woolen bodies. He snorts and takes a single step back, seemingly hunching down lower as he sniffs the air in distraction. 

His feet pivot, one clawed foot moving away.

“Simon,” you say, breath puffing over the cold air. He waits, head only slightly tilting your way; eyes pointing down. You don’t know why you speak, why you call to him like this. 

The silence settles as you struggle to articulate, mouth opening and closing like it was a choice between speech or the metaphorical blade to your throat. You close your mouth and look to the side, the lids of your eyes tightly shut. 

Without another word, you’re setting your feet in the drowned snow and walking up to him, fingers shaking before your hand extends from the elbow. It rests above the side of his muzzle, hovering with a tiny quiver as you fight with your own fear. 

You can feel Simon’s eyes on you now, watching. Always watching. Forever watching. Eyes like hard earth; like the dirt under your nails. 

Simon’s throat grumbles, and before you can make a decision, he helps make one for you. 

He softly moves his great lumbering head down and to the side—slotting it under your hand as you gasp, feeling the strands of fur under your grip. Immediately, your eyes snap to meet his, seeing long lashes holding snowflakes. The Ghost’s so large that he has to bend low in order to give you a comfortable resting point for your hand; sitting in between his sharp ears. 

You swallow down your nervousness as the seconds draw on, your heart rate slowing until you can properly move closer and feel the waves of fur beneath your fingertips. Playing with them, you card your digits in gentle strokes, hearing the low purr that rattles your bones as a great weight is leveled into your torso. 

A tiny giggle emanates from your chest, and the beast responds by only pushing himself deeper into your stomach. 

“Easy,” you mutter, eyes light as a smile forms on your lips. 

The chill seeps in gradually as you both stand there, a werewolf and a barely-clothed tailor. Before long you’re shivering even as you feel content next to Simon and to steal some of his furnace-like heat. 

You pull back and the wolf momentarily tilts to find you, only to open his eyes when he can’t feel your sturdy body. He blinks, before slowly standing back up to his full height. 

The light from the hut seeps out to cover you, and you take comfort in that—if the door shuts on its own, you’d be left in a darkness you know you’ll fear for many, many years. With its illumination, you speak freely.

“I don’t know how you did it, Simon,” his right ear twitches. “But…but I want you to know that I don’t blame you for what happened. I should, I know I should, but for the life of me, whenever you’re near I can’t think straight. Please, when you’re back to,” you huff a tiny laugh, “whenever you’re back to walking in a man’s skin, explain it to me. Explain why I can’t think of anyone else but you.” 

Avoiding the sheep, you step back into the hut and close the door as those dead eyes follow loyally, the wolf not breathing beyond a thin line of condensation wafting into the air. 

You only make it five steps back to bed before the wooden barrier is opened loudly, hitting off the back wall and shutting closed on its own. Turning back quickly, startled, you’re met with a fast panting chest and a human hand that swipes blood away from his lips. Bare skin is close to yours, and your eyes widen at the instantaneous blown feeling of your pupils. 

Simon’s face is above yours.

“Because you own half of my fuckin’ soul,” he breathes into your scalp, accent rich and heavy with implication. “Just as I own half of yours.” 

Literal or a metaphor, you care not. 

You both stay there, hearts pumping and skin tingling as the air increases in temperature—the sheet around you held in a tight fist suddenly seems almost suffocating. Your arms itch to drop it. Drop it now and let him see you; let him feel you like no other has. Where did these thoughts come from? Or…had they always been there?

The man hasn’t moved, and you know he won’t do anything unless you ask it of him, but you can smell the sweat on his skin, the scent of blood and musk. Quick death and dragging claw. 

If he was fire, it would be a blessing to be burned. 

“Simon,” you say, voice tight. He grunts like a damn dog, hands at his sides twitching as his bare chest shines. So many scars. You want to trace them, to feel them writhe. “You’re no good for me.”

“I know,” he growls. 

You press your lips to his and breathe him down as the sheet falls from your shoulders, all-encompassing hands finding the swell of your hips and sliding behind them; gripping tightly. Your own dig at his waist, finding the bulk of his abs and the deep tapper of his v-line before you gasp at his hand kneading the flesh of your arse. 

At the motion, Simon takes the opportunity to smirk before letting his tongue slip into your mouth. You release a small noise from the back of your throat, and he groans—one hand coming up to grip the base of your skull and maneuvering your head farther upward. He pulls back and presses into you, your face growing hot as he finds your neck and starts leaving deep open-mouthed kisses as his chest vibrates. 

Lips swollen and sensitive, you whimper as he bites down at every other interval; arms around his waist and nails running up and down his spine. Simon shivers, hips lightly bucking as you press on the small of his back. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Love,” he nuzzles under your ear, pupils wide and blackened, feral-like. “The things you do to me, yeah? Drivin’ me up a damn wall whenever I caught a whiff of what I did to you.”

Your stomach is rolling in tight knots of desire, lungs heaving as his hands squeeze and travel. At your core, you can already feel the slippery effect on your folds—a stain of sin that leaks out with nothing to hold it hostage inside of you. Face tightening as Simon groans long, he leaves hickey after hickey, as if unable to not mark your neck and under-ear. 

The feeling of teeth there doesn’t even startle you, no, not now. 

You ache with need, legs threatening to close in on themselves before Simon loops a hand in your inner thigh and keeps them open. The world around you blurs as your body tingles with a yearning that almost hurts.

“C’mon now, Sweetheart,” his lips come back to yours and you let him ravish you with long, deep kisses as his hand moves up. You balk forward and shiver as you feel the deep press of his growing lust for you against your stomach. “Don’t wanna know how long I’ve been dreamin’ about this.” 

Your eyes flutter, and you gasp out through the joining of your hungry mouths, “Show me, Simon. Show it to me.” 

His teeth bite slowly into your bottom lip, easing you into this game of wolf and sheep as his half-closed eyes open and dig into you. Simon’s fingers flex but don’t move, the other still at the base of your neck; your own have been leaving crescent-shaped marks on his back for a while, absentmindedly pulsing along with the heated blood in your veins. 

There are still the remnants of sheep’s blood on his cheek—slashed up the side of his face and over his deep-set eyebrow, but you find you don’t care at all. 

With how his fingers tap so close yet so far to that sensitive bundle and the dripping mess of your insides, nothing matters. 

“My Girl wants that?” Simon hums, and as easily as if he were picking up a shirt from your shop, he lets his thick fingers push you open as you suck in a quick breath and sag into him. Into his neck you sigh, hitched airways making it seem tight. Instinctually you open your legs wider, whining at the press of calluses and scars in your clutch and sliding up your sensitive walls. 

Simon stops and waits mid-way past his first knuckle with two fingers, groaning as you tighten and flex around him at the foreign sensation. His thumb at the back of your head moves up and down, his own thighs hard with eagerness and a stain in his abdomen from the lack of attention—but he cares little about his own leaking head, content only when able to give you pleasure in the purest form. 

Your stomach as well as his are wet from his weeping tip, the chill of it making you both shiver and try to mash your bodies ever closer as the sheet below you two is tangled at your feet. The fireplace crackles. 

“Simon,” you keen, and he answers with a bite of your shoulder before rubbing his head into your neck. Like opium, he’d said. If only he could tell you your scent now was convincing enough to make him lay on a bed of burning coals if only he could smell it for three more seconds. 

Arousal. Lust. Animalistic desperation that Simon’s eager to bring you to the brink of—face sick with pleasure and eyes blown with numb satisfaction. Open and bare to him.

“Attagirl, that’s it,” he slides his digits deeper as your hips buck, making him grit his teeth to hold back a grunt as his dick is jostled. “So wet for me, fuckin’ perfect. Let me help, yeah?” 

“Fuck, Simon,” he buries his fingers at the base, wasting no time in crooking them back toward him and pulling his wrist down. You moan loudly, stretching and being played like an instrument. Simon’s fingers repeat the motion until you’re a mess of rutting thighs and shaky legs. 

The man takes down every moan and whimper—every sigh and jerk with a growing sense of pride. His dick is begging for friction, and the little bit he gets is from your stomach rubbing against it with every slippery sound of his fingers entering and exiting your core. 

Simon’s mouth is open with a tight pant for breath, mirroring yours before the pad of his palm rubs against your bundle. You arch into him, whining and pleading instantly with a burning face, half convinced something had overtaken your body to make you act in such a way. 

The man moves his fingers faster, making sure to maneuver his limb in such a way as to get your clit harder and harder with every pass, leaving you limp in his arms. Simon anchors you to him with a hand on the back of your shoulder blades, grip hard and knuckles white. 

As your face screws up and a fire burns in your core, nails leave long scratches down the back of his torso as if he was a wooden trunk to tie a horse to—a rock in a storm. 

“Simon,” you sigh out, head stuck under his chin. “S-so good, keep going.” 

He opens his mouth as he rubs his chin on the top of your scalp, mixing your scents together potently. 

“Look at me,” Simon utters, in his desperation to bring you to the edge, his accent is as deep as you’d ever heard it. “Look at me, Love. Wanna see your eyes watchin’ me as you fall apart. I’ll make it good, promise.” 

“K…” You gasp as everything keeps building up and up, teeth clenching together and legs fighting to close around his hand—Simon bullies you open through the overstimulation; the flood of your senses. “Know you will!” 

“So good to me, Sweetheart,” he grumbles, taking you by the side of your cheek and leaning back slightly so he can still let you rest on him but also watch. 

Your eyes flutter with every rapid intrusion from Simon’s digits, tight and textured walls giving in to him as he pushes and prods, searching for something as his brows crease and his abdomen bunches. The man’s biceps flex and strain, feet wide open and lips parted as he locks onto your gaze. 

“Fuck, what a bloody sight to see. Yeah, you enjoying that, then?” He mutters, and only when he pushes those teasing words out does he find a point inside of you that leaves your mouth opening and your toes curling; that he truly loses his breath. 

Holding your head forward, Simon’s jaw slackens as your face contorted with pain-like expressions of confused pleasure, sweat glistening your forehead and your lips swollen—neck nothing more than raised skin from all of the man’s biting. 

You strangle down such an instinctive and leg-shaking moan that Simon nearly forgets that he’s not even truly inside of you yet; balls tightening with building excitement and his length begging to be squeezed, used for nothing but that same expression on your face.

“Christ,” he breathes, teeth grinding and feeling you fight to keep his fingers in. Slick drips down his wrist, tapping the floor in a clear stain that could bring him to his knees. 

You can’t even speak, spine curling with such raw electric sparks. If Simon isn’t careful, your legs will entirely fail you. 

“Sim-” Your voice is high, mixed with panic as you let him hit that same point again and again like a hunter. “Simon!” You chant, fighting to meet his eyes as your vision blurs. 

Everything was too hot, the scrape of his calluses on your flesh like a knife raking through your insides with pleasurable stabs. 

“Jus’ like that, Love,” he breathes, not blinking. “C’mon know you feel it. Squeezin’ my fingers just right. Look at that pretty little face.” 

You’re building and building, standing on the precipice of a large chasm. There’s nothing to stop you from going over the edge—and you don’t want anything too. 

Your body tenses gradually, knees wobbling and your abdomen pulling into itself. A sharp claw seems to play with the string of your impending release, fiddling with it and taking it into its fingertip; rubbing it back and forth in a slow game.

Your breath comes out in short gasps, moans getting higher and more cut, Simon’s eyes are transfixed, panting like a dog, and, in an instant right before you break, moves his fingers at a break-neck pace. 

Your sharp cry is caught on his lips, sucking it down as your orgasm floods his hand, leaving it a sticky mess that he continues finger-fuck you through with firm strokes. He’s whispering praises on your lips, keeping you up as his hand snaps to your waist when your legs buckle. Your walls move like a noose, letting the man fantasize how it would feel to have you speared open in his lap as you writhe and take him down in the low light. 

All of these thoughts, this sight, make him harder by the second. 

