#fragile echo chamber and ignorance

[atracaelum]

This is just kvetching into the void but I periodically see posts on this here internet and website essentially trying to police the terms people use for their own art, ie "you can't call something a doodle if it looks finished (to me)" or "stop doing sketchbook flips that are finished pieces, it's supposed to be doodles and wips in a sketchbook!" and usually there's a reason given about these things setting an unrealistic standard either for other artists, or non-artists, and these irritate the piss out of me every time I fear.

Your 'finished piece' might BE someone's low effort doodle, that's just life sometimes! This is fine! It need not reflect on you!

Similarly, the sketchbook is the medium. Whether it's showcase of completed works or practice sketches is irrelevant. They are showing their sketchbook.

Much of this moaning is indirectly shot at people who are full-time artists, if not professionals, posting online. Are you under the impression their grasp of art terminology is just flat out wrong? Or is it just broader than you would like?

I can't take the fear of unrealistic expectations seriously, sorry. People are very ignorant, yes, but the cure is never a dumbing down of the topic, nor trying in vain to universalize it.

This all kind of wraps into how social media turns people sharing their art into this cut throat arms race, how divorced people become from means of actually learning their craft in that sort of environment, and the, to be blunt, sour grapes that grow from all of this. Sincerely, I just encourage people to worry less about other artists minding their business and focus more on personal growth. Maybe let yourself get inspired! And then we'll both win, because I will see less incessant whining out in the wild!

[oceandolores]

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | chapter I

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.

Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

Chapter I

masterlist!

next | chapter II

The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.

Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.

You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.

You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.

The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.

You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.

Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.

“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.

You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.

She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.

The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.

Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.

Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.

The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.

The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.

You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.

Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.

Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.

The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.

“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.

“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”

You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.

As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.

“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.

Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.

“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.

You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.

She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.

As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”

You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”

“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”

You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.

“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.

“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”

Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.

You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.

You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.

“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.

The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.

You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.

Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.

Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.

Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.

You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.

There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.

Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.

When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.

“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.

She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.

To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.

Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.

“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”

You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.

But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”

Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.

“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”

You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.

The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.

Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.

Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.

Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.

Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.

But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.

“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”

You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.

“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.

“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.

The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.

The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.

You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.

But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.

Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.

Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.

If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.

Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.

The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.

Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.

The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.

And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.

“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.

Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.

“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”

Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.

Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.

The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.

The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.

Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.

You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.

Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.

“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.

Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”

“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.

"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.

But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.

***

The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.

The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.

Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.

You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.

This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.

The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.

The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.

Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.

The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.

To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.

You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.

It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.

You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.

Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.

Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.

Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.

Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.

These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.

You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.

You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.

This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.

The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.

You know who he is. How could you not?

General Marcus Acacius.

Rome’s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.

You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.

But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.

Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.

The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.

His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.

Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.

And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.

It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.

His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.

His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.

But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.

They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.

Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.

He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.

His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.

Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.

“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.

It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.

You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"

His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.

Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”

You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.

“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.

His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.

Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”

Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.

“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”

The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.

You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.

"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.

Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.

He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.

“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”

The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.

It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.

“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.

“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.

But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.

You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.

“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.

“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.

“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”

Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.

The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.

“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”

But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.

“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”

His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”

Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.

The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.

“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”

“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.

“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."

You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.

The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.

You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.

There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.

The man behind the titles and statues.

You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.

And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.

Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”

He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”

You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.

“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.

Princess Lucilla.

The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.

“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.

Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.

Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.

Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”

Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.

“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”

You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”

At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.

“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.

“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”

For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.

A man bound not just by duty but by love.

His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.

“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”

You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”

Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.

“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.

You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"

His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”

You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.

Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.

“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.

The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.

Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"

Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.

"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.

His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.

There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.

You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.

“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.

There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.

Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.

You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.

Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.

“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.

“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”

You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”

She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”

You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.

You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.

A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.

As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.

To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.

You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.

Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.

He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.

And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.

You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.

Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.

But Marcus is no abstraction.

He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.

To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.

“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.

[pucksandpower]

Inserts Himself Where?

Day 22 → Bedding Ceremony 💋 Charles Leclerc

Warnings: 18+ content

Kinktober Masterlist

The room is warm, the air thick with lavender and a nervous sort of energy that seems to cling to the walls. Your maids bustle about, fingers trailing over the lace of your gown, smoothing the fabric, tugging it tighter in places.

You can feel the weight of their glances, the words they’re holding back. There’s something they want to say, something that’s been dancing in the air all morning but hasn’t quite landed.

“Hold still, milady,” Jeanne says, her tone gentle, though there's an edge of anticipation to it. She pulls a comb through your hair, carefully teasing the strands into place.

You feel the weight of the occasion pressing down on you. You’ve been preparing for this day for months, and yet, something about it feels … off. There’s a knot in your stomach that refuses to unravel.

A maid at your feet tightens the laces on your shoes, while another adjusts the pearls around your neck. Everyone is fussing over every small detail, yet they keep exchanging looks — nervous, knowing looks — that you can’t ignore much longer.

“What is it?” You finally ask, your voice breaking the silence. You glance at Jeanne, who’s avoiding your eyes, concentrating far too hard on an already perfect braid. “You’re all acting strange.”

Jeanne freezes for just a moment, the comb pausing mid-stroke. You see her exchange another glance with Marguerite, the older of your maids, who’s standing near the door, hands clasped in front of her apron. Marguerite clears her throat, steps forward, and it’s as if the entire room collectively holds its breath.

“There is … something we need to talk to you about,” Marguerite says, her voice careful, deliberate. You can sense her choosing each word like it’s something fragile, like she’s afraid it might break in her mouth. “About tonight.”

“Tonight?” You echo, confused. You already know about the feast, about the dancing and the endless stream of congratulations. It’s all been drilled into your head by your mother and your tutors. What else could there be?

Jeanne places the comb down, smoothing her hands over your shoulders, her touch soft but tense. “It’s about what happens after the wedding,” she says quietly. “After the ceremony … with Prince Charles.”

There’s a flicker of recognition somewhere deep inside you, a faint memory of hushed conversations you weren’t meant to overhear. You feel your heartbeat quicken, but you don’t understand why.

“What happens after?” You ask, genuinely lost.

The room falls into a silence that’s almost unbearable. Jeanne’s fingers tighten on your shoulder for a moment before she steps back, leaving Marguerite to speak.

Marguerite lets out a small sigh, one that seems to carry the weight of the world. “After the feast, after the guests have left … there’s the bedding ceremony,” she explains. Her words are slow, careful, as if she’s trying not to startle you. “It’s tradition. You and the prince will be led to your chambers to … consummate the marriage.”

You blink, consummate ringing in your ears. You’ve heard the term before, but only in passing, never with any real explanation attached to it. It’s something that’s been whispered about, something the older women in the court would smirk at when they thought you weren’t listening. You swallow, suddenly feeling like you’re on the edge of understanding something much larger than you’re ready for.

“And what does that mean exactly?” You ask, your voice quieter now. You know you’re supposed to understand, but you don’t.

Marguerite glances at Jeanne, who looks like she would rather be anywhere else right now. Finally, Marguerite steps closer to you, lowering her voice as if that will somehow soften the blow. “It means that the prince will … well, he will lay with you.”

“Lay with me?” You repeat, still not grasping it fully.

Jeanne steps in again, her face a mixture of embarrassment and determination. “He will … be with you. As a husband is with his wife,” she tries, but it’s clear the words are slipping away from her.

You blink at them, frustration growing. “What does that mean?” You ask, more sharply than you intended.

Jeanne sighs, glancing at Marguerite as if pleading for help. Marguerite nods once, the movement almost imperceptible, before taking another small step toward you.

“Y/N,” Marguerite starts, and the use of your name makes you sit up a little straighter. “When a man and a woman are married, they … share a bed. And during that time, the man … inserts himself.”

The words hang in the air like a bad joke.

“Inserts himself?” You repeat, confusion evident in your voice. “Inserts himself where?”

Jeanne coughs, and Marguerite turns a shade of red you didn’t think possible.

“In you, milady,” Jeanne finally says, her voice barely above a whisper.

It takes a moment for the meaning to settle in. And even then, it feels slippery, like something you’re not entirely ready to catch hold of. You stare at them both, waiting for them to laugh, to tell you it’s all some strange misunderstanding. But they don’t. They just stand there, looking at you with a mixture of pity and something else — concern, maybe?

Your heart is thumping loudly in your chest now, your hands clutching the arms of your chair. “That’s what’s going to happen?” You whisper, more to yourself than to them.

Marguerite nods slowly. “Yes, milady. It is … part of your duties as a wife.”

The word duties feels heavy, like it’s pressing down on you from all sides. You’ve heard it a hundred times — duty to your family, to your country, to your future husband. But this? This is something else entirely.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me this before?” You ask, your voice small, almost breaking.

Jeanne steps forward, crouching down so she’s eye level with you. “We didn’t want to frighten you, milady,” she says softly. “But now … now you must be prepared.”

Prepared. The word feels hollow, like it could never be enough for whatever is coming. You stare at Jeanne, at her wide, honest eyes, and for a moment, you think about how easy it would be to just say no. To refuse. To walk away from all of it. But then you remember who you are, what’s expected of you, and that thought quickly fades.

“What if … what if I can’t?” You ask, voice trembling despite your efforts to keep it steady.

Jeanne’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently. “You can,” she says with more confidence than you feel. “Every woman goes through this. And you will, too.”

You glance at Marguerite, who nods solemnly. “It’s normal to feel this way,” she adds. “To be scared. But once it’s done … it becomes easier. You learn to live with it.”

The knot in your stomach tightens further at the thought of having to “learn to live” with something like this. You had always thought marriage would be a partnership, something beautiful. But now it seems like another duty, another burden placed upon you.

“What … what if I don’t want him to?” You ask quietly, barely audible.

Jeanne hesitates for a moment, her smile faltering. “It’s not about want, milady. It’s what must be done. For the marriage to be valid.”

You nod, though you feel like you’re in a daze, like you’re suddenly floating above the room, watching yourself from a distance.

Jeanne’s hand squeezes yours again, as if trying to tether you back. “It will be all right,” she whispers, as if that could make it true.

But you’re not sure anything will be all right again after tonight.

***

The doors swing open with a creak, and the air shifts — heavy, thick with the weight of expectation. You take a step forward, your legs barely cooperating beneath the layers of your gown, and your maids gently guide you into the room. The space is dimly lit, candles flickering along the stone walls, casting long shadows that dance with the faint tremble in your chest.

A crowd lines the edges of the room, a sea of faces, each expression unreadable, their eyes fixed on you and Charles. They’re waiting. Watching. Witnessing. Your breath catches in your throat as the enormity of what’s happening presses down on you like a heavy cloak. You steal a glance at the bed — a massive, looming thing that takes up nearly half the room, its dark wooden posts adorned with silken drapes.

You can’t feel your hands anymore. Your fingers are numb as they clutch the folds of your gown, and your heart is pounding so loud in your ears that you can hardly hear anything else. The maids hover around you, their hands steady but their faces as tense as yours. Jeanne’s voice is low in your ear as she begins to untie the laces of your bodice, but the words barely register.

Your eyes drift toward Charles, standing across from you, surrounded by his own attendants. He’s calm — too calm. His posture is steady, his movements fluid as one of his men begins to undo the buttons on his doublet. His eyes meet yours for a moment, and the weight of his gaze feels like a physical thing, grounding you and unsettling you all at once.

The room is suffocating, the walls closing in around you, and suddenly, your legs give a slight wobble. Jeanne catches you by the elbow, steadying you before anyone else can notice. She leans close, her voice barely above a whisper. “Breathe, milady.”

But breathing feels impossible.

The rustle of fabric fills the room as the maids continue to work, pulling at the ties of your gown, loosening it inch by inch. Your heart races faster as more of your skin is exposed, the cold air prickling against your back as they slide the heavy fabric off your shoulders. You feel the weight of every gaze in the room, the eyes of the witnesses burning into you, watching each movement, each breath.

Charles steps toward you, his attendants falling back, and in that moment, you realize that his chest is bare, his broad shoulders illuminated by the faint glow of the candlelight. He looks powerful, every inch of him radiating control, and the sight of him only makes the trembling worse.

You lower your gaze, staring at the floor, but his presence looms closer until he’s standing directly in front of you. He tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he watches you. Then, his hand reaches out — strong, firm — and he cups your chin, lifting your face to meet his eyes.

“You’re trembling,” he says quietly, his voice low and steady.

You try to answer, but your throat feels tight, your mouth dry. Instead, you just nod, swallowing hard as his thumb brushes lightly against your cheek.

His touch is firm but not unkind, and for a brief moment, the world narrows down to just the two of you. The witnesses, the maids, the ceremony itself — all of it fades into the background as he looks at you with an intensity that makes your heart skip.

“They’re watching us,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“They don’t matter,” he says, his tone calm, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He drops his hand from your face, letting it trail down your arm before resting it at your waist. “Forget them. This is about you and me.”

You blink up at him, unsure how you’re supposed to just forget the dozens of eyes burning into your skin. But there’s something in the way he speaks, the way he holds himself, that makes it sound almost possible.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, grounding you in the moment. “Look at me,” he says, and you do. His eyes are dark green, piercing, and for a moment, the noise in your head quiets, the panic subsides just enough for you to breathe.

The maids step back now, leaving you in only your shift, the thin fabric barely covering your trembling body. Your skin feels exposed, vulnerable, and the cold bites at you as the gown is carried away, leaving you standing in front of Charles in nothing but the flimsy fabric.

He nods to his attendants, and they move quickly, removing the last of his clothing. You can feel the shift in the room — the way the witnesses straighten, their attention sharpening as the final barrier between you and Charles is stripped away.

Your breath catches as you look at him. He’s … overwhelming. His body is all sharp lines and muscle, his skin bronzed by the sun, and he stands there, completely unbothered by his own nakedness. He’s everything you’re not — strong, powerful, certain. And yet, despite the fear twisting in your chest, you can’t help but be drawn to him.

Charles steps closer, his bare chest only inches from yours now, and you feel the heat radiating from his skin. He lifts a hand again, this time running his fingers lightly over your shoulder, down your arm, the touch both calming and terrifying at once.

“Look at me,” he repeats, his voice firmer now, but not unkind. His other hand comes up, cupping the side of your neck, and the warmth of his skin makes you shiver. “Focus on me. Only me.”

You nod, though your eyes flick nervously to the crowd.

“Don’t,” he says softly, but there’s an edge of command in his voice. “Pretend they’re not here. Pretend it’s just us.”

His hand moves to the ties of your shift, and you feel the world spin around you. Your breath catches in your throat as his fingers work quickly, and the fabric falls away, leaving you utterly exposed. The cold air rushes over your skin, and for a moment, you think you might faint.

But then, his hands are on you — steady, firm, pulling you toward him. You gasp, but he holds you, one hand on the small of your back, the other tangling in your hair as he brings his face close to yours.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “Breathe.”

You force yourself to inhale, though the air feels thin and sharp in your lungs. His hand slides down your back, guiding you, and before you realize it, he’s leading you toward the bed, his steps slow but purposeful.

Your legs feel weak, but he keeps you upright, keeps you moving forward. The bed looms closer, and the witnesses fall away into shadows as you focus on the feel of his hands, his voice in your ear.