Simon keeps moving his fingers, drawing your explosive release out until you plead quietly for him to stop from overstimulation. The sensation makes your abused clit cause your spine to arch with every touch of his wet palm. He obliged, the sound of slick slapping halting, but his fingers didn’t leave your spasming cunt as your limp head fell to his shoulder. 

Your chest heaves, aftershocks leaving your mind blank to all else but the press of skin and sweat. The air reeks of sex and hot breath. 

Simon’s head clacks yours, fingers flexing as you whimper and dig your hands into his sides. He chuckles and slowly pulls out, taking long strings of cum with him as they string his fingers together and dribble to the floor from your slit. He holds you up, uncomfortably shifting his feet when your body jostles his raging erection—making him hold back a tight gasp. 

“Good?” The man asks, gruff and casually. Your open mouth lays a firm kiss on his burning flesh as he side-eyes you waiting for a response. 

“Yeah,” your voice is far off. Simon chuckles lowly. 

In an easy sweep of his arms, you’re picked up and carried to the bed; set down to the plushness that’s down one sheet. You lay on your back, gazing up at the man as he stares down at you in turn. 

Neither of you speaks until Simon has to rip his eyes away, clearing his throat. Your eyes travel down before widening at the violent red of the man’s length—the thing twitching and dripping pre-cum down to the base in an obvious plea for stimulation. Yet Simon makes no move to do anything. 

“You should get some more rest—”

“Let me help,” you whisper, eyes widely innocent as they meet the browns that snap your way, those orbs slightly widening. “I own half your soul…right?”

Simon watches you, jaw loose. 

“It looks painful,” you ease out, pointedly moving your gaze downward with unabashed boldness. 

“Is,” he utters. If he was being honest, he was worried that he had been coming on too strong—that this part of the night might be going a bit far. You were a lady, after all, and he respected you as such. He needed confirmation. 

“Then let me help, Simon.” Your eyes blink at him, hand coming up to trace the bulk of his thigh muscles. His breath goes shallow, self-control fraying fast. Just a little more. You lick your lips. “I want to feel you take me like no one else has. I want you to stay in this bed with me until the fire goes out and the light outside peels through the curtains. Can you do that for me?”

Your wet core pulses again, wanting—waiting for something more. Something only Simon could give you. 

The man’s chest rattles. “Yes,” he relays, words low. 

After a moment of eye contact, the man places his knee on the bed, shifting so that he has himself in between your legs; hands coming up beside your head. Your lungs are heavy, fingers coming up to rub over his blood-stained cheek as his nose brushes yours. Simon’s stubble itches you, but you still sigh constantly as he kisses you once more. 

This was slower than the previous—less desperate though you don’t know how as you could feel the strain of his length prodding like a hot iron in your inner thigh. It made you slightly nervous, the size and the action itself, but you didn’t doubt who you wanted to be the one above you. 

Simon kisses the side of your lips, nipping at the skin as he grunts out, “You sure?” 

Brown eyes never waver as they stare you down. Any ounce of hesitation would be found immediately and the action would be over; Simon paraded around as a cold and heartless beast, but never had there been a man more considerate of your own safety. He didn’t want to hurt you. 

You drag your fingers through his hair and he shudders, one grip sliding to your legs as the drag of barely-there claws makes your breath hitch. Your lips mutter, quietly, “Yes.” 

“Gotta make me believe it, Sweetheart,” Simon kisses over all of the marks he left, slowly dragging the warm press of his mouth and side-eyeing you. 

You glare down at him and feel his smirk on your skin, how he hooks his hand under your knee and lightly lifts the limb. Your muscles flex at the sudden spread of your legs, your hand in his hair grasping tighter. Simon sighs low as your body shifts, shivering at the slick heat he restrains himself from rutting against. 

Face burning at your bare excitement, the man’s eyes glaze over. 

“I’m sure, Simon.” 

“Don’t wanna make you feel like you have to—”

“Simon,” you interrupt his comment, and the blond huffs, the air sliding over your heated skin.

“Tell me if it hurts and I’ll stop.” You smile softly and drag his face back to yours, kissing him deeply. “Let me try…” Simon mutters on your lips, and soon both of his hands are pushing up your knees as you widely blink at the openness of your core before your legs are folded up. 

You whine at the stretch, the embarrassment of having your dripping folds on full display. This was foreign to you.

Simon hums, looking down and groaning. He taps his forehead to yours as you breathe deeply, letting him take control. 

“Okay?” He asks, and your heart skips a beat. 

“Are you going to keep stalling,” you breathe, looking into his gaze teasingly. “Or are you going to show me how you can’t function without me beside you?” 

There’s a stretch as he lines himself up, hips moving back and abdomen sliding over yours—your lungs stutter as his eyes glint at you; lips flicking in a smirk.

“You going to keep me here?” You breathe, voice breathy as Simon’s length begins to steadily press forward, your face twists as you take him down, lines forming on your forehead. “Make me,” his hands keep your legs up beside you, open as they tighten. His lids narrow in concentration at the tight vice of your walls, having to slowly bully his way into you inch by inch. “Make me tailor your clothes a-and spin your wool?”

The sounds from your joining bodies are vulgar. A slide and a coating of flesh with natural assistance as Simon’s jaw clenches, not able to help the jump of his pelvis as you moan and arch your back as he moves even farther into your clutch. 

You both writhe as he bottoms out, bodies shaking at the intensity of the moment and the sparks under your flesh. 

“Ah,” Simon strangles a whine, eyes tight shut as yours follow. Quick kisses are placed on your lips. “Don’t tempt me, yeah?” 

The great stretch of your insides leaves you sighing, tiny waves of pain pushed back by pleasurable pulsing and the scrape of veins. His head lays in the hold of your womb, slick leaking out from the ring of your core. 

“We,” your hips jerk, and Simon’s hands on your knees tighten until you know there’ll be bruises come morning. “We’re beyond temptation.”

Simon chuckles—his eyes dark and glimmering in the firelight. “Smart girl.”

He lets you adjust there for a moment, even if his dick is pleading with him to move and drive your back into the mattress; to see your face crease in rapture. But that wasn’t what his head wanted, no, he wanted this done right. 

When you look at him and your thighs stop shaking, he carefully grinds himself into you, letting your bundle of nerves meet the wirehair of his happy trail and give himself the slightest feeling of relief. You bite your lip, one hand on Simon’s cheek and the other still in his hair. 

The angle of your legs makes you feel him that much deeper, even as he simply grinds himself inside of you and doesn’t move much beyond that. 

“Feels good, y’know that?” Simon mutters as your mouth takes down a slow breath, eyes stuck on each other as the man fully begins to remove himself and softly flinch his length back into you; exiting just enough before letting him re-enter. “Tight; warm.” He shudders, gritting his teeth. “C-can smell you like this—how much you want it. Always have.” 

You whine at the words, tightening around him as he begins gently fucking you in earnest, the slap of skin and tight walls joining the crackle of wood. The scents on the air are a perfect mix of addictive pheromones—so potent even you can smell it as you try to meet every dig of his hips.

Simon’s face goes to your neck, nuzzling into it as his eyes go tight. 

“Fucking hell,” he breathes out a groan into your ear, mouth open. 

 The heat returns easily to you, the burning in your gut. Simon’s pelvis hits you, stimulating your clit every time in the perfect way, as if he’d glanced at your body once and immediately memorized what made you tick. His sweat drips and pools with your own, slick leaking out to the mattress and making you feel dirty in the best way as your cut-off sighs hit the ceiling. It's hot in here; nearly too hot to focus on the slide of skin and dig of your nails into his hair. It’s telling how fast you seem to hit that peak again, at the constant scrape of his veins and the push of your walls as if trying to force him in. 

Your back arches into him, and Simon cants his hips faster, biting on your chin and pulling at your lips as his eyes watch with eagerness. His abdomen bunches at the sheer pleasure he feels making you feel like this, chest heaving and large build all but swallowing you below him. 

“Simon,” you breathe, kissing him on his lips eagerly, growing desperate. 

“Let me take care of you,” the man grunts hard, getting harder to focus, “trust me?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, clenching your jaw as he brushes a spot so deep inside of you that your eyes go blurry for a moment. Your lips move without your brain understanding the slurred words. “Yes, I trust you. I…I…oh, fuck.” 

He sighs and bites a whimper down as your walls flex, gripping him tighter and tighter. 

“Knew I’d find you,” Simon pushes your legs harder into the mattress, form slightly shaking. You moan high into his mouth, eyes fluttering and knot growing tighter. “Knew I’d make it right, eh? Death can’t keep you away from me, not now. I’ll find you.”

You gasp, itching cord snapping and release spilling out around the plug of his dick as he continues on as you jerk and rut out of order; eyebrows pulled in. It isn’t long after that Simon follows you, shoving his lips on yours as his mouth parts with a tight cry. Inside of you the spill of his seed fills your womb and he fucks through it, hands releasing your legs to rub up and down your sides. 

Your core floods as he stays there, resting and stationary above you, his weight heavy but not crushing. The both of you stare at one another and breathe down the heated air; all of the scents and the desire there—the unspoken bond that extends life and death. 

Simon grunts and forces out, breathless, staring through blown pupils.

“I’ll always find you.”

In the morning there’s a pile of wool sitting in a cloth sack against the wall, and the sound of chopping wood outside. The curtains are drawn to the bright rays of the morning sun as they meet your softly smiling face, visage half-covered by the newly fitted sheets.

[sarawritestories]

I Died With Her

Eris Vanserra X Fem Reader

Summary: Beron discovers your mating bond...A cruel prophecy fulfilled.

Content Warning: Death of Main Character, Murder, Unnatural cruelty, Beron's demise.

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: Its short and angsty...and I may be persuaded to make a part two. I also apologize if this one is not my best. I'm in a slump but this

Eris’s blood ran cold as he entered the throne room. His brothers grinning in cruel delight. His father standing in front of a throne that he did not deserve. Beron’s hand threaded through the now tangled mess of your hair. Forcing you to look your mate in the eye while your knees dug into the concrete. Tears streamed down your face as you met Eris’s russet eyes. Memorizing every sharp angle of his beautiful face, every freckle that kissed his pale skin, try to remember the feeling of his soft, thick locks through your fingertips. Memorizing the sweet scent of the fall breeze, embers with a hint of cinnamon that brought you so much comfort. Your beautiful mate, best friend, love of your life.

If only you had had more time.

Eris was staring at you as well, memorizing your sweet doe eyes, the plump curve of your lips, your smile, the warmth of your skin against his. The things he may never get a chance to encounter again, your laugh, your soft snores as you laid on his lap, the way you would scrunch your nose when reading your book, or how your body eased and relaxed simply being near him. How you were his equal in every way and how his body sang in harmony with yours. Clearing his throat he placed his cool mask on, “What is the meaning of this?”

Beron’s smirk was cruel as he yanked your hair back causing you to yelp. “I found something that belonged to you. I must say the bitch was hard to find.” Eris snarled as Beron released his grip and kicked your back, your hands and knees preventing your face from colliding with the ornate flooring. “She is yours isn’t she, Boy?”

“I would never sully myself with a common whore.” Lies, lies. The words felt like ash against his tongue. You lifted your head only slightly, and the solitary wobble of your lower lip broke his façade. Eris met his father’s gaze with fury in his russet eyes and fire roaring through his veins.

“There he is. Eris the lover.” Beron taunted pressing his foot against your back forcing you down on the cold marble and you cried out. “I didn’t raise you to be a romantic.” Beron snarled.

“You didn’t raise me at all.” Eris retorted his lip curling upward.

Beron quirked, “I should have known. Well, it’s a good thing I handled that problem already.” The High Lord of Autumn clapped his hands forcing his weight down on you causing you to whimper in pain. You reached out for Eris, only for one of the guards to intentionally step on your delicate fingers and you bit back your scream. As the guard approached with the head of Eris’ mother detached from her body.

Eris felt the bile rise from his throat at the sight and he clutched at his chest.

“Eris, I want you to listen to me.” The Lady of Autumn held her son close to her bosom. Eris, barely six, snuggled close to the warm scent of his mother. “One day, you are going to find your mate.” She smiled and tucked a loose strand of his copper red hair behind his ear and the young fae leaned into his mother’s touch. “When you do. You need to promise me to take care of them. Love them with all your heart.” She gripped his chin, “You keep them away from your father. Run far away from here.”

Eris scrunched his face, “I don’t want a mate. I want to be with you forever.” He smiled up at his mother, He tilted his head as he watched his mother’s eyes line with silver. “Mama, why are you crying?”

She pressed her soft lips against his forehead, “I just love you so much, My little flame.” Leaning her head against the top of his, “You can be with me for as long as you want.”

“Get off me!” You shrieked bring Eris to the presence, flames licking his skins as two of his brothers grabbed a hold of you to keep you in place as Beron fetched for a blade and Eris’ flames banked out. Your eyes found his once more and she mouthed “I love you.”

He mouthed those three letters back and then bolted toward his father, but not before two of his younger brothers grabbed him and forced him on his knees. Tears began to form, blurring his vision, he desperately tried to blink away to memorize every crevice of your face. “Eris,” Your voice cracked, and Eris could feel your fear and love shot down the bond to him and he felt his heart breaking. “I will see you in the next life. Being your mate has been the greatest gift the cauldron could ever have granted me.” Eris let loose a broken sob. “Promise me. You will move on. You will find reasons to smile. Love freely. Remember that I loved you.”

Eris could barely see, his breathing shallowed as the pain flooded his entire body. “I love you, Little Flame. I’m so sorry.”

You smiled, “I’m not. Being loved by you was the closest thing I would get to The Mother. If I could do it over and never change a thing.” Tears streaked your perfect face and yet being the brave female, he knew you where you straightened your posture. And the last words Eris heard, your sweet voice echoing through the throne room. “Long Live the High Lord of The Autumn Court.” Her eyes drifted to Eris as the eldest Vanserra son watched his father approach. “Eris Vanserra.”

The sword sliced through the air and Eris’s scream thundered through the entire continent. Eris’s body moved on its own, consumed by rage and grief and the numbness that came with the bond deteriorating. In the manner of thirty seconds, Eris Vanserra had lost everything…

And then he saw red.

Refusing to look at the floor, not wanting to see your head detached from your body. He refused to think about the plans he had made with you, a wedding, a family, a life of freedom, a chance to run away. Gone. At the hands of the man who was laughing with his brothers about your demise.

No one disrespects his mate.

Eris had no memory of the events that occurred when he rose to his feet, but when he was done, the entire throne room was in flames, the screams of his brothers and his father drowned by the familiar crackling sound of his flames. Letting the throne room burn, he exited out into the forest, your headless body in his arms. Eris felt nothing, the gold thread that once shined bright, fell limp and became ash. As Eris buried your body in your favorite clearing, he knew one thing was certain.

Any kindness he held in his heart died with you.

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[chocsra]

✧ "Salvation; Devotion"

16! stormbringer! Chuuya x fem! reader

✧ summary: being targeted by paul verlaine after being chuuyas friend, though when he comes to talk to you with a european detective, it seems to be more than friendship. ✧ content: small oneshot, fluff, angst (kinda), adam + angsty teenagers ✧ w/c: 1.4k

Chuuya - meaning "loyalty, devotion"

Nakahara - meaning "central plain"

His devotion was not only his strongest attribute, but his most tender weakness.

You knew a boy. He was young and short, but fiery and strong. He was mysterious, born with unknown origins, and walked the wrong path, that's why he's not only humanity's most destructive weapon but a lowly, pitiful, criminal.

It was something you weren't, though you didn't mind much.

But under the guise of celestial imperfections, Chuuya was a constellation falling into place. He was beautiful. Sunkissed with the kind of foreign beauty you’d see in actors that would play some sort of prince. Your first examination of him was his wealthy and neatly ironed clothing—the kind of blazers and shoes that you’d find in a modelling campaign. Even the accented cuffs of his clothing were underlined with emerald or other precious stones. Then, his silky russet hair, one thrown into a low ponytail—the hairstyle itself still retained a strong masculinity despite the length. Or maybe that came from the musky cologne he constantly wore. A hint of cigarettes, strawberries and that strong scent of virile.

The soft glow from his copper locks then shifted to the fitted collar around his neck—an odd fashion choice, but it really accentuated the ivory of his skin. Soft, sun-kissed skin that’d make its way to his face. A beautiful face, really. Delicate and angelic features with a permanent scowl tugging on his lips—soft pink lips. Chuuya's eyes reflected a fine smoky quartz. His cheeks and nose kissed with a few scattered freckles.

You wondered why a boy so sublime had the status of an onerous beast. Even he took the words that held the weight of a blade and cut himself until he was reduced to the slit of a knife.

You met that same boy, a masterpiece ripped at every edge, not in the dangers of the mafia, but where a silver line stretches to the sea. Where the sun meets the sky, where the light shines.

But even then, you treated him differently. You didn't treat him like he was something fragile. Neither did you treat him like the monstrosity he was sought out to be. You didn't worship him, nor did you greatly depend on him. Instead, you found his humanity and treated him as such. Once a stranger, then a friend, then..

Nevermind.

"Chuuya?!"

You heard the calamity of each step he took to reach you, the boy stopping to pant. "[Y/N].. we need to talk." next to the redhead, was a tall European man with short brown hair, he didn't look tired at all compared to Chuuya. "Greetings, my name is Adam Frankenstein." You cocked a brow at his monotonous voice, the way his mouth moved didn't seem in sync with his words either. "You're rather special, Master Chuuya spent almost 7 hours looking for yo-" Adam explained briefly, causing the redhead to grimace and cut him off, "Shut it, will ya?!"

...

You heaved a bothersome sigh, elbows planted on a cafe table as the two men sat in front of you. "So.. why do you need me, Chuuya?" you question, fiddling with your fingers, "And who's he?.." your gaze uplifts to the brunette foreigner, which the man carefully takes a pack of gum and begins to unfold it, popping a piece in his mouth, before swallowing it. Your eyebrows furrow in a moment of youthful distaste.

Chuuya clutches the cup of tea between his gloved fingers and murmurs something intangible, "Adam's a detective from Europole, investigating Verlaine. He wants to know more about him, which is why he's been following me around.." he finally explains, taking a calculated and almost frustrated sip of his tea.

"Verlaine. Who's Verlaine?" You ask momentarily, causing the redhead to part his lips to answer, but you quickly halt as the detective swallows another piece of gum down his throat. "And why is he chewing gum like that?"

"That's what I'm sayin'!" the teenager half-seriously slams the cup of tea on the table, "He swallows it like a nutjob. You need help, tin man." Chuuya scoffs, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat almost nervously.

"You need help. You spent 6 hours and 47 minutes looking for h-" the brunette explains with a hint of sass in his voice, the redhead's eyes widening in shock, "I said shut up!"

You shuffle in your seat awkwardly as the two men argue. Scratching the back of your neck before Chuuya finally settles down, patting down the cashmere of his suit.

"So here's the thing about Verlaine.. he's this batshit crazy assassin, and uh.. here's the real kicker.." the mafioso mutters, fiddling with his gloved fingers uneasily. "You're gonna be the bait."

Your jaw immediately drops, a hand clasping over your chest in the offence. "Excuse me?! For what?.. to get killed?!" Chuuya looks distressed at your response, seeking Adam's gaze for at least a little help in his later response.

"Your safety is ensured. We just need to lure Verlaine out, so Master Chuuya can eliminate him." the detective explains rather calmly, fishing for something in the pocket of his suit before handing a chocolate bar to you. "Here, sugar helps with stress." the redhead smiles awkwardly at Adam's response, giving a nervous thumbs up.

You snatch the chocolate bar with a bit of attitude, eyes narrowing to Chuuya as the boy inhales sharply, "I thought I wouldn't get involved in your mafia affairs, now I have to die?" you ask with furrowed brows, anger cracking in your voice. Causing the teenager to gulp in slight fear, a rare sight to Adam, as he's never sensed fear from Master Chuuya. Especially to a young girl like you.

"Well, you won't die... More like, almost die." The detective explains, hoping he'd ease your nerves at least a bit. "Doesn't matter! M'not doing it!" You shout in vexation, hopping up from your seat as you pick up your school bag. "Plus, I couldn't if I wanted to, anyway," you murmur,

"Wait.. why?" Chuuya asks with conviction.

your gaze adverts to the different sights in the area: the park bench, passersby, and the cafe's menu. Anything but Chuuya's confused face.

"Uhm.. I have a project that's due tomorrow, and I didn't start yet."

"You can't be serious!"

The teenager runs up to you in frustration, you clutch your bag as you turn to him. "Oh, but I am!" you remark, walking faster as the brunette detective catches up. "I'm very serious! After all, this is a serious project!"

The redhead pants and wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead, "You're really gonna prioritise a school project over your own life?!" he cries out, still trying to catch up to you.

"Anything is better than being bait for the Port Mafia!" You yell out, settling your argument atop a bridge, ignoring how the sun was starting to set in an arrangement of oranges and pinks. "Shit- Don't say that so loud!"

"I'd rather finish a school project than become bait for the Port Mafia!!"

You repeat again, louder this time. Chuuya pinches his nose bridge in frustration, tilting his head up towards the setting sun. And upon you halting your swift steps, the redhead finally catches up to you, and to your surprise, he grabs your hand to spin you around.

"Look, I had a shitty week too!" the boy lets go of your hand, making you huff a little bit. But instead of letting you go, he cups both of your cheeks and pulls you close, his gaze never averting from yours. "People that mattered to me died, so many of them," the teenager explains, a melancholic glint lingering in his pretty eyes, you could see it all from the close proximity of his face. "and I'd do anything for you to not be one of those people."

You gulp hard as your eyes scan over the glass of his eyes, the once stormy grey now welling holding back tears.

Silence.

Adam clears his throat, standing beside you and the mafioso awkwardly, "Apologies for interrupting. But this whole exchange is very childish. Master Chuuya, don't you think there are better words to articulate your romantic feelings towards [Y/N]?.. Perhaps after this all over, you can solve this by getting into a relationship-" you and the boy both retort at the detective in unison:

"Shut up, Adam!"

...

"Okay, I'll help you." you frown with conviction, "You owe me a school project, though."

The redhead presses two fingers to his glabella, "I'll send someone to complete it for you."

✧ chocsra™

taglist for those who interacted in this post:

@loserzai @juice1231 @silverbladexyz @soleelia @cherylpoptarts @jackiepackiee @sapphire-tears013 @sstarshroom @n0thum4ny @roujira

[smallestapplin]

Let me love you into the night.

🔞mating press, soft, established relationship, womb is said, size kink.🔞

Dracula x fem reader

Another repost from my now deleted side blog.

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-

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Walking through the castle has always been something you enjoyed, but it was a bit tedious when you simply wanted to get to bed.

Unfortunately for you, unlike previous times, you’re walking to bed alone, as your husband stayed behind to handle something with his underlings.

The castle hallways always felt cold without him at your side.

Walking into your bedroom always feels unreal, the bed is quite massive and lavish, with tall bed posts with curtains to hide you from the world.

Even after all these years, you just can’t believe you married such a wonderful man. You sigh, lazily stripping so you could get into your night clothes. Yet something catches your attention before you can grab a shirt, in the corner of Dracula’s reading chair.

And on that chair lays a shirt of his, neatly laying across the arm of the plush surface.

You can’t help but stare at it, like it’s taunting you.

Your beloved is a large man, you don’t even reach his with how tall he is, not to mention how wide his shoulders are.

His shirts have always been massive on you, to put it lightly. The fabric always drags across the floor, the sleeves nearly touching the floor.