When you reach the edge of the bed, he turns you to face him again, his eyes searching yours. “Lie down,” he says, his voice still calm, still steady. It’s not a request — it’s an instruction, and there’s no room for hesitation.

You sink down onto the bed, the sheets cool against your skin, and Charles stands over you, watching you with an intensity that makes your heart race. He’s so close, his body towering over yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, a stark contrast to the cold air around you.

He kneels beside you, his hands moving over your body in a way that’s both possessive and reassuring. His fingers trace the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, and he leans down, his breath hot against your neck.

“Relax,” he whispers, though you’re not sure how that’s possible.

Your mind is a whirl of thoughts, your body trembling beneath him, but somehow, his presence — his control — anchors you. He’s dominant, powerful, every movement calculated, and though you’re terrified, there’s a strange sense of safety in his certainty.

He shifts his weight, pressing his body against yours, and the feel of him — his skin, his heat — sends a jolt through you. His lips find your collarbone, trailing soft, deliberate kisses along your skin, and his hand moves lower, his touch firm but not harsh.

“Focus on me,” he murmurs again, his lips brushing against your ear. “Only me.”

You close your eyes, willing yourself to block out the rest of the room — the witnesses, the maids, the ceremony. It’s just him. Just Charles. His hands, his voice, his body guiding you through the fear.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he whispers, his voice low, and despite everything, you believe him.

You have to.

The room feels like a furnace, despite the cool draft from the open windows. Every breath you take is shallow, every movement calculated, dictated by the presence of so many eyes around you. Charles hovers above you, his body a solid, commanding force. His hands, warm and firm, travel over your skin as if he owns it. And maybe he does — at least tonight.

He leans closer, his lips brushing your ear again, his breath hot against your skin. “They’re still here,” he whispers, and there’s a sharpness in his voice that sends a shiver down your spine. “Waiting. Watching. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

Your breath hitches as his fingers trail down your side, tracing lines that ignite something deep within you. You barely manage to whisper, “Why aren’t they leaving?”

Charles lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest as he shifts his weight, his body pressing into yours. “They’ll leave when they see what they came for,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the curve of your neck. His fingers find the soft skin of your inner thigh, and your body tenses in response, your heart pounding in your chest.

Your mind is spinning, overwhelmed by the sensations, by the weight of what’s happening. But Charles — he’s steady, unshaken, like the eye of a storm. His hand moves with a deliberate slowness, sliding between your legs, and you gasp, your body arching involuntarily as his fingers brush against your most sensitive spot. He pauses for a moment, as if savoring the way your body reacts to his touch.

“They’re just waiting for a little blood,” he whispers against your skin, his tone mocking. “That’s all it takes to satisfy them. A few drops, and they’ll be convinced the marriage is … properly consummated.”

You try to focus, try to breathe, but the way his fingers move, the way his body presses against yours — it’s all too much. Your fingers dig into the sheets beneath you, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. Charles smirks, his lips trailing down your neck as he shifts his body, positioning himself between your legs.

“Are you ready?” He asks, his voice low, commanding.

You don’t know how to answer. Your heart is racing, your body trembling, but there’s something else beneath the fear now — something you don’t entirely understand. You nod, your throat tight, and Charles gives a satisfied hum in response.

He moves with purpose, and you feel the weight of him pressing against you. His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, everything else — the witnesses, the cold air, the fear — disappears. It’s just him, just you, and the heat that pulses between you.

“Stay with me,” he says, his voice firm but almost gentle. “Don’t think about them. Think about us.”

Then, with one powerful motion, he enters you, and the world narrows into a sharp, bright point of sensation. You gasp, your body tensing as the pain cuts through you, sudden and overwhelming. Tears sting your eyes, but before you can let them fall, Charles leans down, his lips grazing your ear.

“They’re still watching,” he murmurs, his voice dark, laced with a twisted sort of amusement. “Do you think they’re disappointed? Hoping for more drama? More blood?”

You let out a sharp, startled laugh — half from the absurdity of it, half from the overwhelming sensation of him inside you. The laugh turns into a gasp as Charles moves, slow but deliberate, his hips pressing firmly against yours. You feel everything — every inch, every movement, every breath he takes — and it’s all too much, too overwhelming. Yet, somehow, it’s not enough.

“Ignore them,” he whispers again, his lips brushing your neck, sending sparks down your spine. “Pretend we’re the only ones here.”

You try — God, you try — but it’s impossible to block out the weight of their stares, the silent judgment from the witnesses lining the walls. And yet, with each movement of Charles’ body, with every thrust that presses him deeper inside you, the world blurs at the edges. He’s taking over, filling every space, every thought, until nothing remains but him.

He groans softly, his breath hot against your skin, and you feel your body responding in ways you hadn’t expected. The pain begins to ebb, replaced by something else — a strange heat building inside you, coiling tight in your belly. You bite your lip, trying to keep the sounds inside, but Charles is relentless, his movements steady, controlled, each one drawing you closer to something you don’t quite understand.

His lips hover over your ear again, and his voice is a dark whisper. “Do you think they’re jealous? Do you think they wish they could be in my place?”

The thought is absurd, but another laugh escapes you — half gasp, half breathless amusement — and it startles you, the sound foreign and unfamiliar in the midst of everything happening. Charles grins against your skin, clearly pleased with himself.

“See? It’s not so bad,” he says, his voice low, coaxing. “You’re doing beautifully.”

Your body is trembling beneath him, each movement sending jolts of sensation through you, and you can barely think, barely breathe. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel the sharp contrast of his dominance, his control, with the tenderness in his touch.

“They’re waiting for the proof,” Charles whispers, his tone mocking again. “So eager to see it.”

You feel the heat in your face, the embarrassment rising, but before you can fully register it, Charles thrusts harder, his body pressing into yours with more force. You gasp, the sound escaping before you can stop it, and your fingers grip the sheets tighter, knuckles white.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Let them hear you.”

You shake your head, biting your lip to suppress the sounds, but Charles isn’t having it. His hand slides up your thigh, gripping firmly as he moves faster, his body commanding yours, pulling you deeper into the sensations.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispers, his voice dark and intoxicating. “Let them know how good it feels.”

Your heart is racing, your breath coming in shallow gasps, and to your surprise, his words sink into you, fueling the heat growing inside. You can’t fight it anymore — not the sounds, not the way your body responds to his touch. You let out a soft whimper, and Charles grins, clearly satisfied with the effect he’s having on you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rougher now, and the words send a shiver down your spine. “That’s it. Just like that.”

His pace quickens, and with each thrust, the witnesses, the judgment, the fear — all of it fades into the background. It’s just him, just you, and the intoxicating rhythm of his body against yours. You feel the tension building inside you, coiling tighter with every movement, every breath, until you’re on the edge of something you’ve never felt before.

You gasp, your body trembling beneath him, and Charles leans down, his lips brushing your ear once more.

“You’re going to come for me,” he whispers, his voice dark and commanding. “Aren’t you?”

You can’t speak, can’t think, but your body answers for you, your hips bucking beneath him as the sensation builds to a fever pitch. You’re gasping now, your breath ragged, and Charles smirks against your skin.

“Let go,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. “I want to feel you.”

And then, suddenly, everything snaps — the tension, the heat, the coiled tightness in your belly — and your body explodes with sensation, pleasure rolling through you in waves so intense you can’t breathe. You cry out, your fingers digging into the sheets, and Charles groans in response, his movements becoming harder, more erratic as he drives you through the climax.

Your body shudders beneath him, the pleasure overwhelming, and for a moment, everything else falls away. It’s just him, just you, and the raw, unfiltered sensation coursing through your veins.

When the waves finally subside, you’re left trembling, gasping for breath as Charles slows his movements, his body still pressed firmly against yours. He leans down, his lips brushing your temple, and you feel the faintest hint of tenderness in the gesture.

“There,” he murmurs softly, his voice still rough but with a new edge of satisfaction. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You can’t respond, your body too spent, too overwhelmed by everything that’s just happened. But in the silence, you realize something: the witnesses haven’t left. They’re still there, watching, waiting.

The room is suffocating in its silence. Your chest rises and falls, still trying to catch up with the intensity of what just happened. Your body hums with the aftershocks, your legs trembling, and all you want is to close your eyes and forget the weight of the gazes pressing in on you from the crowd of witnesses.

Charles is still above you, his body warm and heavy, grounding you in the moment. His breath slows, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, his fingers tracing slow circles that should have soothed you, but all you can think about are the people watching — still there, still waiting, still leering.

And then, without warning, Charles drags the duvet up, uncovering you completely.

You gasp, your body jolting in shock as the cool air hits your bare skin. The sense of vulnerability swells in your chest, your hands instinctively moving to cover yourself, but it’s too late. Charles exposes the sheets beneath you, stained with the tell-tale sign of blood — the proof the witnesses had been waiting for.

Your cheeks burn, mortification flooding your body as you feel their eyes burning into you. You bite your lip, willing yourself to shrink, to disappear beneath the sheets. But Charles, in contrast, doesn’t flinch. His expression is calm, his body still and powerful as he scans the room, his gaze cold and sharp.

“Get a good look,” he says, his voice ringing out clear and firm in the stillness of the room. He gestures to the blood-stained sheet with a casual wave of his hand, as if this was nothing more than a trivial detail. “There’s your proof. Now leave.”

You hear the murmurs ripple through the crowd, hushed whispers that slither across the room like a serpent. But no one moves. They stay rooted to the spot, their eyes glued to the two of you, hungry and intrusive, unwilling to give up their position as witnesses to this private moment.

Your heart races, your pulse thundering in your ears as you look up at Charles. He’s tense now, the muscles in his jaw tightening, his body coiled with barely restrained frustration. He sits up slightly, still keeping you shielded beneath his frame, his hands never leaving your body.

“I said leave,” he repeats, his voice dropping into a dangerous tone, like the low growl of a predator. His eyes flick from one face to another, daring any of them to defy him. But still, no one moves. The tension in the air thickens, suffocating, and you feel the weight of it bearing down on you, threatening to crush you.

Charles’ patience snaps.

“Get. Out.” His voice roars through the room, sudden and violent, like the crack of thunder in a storm. The force of it sends a jolt through your body, but more importantly, it makes the witnesses flinch. His eyes burn with fury, his body rigid as he glares at them, each word seething with barely-contained rage. “This is no longer your concern.”

The murmuring stops, and for a moment, no one dares to breathe. The power in Charles’ voice — his command, his authority — leaves no room for argument. Slowly, reluctantly, they begin to shuffle toward the exit, the room clearing bit by bit, though not quickly enough for your liking.

You can still feel the weight of their stares as they leave, lingering, prying. It makes your skin crawl, the discomfort settling deep in your bones. You can’t help but shudder, and Charles’ hand, large and warm, immediately rests on your back, steadying you.

“Don’t look at them,” he says, his voice softer now, but still firm. “They don’t matter anymore.”

But you can feel them. Even as the room starts to empty, their presence lingers like a foul stench in the air. The feeling of exposure gnaws at you, tearing at your insides, and you can’t stop the tears from welling up in your eyes.

You try to blink them away, but Charles notices immediately. His hand shifts, brushing your cheek, and when you meet his gaze, his expression softens slightly. “It’s over,” he murmurs, his voice low but sure. “They’re gone.”

Your lips part to respond, but no words come out. All you can do is nod, your throat tight, the humiliation still fresh in your mind. You feel Charles’ hand move again, this time slipping beneath your chin, tilting your face up toward his.

“Don’t let them see you like this,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re stronger than this.”

The words wash over you like a balm, and though the tightness in your chest doesn’t completely dissipate, there’s something in his voice — something steady and unshakable — that anchors you. You take a shaky breath, your gaze flicking down to the blood-stained sheet beneath you, and for the first time, you feel a strange sense of relief.

The worst is over. The witnesses are gone.

Charles pulls the duvet back over you, shielding your body from the cold air and the prying eyes that had only just left. His touch is still commanding, but there’s a tenderness to it now, a sense of care that surprises you. He leans down, his lips brushing your forehead, and the simple gesture feels more intimate than anything else that’s happened tonight.

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body against yours settle into your bones, and for a brief moment, you feel safe. Protected. Charles’ presence, his power, has a way of making everything else seem small, insignificant. Even the lingering humiliation feels distant now, a shadow at the edge of your mind.

“I should’ve thrown them out sooner,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice dark with frustration.

You blink up at him, surprised by the hint of regret in his tone. “It’s not your fault,” you whisper, though the words feel strange on your tongue.

Charles’ eyes meet yours, and there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze before it hardens again. “I won’t let them make you feel like that again,” he says, his voice firm, resolute. “Not ever.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. The vulnerability of the moment hangs between you, heavy and fragile, and you’re not sure if you should thank him or hide from the intensity of his gaze. Instead, you just nod, the weight of exhaustion finally settling over you.

Charles’ hand lingers on your cheek for a moment longer before he pulls away, shifting to sit beside you on the bed. He’s still close, his presence filling the space around you, and though the room is quiet now, the tension hasn’t entirely lifted.

“They only stayed because they’re cowards,” he says, his voice low, as if continuing a conversation with himself. “Pathetic leeches, desperate for some form of power they’ll never have.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, the absurdity of the night catching up to you. “You didn’t have to yell so loudly,” you murmur, your voice shaky but laced with a trace of amusement. “I thought they’d leave eventually.”

Charles turns toward you, his eyes narrowing slightly, though there’s a glint of humor behind them. “They deserved worse,” he says, his tone sharp but not unkind. “Next time, I’ll throw them out myself.”

The image of Charles physically tossing a group of nobles out of the room makes you laugh again, this time more freely, though the sound is still tinged with disbelief. You never imagined you’d be laughing after a night like this. But somehow, here you are, with Charles beside you, his hand resting on your thigh, steadying you in ways you didn’t expect.

“Thank you,” you whisper, the words falling from your lips before you even fully realize what you’re saying.

Charles’ gaze softens, just for a moment, before he nods. “You don’t need to thank me,” he says quietly. “This is my duty.”

But it doesn’t feel like duty anymore. Not entirely. There’s something more to the way he looks at you now, something that makes your heart beat a little faster despite everything that’s happened.

You glance down at the sheets again, the faint stain still visible beneath the duvet, and a wave of exhaustion crashes over you, heavier than before. Your body aches, your mind spinning with everything that’s transpired, and all you want now is for the night to end.

Charles seems to sense your weariness. He moves closer, pulling you gently into his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. You sink into him, your head resting against his chest, and for the first time all night, you feel a sense of peace.

“We’ll deal with everything else tomorrow,” he says, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “For now, rest.”

You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you, and slowly, the weight of the night begins to lift. You’re still raw, still vulnerable, but with Charles beside you, the darkness doesn’t seem so overwhelming.

***

The morning sun filters through the heavy drapes, casting a soft glow over the room. The air is cool, the bed warm, and you stir slightly, the weight of Charles’ arm still draped over your waist. You blink awake slowly, your face pressed into his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a comforting rhythm against you. For a moment, you forget where you are, wrapped in the warmth of his body, the soft cocoon of blankets around you.

Then the sound of footsteps pulls you from your daze.

The door creaks open, followed by a collective gasp. Your body stiffens, and you can feel Charles tense beside you, though he doesn’t move just yet. His arm tightens slightly, as if to reassure you, before he finally shifts, lifting his head from the pillow.

Two of your maids stand at the foot of the bed, their eyes wide, shock etched across their faces as they take in the sight of you and Charles — still tangled together beneath the sheets, bodies pressed close, intimate. You can’t help but feel the heat rise to your cheeks, a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck.

You had expected to wake up alone, with Charles already gone to attend to his duties. Instead, here you are, cocooned in the aftermath of last night, and the sight is clearly not what anyone had anticipated.

“Good morning, milady,” one of the maids stammers, her eyes darting between you and Charles, clearly uncertain of how to proceed.

Charles sits up, propping himself against the headboard, but he doesn’t make any move to untangle himself from you. Instead, he casts a slow, measured look at the maids, his expression calm but commanding. “Her Highness,” he corrects them, his voice still gravelly from sleep, but carrying a distinct authority. “She is no longer ‘milady.’”

The maids exchange nervous glances, their cheeks coloring as they quickly curtsy. “Y-Your Highness,” they echo, clearly flustered by the correction.

You bite your lip, feeling the flush deepen at the reminder. It’s still strange to hear yourself referred to as “Your Highness.” The title feels foreign, like a borrowed gown that doesn’t quite fit, and yet there’s something about the way Charles says it that makes it feel … real.

Charles turns his attention back to you, his hand brushing against your waist as he leans down slightly, his voice low and intimate. “You should get dressed,” he says softly, though there’s a note of amusement in his tone. “We’ve scandalized them enough for one morning.”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips, though your cheeks still burn. The fact that he’s still here, still close, feels … surprising, but in a way that warms your chest. You nod, reluctantly pulling away from him, and the maids rush forward, eager to help you from the bed.

As you stand, the cold air nips at your skin, and you suddenly feel exposed, despite the nightgown that clings to your body. You shiver slightly, and one of the maids, always attentive, quickly drapes a robe over your shoulders.

Charles watches you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering, before he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, standing in one fluid, graceful motion. His servants enter the room then, bowing low as they approach, clearly hesitant to disturb the prince. But Charles merely waves them in with a flick of his hand, dismissing their cautiousness.

“Have her belongings brought to my chambers,” Charles says, his voice casual, as if he were giving the most mundane of instructions. He reaches for his own clothes, still laid out by the servants, pulling on his tunic with practiced ease.

Your heart skips a beat.

The maids freeze in place, their eyes wide, as if they’ve just heard something outrageous. You can feel their shock ripple through the room, though they try to mask it with a quick curtsy.

“Your Highness,” one of them stammers, clearly unsure of how to respond. “But — your quarters? Surely, you mean-”

“I mean what I said,” Charles interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. He doesn’t look at them as he speaks, busy fastening the leather straps of his tunic, but his voice carries the weight of authority that only someone like him can wield. “Her belongings will be moved to my chambers by midday. Is that understood?”

Your maids glance at each other again, their expressions caught somewhere between shock and dismay. The scandal of it is clear — they had expected you to maintain separate quarters, as was the custom for all noble marriages. The idea of sharing a bed — sharing quarters — on a permanent basis was practically unheard of.

“Y-Yes, Your Highness,” one of them finally manages to say, her voice small. They both curtsy again, though their faces are still flushed with surprise.

You can’t help but feel the weight of what this means — the implication of it — and your cheeks warm at the thought. Charles wants you in his chambers, in his space. It’s a decision that speaks volumes, one that suggests more than just a sense of duty or obligation. The intimacy of sharing quarters … it’s something deeper, something more personal.

Your gaze flickers toward him, but he’s already focused on his servants, giving them instructions as they help him with his attire. You feel a rush of emotions — nervousness, anticipation, and something you can’t quite name. It’s as if the ground beneath you has shifted, the reality of your marriage settling in ways you hadn’t expected.

The maids, clearly still rattled, help you into your gown, their hands quick and efficient but a little clumsy in their haste. You can sense their discomfort, though they don’t say anything directly. You remain silent as they lace up the back of your gown, your mind spinning with thoughts of what sharing chambers with Charles will mean.

Once you’re fully dressed, you turn to find Charles watching you, his eyes dark and unreadable as he takes in the sight of you. There’s something about his gaze that sends a shiver down your spine, something that reminds you of the intensity of last night, the way he had held you, commanded the room, and, ultimately, you.

He crosses the room in a few long strides, his hand brushing your waist as he leans in, his voice low. “Are you alright?”

The simple question makes your breath catch. It’s a small gesture, a quiet moment of concern, but it feels significant. You nod, offering him a small smile, though your heart still races.

“I am,” you say softly, though the truth is, you’re not entirely sure what you feel. There’s a whirlwind of emotions churning inside you, and you can barely make sense of them.

Charles studies you for a moment longer, his hand lingering at your waist before he finally pulls away. “Good,” he says simply, his voice firm. “You’ll get used to this. To all of it.”

There’s something comforting in his certainty, as if he’s made up his mind that you’ll both navigate this strange new reality together. You take a deep breath, the knot of tension in your chest loosening slightly.

The maids finish with your hair, pinning it up into an elegant style, and they step back, glancing nervously at Charles, as if still processing the scandal of his earlier command.

One of them finally speaks, her voice barely a whisper. “Milady, shall we prepare your things for-” She stops herself, catching Charles’ sharp gaze. “Your Highness,” she corrects hastily, “shall we prepare your things for the move?”

You nod, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks again. “Yes,” you say softly, though the idea still feels strange. You had grown accustomed to the idea of separate quarters, of having a space to retreat to, a sanctuary of your own. But now, you’d be sharing that space with him.

Charles gives a small nod of approval, his expression unreadable, though you can sense his satisfaction with the arrangement. He turns to his own servants, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “See to it that everything is ready,” he says. “I want no delays.”

The servants bow deeply and file out of the room, leaving you alone with Charles once more. The silence that follows is thick with unspoken tension, the weight of everything that has happened — and everything that is yet to come — hanging in the air.

Charles steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours as he reaches for your hand. His grip is firm, steady, and you feel the familiar jolt of warmth spread through you at his touch.

“You belong with me,” he says quietly, his voice low and commanding, as if stating a simple fact. “That’s how it will be. From now on.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his words sinking in. There’s no uncertainty in his tone, no room for negotiation. He’s made his decision, and you can feel the power of that decision pulsing through the air between you.

You nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, Your Highness.”

He smiles then, a small, satisfied smile that sends a shiver down your spine. His hand tightens around yours for a moment before he releases you, stepping back.

“We have a long day ahead,” he says, his voice returning to its usual confident tone. “But we’ll face it together.”

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you nod in agreement. The future feels uncertain, but with Charles by your side, you feel a strange sense of reassurance.

***

The evening air in Charles’ chambers is cool, thick with the scent of freshly lit candles and the quiet hum of crackling fire. The servants had come and gone, preparing the room for the night, and now the two of you stand in a silence that’s more charged than it is peaceful. You’ve spent the day together, walking the halls of the palace, facing curious eyes and polite murmurs, yet now, here, in the privacy of the chambers you now share, everything feels more intimate.

You’re still getting used to the space, to the idea that this room is no longer just his — it’s yours too. The bed, the wardrobe, the desk by the window. It’s unsettling, in a way, this sudden intrusion into his world, and yet, it feels oddly right. Charles moves about the room with ease, as if he belongs here, as if he belongs with you, and there’s something comforting in that.

The evening had been quiet, the both of you falling into an easy rhythm of shared conversation and long, lingering looks that spoke more than words could. But now, standing at the foot of the large, canopied bed, you feel the weight of what comes next pressing in on you.

Charles steps closer, his eyes dark and steady, full of that quiet confidence that always seems to radiate off him. He doesn’t rush — there’s no hurry in the way he approaches you, but there’s a deliberateness in his movements that makes your heart race.

He stops just in front of you, close enough that the warmth of his body reaches you. “You look nervous,” he says softly, a hint of amusement curling at the edges of his mouth.

You swallow hard, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “I-I’m not,” you lie, but your voice betrays you, shaking just a little.

He arches a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Liar,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, as he reaches up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch is light, gentle, but it sends a shiver down your spine all the same. “You forget, I know your body better than that by now.”

You can’t help but smile at that, despite your nerves. His words are true, but it’s still strange to think that someone who was, just days ago, a stranger in many ways, could now know so much about you. And yet, here you are, bound together in ways you never imagined.

Charles’ hand lingers on your cheek for a moment longer before he pulls away, his expression shifting from teasing to something more serious. He steps back slightly, his gaze holding yours as he speaks again. “It’s my duty as your husband to teach you what happens in the marriage bed.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you blink at him, confused. “Teach me?” You can’t keep the surprise out of your voice. “But … I thought-” You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I thought what happened yesterday was … all there is.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. Then Charles laughs, a deep, rich sound that fills the room and sends another shiver through you. His eyes gleam with amusement, and there’s something almost predatory in the way he looks at you, as if your innocence is both endearing and utterly baffling to him.

“Oh, ma chérie,” he murmurs, shaking his head slightly. “You really have no idea, do you?”

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and you look down, unable to meet his gaze. You had thought that after last night, you’d learned everything there was to know about what happens between a man and a woman. But now, faced with the way Charles is looking at you, you realize how naïve you must seem.

He steps closer again, his hand coming to rest lightly on your arm. “Look at me,” he says softly, his voice gentle but firm.

You do as he says, lifting your eyes to meet his, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch in your throat.

“There’s more,” he says quietly, his voice low and full of promise. “Much more.” He pauses, letting the words hang in the air between you, before he continues. “And I’m going to teach you. I’m going to show you exactly what it means to be my wife.”

You feel your heart hammering in your chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation swirling inside you. There’s something in the way he speaks, in the way he looks at you, that makes your skin tingle, your body instinctively leaning into him despite your uncertainty.

Charles reaches for you then, his hands steady and sure as he guides you to the edge of the bed. You sit down, your legs trembling slightly as the reality of what’s happening begins to sink in.

He stands before you, his gaze never leaving yours, and slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to his knees in front of you.

Your breath hitches in your throat, your heart pounding so loudly you’re certain he can hear it.

“What are you doing?” You whisper, your voice shaky.

He smirks, the corner of his mouth curling up in that confident, almost arrogant way that always makes your stomach flutter. “I’m going to demonstrate something for you,” he says, his voice calm and controlled, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. “It’s called the lord’s kiss.”

You blink at him, confused. “The … the lord’s kiss?” The words sound strange to your ears, and you have no idea what he means.

Charles’ smirk deepens, and there’s a glint of something dark and heated in his eyes as he watches your confusion. “Don’t worry,” he says softly, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

Before you can respond, he reaches for your legs, his hands firm but gentle as he pulls you closer to the edge of the bed. Your heart races, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts as you try to process what’s happening.

You’re not sure what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Charles leans in, his hands sliding up your thighs as he positions himself between your legs. The fabric of your gown bunches around your hips, and you feel the cool air against your skin as he pushes it aside.

Your pulse quickens, your body trembling with a mix of nerves and something else — something you don’t quite understand but can’t deny.

He pauses for a moment, his gaze flicking up to meet yours, as if giving you one last chance to stop him. But you don’t. You can’t. You’re too caught up in the moment, too overwhelmed by the intensity of his presence, the way he commands every inch of your attention.

Then, without another word, he lowers his head, his lips brushing softly against your skin.

You gasp, your body jolting at the unexpected sensation, but Charles doesn’t stop. His movements are slow, deliberate, his mouth tracing a path along the inside of your thigh, his breath warm against your skin.

“Charles,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you.

He doesn’t respond, not with words. Instead, he continues his slow, torturous exploration of your body, his lips and tongue moving with a precision that makes your head spin.

Your body reacts instinctively, your back arching slightly, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he brings you to the edge of something you’ve never felt before.

You’ve never been touched like this, never even imagined that this was something a man could do. And yet, here you are, trembling beneath his touch, your mind a whirlwind of sensations that you can’t even begin to comprehend.

Charles pulls back slightly, his lips hovering just above your skin as he murmurs, “Do you see now?” His voice is low, rough, filled with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse race. “Do you understand?”

You can’t speak. You can barely think. All you can do is nod, your body trembling, your breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.

He smiles then, a slow, satisfied smile, and before you can catch your breath, he lowers his head again, continuing his demonstration.

The sensations are overwhelming. You’re lost in the world Charles is creating for you, your body alive with a heat and need you never imagined could exist. His lips, his tongue, every movement is precise, deliberate, like he’s playing a well-rehearsed melody on your skin.

The sound that escapes your lips is beyond your control — a high-pitched moan, raw and unrestrained, tearing through the quiet chambers. Your hands twist in the sheets, and you arch into him, trembling beneath his touch.

Charles doesn’t falter. His grip tightens on your thighs, keeping you grounded even as you feel like you might fly apart. He’s relentless, each kiss deeper, more commanding, pulling you into a space where only the two of you exist.

Your moans grow louder, filling the room with a sound that feels almost foreign to your ears. You can’t help it — he’s drawing something out of you, something primal, something you didn’t even know was there.

“Charles,” you gasp, your voice thick with desire and desperation, barely a whisper in the storm of sensation. But he doesn’t stop. His focus remains unbroken, his mouth working you over with a precision that drives you wild.

The tension builds, like a coil tightening inside you, every nerve alight, ready to snap. And then, just as you feel yourself tipping over the edge, the door to the chambers slams open with a sudden, jarring force.

The sound startles you, and your eyes fly open in panic. For a moment, the world blurs around you, your mind struggling to grasp what’s happening, but then you see them — two palace guards, standing in the doorway, their eyes wide with shock and confusion.

“Oh my God!” You yelp, mortified beyond belief, scrambling to pull the covers over yourself, your heart racing for a different reason now.

Charles, on the other hand, doesn’t even flinch. His grip on your thighs doesn’t loosen, and he doesn’t lift his face from between your legs. If anything, the intrusion seems to embolden him. His lips move with a newfound intensity, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through you that makes your body jerk despite the embarrassment flooding your veins.

“W-we heard shouting, Your Highness!” One of the guards stammers, his face flushed as he averts his eyes. “We thought-”

The other guard clears his throat, equally uncomfortable. “We thought someone was hurt or … or being … shamed.”

You feel your face go up in flames, utterly humiliated. Your hands clutch the sheets to your chest, trying to cover as much of yourself as possible, but Charles … Charles remains exactly where he is, completely unfazed by the situation.

“Charles!” You hiss, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes darting between the guards and him. “Please stop-” But even as you plead, your body betrays you. A fresh wave of pleasure washes over you, and another moan slips from your lips, softer this time, but no less damning.

The guards exchange a look, clearly unsure what to do, their faces red with embarrassment. “Should we — should we call for help?” One of them asks, his voice almost panicked, still refusing to look in your direction.

“No,” Charles growls, finally lifting his head just enough to speak, his voice dark and commanding, but his face remains close to your skin, his breath hot against your thigh. “Leave.”

“But … Your Highness-”

“I said leave,” Charles snaps, his voice low but laced with enough authority to make both guards jump.

They hesitate for a moment, as if debating whether they should follow his command or call for reinforcements. But the look on Charles’ face — sharp, predatory, completely in control — leaves no room for doubt. They turn on their heels and practically stumble over each other as they rush out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them.