You walk over to the large chair, picking up the oversized shirt and bring it up to your nose, taking a deep inhale.

Oh, the smell of him alone is enough affect you, the deep smell of oak, wine, and a hint of copper from the blood he drinks, it’s so overwhelmingly comforting.

It’s a deep rich blend, that’s perfect for him.

You can’t resist. You grab the hem and pull it over your head, allowing yourself to drown in his shirt. But in turn, you’re surrounded in his scent. Maybe you can fall asleep faster with this.

Happy with your sleepwear of course, you crawl into bed and under the cozy comforter. You lay there half and hour more, hoping and waiting to see if maybe Dracula would be here soon. You know he can get quite busy, so it doesn’t sting as much when he doesn’t arrive.

You move over, getting on his side of the bed and laying on his pillow, before curling up and getting comfy. Finding it easier to fall asleep surrounded by his rich scent.

You were awoken by the feeling of the mattress sinking, accompanied with the hushed sounds of someone whispering.

You groan, barely cracking your eyes open to see Dracula sitting next to you, cooing softly at your sleepy form.

“I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

His voice barely above a whisper.

He brings a hand up, gently stroking your head. You lean into his touch, nearly falling back asleep at such comfort.

“But I couldn’t resist when you look so positively adorable in my clothes.”

You let out sleepy giggles, feeling his goatee tickle your skin while he presses soft kisses all over your face. His long silver hair creates a curtain around you both, as you let the vampire love you without a care.

“M’sorry.” You yawn, stretching a little before wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him a little closer.

His hands move to either side of you, keeping his weight off you while caging you between him and the bed.

“I saw it on your chair, and I missed you, so it helped.” You bury your face into his neck, sighing contently that you get to hold him again.

Dracula purrs, nuzzling his face into your neck as well, leaving little kisses in his wake.

“I’m sorry beloved, I didn’t mean to take so long.”

“It’s okay.” You mumble, finding comfort in him being over you like this.

You feel him shift, moving you on your back and laying in between your legs. He lifts himself up, looking down at you he can’t help but admire you.

How you’re practically drowning in his shirt, how you’re so much smaller than him, so much softer than the calloused skin of the vampire.

“Stop staring like that, it’s embarrassing.”

Dracula blinks a few times before softly laughing at your bashful face.

“My apologies, dearest, you’re just far too sweet. How can I not gaze at such beauty?”

He leans down, leaving kisses along your cheek, slowly moving closer and closer until he gets to your lips.

He pauses for a moment, looking into your eyes with pure want. You pull him further down by his shoulders, finally pressing your lips against his.

He hums into the kiss, pressing some of his weight against you. He brings a hand to cup your face, thumb rubbing against your cheek, while being mindful of his nails. You melt against the bed, relishing in his tender touches, and the weight of him against you.

You whimper, squirming when his tongue lightly touches your bottom lip. You part your lips, allowing him to slowly slide the tapered appendage in. You tighten your hold on his shoulders, trying to stabilize yourself.

You to let out a muffled gasp, feeling his cock hardening against your thigh. Your movement and sounds aren’t helping him, he simply wanted to tell you how cute you were.

Oh, who is he kidding? He found you in his garb, sleeping so soundly, as if you were at peace in his clothes. How could he not be affected by such a lovely sight?

He twists his tongue around yours, soaking up all your sounds and licking up all your drool, wanting it all for himself. You can’t help the whimper that leaves your throat, feeling his fangs brush against your lips.

He pulls away from you, letting you take gulps of air. You stare up at him, eyes shimmering with want as the thin strand of spit connecting you two, breaks on your lips.

“My, you certainly are an intoxicating sight.”

Your breathing hics, as the hand on your cheek slides down your neck, slowly over your tit, down to your side before reaching the hem of the shirt. Dracula lightly drags his nails across the bare skin of your outer thigh, delighting in how you tremble for him.

Once his hand reaches your hips, you see his red eyes flash up at you, smirk on his lips.

“No underwear? What a naughty little thing you are.”

He sits up, resting on the bed with his legs under him. His other hand now free to join under your shirt, this time only sliding up much further.

Your skin prickles at his featherlight touch, only to mewl when his large hand cups your breast. A purr rumbles in his chest, as he eyes you like a meal.

“You truly are filled with surprises, my treasure.”

You squeak as his thumb brushes against your perked nipple, carefully taking the bud between his thumb and pointer finger, lightly squeezing it.

“Mm! Ooh, Vlad…please stop teasing me.”

“Oh but why? You look quite ravishing like this. All flustered under me, squirming. I can hear your heart pounding, Love. You like this as much as I do.”

He’s not wrong, you can’t deny how much you want him. How much you need him to fuck you, to love you.

Dracula lifts the shirt just over your chest, wanting to keep you in it as long as he could - Yet finding it a difficult balance between keeping it on and just tearing it off, so he could finally admire your wondrous body.

The hand on your hip trails over, gently sliding down your wet slit. He chuckles at how you try to control yourself. His fingers slide up and down, until he’s sure they are coated in your slick. He pushes one finger into your clenching hole, one’s you feel aren’t sharp. He grins at seeing your back arch.

His thumb began rubbing slow circles on your clit, teasing you with his light touches. You want to beg him for more, but your body is still sensitive from waking up, you don’t know if you could handle it.

Dracula leans back down, licking a long strip up your stomach, slowly drooling as he moves up your body. It’s not long before his tongue flicks your nipple, and wrapping his lips around it, gently biting and sucking on it.

Tugging at your other one, listening to you cry out.

It’s all at once! You can feel his fangs scraping against the soft flesh of your tit, but you know they pose no threat. The feel of his goatee brushing across your skin.

His large hand squeezing and caressing the other.

And oh, his rough hand fingering you open! You whine as he pushes another finger into your hole. You reach up, running your fingers through his silver locks, holding his hair out of his face and holding his head to your chest.

“V-Vlad!” You can’t help but cry his name.

You buck your hips, trying to grind against his hand.

“Come on, please? Haaa- please! I want you inside me!”

He moans around your tit, only letting go of it to speak to you.

“So needy. Have some patience, beloved.”

Before you can retort, his fingers curl, easily hitting your sweet spots with ease. Your toes curl at the pleasure, with your body feeling like a live wire.

“You’re truly a sight, so stunning. Like a sweet little deity under me, letting me pleasure you like this.”

You shriek, squirming as you feel his palm grind against your clit, with his fingers tenderly rubbing that delicate spot inside you. Dracula bites his lip, watching you cum, watching your body tense and shake, coating his hand with your juices.

“There you go, Little love… Shhh you’ve done so well for me.”

He helps you ride your high, only pulling his fingers away when you fall limp against the bed. You lean your head back against the pillows, chest heaving from your orgasm. You shakily open your eyes, squeaking as Dracula pulls his hand from your cunt, bringing them to his face just to lick them clean.

His eyes glow a soft red as he moans at your taste.

“Like the finest ambrosia…”

Your face feels hot, but you can just sit there a watch the vampire toss his cloak aside. Your eyes instantly going to where his hands go.

“You’re shaking, and I haven’t even undone my pants yet.”

“Hnn don’t tease me, not like this.”

You plead with him, looking up at him with tear filled eyes and a pouting lip.

How can he say no to you?

Dracula merely chuckles, aware of how you’re staring at the large bulge in his pants. You wait with bated breath at the first sound of his belt, then the zipper, watching him pull his pants down just far enough to free his dick.

You spread your legs further apart, putting your pussy on display for him, letting him see your juices drip down to the bed. His cock throbs at the sight, tip leaking precum just staring at your cunt.

You bite your lip as he spreads your pussylips apart with his thumbs, eyeing your soaked hole hungrily. You knew what he wanted to do, but you just wanted him.

“Is it too much to ask for my husband’s cock?”

His eyes quickly snapping up to meet yours.

“Just to stuff me full of it? Please, I need your cock in me, fucking me to the brim-!!”

You cut yourself off with a yelp, while Dracula grabs the back of knees and brings them up, they nearly touch your chest with how he has your folded.

“Fuck, you make it so hard to take my time with you.”

You let out a soft whine, feeling him rub his cock against your dripping wet heat.

“When all I desire is to cherish you, you look at me with such pitiful expressions- Ones I cannot resist.”

Your breathing catches in your throat, watching the head of his dick press against your cunt. You toss your head back, wrapping your arms around his neck while you mewl at him pressing into you.

“Maybe it’s because I adore you so, you’ve taken over my thoughts, my heart. I crave you.”

“Vlaaad!” You whine, panting even though he’s barely half way inside you.

You feel so full! He just keeps pushing into you. Rubbing your thighs to help soothe you, though he knows you can take it, you always have.

“I love you so much. I want to love you like this, every waking moment, to just have you.”

The vampire looks down at you, taking in the sight of your watery eyes, your flushed face, and just how stuffed you are. Dracula lets go off your legs, letting them rest on his shoulders as he leans over you, caging you between him and the bed.

His body covering you, blocking you from the rest of the world. He’s all you can see, he’s all you can hear, he’s all you feel.

“Mm, watching you fall apart on my cock is too addicting.”

He grinds his hips against yours, letting you feel the heavy weight of his balls against your ass. He buries his face into your neck, lavishing the skin with kisses, and tender nips.

“Feeling your touch leaves me delirious, wanting only more.”

Dracula pulls his hips back, leaving only half of his cock inside you, only to gently push back in, setting an even rhythm.

Every roll of his hips, sends his cock so deep into your pussy, kissing your womb with each gentle thrust. Your nails dig into his shoulders, crying out with every thrust.

“Ooh! S’good, s’good!”

“You’re squeezing me too tight, darling!”

His words and how lovingly he fucks your body, it’s making your head spin!

“I love you! I love you! Please-“ you’re cut off as his lips crash into yours, muffling your pleads.

His sharp nails lightly dig into your thighs, but you’re too much for the vampire! You’re too sweet, too good, always leaving him longing for more of you just to get a taste again.

With every piston of his hips, his balls slaps against your ass, letting the room fill with the sounds of your love making.

Your body jolts, parting from his lips after he nips them. Moaning when he licks your bleeding lips clean.

“S-so good to me, my-oh!- sweet husband! Always too good for me!”

His eyes flutter back, before he lets out a low growl. He can feel his shaft throbbing at your words, ready to spill his load into you.

“You always do so good for me. I want you to cum for me again, milk my cock.”

You squeal, tugging at his hair as your cream all over his dick. Dracula moans at feeling your small pussy squeeze around him. His balls clench as he pumps his thick cum into your greedy cunt, grinding his hips to make sure you take all of it.

Your pitiful whimpers are like music to his ears.

He coos softly at you, wiping your overstimulated tears. You’re exhausted once more, you just want to go back to sleep. Only to be drawn back by a few tender kisses.

You lazily chuckle, glancing to your lover.

Locking with his shimmering red eyes, and seeing the warm smile across his face.

“I hope you don’t plan on falling asleep just yet, I still have to clean you up.”

He cackles at how you thrown you head back and groan.

“Noooo, I don’t want to, not yet, please?”

“Darling, I need to get you washed up and ready for bed.”

“I want to stay full, I don’t want to be empty just yet.”

Dracula coughs, almost choking on air, as he stares at you, eyes wide.

Oh how you get him so flustered sometimes. He sighs, keeping his cock inside you as he flips you two over, letting you lay on his chest without his dick ever leaving your pussy.

“How about this then?”

He hums happily as you nuzzle into his chest.

“This is perfect.”

He smiles, rubbing small circles on your lower back. He can’t believe he got so lucky in love once more, to have found you, and to earn your love.

He feels a warmth in his chest just thinking about it.

“I love you, my treasure.”

“Mm I love you too, my husband.”

He could swoon at just hearing you call him that.