Your heart is still racing, your face burning with humiliation. “Charles …” you begin, but your words dissolve into a gasp as his mouth moves against you once again.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice muffled against your skin, his lips brushing your most sensitive spot with a devastating precision. “Don’t think about them. Don’t think about anything but me.” His fingers tighten on your thighs, holding you firmly in place as he continues his slow, torturous assault on your senses.

You can’t help it — the moment takes you over again, your body responding to his touch in ways you don’t fully understand. Despite the lingering embarrassment, despite the guards and the intrusion, your body betrays you. You sink back into the pleasure he’s offering, every nerve in your body alive, on fire, as he drives you higher and higher.

“You feel incredible,” Charles murmurs, his voice low and full of that commanding confidence. He’s barely paused, barely stopped his ministrations, but he’s still somehow able to speak to you in that dark, soothing tone that makes your pulse race. “Do you know that? How good you taste … how perfect you are for me?”

His words send another wave of heat rushing through you, your breath catching in your throat. You can feel yourself unraveling, your body trembling beneath his hands as he works you over with a mastery that leaves you gasping for air.

You try to form words, to say something, anything, but all that escapes your lips is a soft, breathless moan. Your hands fist in the sheets, your back arching as you teeter on the edge of something vast and overwhelming.

Charles notices, of course. He always notices. His lips curl into a faint smile against your skin, and he hums low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“I can feel it,” he says, his voice a growl now, low and full of promise. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel you trembling for me.”

You nod, unable to speak, unable to think of anything but the pleasure coursing through your veins, the way your body feels like it’s about to shatter into a thousand pieces.

“Let go,” he murmurs, his breath hot against you. “Let go for me.”

And you do. You fall, hard and fast, your body shaking as the tension finally snaps, sending you spiraling into a release so intense it leaves you breathless, gasping for air.

Charles doesn’t stop, his mouth moving against you with slow, deliberate strokes, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you’re trembling and spent, your body weak and boneless beneath him.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he pulls back, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he watches you, his hands still resting lightly on your thighs.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he says softly, his voice full of that same commanding power that always makes your heart race. “Completely undone … because of me.”

You can’t find the words to respond. All you can do is lie there, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, your mind still reeling from the intensity of what just happened.

Charles rises to his feet with a grace that seems unfair, considering how your own limbs feel like jelly. He looks down at you, his dark eyes gleaming with a satisfaction that makes your stomach flip.

“You see?” He says softly, his voice smug but also warm, affectionate even. “There’s much more to being a wife than what you knew.”

You can only nod, still too breathless to speak, as you collapse back against the pillows, completely spent.

Charles leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his voice a low murmur as he says, “And there’s still so much more to learn.”

[realmsofdreams]

hearth

pairing: cregan stark x fem!reader

summary: as the second wife of lord cregan stark, you’ve poured your heart into raising his son rickon as your own, finding purpose in a north that views you as an outsider from a minor house. but at rickon’s third nameday feast, northern lords, obsessed with the stark legacy, dismiss your role and pressure cregan to wed a “proven” noblewoman to secure heirs, ignoring your unfruitful womb. when lady cerys, cregan’s former love, is proposed as his new bride, her venomous revelations and cregan’s wavering loyalty shatter your trust.

warnings: intense angst, emotional betrayal, public humiliation, themes of infertility pressure, verbal cruelty, pregnancy-related tension, mild language, heated arguments, emotional manipulation, themes of isolation and rejection. suitable for mature readers due to heavy emotional content.

rickon’s third nameday feast, a rare burst of joy in the north’s eternal frost. you sit at the high table, your spine straight, your smile practiced, as you watch rickon, your heart’s son, toddle through the crowd, chasing a hound pup with a giggle that melts the hardest of northern hearts. he’s yours, not by blood but by every stitch you’ve sewn into his cloaks, every lullaby sung in the dark, every scraped knee kissed. you’ve loved him since the day you wed cregan stark, mere moons after arra norrey’s death, vowing to be his mother in all but name. rickon calls you “mama,” and that word is your anchor, your shield against the north’s cold judgment.

but tonight, something darker than winter’s chill. the northern lords, their faces weathered by war and duty, drink deeply and cast sharp glances your way. you hear their whispers, carried like blades on the wind, stark line, no heirs, barren wife. your fingers clench the arm of your chair, the wood biting into your palm. you’re no stranger to their doubts, but on this night, with rickon’s laughter and your role as his mother so vivid, their words carve deeper, slicing at the fragile pride you’ve built as lady stark.

cregan sits beside you, his presence a mountain of strength, his eyes warm when they meet yours. his hand, calloused from sword and plow, rests briefly on your knee beneath the table, a gesture that once steadied you. but as the feast wears on, you notice his jaw tighten, his gaze flicker to lord umber, who approaches with a grim purpose. their voices are low, but you catch fragments, duty, legacy, a stronger match. cregan’s responses are curt, his eyes darting to you once, then away. your chest tightens. you know what they speak of: your womb, empty after two years of marriage, and the stark line’s precarious future.

you don’t crumble. you’ve never crumbled, not when you left your minor house to wed a stark, not when the north’s lords sneered at your lack of noble blood, not when the maesters whispered of your ‘unproven’ body. you are steel, forged in the fire of their scorn, and you will not break now. instead, you lift your goblet, your smile a mask, and toast rickon’s health, your voice clear and unwavering. the hall echoes your call, but the lords’ eyes linger, judging, dismissing.

the feast ends late, and you carry rickon to his chambers, his small body heavy with sleep. cregan follows, silent, his boots heavy on the stone. you tuck rickon into his furs, brushing a kiss to his brow, and when you turn, cregan’s watching, his face shadowed.

“what did umber want?” you ask, your tone even, though your pulse races.

he hesitates, scrubbing a hand through his dark hair.

“the same as always. talk of the stark line, the future.”

“and me,” you say, stepping closer, your eyes locked on his.

“they spoke of me, cregan. of my failure to give you heirs.”

his sigh is a gust of winter wind.

“they’re worried, that’s all. they’re old men, set in their ways. they see rickon and want more.”

“more than i’ve given,” you say, your voice low but sharp.

“they don’t see me as rickon’s mother. they see me as a barren outsider, don’t they?”

“you’re his mother,” he says, voice firm.

“i’ve never doubted that.”

“but you let them doubt me,” you counter, your words precise, cutting.

“you let them question my place, my worth. what did you say to umber? did you defend me, or did you listen?”

his silence is a wound. he steps toward you, but you hold up a hand, stopping him.

“if you can’t answer, don’t touch me.” you say, your voice cold.

“i’m not considering their nonsense,” he says, frustration creeping into his tone.

“but i can’t just dismiss them. they’re my bannermen, my father’s men. they’ve fought for this house.”

“and i haven’t?” you snap, your control fraying.

“i’ve fought everyday to be rickon’s mother, to be your wife, to prove myself to a north that doesn’t want me. but you’re leaving the door open, cregan. you’re letting them think another wife, a ‘proven’ wife might be better.”

“i’m not,”

he insists, but there’s a crack in his voice, a hesitation that betrays him. you step back, your heart a storm of hurt and fury.

“i won’t be your placeholder,”

you say, your voice steady despite the ache.

“i deserve better than your half-answers.”

you turn, leaving him in rickon’s chamber, your head high, your tears held back. you are steel, and steel does not bend.

you rise early the next morning, your body heavy with a secret you’ve carried for days. the maester confirmed you’re with child, a fragile hope you’ve guarded fiercely. you meant to tell cregan, to share the joy and bind your fractured trust, but his silence last night changed everything. now, the secret feels like a weapon, one you’re not ready to wield.

you avoid the great hall, breaking your fast with rickon in his nursery. he babbles about his nameday gifts, a wooden wolf cregan carved himself, and you smile, your love for him a light in the dark. but your thoughts churn. the lords’ whispers, cregan’s wavering, the weight of a north that sees you as less, these are battles you’ve fought alone, and you’re tired, so tired, but you will not break.

sara, cregan’s half-sister, finds you at midday, her face etched with worry.

“there’s a council meeting,” she says, her voice low.

“the norreys are here, and they’re pushing hard. you need to know.”

your blood chills. the norreys, arra’s kin, are a proud, unyielding clan, and their loyalty to her memory is a blade they’ve never sheathed. you nod, entrusting rickon to his nursemaid, and follow sara to the council chamber. you don’t enter, ladies don’t, not uninvited but you linger outside, the cracked door revealing a storm of voices.

lord norrey’s is loudest, his words a hammer.

“lady cerys is proven, my lord. she’d honor arra’s legacy and give you heirs. your current lady, forgive me, hasn’t, and the stark line cannot falter.”

cerys. the name is a dagger, twisting old wounds. you’ve heard of her. cregan’s courtship after arra’s death, a fleeting flame before he chose you. you thought it buried, but the norreys’ proposal unearths it, raw and bleeding. cregan’s voice is measured, deflecting without refusing, and that ambiguity is a betrayal in itself.

“i’ve made my vows,”

he says, but it’s weak, a shield with cracks. the lords press harder, and he doesn’t silence them.

you step away, your breath shallow, your resolve hardening. you will not weep, not here, not where they can smell weakness. you return to rickon, your hands steady as you braid his hair, your voice calm as you sing him a northern ballad. but inside, you’re a furnace of rage and hurt, forging your pain into armor.

that afternoon, in the godswood’s crimson hush, lady cerys finds you. she’s a vision of northern beauty, a tall, with piercing blue eyes and hair like spun gold, her presence a calculated strike. you’re kneeling by the heart tree, praying for strength, when her shadow falls over you.

“so you’re the one he chose,”

she says, her voice a blade wrapped in silk.

“i expected more, not a mouse from a house no one remembers.”

you rise, your chin high, your eyes unflinching.

“i’m lady stark,” you say, your tone ice. “and you’re trespassing on my peace.”

she laughs, sharp and cruel.

“your peace? you’re a shadow in a seat that should’ve been mine. cregan loved me, you know. after arra died, he came to me, swore he’d make me his lady. we shared nights, promises things you’ll never understand. but his council wanted someone safe, someone who wouldn’t stir the north. so he settled for you.”

her words are venom, each one a precise cut. you feel them, deep and raw, but you don’t flinch.

“if he loved you, why am i his wife?” you ask, your voice steady, though your heart screams.

“duty,” she spits, stepping closer.

“he’s a stark, chained to honor. but he’ll always want me. you’re a duty, a compromise. and now the north sees you for what you are, a barren, weak, unworthy. i’m leaving winterfell, but i wanted you to know the truth that he’ll never love you like he loved me.”

you hold her gaze, your face a mask of stone.

“leave, then,” you say, your voice low, lethal.

“but don’t mistake my silence for weakness. i’m cregan’s wife, the mother of his son, and i’ll outlast you.”

she smirks, but there’s a flicker of frustration in her eyes. she turns, her cloak sweeping the snow, and you’re left alone, the weirwood’s red eyes watching. her words burn, searing doubts you’ve buried cregan’s choice, his heart, your place. you’re carrying his child, but cerys’s venom and cregan’s silence make it feel like ash. you press a hand to your stomach, your resolve steeling. you will not break, not for her, not for him, not for anyone.

you withdraw. it’s a calculated retreat, not a surrender. you stop dining in the great hall, taking meals with rickon or alone in your chambers. you avoid cregan, your paths crossing only when duty demands, rickon’s lessons, winterfell’s upkeep. when he speaks, you’re polite, distant, your words clipped, your eyes averted. you tend to winterfell’s needs with ruthless efficiency, settling disputes, overseeing stores, earning the smallfolk’s respect. but with cregan, you’re a ghost, present but untouchable.

he notices, of course. you see it in his furrowed brow, the way his hand hovers when you pass, the tightening of his mouth when you excuse yourself early. but you don’t yield. let him feel the weight of his silence, the cost of his hesitation. you’ve given him your heart, your body, your life now he must earn them back.

the northern lords their whispers louder, and cerys remains, her departure delayed by some pretext. her presence is a constant barb, her smiles at cregan in the hall a public wound. the norreys push their case, and cregan’s deflections grow weaker, his patience fraying. you hear from sara that he’s clashing with the lords, but he hasn’t banished cerys or silenced the talk. each day, your hurt festers, your trust erodes, but you channel it into strength, into rickon, into the child growing inside you.

one evening, in the library, you’re reviewing grain ledgers when cerys’s voice cuts through the quiet. she’s with a norrey cousin, unaware of your presence behind the shelves.

“he’s faltering,” she says, her tone smug.

“he’ll bend soon. the north needs a true stark wife, not that barren girl. i’ll have him yet, and she’ll be nothing.”

you step forward, your voice like a whip.

“say it to my face, cerys.”

she startles, then smirks, her cousin shifting uncomfortably.

“you’re bold for a woman with nothing to show for it,” she says. “no heirs, no lineage, no hold on cregan’s heart. enjoy your title while it lasts. lady stark.”

you advance, your eyes blazing, and she falters.

“i’ve raised rickon, held winterfell, and earned the love of its people,” you say, your voice low, lethal.

“what have you done, cerys, besides cling to a past that doesn’t want you? leave, or i’ll make you.”

her cousin tugs her away, and you’re left trembling, not with fear but with fury. you return to the ledgers, your hands steady, but the encounter hardens your resolve. you won’t let cerys or the lords define you. but cregan’s silence, his failure to end this, is a wound you can’t ignore.

weeks pass, and cregan’s patience snaps. you’re in the courtyard, overseeing a shipment of furs, when he strides toward you, his face a storm.

“enough,” he says, his voice rough, drawing eyes.

“you’ve shut me out for weeks. i can’t bear it anymore.”

you straighten, your face impassive, though your heart races.

“i’m busy, my lord,” you say, turning to the furs.

“winter’s coming. there’s work to be done.”

“damn the work,”

he snaps, grabbing your arm, his grip firm but not cruel.

“talk to me. you’re my wife, not a stranger.”

you pull free, your eyes flashing. “am i your wife? because the north seems to think otherwise. your lords, cerys they’ve made that clear, and you’ve done nothing to stop them.”

his jaw clenches, guilt flickering in his eyes. “i’ve tried—”

“tried?” you cut in, your voice rising, heedless of the onlookers.

“you’ve let them humiliate me, cregan! you’ve let cerys spit venom, let your bannermen call me barren, let them propose her as your new bride while i stand here, carrying your child!”

the courtyard stills, the words hanging like a thunderclap. cregan’s eyes widen, shock and hope warring in his face.

“you’re with child?”

you curse your slip, your throat tightening.

“yes,” you say, voice low, trembling.

“and i’ve carried it alone, wondering if you’d cast me aside for cerys, for a ‘proven’ wife. you loved her, cregan. she told me… nights, promises, a future. was i just duty? a safe choice?”

he steps closer, his voice raw.

“cerys was a mistake, a comfort when i was broken after arra. i cared for her, aye, but it was fleeting. i chose you because you were light, because you loved rickon, because you made winterfell home. i’ve never regretted it.”

“then why didn’t you fight for me?”

you demand, tears threatening but held back.

“why let them tear me apart? i’ve given you everything, my heart, my life, my body and you’ve left me to face this alone.”

“i was a fool,” he says, his voice breaking.

“i thought i could balance duty and love, keep the lords in line without bloodshed. but i failed you. i see it now, and it’s killing me.”

you shake your head, stepping back.

“words aren’t enough, cregan. i’m tired of fighting for a place you won’t defend. i’m rickon’s mother, i’m your wife, and i’m done begging for you to see it.”

you turn, walking away, your head high, the courtyard watching. he calls your name, but you don’t stop. you’re steel, and steel doesn’t bend.

that night, he acts. you’re in your chambers, braiding rickon’s hair, when sara bursts in, breathless.

“he’s done it,” she says.

“he banished cerys and her kin. told the norreys if they speak of another wife again, they’ll answer to his sword. he’s in the great hall now, facing the lords.”

you pause, your heart lurching. you hand rickon to his nursemaid and follow sara, your steps quick but steady. in the great hall, cregan stands before the lords, his voice like iron.

“lady stark is my wife,” he says, his tone unyielding.

“she’s rickon’s mother, the heart of winterfell, and she carries my child. anyone who questions her place insults me, insults house stark. speak of another wife again, and you’ll find no mercy here.”

lord umber shifts, but cregan’s glare silences him.

“the stark line is secure,” he continues. “and my loyalty is to my family, my wife, my son, my unborn child. if you can’t honor that, leave this hall and don’t return.”

the lords murmur, some chastened, others defiant, but none dare challenge him. you watch from the shadows, your heart a tangle of hurt and hope. he’s fighting for you, finally, but the wounds are deep, the trust fractured.

later, he finds you in the godswood, the snow falling soft around the heart tree. you’re bundled in furs, your face pale but resolute. he kneels before you, a rare vulnerability in his eyes.

“i’ve been a coward,” he says, his voice rough.

“i let duty blind me, let the lords and cerys wound you. i thought i could protect you by staying silent, but i only hurt you more. i don’t deserve your forgiveness, but i’m begging for it.”

you study him, the man you love, the man who’s broken you.

“you should’ve fought for me from the start,” you say, your voice steady, though it trembles inside.

“i’ve stood alone, cregan, while you wavered. i’m strong, but i shouldn’t have to be steel for both of us.”

“i know,” he says, his hands reaching for yours, hesitant.

“i see you, your strength, your love, your fire. you’re more stark than any of them, and i’ll spend my life proving it. no more silence, no more hesitation. you’re my wife, my love, my home.”

you let him take your hands, his warmth seeping through the cold.

“i’m tired,”

you admit, your voice softer now, the weight of weeks spilling out.

“i’m tired of fighting, of doubting. i want us, rickon, this child, you. but i need to trust you.”

“you will,” he vows, his eyes fierce.

“i’ll guard your heart as fiercely as i guard winterfell. no one will hurt you again not cerys, not the lords, not me.”

you nod, tears finally falling, but they’re cleansing, a release. he pulls you into his arms, and you let him, your strength meeting his, your hurt finding solace in his promise. the snow falls, the weirwood watches, and you begin to mend.

moons later, you birth a son, torrhen, with cregan’s stormy eyes and your fierce spirit. rickon dotes on him, calling him ‘torry.’ and winterfell’s halls echo with their laughter. the northern lords, humbled by cregan’s wrath, toast your son’s health, their doubts buried. cerys is a fading memory, her name unspoken.

one night, as you lie with cregan, torrhen asleep between you, he kisses your brow.

“i’ll never fail you again,” he murmurs.

you smile, your hand on his heart.

“you’re learning,” you tease, but your eyes are warm. “we’re enough, cregan. we always were.”

[pomegranatelifethis]

A Crimson Dawn

The air in your chambers was heavy with the scent of lavender and old parchment, a fragile sanctuary woven from silk drapes and the soft glow of candlelight. You sat by the arched window, your fingers tracing the delicate embroidery of your gown, oblivious to the world beyond the stone walls of your kingdom. The distant clamor of steel and the cries of men were but faint echoes, dismissed as the clamor of routine drills. Your brothers, ever protective, had ensured your world remained untouched by the chaos that bled across the borders. They called it love, but the locked door at the end of the hall felt more like a cage.

You were the youngest, the cherished princess of Eryndor, raised on tales of chivalry and starlit balls, your heart a garden of dreams yet to bloom. War was a concept as foreign to you as the shadowed lands of Gotham, your enemy across the sea. Your brothers—Cassian, the eldest, with his stern brow, and Lysander, the scholar with ink-stained fingers—had shielded you from the whispers of bloodshed. Even now, as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of fire, you hummed a soft melody, unaware of the storm that had already broken your kingdom.

---

In the heart of Gotham’s war camp, Prince Damian Wayne stood amidst a sea of crimson banners, his armor slick with the blood of Eryndor’s knights. The battlefield stretched before him, a tapestry of ruin—shattered shields, broken blades, and the lifeless forms of those who dared defy him. His men called him the Red Lord, a title born from the rivers of blood that followed his blade and the unrelenting fury in his emerald eyes. To them, he was a demon, a force of nature cloaked in obsidian steel.

But to Damian, this war was not for conquest or glory. It was for you.

He had seen you only once, at a diplomatic summit two summers past, when the air was sweet with peace and the halls of Eryndor rang with laughter. You had stood beneath a chandelier’s golden glow, your smile a beacon that pierced the shadows of his guarded heart. You were purity incarnate, a vision of grace in a world he knew only as cruel. He had watched you from afar, memorizing the way your eyes sparkled when you spoke, the way your laughter danced like music. He had been a prince of Gotham, heir to a throne forged in iron, but in that moment, he was merely a boy, struck silent by a longing he could not name.

When Eryndor’s king rejected Gotham’s alliance—rejected *you* as a bride for Damian, citing his blood-soaked lineage—the prince’s heart had turned to ash. The war that followed was a fire kindled by that rejection, a desperate bid to claim what his soul demanded. He would tear Eryndor apart if it meant you would be his.

The door to your chambers rattled, startling you from your reverie. You turned, expecting Lysander with his usual stack of books or Cassian with a lecture on court etiquette. Instead, the door remained shut, the lock unyielding. A faint shout echoed from the corridor, followed by the unmistakable clatter of armored boots. Your heart quickened, though you didn’t understand why.

“Cassian?” you called softly, rising from your seat. “Lysander?”

No answer came. The shouts grew louder, punctuated by the sharp ring of steel. You pressed a hand to your chest, your breath hitching. The world beyond your door was unraveling, and for the first time, the weight of your ignorance pressed against you like a physical force.

Your brothers had locked you away three days ago, their faces pale and drawn. “For your safety,” Cassian had said, his voice tight. “Stay here, little dove. Trust us.” You had nodded, ever obedient, believing their promises of protection. But now, as the castle trembled and the air grew thick with the acrid scent of smoke, doubt crept into your heart.

Damian carved his way through Eryndor’s stronghold, his sword a blur of death. The guards who stood between him and you were no match for his wrath. He had planned this assault for months, every move calculated, every sacrifice weighed. Gotham’s forces had crushed Eryndor’s armies, and now their castle was his. But victory meant nothing until he found you.

He stormed the upper towers, his heart a war drum in his chest. The rumors of your brothers’ desperation had reached him—how they had hidden you away, shielding you from the truth of their defeat. It only fueled his resolve. You deserved better than to be caged, better than a life of ignorance. He would free you, even if it meant staining his hands with more blood.

A final guard fell before him, and Damian kicked open the door to the royal wing. The corridor was lined with portraits of Eryndor’s kings, their eyes seeming to judge him as he passed. At the end of the hall, a heavy oak door stood barred, its iron lock gleaming in the torchlight. He knew you were behind it. He could feel it, as surely as he felt the ache in his bones.

You flinched as the door shuddered, a deafening crack splitting the air. The wood groaned, then splintered, and the lock gave way with a scream of metal. You stumbled back, your gown catching on the edge of a table, your eyes wide with fear. The figure that stepped through the wreckage was a nightmare made flesh—tall, clad in dark armor, his cape dripping with the crimson of battle. His face was half-hidden by a helm, but his eyes… his eyes burned with a fire that stole your breath.

“Princess,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent, as he removed his helm. Dark hair fell across his brow, and those eyes—green as jade, sharp as a blade—locked onto yours.

You didn’t know him, yet something in his gaze felt achingly familiar, like a dream you couldn’t recall. “Who… who are you?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He took a step closer, and you instinctively retreated, your back pressing against the cold stone wall. He stopped, his expression softening, though the blood on his armor gleamed in the candlelight. “I am Damian Wayne, prince of Gotham,” he said. “And I have come for you.”

“For me?” Your mind spun, grasping for meaning. “Why? My brothers—”

“Your brothers are defeated,” he said, his tone gentle but unyielding. “Eryndor has fallen. But you… you are safe now. With me.”

The words made no sense. Fallen? Defeated? Your world, so carefully curated, shattered like glass. “I don’t understand,” you said, your voice breaking. “Why is this happening?”

Damian’s jaw tightened, a flicker of pain crossing his features. He wanted to tell you everything—how this war had been for you, how his heart had waged its own battle long before the first sword was drawn. But you were trembling, your innocence a fragile thing he feared he might break.

“Because I love you,” he said at last, the confession raw, unguarded. “And I would burn the world to keep you safe.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding. Love? This stranger, this blood-soaked prince, spoke of love as if it were a vow written in the stars. You should have been afraid, should have screamed for your brothers, for the life you knew. But something in his eyes held you captive—a truth that stirred the untouched corners of your soul.

The Red Lord had come for you, and the world you knew would never be the same.

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Based on this amazing ask.

Dark Thraller - Part 1

Azriel x HewnCity!Reader, Arranged Marriage

Something darker than the night itself lurks within the Hewn City. Something dark and lovely and his. Azriel suddenly finds himself with a bride that he never wanted but when their marriage may be the one thing that saves their world as they know it, duty trumps all.

The female watched from shadows behind the archway connecting a granite corridor to the throne room of the Hewn City, peering into the busy room. She could smell the fear simmering within the room, it stoked at her own power, building as it fueled her senses. She shouldn’t be here, to be caught could mean death, perhaps worse, but this was her only chance to find the Seer.

Azriel stood cross-armed, hazel eyes honed in on Elain Archeron as she gracefully meandered through the throne room of the Hewn City. Its lecherous denizens ogling her as if she were nothing more than a whore in a pleasure house. Her dress was modest, a whispy train of tulle falling from her shoulders and trailing behind her, the perfect decoy for hiding his shadows as they listened in for tonight’s intended target. The gown hugged her slim figure just enough to give a tease of the lithe female form beneath.

He rolled his eyes as he took her in, reminded of Cassian’s insistence that black wasn’t her color but he was wrong - she was the ethereal moon to the Night Court’s midnight skies.

———

Elain knew she did not belong here. Not within the stone walls of this forsaken city. Not because she was too fragile. No, despite the fact that her sisters coddled her and the rest of the Inner Circle treated her like a delicate flower that would wither at the slightest touch, it was often overlooked that she had slain the King of Hybern. Sure, Nesta received credit for the final blow, but it was Elain who had been vital that day.

She didn’t belong here because of its own inherent darkness that mingled so well with the darkness within her own soul. She’d always tried to make the best of life, but years of poverty, being forced into the cauldron, losing Graysen, an unrequited mating bond, their fathers death, being held captive in Hybern’s camp, nearly losing Feyre during Nyx’s birth, the strife didn’t hold a candle to the pain she felt from being granted the so-called “gift” of sight and having no way to decipher it. Her visions were not light and airy, they were dark and inky, ominous at best.

The few times she’d visited this sect of the Night Court, her visions plagued her. Glimpses of gods and shadows, sacrificed maidens, life and death. And then, there was last time. The collision of an outside force greeting her own power, something fearsome and yet- gentle.

Azriel’s shadows gave a tug on the cape of Elain’s gown, working of their own accord. To Azriel’s chagrin, the last time they’d been here his shadows pushed boundaries, ignoring commands to stand down as they searched the space. They’d trailed Elain who had a particularly concerning vision of shadows upon water and whispers of death.

With the concerns of Koschei following the events with the Queens on the continent, it was enough to garner another visit. So, here they were. Azriel watching Elain like a hawk as she and his shadows searched the place.

Eyes diverted away from Elain as the main act arrived, Rhys and Feyre loosening the grip on their power as the doors flew open- their steps echoing throughout the now silent chamber as the High Lord and High Lady approached the dais. The crowd, having learned from previous reprimand, fell to their knees before their rulers.

It was then that Azriel’s shadows completely shrouded Elain, granting her cover as she dipped down a corridor that Azriel had very clearly lectured them NOT to go down. He wasn’t about to risk Elain’s safety, even if it meant failing the mission at hand of garnering more sight into these possible Koschei visions.

Elain took no more than ten steps down the corridor when a voice startled her from the shadows. “You.”

Elain gasped as Azriel’s shadows created a wall of shadow before her.

Not to protect her - but to conceal the source of the voice.

How very strange.

A lump formed in Elain’s throat as she mustered her courage for a moment, composing herself before squaring her shoulders and holding her head high.

“Yes?” She asked.

“You’re the Seer.” The voice spoke again. Feminine. Young, likely twenty or thirty but it was hard to tell with the fae.

“I am.” Elain spoke firmly. “And you are?”

The voice started before turning into a strangled gasp. The shadows cleared for Elain to find Azriel, holding the female from behind with Truth-Teller against her throat.

“I know what you are.” His deep voice spoke into her ear, his heated breath sending chills through the female.

“Azriel.” Elain spoke. “She was only curious. She didn’t harm me.”

Azriel didn’t move a muscle, only lifting his hazel eyes from behind the female to meet Elain’s gaze. “You don’t know what she is. The danger you were in.”

The cool blade pressed against the female’s throat and if it wasn’t for the obvious threat she posed, Azriel would have had a hard time missing the way her body fit so enticingly against his, the way her ass-

He growled. “Quit it.”

“Quit what?” The female puzzled.

Through gritted teeth, Azriel warned, “Your powers will not affect me, Dark Thraller.”

Elain kept quiet but she didn’t miss the smirk that rose on the female’s face at that. There was something about this female that resonated with her. She had a gentle presence, soft in all the right places to enhance her feminine appearance in a way that would leave most underestimating her, yet Elain knew there was more to this female, something deeper, something darker than her bright eyes let on.

Someone who could understand her.

———————————

Keir burst through the dungeon door first, followed by the general of his Dark Bringer forces and his second in command, Lord Thanatos.

“Keir, how nice of you to join us.” Rhys mused. Arrogant smirk plastered on his face.

Rhys and Azriel had spent the past two hours with the female, named Y/N, in the dungeons of the Hewn City. She was a Dark Thraller. An incredibly rare power of ancient fae, until today, it had been thought of as myth. She could not only wield darkness and shadow on her own accord but she could steal it, borrowing directly from the source, hence Azriel‘s shadows obscuring her from Elain. It was fortunate that he’d taken her by surprise when he’d snuck up on her, able to pull his shadows from her thrall and regain them as his own. Though they weren’t particularly eager to return to his side. He was still pissed about that.

The fact that Keir had kept this female a secret was enough to chap Azriel’s ass too. Mor’s father should have reported the female the moment her powers manifested, yet, he’d hoarded her. And much like with Mor, Keir and Lord Thanatos planned to breed her, using her as a bargaining chip in an arranged marriage to some noble on the continent that she had never laid eyes on.

“Release my daughter, immediately.” Lord Thanatos boomed.