He still has to bathe you, and get you cleaned. Looking down he finds you’ve completely passed out on him. Even if he wanted to, he doubted he could bring himself to disturb you resting so peacefully- So what a few hours of rest with you more

[azzo0]

Pickpocket

Summary: You've successfully managed to pickpocket a fortune. While you're fantasising about the things you could do with so much money, you're dragged away by the royal guards to face the wrath of Prince Katsuki.

Pairing: Bakugo x f!reader

A/N: I wanted to complete the story within this chapter, but it got too long. See you in the next chapter!

Part 1; Part 3

You opened the coin bag you had pickpocketed from the mysteriously covered stranger, your jaw dropping to the floor when you saw it was filled to the brim with gold coins. It looked like you had just stolen someone's life savings.

Your parents and siblings knew that apart from the hunts you went on and did not make much from, you often went out to pickpocket, something you often got scoldings for. But the few extra silvers that you managed to get lightened the weight on your parents' shoulders to some extent. It was usually just a few coppers and silvers you stole. How were you going to explain this fortune you pickpocketed? 

While you were in the middle of counting the coins, your youngest brother decided to come into your room, gaping at the gold on your desk, "Y/n, what is that?! Did you just hunt a super rare creature or something?"

"You know the only thing available in these forests is rabbits and birds or deer if we're lucky," a mischievous glint flashed in your eyes, "I pickpocketed this."

"You're unbelievable," He shook his head, picking up a coin, which you snatched, "With that much gold, we'll be able to eat three times a day, buy a horse and a carriage, new clothes and a whole castle!"

You smiled at the youngest. It wasn't enough to tend to all his dreams, but it still made you happy knowing you could at least feed your family and get a few needed household items. However, your fantasies were short-lived when you heard a series of heavy knocks on the front door.

"I'll go see who it is." You went to see who it was to find your father had already answered the door. You froze when you saw five hulking royal guards talking to your father. You didn't need to step forward and talk to them to know this was about you.

Who was the person you pickpocketed? Perhaps a noble or someone close to the royal family? Sweat rolled down your neck when one of the guards caught your eye. He matched in past your father, squinting at your face, "Oi, she's the one we're looking for!"

"Me? What could I have possibly done?" You innocently batted your eyelashes. 

"Don't pretend like you don't know why. You stole from the prince." The guard spat. 

"Y/n? Is this true?" Your father asked. Your face drained of colour. That person you stole from was the prince? You even insulted him! God, you were in a shit ton of trouble. 

"I found the coins!" One of the guards exclaimed from behind you, coming out of your room with your brother, hitting the guards back with closed fists to give the money back. 

"Stay off, brat. This is not yours. It belongs to the royal family." The guard kicked your brother in the gut, sending him flying away. You growled at him, pouncing at him with a fist ready.

"Don't you dare touch him!" You yelled, swinging your fist at his face. Before the punch could land, another guard kicked you in the side, sending you crashing into a wall. 

"Now you're in trouble not only for stealing but also for trying to harm a royal guard," One of the guards took you by the arm, pulling you to your feet, "Prince Katsuki will see to you personally."

"Like I give a rat's ass!" You spat, thrashing as the guard held your hands behind you. Another guard tried getting your legs to stop flailing but got his jaw bruised instead. Your family was huddled together in a corner, timidly watching you try to pry away from the guards. 

"Get off me!" You yelled as you got dragged away and got tied onto a horse with your mouth and hands tied so the guards wouldn't have to listen to your constant yelling and complaints. 

Once at the ginormous castle, two guards held you by your arms, dragging you inside. You shuddered when you felt the cold from the marble floor travel up your spine. You must've lost your shoes when the guards yanked you around. 

"Mind your manners when in the presence of the prince." One of the guards said, his fingers digging into the flesh of your arms. You shot him a glare, trying to free your arm from his grip. What was the point of bruising your arms when your hands were already tied behind you? 

The doors to the throne hall were opened, and the guards dragged you inside, forcing you to your knees so you were bowing low. When they let your head lift from the floor, you dared to look up. 

There he was, Prince Katsuki, sitting on the prince's chair beside the King's and Queen's throne, blood-red eyes mindlessly boring into you. All that you heard about the prince was true-- stunning crimson eyes, spiky ash-blonde hair, and flawless skin. Behind his lethal beauty was evident rage and fury.

Bakugo could see your gaze wavering between the floor and him as you tried to keep that sassy and brave front. Your hair was in a mess, and your clothes were dirty from being pushed and kicked around. He told his guards not to use force, and here you were, looking like you fell into a wrestling pit. The guards standing behind you didn't look any better, with scratches and bruises on their faces. 

"Your Royal Highness," One of the guards behind you said, "This woman not only stole from you but also put up a fight with us."

"Care to explain?" Bakugo rasped.

"Your guard kicked my ten-year-old brother in the stomach. Was I supposed to stand and watch?" You snarled at the prince, your teeth bared. Bakugo's eyes shifted to the guards, demanding an answer. 

"Y-Your Highness, the child was clinging to my back and-"

"So you kicked him." Bakugo cut him off, standing up and coming down the steps that lead to the thrones, stopping in front of you, "Get out, all of you. I'll deal with you later."

"But, Your High-"

"Now."

You gulped once the guards were gone, and although you hated them, you wished they'd stay since being alone with the prince made you feel like you were going to get slaughtered like a lamb. You held his gaze from your position on the floor, not letting your fear slip through your eyes. 

"Stand." He ordered.

"Are one-word sentences all you know to speak, princeling?" You smiled at him with sickly sweet poison. "I really like it on the floor. It's comfortable."

You let out a gasp when he suddenly pulled you to your feet, the fabric of your shirt balled in his fist, his maroon eyes dangerously close, "Watch who you're talkin' to, sweetheart," he growled, his voice reverberating in his chest, "I could throw you in prison forever, and you wouldn't be able to do anything about it."

"Must be fun being a spoiled prince, eh." Bakugo looked down at your devilish grin. Weren't you afraid of him one bit? Prison was the place every little thief like you went to, but something about you stirred amusement and another mysterious feeling deep within him. It wasn't every day he got to see a brat like you roast a prince right at his face and take on five guards at once.

"Besides," you went on. "I'm going to go to prison anyway. I might as well strut in there with a show." 

"You have some nerve speaking to me like that," He scowled, letting your shirt go, "You ain't going to prison." 

"Huh?" 

"Yer servin' three months at the castle." He said. "And if I find you snooping around and stealing, I'm chopping your ugly fingers off." 

"I'm not scrubbing your dishes and sweeping your damn floors." You scoffed. "Throw me in prison instead."

"Does that pretty little mouth of yours ever shut up, or does it have a fucking answer to everything?" Bakugo glared at you. You had some guts rejecting his orders like he was some commoner you'd known all your life. 

"I'm not working at the castle, and that's final." You said firmly. 

A hint of fear flashed in your eyes when Bakugo bared his teeth at you, approaching you with slow strides. You kept backing away until your back was pressed into the doors behind you, your chest tightening when you saw his hand rest on the hilt of the sword dangling from his side. 

He lowered his head to your level, roughly grabbing your chin and making you look into his eyes. When you tried to shift to the side, he put an elbow on the door, trapping you. Looking into his deep red eyes, you felt your heartbeat quicken, knots forming in your stomach. 

"I'm the one who decides what your punishment is. Do not forget that," he purred into your ear. You almost shivered. His voice was supposed to be scaring you, not making your heart race, "Either you work here for three months or get your hands cut off."

He pulled away, smirking down at you satisfyingly. He could tell you were flustered as you glared daggers at him, "Am I clear?"

Your gaze shifted down to the floor, "Yes."

He called for the servants to take you to the servant quarters and get the filth cleaned off you. You sat in an unnecessarily big tub filled with warm water as the other servants scrubbed your body raw. You blankly let them, still trying to process what on earth had just happened. After your bath, you were forced into a night suit that would have been considered low quality for the royals and nobles, but it was more expensive than anything you ever owned. 

"What kind of punishment is this?" You muttered, lying on the comfortable bed in your new room. 

It was a very big punishment.

It all started going down from the moment you woke up. The head maid scolded you for not waking up early enough and rushed you into the kitchen, where you got yelled at by the chef for not washing the dishes quickly enough.

"What are you even good at?!" He yelled, pushing you aside when you somehow managed to burn the stew he made. All you were supposed to do was stand and watch it.

"I'm good at hunting." You mumbled.

"Too bad you're not here for hunting," He gave you a sour look as he diced up the ingredients to remake the stew. 

After the dishes were done, you were handed a mop and a bucket to sweep the great hall. You took a deep breath, stepping into the thankfully empty great hall. It was just mopping the floor. You wouldn't mess this up, right?

As you mopped the floor, you tried convincing yourself this was better than rotting in the prison for who knows how long. You just wanted to go back to bed and let your poor back rest, but it was still only the afternoon. Sighing, you stepped towards the water bucket to dip the mop inside, accidentally knocking the bucket in the process. You deadpanned, tears forming in your eyes. This castle brought nothing but bad luck. 

You cringed when the soapy water soaked into the long red carpet that led up to the King's and Queen's thrones. You turned around in horror when you heard the doors to the great hall open, slipping and falling to your ass. The fact that it was the prince that opened the doors only made things worse. 

"Are you okay there?" A red-haired man asked, stepping forward. 

"M' fine." You mumbled, slipping down again when you tried standing again. 

"Looks like someone's having a great time," The prince snickered. If he wasn't a prince you'd have slapped him in the face to wipe away that mean smirk. You scowled at him, stopping when you saw a hand in front of your face. It was the red-haired man looking down at you with a warm grin. You noticed he had interesting sharp teeth. You put your hand in his, letting him hoist you up.

He inspected your face for a second and then looked at Bakugo, raising an eyebrow. You were the very same girl Kirishima saw bump into Bakugo yesterday. He was sure Bakugo said that you were a pickpocket, then what were you doing here in the servant's attire?

"Go get someone else to clean it since you clearly can't," Bakugo ordered. You clenched your jaw at him, grabbing a fistful of your dress. Why did he have to be so mean and harsh with his words? You would have loved to hit his head with the mop but knew better than to give in to your intrusive thoughts. You stormed past him and got some rags to clean up the mess you made.

Once Kirishima was sure you were out of earshot, he turned to Bakugo, "Why is she here, prince?" 

"Serving three months in the castle for stealing, hurting five guards and being a brat," Bakugo replied in a matter-of-fact tone. 

"Couldn't you have put her to prison instead?"

"Tch, are you trying to tell me what to do?" 

"No, my prince." 

Bakugo sighed, turning his back to Kirishima, eyes plastered to the floor, "Her family has been struggling with basic necessities," he said after a moment of silence. "I learnt that her father had a fabric business before the war started, but his shop burnt down during the war. He hasn't been working ever since."

Kirishima blinked at Bakugo, baffled he had delved so deep into someone's background. "A lot of people are still suffering even though it's been years." He said.

"Yeah," Bakugo agreed. "She lives in a pretty shitty neighbourhood, too, now."

"Is there something that can be done to help?" Kirishima asked.

"I've already done what I could." Bakugo grunted, "They ain't gotta worry about rations. I talked to Father about it, and he agreed to send monthly rations to the entire neighbourhood."

"That's nice," Kirishima smiled. He had a feeling you not only stole Bakugo's money at the weekend market yesterday but also accidentally stole his heart.

Tags: @colouringfrogssittinginleaves @zaiban2989

[ficeacs]

Dragons Fight, Little Light (Prologue)

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon OFC Synopsis: Two dragons of a different scale that were meant to loathe one another instead found the love and comfort they had always sought. Warnings: Enemies to Lovers, Violence, Targcest, Begins with HOTD S1, Not Proofread Word Count: 7,573

“How long are we to stay?” Eraena asked, already displeased by what she had seen from a distance. She was still up in the heavens and the stench of the capitol already made her want to retch. “It smells like shite,” She hears her father call from a distance, and she felt her lips twitch upwards in agreement. Eraena undid the ropes that secured her to her saddle and was assisted off her mount by her brother. “Looks like it, too,” Jacaerys snickered and grimaced at the view of the outside. 

“Lykiri, Alina, lykiri, my girl,” Eraena sighed as she stepped closer to her dragon, mumbling the words against her snout and pressing her lips against the scales of her beloved dragon. “But seriously, how long are we to stay?” Eraena asked once more, and she heard her mother snort. “We’ve only just arrived, my sweet,” Rhaenyra said as she threaded towards the wheelhouse. “Come, your brothers are waiting,” She smiled and led out her hand for her daughter to take. Eraena turned to her. Her silver hair shone upon the capitol sun, her pale skin looking even paler against her black dress, her figure lithe, wide purple eyes crinkling as she smiled at her. Eraena could not help but compare herself to what her Mother looked like once more. 

Where her Mother was light, she was dark; where she was true, Eraena was not. Where silver hair was supposed to grow, there were instead dark locks. Amethyst eyes that shone brightly turned to obsidian. The features of a doe had turned to look like those of its prey. Eraena scowled. Now, she was once again subjected to more talk as they returned to this wasteland. 

“Stop scowling,” Jacaerys said, and the girl rolled her eyes. “I will do as I please, brother; I do not stop you from expressing yourself. I say nothing when you pout, why must you stop me?” She questioned and placed a pillow upon her lap as she took her seat. The wheelhouse housed five of them: Rhaenyra and her husband, along with her three elder children. The three watched as the twins started to argue. A knowing smile came along the eldest Targaryen, but his wife sighed, growing tired of watching and hearing the two argue for the past six and ten years. 

“Because you look ghastly when you scowl, do you wish for them to see the once beautiful and renowned princess, the pearl of the realm, look like a witch ready to cast them with a spell?” Eraena’s eyes widened upon her brother’s words. She had no come back to defend herself, no insult to throw at her brother, so she pinched his arm in frustration. Jacaerys howled and glared at his sister, ready to retaliate with another insult. “You two, enough roughhousing!” Their Mother chastised them before he could even open his mouth. 

“Jace called me a witch! I was only defending myself, Mother!” Eraena reasoned. “Be that as it may, a princess does not inflict harm to those who give her petty and untrue insults,” The girl’s shoulders deflated, and she could see from the side of her eye the smirk on her brother’s lips. “Your mother is right; when an insult is levied at you, you must not resort to violence,” Eraena stared oddly at her Father, “You resort to violence all the time!” She argued, and Rhaenyra turned to her husband with a small smile on her lips. “Well,” He said and thought for a moment. “Best armor up, Jacaerys, if you plan to throw more insults at your sister.” The younger prince rolled his copper eyes and turned to the slats of the wheelhouse that revealed the city. 

When they arrived in the keep, only one thing was shared amongst the family. Disgust. It seemed that in the nine years, it was not only the children that had been subjected to change but also the keep. Eraena traced the stitching of her dress as she looked around the castle they once called home. 

“It’s… clean,” she says, trying to find a positive. “Do not lie to yourself, daughter.” Her Father bit in ancient tongue, making her bite down on her cheeks. “How could they let this happen?” Rhaenyra whispered, her eyes roaming around the hall. “Why is there a seven-pointed star here? Have they turned the keep into a sept?” Jacaerys asked as he eyed the figure hanging above them. “I would say it is nice to be home, but I scarcely recognize it,” Their Mother said in disbelief, her hand resting on her swelling bump. “Hm,” her husband hummed and stepped further into the keep; his Valyrian gaze filled with nothing but repulsion. 

Erarna turned to Jacaerys, who was tugging their younger brother along. “Where are you two going?” She questioned, “Tiltyard, care to join, sister?” Eraena made a face of contempt, making Jace chuckle, and hurriedly pulled their younger brother away. “Come, let us visit your grandsire,” Rhaenyra called and led out her hand for her daughter to take. Eraena chewed on her lip as they passed hallway upon hallway. It was the same as she remembered, yet at the same time, it was not. How can something so familiar be so strange at the same time? 

As they entered the room, Eraena was appalled at how they had left it unclean and how they had let it dust away. The figurines that her grandsire once cherished were now filled with cobwebs and held the remnants of neglected time. She turned to her Mother, the disgust on her face unfading. She was too preoccupied eyeing the figurines that Eraena had not noticed that her parents had disappeared to the other half of the king’s chambers. The girl blew away the dust of the models, and her fingers itched to hold them once more. Her eyes closed in on a specific figure, and as she made her way to reach and inspect it closely, her name was called. 

“Eraena,” Her Father called and motioned his head for the girl to join them. She made quick steps to where they stood. Eraena caught a glimpse of her grandfather lying unmoving on the feathered bed, and she was certain that it was a corpse. The king’s corpse that was left rotting and decaying. She took a sharp intake of breath as the king’s hand twitched. “E… Eraena? Is that you? Oh, my sweet granddaughter.” She heard the frail voice, and she turned to her Mother and Rhaenyra only urged her daughter to step closer even though Eraena’s face was filled with apprehension and perhaps even fear.

Eraena held back her look of shock at the state of the king. “It is. I’m here, grandfather,” she said and kneeled upon his bed. “Oh… you look just like her,” Eraena could see a smile starting to form upon his grey, cracked lips. “H-her?” She asked and gave a quick look to her Mother. Who in their family could she possibly look like? It was notable that there were scarce things that she had inherited from her Mother. “Aemma, my Aemma…” Eraena could only sadly smile. Her grandsire was truly fading. “A beauty you three are,” The frail king coughed and pointed to his side, and Eraena turned to the table beside her and retrieved the cup placed on it. The king took big gulps as his granddaughter held the cup to his grey and cracked lips. Eraena’s brows scrunched as the liquid emitted a certain odor. 

She turned to her Father with a confused look on her face; Daemon only nodded. “Thank you,” The king said, and Eraena placed down the cup. “You must rest, Father; we— we will return after you rest,” Rhaenyra said in great concern, but her voice was soft and tried to hide her distress. Daemon took hold of her hand, and Eraena followed her parents toward the fireplace of the chambers. “See to it your brothers do not get themselves into any trouble; you were always the best at handling those two.” Her Mother smiled and cupped her cheek. “I do not see why; Jacaerys is older than me; he should play peacekeeper, not me.” The girl sighed. “Only by ten minutes, and your brother does not hold the same senses in him. Now go,” She smiled at her daughter sweetly, giving a loving pat on her behind as Eraena walked to exit the King’s chambers. 

Eraena walked the halls and kept her head held high. The whispers of the court seemed to scream at her. It’s not as if she were surprised; she had heard all the vile rumors and whispers of vipers, and sadly, they were true. Eraena drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders, standing tall. Whispers of vipers should not matter to princesses, she reminded herself. Eraena stood above the tiltyard in search of two boys in blue. As she reached the tiltyard, her eyes passed the silver hair fluttering with every skillful move the fighter made, and she told herself not to grow distracted. Finally, she saw her brothers and made a beeline to where they stood. They had blocked her view; well, Jacaerys did. The prince had grown a few inches taller than his twin sister, but their younger brother still did not reach Eraena’s height.

“What are you doing here?” Jacaerys asked. “Mother sent me. She feared you two may cause trouble.” Jacaerys scoffed. “Us? Were you not the one caught multiple times trying to sneak out of the castle in the dead of night?” Her twin countered. “I believe she had even bribed the guards when she would return home drunk,” Lucerys added. Eraena rolled her eyes. “That was in Dragonstone; I am completely behaved here. It is you two who had unending squabbles and petty fights with our uncles.” As the words left her lips, their attentions shifted toward the crack of wood and the violent swings of a Morningstar. 

Ser Cole made to strike his Morningstar at the silver prince, who had dodged every attempt. Eraena turned away, not particularly enjoying the scene of battle; the girl looked around at the space and noted that, unlike in the inside of the keep, the tiltyard had not been changed. The crowd’s applause brought her away from her thoughts. “Well done, my prince, you will be winning tourneys in no time. They heard the knight say. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys,” came the reply. 

Eraena took hold of my brother’s arms and linked them with her own, “Come, let us go. The smell of sweat unsettles me,” She said and attempted to tug at them. “Nephews, have you come to train?” They hear the one-eyed prince call. Eraena caught his eye and reminded herself to keep her expression neutral, which she had failed. When her eyes were captured by the prince, she was quick to look away as a man shouted a command. Eraena turned to look at the gates and saw the reason why they were all there. Vaemond Velaryon entered the yard with his bannermen and passed the three siblings with a pointed look. Eraena licked her lips and tightened her hold on Lucerys’ arm, feeling her younger brother grow still and nervous. When Vaemond passed, the princess turned to Jacaerys. “Now, can we go?” She whispered, and he nodded. 

“Not so fast,” the prince said, and Eraena watched as he twirled the sword in his hand—a malicious grin on his lips. “You still have not greeted your uncle. Has your stay in Dragonstone made you so impolite?” There was no indication of anything on Eraena’s face, making the prince tilt his head in challenge. “Hello, uncle,” Eraena said, the last word foreign on her tongue. That was all she said before she turned away and walked upward, away from the tiltyard and with her brothers in tow. She gave no second glance at the silver prince even though she was tempted so. 

“Where are you going?” Jacaerys asked as he matched his sister’s hastened steps. “To greet Rhaena, I reckon she and the babes have arrived by now,” she said and turned a corner. “Then where are we supposed to go?” Eraena paused and looked at her brothers. She shrugged; she did not even know why she was even sent to the tiltyard— she only knew they were to stir clear of any conflict. “Just do not… engage… or cause trouble. Avoid them at all costs; I know I will. There is a lot at stake at the moment,” 

“But we wanted to train,” Lucerys said, and Eraena turned to her older brother. “Perhaps later than then, when Aemond and Ser Criston had finished. Or perhaps find other grounds to train.” She suggested and Lucerys gave a small nod at her offered solution. “There you three are!” Rhaena exclaimed by the end of the hall. “Joffery would not let me leave, kept insisting me to play that insipid game you invented for him,” She said to her sister who she greeted with a kiss on her cheek. “Ah, another victim of flowers and thorns.” Jacaerys snickered. “I eventually got so tired that I accidentally threw it overboard.” Eraena’s eyes widened, “Why would you do that? I spent days painting and mapping out that board!” She asked her sister in shock. 

“I’m sorry! But we had been playing since the ship had left the harbor in Dragonstone! I grew tired at the sight of it!” Eraena sighed and nodded, understanding her sister’s actions. “When is Baela to arrive?” Eraena asked, and the three shrugged, “She had not said in her letter, but I would think it would be the day before the trial.” Rheana replied. “So, today?” Lucerys asked. Eraena could see the obvious nervousness in her brother. She went to ruffle his hair, a comfort she often did since they were children. 

“You’ll be all right. You are the true heir of Driftmark; no second son can take that from you.” Eraena’s furrowed brows deepened as her brother shook his head. “I—I am not even supposed to be the heir! It was supposed to be you,” he reasoned. “Well, take it up with the gods. They did not give me a cock, and in consequence, I cannot have Driftmark, and you must bear this.” She tried to jest. “Eraena,” Jacaerys scolded with her choice of words. “It is unfair! Not just to you, but Lucerys as well. You are the second born! It was clear that whatever was in between your legs, you were set to inherit Driftmark.” Rhaena huffed. 

“Well… no. It was clarified that whatever gender Mother’s first child would be, they would inherit the throne. It was not the same condition when it came to Driftmark.” Jacaerys explained. “It’s fine, truly, I am perfectly contented on being the heir of Dragonstone,” Eraena added. “I should hope so, especially when A—“ Rhaena caught herself before she could continue her sentence, both of the girl’s eyes widening. “Especially when what?” Jacaerys asked, quick to catch the secret between the two girls. The two girls looked at each other, sending messages with their eyes. “When what?” Jacaerys repeated. “Nothing,” Rheana quickly said. “No, you were clearly going to say something; what is it?” Jacaerys urged. “Nothing, I—“ Rhaena was saved when another voice was heard at the end of the hall. 