The female remained silent, still, but Azriel didn’t miss the way her skin paled at his command. Rhys let out a dangerous laugh, not the warm laugh of the brother Azriel knew so well, but the bitter laugh of a High Lord about to put a subordinate into his place, or the ground, depending on how generous he was feeling.

Both males froze in place, faces turning cherry red as they fought against invisible restraints. Rhys placed an errant hand into his left pocket, a cruel smirk plastered across his face. “It seems I have not given enough attention to the seat of my court in recent years if this is how its people choose to greet their High Lord.”

His violet eyes narrowed as he took a tone befitting of the most powerful High Lord in Prythian’s history. “Kneel”

And before they had a chance to do so on their own accord, Rhys forced them into a submission. A gentle - considering the force he was capable of - reminder that they were indeed the lesser males in the room.

Rhys released his hold on the males as they gasped for air, remaining knelt until their High Lord dismissed the formal stance.

“It seems, Keir, that you and Lord Thanatos have been keeping this little gem a secret.” Nodding his head toward the restrained female, who easily could have broken the shadows to her submission. A test, then. To see how impulsive she was with her power, what manner of control she practiced over it.

Azriel didn’t trust her. Thralling? Yes, a Dark Thraller typically attracted darkness and shadow with their thralling abilities but how far did her capabilities go? Could she work on the minds of those wielding darkness as well?

Azriel broke from his inner thoughts to find the female staring at him with wide eyes. She was nervous. He stepped closer to her, keeping his gaze firm and narrowed but to his surprise, the nervous energy surrounding her did not increase. In fact, she seemed to relax slightly.

That was certainly a first for him in these dungeons.

Azriel had been so focused on her that he missed the last bit of groveling from Keir and Lord Thanatos. His attention once again fixed on the males and his High Lord as Rhys summoned a large table and five chairs.

Keir scoffed. “This is a conversation for males, she-“ he spoke the pronoun with venom, “has no business in these affairs.”

Rhys waved a dismissive hand at the male. “I always forget what antiquated views you harbor. At this table, she has a place. In fact, she has more of a place here than you do, since you so rudely interrupted our-” interrogation “conversation.”

“Azriel.” Rhys nodded toward the bound female.

Begrudgingly, Azriel released his restraints on the female. She stood, slowly, maintaining eye contact with him as she smoothed her satin gown, the fabric clung deliciously to her curves but Azriel was most taken by those mesmerizing eyes of hers as they held his cold stare. No malice, or hatred lay in her own eyes, the emotion was something that made his heart lurch. The same look a snared creature would give a hunter that held its fate in their hands, the same look a young boy once gave his cruel half-brothers as fuel soaked his hands while they held the flaming match.

Y/N broke her eye contact and approached the table, holding her head high. To her- and everyone in the room not named Rhysand’s - shock, he pulled the chair at the table’s head out and motioned for her to sit. He kept the arrogant mask plastered on and waited until she accepted that he was serious, shifting uncomfortably for a moment, before seating herself. That nervousness once again returning as she looked to the two Court of Nightmares males to her right.

Truly, Azriel didn’t trust her but he couldn’t bear to see that look on her face. He’d met her two hours ago and already knew she was too good to be intimidated by these pricks.

Azriel stepped to Keir, seated directly to next to her, Rhys seated to her left - and flatly commanded “move.”

Keir huffed an insidious laugh. “I don’t take orders from dogs.”

Azriel remained stoic, refusing to deign the pompous male with even a breath of irritation. He’d been called far worse

Rhys didn’t bat an eye at the command from his Spymaster, knowing Mor’s history, of course he would feel inclined to keep him distanced from a female stuck in a nearly identical situation as the one she was faced with all those centuries ago. “Keir, you truly are going out of your way to play the fool today. Keep it up and maybe we can reenact what happened to your arm the last time you disregarded the station of one of my Inner Circle?”

Keir bristled slightly before tucking his shoulders in a show of submission, pushing himself up, and swapping places with the Shadowsinger.

Azriel didn’t miss the slight ease of tension in Y/N’s jaw as he sat, though her heartbeat remained racing as indicated by the visible thrumming of her pulse in her neck and quickened breathing. His shadows gravitated toward her, intertwining with her ankles and then scurried away when she looked to them in a reprimanding manner.

By the rather adorable scowl furrowing across her brow, he had a feeling she hadn’t used her thralling abilities on them either. Interesting.

For all that they were excellent for spying, the things were incurably nosey to a fault.

Clearing his throat, Rhys began “It has been brought to my attention that lady Y/N is to be married to a male on the continent, not as a marriage of love but as one of title. Given her unique powers I propose that we arrange a marriage within our own court that will be both advantageous to the Night Court and to her in terms of power. Do you wish to elaborate on who you intend to marry her off to?”

Azriel noted the bead of sweat on Lord Thanatos’ brow as he glanced to Keir, vaguely-concealed concern flitting between the two.

Keir cleared his throat. “The male is simply a lesser-noble from a wealthy family on the continent. She is not worth the attention, your grace. Her power will be of no use to your court. They’re nothing more than an amusing party trick.”

Leaning back in his chair, Rhys held his chin between his thumb and forefinger in a show of consideration, before giving a grin. “I do enjoy parties. And it seems as if I could find a suitor that would be far more advantageous considering this unnamed lesser-noble is not even worth noting. Don’t you agree?”

Y/N seemed to shrink in her seat but what Azriel read on her face looked almost like “hope.”

What had she been put through for her future to be discussed as if she were nothing more than loose marks to be spent frivolously and still feel hope? He grit his teeth at the way Rhys carried on with the act, though he knew it was simply that- an act.

Silence filled the space and Azriel didn’t miss the way his High Lord’s gaze went vacant, communicating with someone. A small hitch in the breath of Y/N clued him in to exactly who he was communicating with.

“I’ve decided.” Rhys purred. “Lord Thanatos, your lovely daughter will wed my Shadowsinger.”

Outrage filled the room as the males let out shouts of disapproval before Rhys let his darkness fill the room. “Am I not High Lord? Do I not have final say in the affairs of my denizens?”

The males were silent. Rhys loosened his power further, a rumble sending loose dirt falling from the ceiling of the room onto the table before them. “I expect an answer.”

Lowering their gazes in submission, it was Keir who spoke first, “Yes, High Lord.”

Lord Thanatos let out a growl, shooting a violent glare in Keir’s direction.

“I expect an answer, Lord Thanatos.” Rhysand challenged.

After another moment, he finally caved in to the show of power. “Yes, High Lord.” The male growled.

The darkness faded as Rhys clapped his hands together. “Excellent. This evening just became far more interesting. We shall wed the two tonight!”

To his credit, Azriel said nothing, not one single show of disapproval or questioning.

“You two may be dismissed. We will coordinate the details of the wedding.”

As the two males, completely dumbfounded, exited the cell. The female looked to the floor, avoiding Azriel’s stony gaze- the gaze of her soon-to-be husband. Which was for the best as Azriel sent her a glare reserved for the worst of traitors. He did not want this, he wanted nothing to do with the female. His heart was destined to belong to the middle Archeron sister. He was to share his life with HER, not this strange enigma from the Hewn City.

Moments later, Elain and Feyre entered the room. Elain’s expression unreadable as they retrieved the female, Cassian and Nesta flanking them protectively as they led her off to prepare for the ceremony.

————

Rhysand knew he was a bastard. He took the corresponding show of rage from Azriel in stride, unable to disagree with the cold words and show of opposition to his order to marry the female.

What Azriel hadn’t seen was the terror Rhysand had gleaned in her mind. Her power was not a party trick, in fact she’d been hidden away beneath the Hewn City and put through rigorous training from the first moment her powers emerged. This female was trained to be used as a weapon and treated as such, there was nothing humane or loving about the environment she’d grown up in. But far more concerning than even the abhorrent conditions she had been brought up in was the undiluted panic regarding her impending nuptials. She indeed did not know who she was to be married to but she had suspicions.

Not to be wed to an unknown lord from the continent, not even to the highest ranking of nobility, but to a supreme being of death and decay, to Koschei himself.

And if her suspicions were correct, a power like hers in his hands would bring immeasurable suffering, an end to the world as they knew it. She was the token Keir needed to barter for his own rise to power. Ruling just the Court of Nightmares was never enough for a greedy bastard like him.

“The only way we can get her out of here is by wedding her to you tonight. If she’s wed, they have no contest to-” Rhys bristled as he spoke of the female as anything less than her own entity “They cannot claim ownership of her if she is wed. We cannot risk another moment of her being in their hands, Az. This marriage does not have to last forever, just long enough to ensure she is out of their hands and that we are in her good graces. Your duty is to keep her happy and protect her, if she ends up in the wrong hands, Azriel- more than just our own rule is at stake, Prythian, the world, could be doomed.

Guilt pressed in on the High Lord. If there were any other way, he would take it, but for now this was the most humane route.

And as Rhys shared the female’s suspicions of Koschei with Azriel, he understood. He hated every moment of this but he understood. He didn’t have to love her, he didn’t have to like her even, but he could stomach her as he did with any other undesirable duty.

_________

Azriel stood on the dais before a crowd of sneering Hewn City denizens. For this, his leathers would do. He was to send a message of power to the Court of Nightmares and removing his siphons would not do. Rhys and Feyre remained seated on their thrones appearing bored as they took in the quickly thrown together wedding, little more than wine and night-blooming jasmine marked the occasion. Though Rhys would have loved watching Lord Thanatos have to hand his daughter over to the Shadowsinger, he didn’t want him anywhere near her. She had dealt with enough coldness from the male in her twenty-five years of life, never again would she have to suffer through her father’s unkind hands upon her.

So, Azriel waited, his eyes focused solely on Elain as the doors opened and music began to play. Cassian would escort her to the dais. Azriel spared no glance to his bride as the audience turned in her direction. Even Elain who had caught his gaze briefly, and Lord Thanatos and his equally hateful wife who stood behind her, turned to marvel at the bride striding up the aisle. Azriel’s heart raced. He wanted Elain. His shadows pulled on him. Coaxing him to divert his gaze from the Archeron sister. No. He wanted Elain. His heart beat wildly as a tug pulled at him. He would not look. This female was not who his heart belonged to. He belonged to Elain. Azriel’s shadows hissed in his ears to look as his heart urged him to spare a glance in her direction.

Finally, he shifted his gaze and time stood still. Before him was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen. No longer did she appear meek, or nervous- she stood taller with her head held high. A cobalt blue gown hugged her curves, dipping down to reveal her ample cleavage, the fabric clung to the curve of her hips, caressing her upper thighs before flaring out toward the bottom. Her knuckles tightly gripped a bouquet of morningstar flowers and delphinium. Where the dress had been conjured from, Azriel had no idea. The flowers were likely Elain’s doing. He tried to turn his head back to Elain but he couldn’t bring himself to avert his gaze away from the beauty before him.

His shadows left his side, flowing down the aisle and swirling around the bottom of her gown, giving the appearance that they were carrying her to him. The crowd gasped at the illusion and Azriel noticed the surprise on her face. Either she was an excellent actress or she truly didn’t have the control over her powers.

But Rhys had said that she’d been trained from the time they manifested. Surely they weren’t going to her on their own accord. Was her thrall that powerful?

Azriel nearly felt his shoulders slump in disappointment as her gaze shifted to Elain who awaited at the foot of the dais to retrieve the bouquet.

As Elain stepped forward, a tear was heard followed by a gasp. Azriel looked to see that the bottom half of Elain’s dress had torn. Her cheeks flushed, eyes wide with shock. Before Azriel could react, he felt loss of control over his shadows as Y/N flung her arms out commanding them in Elain’s direction. Azriel’s heart lurched, fury clouding him at this attack on Elain, he stepped forward only to halt in his tracks as two shadows darted out to restrain Y/N’s mother, and the remaining shadows shrouded Elain completely.

Y/N hurried toward Elain, stepping into the confines of the shadows, now shrouding the both of them. Azriel almost smirked as Y/N’s voice loudly echoed from the shadows “Don’t mind her. She’s even uglier inside than that sneer she wears on her face, which says a lot.” A soft giggle from Elain reached Azriel’s ears. “Come on, let’s get you something else to wear. Can your sister bring some wine?”

The crowd parted as the shadowed females made their way out of the crowd, Nesta and Cassian following suit.

This female stopped her own wedding to come to the aid of a female she didn’t even know. Azriel didn’t know what to think of that but he did know that he couldn’t let himself fall for her. He wouldn’t let himself fall for her.

——————————————————

A/N: this will be a 2 or 3 part series! I am too tired to proofread so if there were a bunch of typos, no there weren’t.

Tags:

ACOTAR general: @lilah-asteria @thecollegecowgirl @mochibabycakes @nickishadow139

Requested tags based on previous excerpt posted: @erikan809 @thalia-as-blog

[aesteries]

⋆✴︎˚。⋆ ─ ❝sweetling❞ ─ aemond targaryen and original female character. ❝alicent hightower's youngest daughter, haera targaryen, has returned to king's landing after eight long years in old town and aemond finds himself inexplicably drawn to the girl kissed by the moon and with the eyes that seem to only look at him.❞

how could i not love eyes that see me in all my forms as beautiful?

〔incest, innocence and fantasies, fluff and romance, smut, virginity, events of blood and cheese, family rivalry, disabled main character, hints of book!aemond, modified show!timeline and events.〕

words: 6.6k series' masterlist.

                 CHAPTER 2. 

Court affairs often put him to sleep, hours of incessant complaints and requests from worthless high-born lords and ladies who wanted more than they deserved, but not today. What was unfolding before his healthy eye was just too gripping to ignore, and for once, he thanked the gods that he did not fake an illness to miss the spectacle. His half-sister, Rhaenyra, had been bold enough to bring her illegitimate children to the Red Keep to stake their claim on Driftmark. She was demanding to recognise her second son’s legitimacy, placing him as his apparent father’s heir, amidst opposition from Vaemond Velaryon, who argues that the title belonged to him instead. Many lords in the room nodded in secret agreement with Vaemond's reasonable demand, yet Rhaenyra refused to back down, her determination palpable.

The sudden boom of the throne room doors echoed throughout the chamber as they parted, a loud announcement of the King’s arrival snapping everyone back to reality. Glancing to his side, he saw his siblings straightening up, eyes fixed on their father, King Viserys, as he struggled down the stairs with his body curved over himself. Haera, ever the dutiful daughter, had perked up at the mention of her father’s name, but her clouded vision refused to settle over the fragile man as he began his laboured progress toward the throne. 

“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 room sank into silence, a deafening sound as all eyes focused on the King's pathetic frame. The status of his health was known, but to witness his decay was a shock to everyone, and even the unflappable Otto Hightower had concern etched all over his face, though it did not seem quite genuine as he scrambled out of the throne he had been keeping warm. The air was heavy with tension as the King's slow, agonising approach to the throne seemed to take an eternity, pain burning up his skin with every step.

He trudged up the steps toward the Iron Throne, pridefully waving off the guards' offers of assistance as he stumbled, his legs trembling beneath him. In his struggle and exhaustion, the crown that dangerously balanced over his balding head slipped and fell to the granite floor with a shattering clank of metal. Aemond’s eye locked on the back of his uncle’s head as the man was the only one to act, guiding his older brother on the final few steps and placing the crown on his head. 

“I do not understand,” King Viserys’s voice was frail, breathless as he spoke, “why petitions are being heard over a settled succession.”

The sight of the bastard-born boy, with his head of brown locks and the whiteness of his skin standing between the rich tones of the Velaryons, triggered a low laugh from the prince’s lips, earning a side glance from his mother. The air in the throne room was thick, an obvious buzz of energy flowing between the Targaryen royalty. 

“As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons, Jace and Luke, to Lord Corly’s granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena.” Princess Rhaenys’s tone was firm and confident: “A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

Suddenly, as if he had finally heard something that interested him, King Viserys’ eyes snapped to attention, rising on his seat as if the weight of his crown had been redistributed to him with full health. The left side of his face, that side that was uncovered by the mask, twisted into a smile of cracked lips. “Very well…” His voice filled the space with anticipation, his tired eyes darting around the faces of his family. "However, I have a say in the matter of the betrothal of my grandson, Prince Lucerys.”

Aemond’s gaze drifted to his half-sister, who was already watching them with an air of confidence, a smirk on her lips with a subtle challenge. Her piercing glare seemed to dare him, to provoke him, to let him know that she knew something that he did not. His stomach twisted into knots, and he suddenly felt the ghost of a noose around his neck.

"I believe in the continued union of our families, those with the blood of Old Valyria," the king declared, his voice echoing through the hall. "And therefore, I have decided to unite my youngest daughter, Princess Haera Targaryen, to Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon, the rightful heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the future Lord of the Tides."

The young prince’s world was shattered, like that night when he claimed Vhagar, the remnants of untouched innocence finally scattering over the floor for everyone to see. His despair must have been that obvious, as Aegon’s worries were evident when he turned to glance at him. Aemond remained statue-still, his gaze fixed on the back of Haera's head as she stood rigidly, flanked by Helaena and their mother. Alicent's grip on the young girl's wrist was like a vice, a desperate attempt to prevent them from tearing her away, her knuckles white with tension.

Aemond’s heartbreak was soon replaced by a raging fire, like Vhagar’s fire, that consumed his every thought as his eye daggered Lucerys Velaryon, who in return dared to challenge him with a subtle nod. Any outburst in the King’s presence would be suicidal, his wrath barely contained as his hand lingered on the hilt of his sword. He was all too familiar with the King's blind devotion to Rhaenyra and her brood, and he knew his powerlessness against it. Perhaps he could take her and rescue her from the toxicity of the court, where her innocence was being sullied by the very presence of the Strong bastards. He recalled the day Lucerys had slashed him, the resentment still festering like an open wound. In this moment, Aemond felt trapped, forced to endure the insolence of his nemesis.

It was only when gentle warmth had wrapped around his fingers that he was brought back to the present from his deadly fantasies. He looked down to find Haera’s tearful eyes welling up with crystal tears, her mind consumed by her future. The quivering of her lips fed the fire in the pit of his stomach. She was likely aware of the implications of their union, of the dark legacy they would pass on to their children, a heritage shrouded in deceit and tainted by the lies that had defined their past. She was meant to clean Lucery’s dirtied Valyrian blood with their union.

Time stopped for them as they gazed into each other’s eyes, the gentle flutter of her white eyelashes betraying the warmth of her adoration. He knew, deep down, that he and she were meant to be; it transcended tradition. It was fate; it was the will of the gods—they made her just for him, everything that he was not. Even if she were to stand before the altar, before that naive boy to exchange vows, Aemond was resolute; he would set things right. His sweetling would not be made to suffer for the mistakes of others. He would move heaven and earth to ensure her freedom from the shackles of injustice, no matter the cost.

A sudden scream cut their moment short.

Aemond’s mind was reeling, struggling to comprehend just what was unfolding before him as the two of them snapped out of their trance that had drowned out the inheritance hearing. Daemon Targaryen’s sword sliced through the air with a swift swing, decapitating Vaemond Velaryon with a deadly motion. In the aftermath of the violence, as the body began to spill over the floor, Haera instinctively wrapped her arms around his middle for protection. He enveloped her tightly, his hand on the back of her head as he held her close to his chest. The feeling of her slender frame pressed against him and his arms cradling her felt surprisingly natural, out of a dream. It was a gesture that brought a sense of calm to the chaos surrounding them; it grounded them, a fleeting moment of solace in the face of Daemon's ferocity.

His heart was racing as he clutched her. It was where she belonged: sheltered in his embrace, secured in his grasp, shielded by his unwavering protection. The half-sister’s eyes were fixed on the pair, intense with the fire of the dragon, her mind reeling with the plan she had put in place. A brother consumed by his passion and a sister who reciprocated those feelings, now a forbidden romance. She felt the danger in the pit of her stomach, not for her claim to the throne but for the future of her second-born son. Persuading her father to accept the match had been easy, serving the young prince an opportunity on a silver platter. Lucerys saw the two Targaryens lost in their own world, and he saw a challenge. 

The air was heavy with tension, thick with the weight of forbidden love and the ominous foreshadowing of strife to come.

The day after the disastrous inheritance hearing, the sun cast a gentle glow on the beautiful gardens of the Red Keep, its rays illuminating the many flowers that adorned the greenery. As she strolled through, a soft breeze caressed her face and tangled her hair, pulling the strands from the intricate braids her ladies had crafted. Yet she was overwhelmed by anxiety and a sense of unease that had settled in her stomach. The company, she was convinced, was to blame for her discomfort. Her mother’s encouragement still echoed fresh in her mind, and she would not let her down even if she had missed the worry behind the Queen’s forced smile.

Lucerys Velaryon had appeared outside the Queen’s chambers; his arm extended in invitation as a way to formally begin courting his promised princess. The young man possessed an unusual charm, an air of innocence one moment, and a sharp tongue the next. Within mere minutes of their stroll, he had dropped too many complaints for her comfort, criticising the alterations to the Red Keep, the gardens, and even the maids’ outfits. The food, as well, was apparently not to his liking, and she found herself on edge, bracing for the next critique to tumble from his lips.

Lucerys droned on about the dragonpit or something about dragons, but her mind had drifted to some of the times she had taken strolls around the garden. Aemond cherished their shared moments. He never complained, never interrupted her, and listened to her. She recalled how he would gently hold her hand over the cracked stones, ensuring she didn't trip and fall. He'd pluck flowers from the nearby bushes, presenting them to her so she could marvel at their beauty up close. In those quiet moments, Aemond always reminded her that she possessed a beauty that rivalled the flowers, making her feel treasured and unique.

As she stood beside her betrothed, Lucerys, her eyes widened in stark realization. Her thoughts strayed back to Aemond as if her mind were trying to escape the present.

The one-eyed prince lingered in the darkness, fixed on every step they took. The torches cast long shadows over him, clouding him from their sight and helping him blend into the darkness with his black leather. His mother had attempted to stop him, claiming that it was for her own good, but he refused to abandon her, especially since she was to be alone with that bastard and Gods knew what he could be capable of. She looked radiant, shining like jewels even under the weak sunlight, clad in an exquisite silk dress with delicate lace patterns. Her beauty, so pure, made his heart ache with jealousy, seeing how her beauty was being wasted on Lucerys when it should be reserved for him alone.

“I was wondering,” Lucerys’ voice finally directed at her shook her from her thoughts. “How come you do not ride your dragon?”

Her brows furrowed, initially confused at his question but realising he had no idea about the tragedy that had befallen her hatchling, Brightfyre, during childhood. The memory of that painful day was still so fresh in her mind, even if she had been too young. It was like an open wound that would never heal, and his question had rubbed salt over it. "My dragon passed away when it was just a hatchling," she explained, her voice laced with a hint of sadness.

As she spoke, Lucerys's face lost its colour, his features contorting into a grimace. "The dragon keepers believed it was due to a malformation during incubation. According to the maesters, I wouldn't have been able to ride for long even if Brightfyre had survived anyways, as my sight would have continued to deteriorate with age.”

She missed the expression, her gaze fixed on the ground as she continued her walk, her footsteps steady and deliberate. Behind her, Lucerys had to consciously relax his facial muscles, shaking off the tension that had built up. Aemond, ever the observer, caught the subtle movement and raised an eyebrow, his eyes darting between the young couple as they strolled through the castle grounds.

“I’m relieved,” she confessed, her tone a stark contrast to the sorrow that had taken over her voice moments ago. “It gives me a sense of freedom, not being bound to one of them... being different from the rest of my family, to make a name for myself and not through my dragon.”

Lucerys's incredulity was palpable as he struggled to comprehend her words. "But you're a Targaryen," he protested, his voice laced with disbelief. "The blood of dragonlords from Old Valyria runs through your veins. Having dragons is the greatest symbol of our power and strength." He couldn't imagine a life without a dragon; it was unthinkable, especially for a Targaryen and for someone like him. Memories of his childhood came flooding back like an aggressive tide of the times he and the others had mercilessly teased Aemond for not having a dragon, only for him to claim the largest one alive. Lucerys swallowed hard, the memory still a bitter pill to swallow, especially when he thought of the Aemond of today.

She halted, her footsteps suddenly heavy on the stone floor, and turned back to him with an unreadable expression etched on her face. "I do not believe that," she said, her voice laced with conviction. "To me, we are more than the blood of dragons.”

Lucerys's response was immediate and firm. "Blood is everything.”

Her eyes, a light shade of purple that no other Targaryen shared, narrowed, and a spark of defiance flashed within them, lighting up like a flame. It was a glint Lucerys had never seen before—a darker, more intense, suffocating as she stepped closer, her shoulders squaring and her chin tilting upward. Lucerys felt a jolt of surprise. The gentle girl he had been introduced to had transformed before his very eyes into someone else. The corner of her lip curled into a faint, mischievous smirk, and for a fleeting moment, Lucerys could have sworn Aemond's spirit had possessed her, imbuing her with his audacity.

Her voice, usually so sweet and feathery, was laced with sarcasm that sent icy cold shivers down Lucery’s spine as she spoke. “Is that so, my prince?” Her tone dripped with irony. “Is your blood that..." Her eyes wandered over his form, her tilted head making it seem that she was speaking down on him. “Strong… that it defines who you are and determines your worth?” The emphasis on the word "strong" was a subtle challenge, a dare to Lucerys to defend his stance.

Aemond smiled to himself, filled to the brim with a sense of satisfaction as he observed the confrontation from his corner, her voice clear as she landed her verbal blow. He couldn't help but feel proud of her, amused by this feisty side of hers that she had never shown. Despite likely dying inside from the weight of her words, she had stood up to Lucerys, refusing to back down. Aemond knew she would learn to defend herself, and their nephew wouldn't easily intimidate her.

Lucerys's face flushed with anger, his ears burning as he understood the hidden message in her words, her intention to offend him clear as day. His nails dug deep into his palms to the point they almost drew blood, a desperate attempt to restrain himself from lashing out and from raising his hand to teach her a lesson about disrespect. He had to find a way to bend her to his will, and despite her venomous words, she had a rather fragile nature, and he was sure that a few swift blows would be enough to shatter her spirit.

“Anything the matter, nephew?” Aemond’s velvety voice halted the conversation between the young prince and princess, as he had made his way out of the darkness and into the light, having decided that they had spent too long together. His voice dripped with superiority, his shoulders tight as he looked down at the boy. 

They turned to face him, eyes wide as they fixed on the intimidating figure with hands clasped behind his back and a smile that froze the prince in place, a smile that seemed to revel in the power it held over others. Lucerys' skin broke out in goosebumps as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. In stark contrast, Haera’s body reacted differently the moment his calming presence washed over her; tense muscles relaxed, breathing slowed, and calmness took over her.

Lucerys, on the other hand, stumbled over his words, his voice trembling as he tried to find an excuse for their conversation that had taken a disgusting turn, eyes darting towards Haera, who seemed to be the only one immune to Aemond's intimidating aura. The prince's courage, once bold enough to consider striking his future wife, now shrank to the size of a timid rat, cowering in the face of Aemond's dominance.

Aemond turned to address his younger sister, his eye intense with adoration that seemed to suck up all the air around them, to the point Lucerys felt bitter jealousy like a kid watching someone else play with his toy. He could not lose this silent competition over Haera; she was his to claim, announced in front of everyone.

"Our mother has requested your presence," Aemond said, his voice low and husky, like the rustling of leaves in an autumn breeze. "Shall I escort you to her chambers?" He extended his arm, inviting her to take it.

And Haera smiled, the sight so beautiful that it would inspire the finest painters for their masterpieces. She placed her hand on his arm, touching gently and lovingly, and he pulled her away from Lucerys to seethe in silence. As they walked away, Haera's eyes sneakily shifted back to look at the dark-haired prince through a blurred gaze, sparkling like diamonds in candlelight, their secret message clear as day: she knew the game they played, and she would not be swayed. Aemond was the one she wanted, and he was who she was going to get.

The entire family gathered in the grand dining room after the darkness of the night took over the once clear sky, forced out of their chambers to avoid each other since Rhaenyra’s kin arrived. Even the melodic notes of the music could not fill the space between the strained relationships or clear the thick tension of the room as they sat around the table. 

The two sides of the family sat awkwardly in silence until the arrival of the King, carried in by his guards in an ornate chair that allowed him to move with ease. As he was placed in the centre of the gathering, between both sides of the family, Aemond's gaze darted to the far end of the table, where Haera had reluctantly taken her seat beside Lucerys. It had been their mother’s idea, her sullen expression telling him all he needed to know as her pouting lips and folded arms screamed defiance.

The king spoke, his wheezing voice piercing the air, the frail state of his body evident even as he rested in a seated position. He welcomed his heir and her family with genuine warmth between laboured breaths. Aemond’s mind wandered, tuning out the king as he spoke of the importance of family unity. But, as the king began to congratulate the newly formed alliances, he snapped back to the conversation. His stomach churned with disgust as their father praised Lucerys and Haera, his jaw clenched in frustration. He wasn't alone in his sentiment; Aegon, too, seemed put off by the king's flowery words, his eyes fixed on some point beyond the gathering.

Aegon couldn’t contain himself for much longer, pent-up frustration and anger simmering like a pot about to boil. His eyes darted around the room, meeting Haera’s as he looked at the faces of his family. Though her vision was blurry, she could make out the wink he sent her way, tilting his head towards the young prince beside him. 

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman.” He was a master at pushing his buttons. He took great pleasure in witnessing his reactions, his face reddening with each carefully crafted comment that would leave him fuming and frustrated, like a shaky vial of Wildfire ready to explode. “You do know how the act is done, I assume... like, where to put your cock.”

“Let it be, cousin.” Baela did her best to manage the situation before the two boys escalated it. 

However, Aegon continued; this time he addressed her instead, "I... regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer.” The young man gave her a pitiful look; the drunken joke was clear in his amethyst eyes: “But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

Everyone was jolted out of their casual chatter as Jace’s fist thundered down on the wooden table, the sound like a crack of lightning, and all eyes darted to the source to find him springing up from his seat. He gave Aegon’s shoulder a tight, almost brutal squeeze but then gave a playful punch to his arm. He then strode around the table with heavy footsteps and offered his hand to Aegon’s sister-wife, Helaena. 

There was a sudden spike in tension, as if there was room for any more, as Jace boldly trespassed into forbidden territory. The King, in agony, remained oblivious to the rift between the members of the royal family, his sentimental gaze fixed on the unfolding drama until his frail health betrayed him, forcing him to be escorted back to his chambers for a dose of much-needed medicine.