“Sisters?” Baela’s voice carried, and the four forgot what they were talking about. “Baela!” Eraena said excitedly as she hurriedly made their way to them. “Oh, I’ve missed you!” She said gleefully, enveloping the two girls in her embrace. “Just them?” Jacaerys asked, and the newly arrived princess rolled her eyes. “You two, as well.” She said. “When have you arrived?” Lucerys asked. “Just now, I rode with grandmother on Melys,” Eraena smiled at an image of Baela atop the clouds with their grandmother flashing through her mind. Moondancer was still growing for her to take such a trip, so it made sense they rode together. 

The five, were now finally complete. They walked along the halls of the keep and engaged in conversation and exchanging anecdotes of their time spent apart. They reached the gardens, and Eraena detached herself from the group and observed the flowers that the keep held. So many variants that did not grow in Dragonstone. She took a yellow flower in her hand, feeling the petals between the tips of her fingers, the voices of her siblings growing farther away. She raised the flower to her nose and frowned at the lack of fragrance. 

“Eraena,” she heard her name called. The girl turned from the flower and saw as the queen stood behind her. “My Queen,” She said and quickly curtsied. “I see you are enjoying the gardens…alone... unescorted?” She questioned with a raise of her auburn brow. “Oh— my siblings are…” she drifted from her sentence, noticing they had disappeared. “I was with my siblings; I only got distracted by the flowers.” She reasoned. Eraena watched the queen’s lips thin, clasping her hands in front of her. “Best find them, princess. It is not advisable… or even seen proper to see you roam the keep unescorted. Would not want a fate befall twice.” Eraena was confused and wanted to question the queen’s words, but for this instance, she only nodded and excused herself to find her siblings. 

She took hold of her skirts as she made fast steps to find the group. She had wandered the lower floor of the keep for some time and she still failed to find her siblings. Eraena disregarded the plan to find the four and made her way to her assigned chambers. She mindlessly walked the halls, her head filled with other thoughts— thoughts that preoccupied her so that she had crashed with another. “Watch it,” She heard the cold voice of Aemond, unlike earlier, the smirk on his lips was long gone. “Sorry,” The girl quickly said and stepped away from the prince to continue her walk. No other spare glance was given, 

“Watch where you walk, Lady Strong.” At those words, Eraena stilled. She turned to her uncle; the smirk on his thin lips had returned quickly. Should she retaliate? she thought, then remembered the words she uttered to her brothers just a few moments before. Eraena licked her lips and walked away, taking the prince's smirk with her. 

Night soon came, and supper was held in her Mother’s chambers. “Vaemond had arrived,” the eldest prince said. “We know we were there to welcome the second son of the tides,” Eraena replied, and her Father raised his brow in question. “Tomorrow is the trial. We must all be ready for whatever those cunts throw at us.” Eraena’s eyes widened when Baela choked on her wine; it seemed that she had forgotten how crass her Father was. “How was your exploration of the keep?” Rhaenyra asked the five. 

“Eraena disappeared,” Jacaerys answered. “I did not! You left me in the gardens then I could not find you four,” She explained. “Mother, are we not allowed to venture here unescorted? The queen said it was improper for me to be without an escort.” She asked. She had never heard of such a rule that she must be escorted in broad daylight. “She said, ‘Would not want a fate befall twice.’ What did she mean?” Eraena added. Her parents exchanged a look, and the princess waited for an answer. 

“Nothing, she meant absolutely nothing,” Rhaenyra said. Eraena’s eyes flew to her hands, playing with her rings. She nodded and turned to her sisters. “You must tell us about your ventures warding in Driftmark. It seems that Rhaena and I have scarce topics to discuss these past days,” Eraena said. Her sister nodded. I was hoping you two would be the ones to tell stories. It was dreadfully lonely there in Driftmark.” 

“Oh, you should tell her about Arthur,” Rhaena said in excitement, and as if it were a reflex, Eraena’s cheeks pinked, and Jacaerys joined in their conversation as he heard an unfamiliar name. “Whose this… Arthur?” He asked and made the girl roll her eyes, pushing him away. “None of your concern, brother.” 

“Mother, Eraena’s hiding something from us,” he tattled, and Eraena could not help herself but pinch his arm once more. “Hush!” she whispered harshly. “Leave your sister alone, Jacaerys; she is entitled to keep some secrets to herself.” Eraena gave her brother a smug look before returning her gaze to the two. “Tonight, let us exchange our stories without bother,” she said, and the two nodded eagerly. 

It was high night when Eraena made quiet steps to her sister’s chambers, a candle in her hand. There was a storm brewing, and Eraena jumped with every clap of thunder. She was finally nearing the room when a gust of wind blew out the candle she held. Eraena was in the dark; the moon and stars gave no light to guide her way. The princess squinted her eyes and prayed she would not trip. Another clap of lightning, and the girl jumped with a squeak of shock. Her heart was beating violently in her chest. Finally, she found her way to her sister’s room. “Gods, you took so long! We thought someone had caught you!” Baela said and pulled her in. “Now, tell me all there is on this… Arthur,” she said and made Eraena sit atop the feathered bed. 

She and Rhaena exchanged knowing looks. “I met him a year ago when he had started his training to be a knight in Dragonstone.” The girl started, and Baela nodded. “I was in the gardens, picking flowers for our rooms, and he was trying to hide from the wrath of his commanding officer.” Eraena tried to control the smile rising on her lips as she recalled the day. “So he hid behind me as Ser Samuel tried to find him. For an hour, he stayed crutched down behind me, moving where I had moved and us just talking and jesting.” Baela and Rhaena watched as the obsidian eyes of their sister twinkled, and the blush grew on her cheeks. “He’s kind, funny, and oh gods, he’s so tall and… dashing,” Eraena said, struggling to paint a clear picture of the soon-to-be knight. “Oh, gods, you love him!” Baela exclaimed, making Rhaena laugh. Eraena scoffed. “I do not! I— I like him, but I do not believe I love him. Not yet, at least,” she mumbled the last part, but it was heard clearly by the two.

When the following morning came, it was the day of the trial. The princess stared at herself in the mirror as a handmaid readied her. Womanhood had taken its full effect on her. Eraena's gaze paused on her thighs, and she could not help but frown. Never in her life had she the gap between her thighs that she saw most women had. There was a small pouch above her sex that Eraena had tried hard to be rid of. Her hips flared at what she found at an alarming and annoying rate; most of her dresses had clung to her waist but had difficulty conforming to the princess’ hips. Eraena’s gaze moved to her chest. Her Mother used to lovingly tease the girl about the ampleness of it until she thankfully stopped as she realized Eraena had grown quite conscious about it. 

The princess took in a deep breath and moved to wear her dress—a black gown with gold laces and an embroidery of a dragon that she had made herself. Her fingers brushed the gold lace on the square neckline, teasing a hint of her bosom. “You outdid yourself on the design, princess,” Lyn, her handmaid, complimented, making the princess smile, and a ‘thank you’ escaped her pink lips. “What of your hair?” Lyn inquired. “A few braids, at the top, and can you make use of the ruby clips Father had recently given me?” Ereana waited patiently as Lyn did her hair, a book finding itself in her hands.  

She walked with Jacaerys to the throne room, their parents behind them. “Do you not think you are a tad overdressed?” Jacaerys asked his sister. Eyeing the gown she had fashioned. Eraena, like their mother, wore expensive gowns. The finest silk, the purest of cotton, the most lustrous pearls, the most brilliant jewels, and the most shining gold are what she and her mother often wore. Jacaerys had no reservations before; however, now, it made him nervous to enter the throne room with his sister fashioning such a dress, especially with such a neckline and bodice conforming to her body. “Excuse me?” Eraena asked in disbelief, almost offended. 

“Good luck, son,” Rhaenyra jested as she passed her twins. Daemon chuckled and eyed the two, ready to argue once more. “There is no such thing as overdressed Jacaerys,” she says, and her brother struggles to look her in the eye. “Women have little to express themselves, brother. You must understand that the way I dress is my way to show my support to this family since I have given little say in this matter, and I know my opinion would not be valued as much as a man's; this is the only way I can take my stand.” Eraena explained, and Jace nodded, but she could still see the reservation in her brother’s copper eyes. 

“I just,” he trailed off. “Just what?” Eraena asked. “I just wished you could have worn a dress that had more to cover,” He said, making the princess narrow her eyes, “Mother wore dresses like these when she was my age; some of my dresses were hers,” She said. “Yes, but our uncles are there,” he tried to defend. “So?” Eraena asked incredulously. Jacaerys sighed and ran a hand through his face. “Never mind, you look lovely, sister. Let’s go,” he gave up, and Eraena conceded in the meantime, knowing their family was waiting for the both of them. 

When they entered the room, they hurriedly made their way to stand behind their mother. “Who won this time?” Their Father asked, “I did,” Eraena said with a triumphant smirk, and Jacaerys shook his head. The smirk on the princess’ lips was soon wiped when she noticed three eyes on her. “Your uncles are looking at you,” Rhaena said lowly. “I know,” Eraena replied but still did not turn to the two. “I feel underdressed standing next to you,” Baela said, and Eraena rolled her eyes as she heard Jacaerys snort. “I told you,” he said with a prideful tone. “Hush,” She grumbled and looked down at her dress with a frown. She was not overdressed; she thought she wore an appropriate outfit for such an occasion. She would not let her brother sway her mind when it came to her fashion choices. 

The girl’s attention was caught when she heard the door of the throne room open whilst her Mother spoke on behalf of her younger brother. “King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.” The king took a while to sit on his throne, aching and wheezing with each step. 

“I must... admit... my confusion. I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present... who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys's wishes is Princess Rhaenys.” All eyes turned to the Queen who never was. “Indeed, Your Grace. It was ever my husband's will that Driftmark passes through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son... Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed. Nor did my support of him.” The look of pure shock and outrage could be seen in the face of Vaemond. Eraena turned to the Queen and her father, the hand who had a look of surpassed irritation. Once more, she caught Aemond’s eye and once again, the princess quickly looked away. 

“As a matter of fact, Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons, Jace and Luc, to Lord Corlys's granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.” Eraena turned to gaze at the floor and smiled at her sibling's proposals, but mainly her lack thereof. Rhaenyra had promised her that they would not arrange a marriage for her, that she was free to choose for herself. 

“Well... the matter is settled. Again. I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.” The king announced. Eraena let out a breath of relief. However, that relief was short-lived as Vaemond spoke once more. 

“You break the law... and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me... who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it.” Vaemond gritted out.

“Allow it"? Do not forget yourself, Vaemond. The king said. “That is no true Velaryon and certainly no nephew of mine. You... may run your house as you see fit... but you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And gods be damned... I will not see it ended on the account of this…” Vaemond stopped himself; Eraena was chewing on her lip, knowing that this would not end well. 

“Say it,” she heard her Father challenge. Her children... are bastards!” Vaemond yelled, and the hall emitted silent chatter. Eraena took in a deep breath but did not let herself waver, holding her pretty head high. “She… is... a whοre!” Vaemond yelled another treasonous phrase once more, and the young princess’ dark eyes widened, not believing that he would scream that out loud and in front of the king, no less. 

“I... will have your tongue for that.” The king said and took out his dagger. Before anyone could blink, Daemon had sliced his sword through Vaemond’s head. The sound of blood gushing out and the thud of a body echoed through the room. Eraena could not help but gasp and turn to her brother, who quickly held her head to face away from the grotesque scene. “There, he can keep his tongue,” Daemon said. The king groaned and fell onto the throne, creating commotion throughout the room. “Return to your chambers, now.” Their Mother urged, and Eraena was happy to oblige. 

“Gods, I— Wha— gods,” she could not even comprehend what had happened. The five of them were in Eraena’s chambers. All of them were seated, whether it was atop her feathered bed, a sofa, or a settee near the fire, but the girl was pacing and trying to erase the image of Vaemond’s severed head upon the bloodied floor. 

“I forgot how violent father was,” Baela said, and Rhaena nodded. “He had mellowed down these past few years, though it is nice to see that the fire in him did not die down.” Eraena looked at her sister strangely, “What?” Rhaena asked. “He just killed a man, grandsire’s brother.” She breathed out, “He was coming for Luc’s inheritance. He called us bastards, our Mother a whore.” Jacaerys said. “Still! He did not deserve to die in such a way,” She said in remorse. “He had it coming,” Jacaerys shrugged, and Eraena shook her head. “Gods, please tell me you will be more levelheaded when you are king.” She said and took a seat next to Rhaena on the settee. 

“You hold too much empathy, sister. Believe me, if the roles were reversed, Vaemond would have cackled to see Daemon’s head roll on the floor.” Eraena huffed and kept her thoughts to herself for the moment. 

The day progressed and Eraena was left alone in her room, her sibling attending to other business in regard to their newly formed betrothals. Eraena walked to the dining hall alone, and when the doors opened, almost everyone was present. “Ah, there you are!” Her Father said and stood up to greet her. Eraena kissed his cheek as well as her Mother’s before she was escorted to her seat in between Jace and Aegon. 

The king was carried into the room and was seated at the head of the table, she noted the look of surprise her brothers tried to hide upon seeing the state grandsire in up-close. “How good it is to see you all tonight… together.” The king panted and looked over the table. “Prayer before we begin?” The queen asked her husband, who nodded. As the queen began her prayer, plenty of pairs of eyes wandered around the table. Eyeing each other curiously. Eraena noted, Aemond, however, he kept his eye closed and hands folded in front of him. 

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luc will marry their cousins Baela and Rhaena. Further strengthening the bond between our houses.” The king announced. Eyes went to the newly betrothed couples. Rhaena and Luc shared a look, both of them having a smile on their faces, as well as Jacaerys and Baela had smiles on their faces. “And what of you, sweet niece? No betrothals as of yet?” He asked and took a sip of his wine. “None, uncle,” Eraena said plainly. Aegon hummed and turned his attention to her brother. 

“You do know how the act is done, I assume?” Aegon asked Jacaerys. “At least in principle. Where to put your cock and all that,” From the side of her eye, she could see Jace’s nostrils falling and his jaw tightening. “You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my sister and my betrothed.” Jace had said. Aegon let out a breath and turned to Eraena with a pompous smirk on his face. “He’s a virgin, I’m quite sure of it,” he whispered the words that were only for her to hear. She gave no reaction and instead turned her head to look at her parents. 

“It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table.” The king said, “The faces most dear to me in all the world, yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.” Eraena set her cup down, and Aemond tapped his finger on the table. The king took off his gold mask, revealing half of his face had decayed and, like his son, an eye was missing from him. 

“My own face is no longer a handsome one… if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king…” Viserys trailed off. “But your father.” He said and turned to his children, “Your brother,” he turned to Daemon. “Your husband,” he said to the queen. “And your grandsire.” He finished turning to the five cousins. “Who may not, it seems…walk for much longer among you. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts.” Eraena could not help as her gaze fluttered over to Aemond. A steely look in his eye was focused upon his clasped hands.

Toasts from each side of the family brought me a sense of an alluring, yet unnatural sense of peace. Maybe this family could work. Eraena thought to herself, a fantasy that was beginning until she saw Aegon standing up and making his way to a chalice near Baela. “I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.” Eraena bit her lip, praying to the gods her brother would not be baited so easily; alas, she was not heard. 

Jacaerys slammed his fist on the table. Plates and silverware cluttered with noise. Aegon found his way back to his seat and leaned closer to the princess, the two of them waiting for Jacaerys’ outburst. Eraena shot a disgusted look toward her elder uncle, who only shrugged, “It was getting dreadfully boring and sappy, dear Eraena; you could not blame me.” he said. “I think I could,” she whispered harshly. 

Aemond then rose, and Eraena looked between the two princes, who stared each other down. “Prepare for it to grow interesting, sweet niece,” Aegon smirked. A tense silence filled the table, the two boys still standing. Jace reached over and playfully punched their uncle’s arm, lips pursed together. “To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth.” Jacaerys said. Eraena tried not to roll her eyes at the obvious lie. 

“And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles.” Jace raised his glass, a smile on his face that she knew all too well to be teasing and insincere. Her gaze turned to Aegon, who seemed to be unamused by Jace’s speech. “To you as well,” Aegon said. I caught the eyes of Luc and Rhaena, who smiled at her with amusement. “I would like to toast Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly, he just ignores you… except sometimes when he’s drunk.” 

Eraena let out a bubbling laugh along with her Father, who chuckled, and her mother quickly chastised the both of them. She quickly covered her mouth when she noticed the stoic look on the other’s faces. “Good,” Otto said to her granddaughter with a smile. Ever since childhood, Eraena thought hard about the words Helaena would mumble. Words that everyone thought were ludicrous and mad, she found with deeper meaning. Helaena is seen to be mad, though Eraena always sees it as misunderstood; she holds wisdom and knowledge that no other at the table possesses. 

“Let us have some music,” the king instructed. Jace made his way to stand up once more and went to Helaena, inviting the girl to dance. Eraena smiled against my cup when she saw the surprised yet excited look on the silver princess’ face. Aegon looked disbelieved and shared a look with his brother. Eraena took Jacearys’ seat and sat next to her siblings. For a moment, their family was the picture of unity. Smiles and laughs were shared along the table. However, the king grew in pain and was carried out of the hall immediately. 

As the king left, a roasted pig arrived and was placed directly in front of Aemond. Eraena saw the smirk on Luc’s face, trying not to laugh out loud. “Lucerys,” she whispered harshly at her younger brother. Eraena’s heart quickened, and she quickly turned to Aemond, who had his jaw clenched. The one-eyed prince punched his fist on the table, standing up at the same time. It caught everyone’s attention. Even the music had stopped. Aemond raised his glass. His eye had never left Lucerys. “Final tribute,” he announced, and the girl bit her lip, knowing this would not end well. “To the health of my nephews and niece. Jace… Luc… Joffery and sweet Eraena.” The girl rested her gaze on Aemond, “Each of them comely, wise…” the prince trailed off, his gaze flickering to Eraena, who was pleading with her eyes. Yet, of course, she was ignored. “Strong,” he finished. 

Eraena let out a defeated breath. “Aemond,” the queen warned but was ignored by the prince. “Come. Let us drain our cups to these four…” Aegon raised his chalice. “Strongs,” Aemond finished. “I dare you to say that again.” Jacaerys challenged. “Why? ’twas only a compliment,” Aemond replied. “Do you not think yourself strong?” He added. Jacaerys threw a punch, and Lucerys made his way to his brother but was blocked by Aegon. Who grabbed the boy and bashed his head on the table near where Eraena was sitting. She stared wide-eyed and immediately slammed her foot down on Aegons for him to release her younger brother. “That is enough!” The queen yelled, but none seemed to hear her. Lucerys’ head was still pinned down, and Aegon was staring at Eraena with an amused smirk on his lips. 

“You’d have to try harder than that, Eraena,” He said, and the princess’ vision reddened; she quickly stood up and used her knee to maim his sex. Finally, he let Lucerys go, falling on the floor, clutching his cock in pain. “Good,” she heard Father say in her ancient tongue with a smirk, but her Mother looked at her in disbelief. Aemond effortlessly pushed Jacaerys to the floor, a smirk on his face. The prince’s eye was quick to find obsidian ones who had moved to the side of the room, a triumphant smirk on his lips. It took Baela and Rhaena to hold her down and not join in to help her brothers. Jace quickly stood up and charged forward, but a guard stopped him and Lucerys. 

The guard had let go of his hold on Jace, and it would seem that Jacaerys would have pounced on their uncle if it weren’t for Daemon, who had placed himself in the middle of the two. “Wait,” he said and raised a finger up, staring Jacaerys down until the prince moved backward and moved to where his siblings stood. “Go to your quarters.” Their Mother commanded. “All of you, go. Now.” She ordered. Eraena was the last of her siblings to leave; she could hear faint footsteps behind her and saw Aemond and her father walking behind the five of them. Baela and Raena’s chambers were the nearest to the dining hall. The two had left the awkward convoy in the halls quickly. “Jacaerys, Eraena, your Mother’s chambers, now.” 

The girl’s lip found home between her teeth as she walked to her mother’s chambers, her head hung low. How hypocritical was she? She had frowned upon her father’s violent actions toward Vaemond, yet she was all but ready to join in on the fight. Yet, in her defense, she could not just sit there and let Aegon hurt her younger brother; the prince had deserved his cock to be maimed. “I simply do not know what to do with you two anymore!” Rhaenyra exclaimed with a disappointed sigh. “Jacaerys, why must you be baited so quickly?” She asked. “She called us bastards, Mother!” “But you should not give them a defensive reaction; it only makes you look guilty.”

Eraena scoffed, making her Mother turn to her with a raised brow. “Mother, look at us,” she said, and Jacaerys made his way to stand beside her. “Do not get me started with you. Joining in the fights of boys!” She exclaimed and paced around, playing with her rings once more. “I was only defending my brother,” Eraena explained. “That is no place for you, Eraena!” The younger princess held back her tongue, not wanting to say anything out of turn or offense. She caught her Father’s eyes, pleading that he would come to their aid; he sighed and walked closer to their Mother. “It was a childish fight, Nyra, you should be at ease that your children know how to defend themselves.” 

“The Hightowers are at an outrage! They will use this spectacle as another reason to keep the crown!” She whispered harshly. “You two will apologize to your uncles, Eraena, you will apologize to Aegon, and you Jacearys will apologize to Aemond.” Eraena stared in shock. “I will do no such thing,” she said and stepped forward, “Eraena,” Jace warned. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I will not apologize for defending my brother from that… drunken creature and his violent brother! Nor should Jacearys apologize for defending our honor.” 

“It does not matter; we must take the high road,” Rhaenyra said decisively. “Tell me, Mother, when you were our age, and if you were put in our position, would you apologize?” Eraena questioned and for the first time in a while, she saw my mother without an answer. Rhaenyra turned to her husband, who had an amused smirk on his lips. “Answer the question, dear,” Rhaenyra sighed and paced. “You two, out. Jacaerys, escort your sister back to her chambers.” 

Jace and Eraena exited the chambers and walked silently back to the girl’s quarters. They were nearing the wing of her chambers when they saw a figure seemingly waiting for someone. “Ah, Lord and Lady Strong,” Aemond taunted once more with a smirk on his lips. Eraena’s hold on Jacaerys’ arm tightened. Jacaerys turned to his sister, who implored with her eyes for him to ignore the sulking figure in the halls. “How nice of you to escort your sister to her chambers,” Aemond said, and Eraena licked her lips, avoiding the prince’s gaze. “I should think it necessary, especially with the talk we hear of a promiscuous princess residing in Dragonstone.” Eraena stiffened at his words. Promiscuous? The word seemed like poison dripping from his lips. “We are not aware of such things, Prince Aemond. It is best not to listen to whispers of vipers,” Jacaerys said, and the two walked on. Eraena frowned at their uncle’s words. “Ignore him,” Jacaerys said as he saw the furrowed brows of his sister. “Good night, brother,” Eraena sighed and placed a kiss on her brother’s cheek before stepping into her room. She was not promiscuous, not at all!

[ancientrome]

Bronze ornament from a chariot pole. Roman 1st–2nd century CE. x

This heavy metal ornament, decorated with the head of Medusa and inlays of silver and copper, probably comes from a currus triumphalis (ceremonial chariot) used in processions rather than a lightweight racing chariot.