The servants emerged from the kitchen with steaming plates of food, momentarily easing the bubbling tension that set over the family, calming their sharp glares at each other. During the bustle, one kind-hearted servant, unaware of the significance of her actions, placed the largest, most impressive plate in front of Aemond—a massive, glistening pig', its beady eyes staring up at him like a haunting spectre from his tormented childhood.

Lucerys did not miss the way Aemond’s gaze shifted momentarily, and he let out a snort, his own dark eyes shining with mockery.

As the room fell silent, Aemond's hand came crashing down on the table to get their attention, the sound echoing through the chambers like a challenge. He rose from his seat with his cup in his hand, holding it up to toast. Everyone turned to face him, their hands tightening around their cups of wine as if bracing for an impact that would rival Vhagar’s powerful landing, eyes fixed on the one-eyed prince as his voice boomed through the hall, "Final tribute."

“To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. 

Each of them handsome, 

wise, 

strong. 

Come! 

Let us drain our cups to these three... strong... boys.”

The fragile vial of wildfire shattered, releasing the fury of the young princes as they jumped to their feet, determined to defend their honour, no matter who witnessed it. Jace moved wildly at Aemond, landing a blow to his face, who barely staggered backwards. Meanwhile, Aegon shoved Lucerys headfirst into an empty plate. The guards hesitated, taking a second too long to intervene and separate the boys, allowing the drama to unfold as the frantic mothers rushed onto the scene, their worried cries piercing the air.

Aemond's voice resonated through the air as Haera rushed towards the group that formed, her grip on her mother's shoulders tight with concern. Her older brothers stood before her, their faces tense with anger but their bodies relaxed. Jace's swift punch had left its mark after all—a small gash on the corner of Aemond's lip, a dark bruise starting to spread over his skin. "I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother," Aemond said, his words dripping with sarcasm as he gazed at Haera. The real insult, however, lay in his next sentence: "Though it seems my nephews aren't quite as proud of theirs, an unlikely match for my sister."

The family was dismissed, and each of them was sent away to enjoy their dinners in each of their chambers. 

The flickering flame in front of Aemond captivated him, his gaze fixed on the gentle rhythm of the dancing fire. Time had passed since the tumultuous events of dinner, and he had yet to return to his chambers, finding himself in Haera’s safe library instead as he tried to ease the disgust that still lingered in his stomach. He waited for a long time to make sure everyone had returned to their chambers for sleep to avoid having anyone see him visit his beloved in her chambers.

But before he could act, the creaking of old hinges shattered the silence, and his eye darted instinctively to the source, finding no other than his girl, Haera, seemingly coming to fetch him. His heart immediately picked up the pace at the angelic sight. 

Her cloud-like hair was elegantly pulled up by a soft braid, and her slender body was delicately wrapped in the rich velvet she was accustomed to wearing to bed. Only a thin, embroidered coat rested over her shoulders, tied at the front of her chest with a delicate silk cord, covering her modestly yet radiating an aura of luxury.

The gentle smile he always saved for her tugged on his lips, the book he had been holding slipping from his hands and forgotten in the excitement of her arrival. "Haera," he whispered, his voice full of affection, as he welcomed her. The young princess sighed in relief, the tension in her shoulders finally released. Her soft eyes caressed the contours of his familiar face. "I was looking for you, brother," she said, her voice tinged with worry. Why did you leave your chambers?” The words hung in the air as if she had been searching for him everywhere, her heart heavy with anticipation.

“I needed some time to myself.” He muttered, his eyes fixed on the floor as she approached him, stopping only in front of the chair where he sat with an air of exhaustion. Now that she had moved closer, she could see the purplish bruise on the corner of his lips more clearly in his swirl of colours, and something shifted in her stomach, stirring of concern. He was leaning back on the backrest, his legs splayed out before him, signalling a sense of comfort. His coat, discarded on the floor next to him, and the leather jacket, unbuttoned and open, revealed his plain cotton undershirt. She had never seen him in such a vulnerable state, somehow so at peace after the fiery argument he had sparked with their family, like a stormy sky clearing.

Aemond noticed how her eyes travelled over his figure, absorbing every detail, and his hand motioned for her to get closer to him to take a step into his quiet world. He would have gladly slid over to allow her some space next to him and enjoy the warmth of her company. Still, she might have interpreted it differently, as she lifted herself over the cushion to sit sideways on his lap instead, her movement sudden and fluid, taking place over him as she had always belonged there.

Somehow, courage had taken over her, building from the adrenaline of dinner; if her brothers were capable of such, she was as well. Haera had promised herself that her secret would remain locked away, especially now that she was a betrothed woman, yet witnessing Aemond’s distress over the impending union with Lucerys Velaryon and the impassioned speech he delivered at dinner had ignited a fire within her. A dormant aspect of her character had awakened, a part she never knew existed. This newfound sensation felt distinct, like the first crackle of autumn leaves. It felt exhilarating and empowering. With deliberate intent, she had taken over his lap, her legs dangling off his side, her side pressed flush against his chest, and her hands settled upon his shoulders, claiming him as her own.

Aemond’s vision blurred, everything around him dissolving into nothingness as his mind came to comprehend what was happening—her gentle pressure against him. The scent of her sweet skin, a blend of flowers, enveloped him, making his senses reel. She flushed a deep crimson, her bold facade crumbling beneath a wave of embarrassment, her cheeks burning. His hands trembled with longing, hovering above her hips as if touching her would shatter her and make her disappear forever. "Sweet girl," his voice was low and husky, his throat parched as the desert. "What are you doing?" The words were barely above a whisper, a struggling sound, as if speaking too loudly would banish the moment's magic.

She responded with silence, her unsteady gaze on him, eyes narrowing to clear her vision. The proximity served them like her magnifying glass, bringing him into sharp focus. She was drawn to the subtle curve of his eyebrows, the slight crook of his nose, and the sharp cut of his chin. Her eyes lingered on the corner of his lips, where the faint imprint of the punch had turned into a delicate purple bruise, barely staining his skin. Without thinking, she reached up, her fingertips lightly tracing its edge. The gentle touch sent a shiver through Aemond's body, and he sucked in a breath, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy of the gesture.

She had touched him before, gentle and hesitating as she searched for his hand, arm, or shoulder to rest her head on, but that was not with the same intensity or intimacy as now. Her touch was a spark, setting his body aflame, a drive that propelled him forward with a motivation that came from the desire to be worthy of her. 

Haera’s skin felt strange, her body shifting from hot to cold and back to hot again while his hands finally came to rest on her waist, his slender fingers digging softly into the thin material of her nightgown. The voices in her head took to a contradictory choir, some screaming at her to feel more of him and the other trying to force her away, but a side was stronger and yearned to feel every inch of him, to be consumed by his presence, and for him to realise she would forever be his. The marriage to another man was nothing for her. She would forever be bound to him in her heart, and no contract or agreement could change that.

Her curiosity got the better of her, and she leaned forward, her lips brushing against the corner of his mouth in a hesitant, gentle touch. It would be her first kiss if she had pressed herself fully over his, and her inexperience in the intimacy of her touch was too evident in the way she just pushed against his skin, unsure of how to proceed. The gesture was so sweet and innocent, yet it almost sent him over the edge with a surge of heat, causing his desire to wrestle with his sense of restraint. His mind was a battleground, torn between the purity of her intention and the depravity of his own desires, as he felt the softness of her lips tantalisingly close to the spot where he wanted her to be, to devour her.

But Aemond was a gentleman; he cared for her feelings, so he refused to push her into anything she was not ready for and instead let her take the lead, allowing her to explore and discover the sensations at her own pace. 

Haera pulled back with wide, innocent eyes that sparkled with the surprise of the burning sensation on her lips, covering them with her hands as the tingling was left behind. She looked unsatisfied, her curiosity still burning bright, but she didn't know how to ask the questions she wanted to. So she tried again, her lips finally pressing squarely over his in a chaste, exploratory kiss before pulling back to gauge his reaction. She repeated this once, twice, and three times as she peppered kisses over his lips, each time pulling back to look at him with her beautiful eyes.

He realised she was testing him, watching how he responded to her touch. Aemond smiled, his grip on her waist tightening to hold her in place. “Go ahead.” He muttered, a voice reserved just for her. "You can keep going." The words were an invitation, a permission to explore, and he could sense her hesitation dissipating as she leaned in again, her lips a whisper away from his.

The next time they touched, he leaned in to meet her halfway, brushing against hers with a guiding touch to encourage her to follow his lead and discover the warmth of a real kiss, one between lovers. She immediately mirrored his movements with the soft, tender pressure when his lips danced across hers. As she tilted her head, the kiss slowly gained intensity, and she felt herself becoming lost in the sensation, the heat taking over her lower body as her desire for him grew. Despite her initial uncertainty with him, she felt an innate knowing, as if she had been kissing him all her life.

The kiss deepened, and she felt herself melting into him as the flame grew within her, body moulding to his and pressing heavily against his thighs underneath her legs. Aemond's hand cradled the back of her head, taking control of the kiss, his passion for her growing with every passing moment. His hunger was palpable, and she felt herself responding, drawn to him like a winged insect to a funeral pyre, the world around them fading into insignificance.

His tongue darted out to press itself against her lips, a gentle invitation that she accepted with boldness, granting him entrance to her mouth. He slid inside, his hot muscle caressing hers tenderly as the kiss escalated from their tongues intertwining, sending shivers down their spines as they set into a passionate rhythm with their kiss. At first, her body had stiffened, unfamiliar with the sensation, but he persisted, his gentle prodding wearing down her defences. Soon, she found herself melting into the embrace, her senses surrendering to the intensity of the moment. It was as if her entire being had been submerged in a cauldron of molten lava.

The world around her began to fade, leaving only the two of them, lost in the vortex of their passion. The air was heavy, alive with the promise of what could be, and she felt herself getting swept away by the sheer force of his desire. The kiss was no longer just a meeting of lips but a fusion of bodies that left her gasping for air yet craving more. She started to feel the overwhelming pressure of release, and her body began to sway over him, seeking for something. 

Aemond's senses grew heightened as the darkness within him began to unfurl, a dragon awakening from a deep slumber. With each deliberate roll of her hips, the danger escalated, threatening to engulf him. The thoughts swirling in his mind were primal, raw, and completely consumed by the proximity of her body to his. She had surrendered completely to him, pressing her small form against him on the worn couch, her arms wrapped tightly over his shoulders. The light of the room seemed to fade into nothing as Aemond's focus narrowed to the rhythmic movement of her hips as she began to squirm over him, the gentle pressure of her body, and the sweet curve of her neck as his hands began to travel over her body, feeling her form under his rough palms. 

His mind wandered, consumed by the forbidden thought: could he claim her innocence? The notion sent a searing flame through his gut, fuelled by the knowledge that she was promised to another for political alliances, someone devoid of honour and talent. Another would never cherish her like he could, never adore her like he would. Aemond, a man of substance, could provide her with everything her heart desired. He would mount Vhagar, his majestic dragon, and fetch the moon itself if that's what she yearned for.

Yet he resisted the temptation to take her on that chair, despite the alluring sight of her sitting over him, her barely covered body pressing against him, unknowingly seeking pleasure as she rocked herself over him. She merited more than a fleeting passion; she deserved to be cherished and worshipped. The chair limited him to mere sensations—the feel of her skin, the rhythm of her movements, the sweetness of her taste. He needed to be patient to witness the moment she discovered true pleasure for the first time.

Perhaps if he were her first—the first to touch her, to feel her, to take her maidenhead—he would leave an indelible mark on her soul. She would remember him forever, even on her wedding night and the following nights. Even without the most intimate of touches, she had awakened a deep longing within him that he couldn't ignore. He yearned to be the one to ignite the flames of true pleasure within her and to hear her soft, velvety voice whisper his name in rapturous surrender. The thought of another person claiming the right to shatter her, to push her to the limits, and to witness her stunning features twisted in ecstasy was unbearable. She would see him, not some other man, in her mind's eye. Maybe she would gaze upon her firstborn child and imagine what a child with him would look like—a Valyrian offspring with snow-white hair and piercing purple eyes. The thought tormented him, a sweet temptation that echoed through his being.

He refused to let the beast win—that beast that wanted to break her innocence over a pathetic chair, as tempting as she was in her sheer gown. Instead, he encircled her waist with his arms and drew her nearer, their lips parting with the most lustful sound as they pulled apart to breathe, a translucent string of saliva still connecting their mouths. She let herself fall over him, her head resting on his shoulder as she struggled to catch her breath. The love he harboured for her was a tidal wave, threatening to engulf him at any moment, but having her close and feeling her warmth and weight in his embrace was a balm to his troubled mind. It was as if the world, with all its cares and worries, receded, leaving only the two of them, lost in the silence of their own private universe.

Nothing could prepare them for what would come next.

ᡣ𐭩 ─ author's note ;

i HATE this chapter lol. i feel like it's so much of the show content that i didn't really play around with more stuff, but at least i added an alone moment with lucerys and finally a moment with aemond at the end, to help spice things a little bit before that inevitable chapter where everything goes to shit.

as i think i have said before, this is not a story that will continue with the show or books, so after chapter three there will only be two more chapters remaining and i'm planning for the last one to be almost no-plot smut, since that is what this series was originally. i have added the posibilities to little "spin-offs" one shots in the masterlist and if everything goes right i will go through with them but after i'm done posting other content.

i apologize for any mistakes in grammar or something, i did not have much time for editing but i'm hoping that it gets better by the next chapters! i'm definitely trying to pull my big guns for the last two chapters for sure.

a big question; should i cover blood & cheese completely, or let it be something that happens in the background and is not written down? it will happen, and it will be referenced, i just don't know if i want to write it all going down.

chapter two; Sunday 10th. ╰⪼ thank you for reading!

[lunette-png]

Waves of Ithaca

Chapter 2: Anchored Shores

The suitors' laughter echoed, lingering within the palace walls. Its halls heavy with their presence, even after they have long retreated to their chambers. Their laughter, their voices drifted throughout the stone corridors- thin and mocking. Yet in the small courtyard, the world felt gentler, as if the island bent to cradle the royal family.

Beneath the twisted canopy of the many olive trees, soft woven cushions surrounded a low table. A warm breeze rustled the leaves, Penelope had insisted on a private meal, the servants- grateful for the reprieve, set up a modest spread; fresh bread, honeyed figs, olives slick with oil, and cool water drawn from the deepest well.

Telemachus sat cross-legged, eagerly stuffing his mouth bread with the vigor of a growing boy, crumbs dusting his tunic. His sister watched him, a fond smile curling her lips, a mixture of amusement and affection.

"Easy," she chuckled, "You’ll choke." As she promptly hands him a napkin, which he ignores.

He only grinned, his cheeks full, as he offered her a handful of olives as a peace offering. She took them, the salt and brine a welcome taste—reminding her that, despite everything, this was still home.

Penelope leaned back against the sturdy base of the tree, her fingers busy with a small spindle. Even here, surrounded by her children, she could not entirely shed the weight of her burdens. Her hands moved with practiced ease-weaving threads as she had woven lies and hope, each twist and pull a quiet defiance against those who dared steal from her home.

"Tell us of your voyage," Penelope said, her voice gentle. "The world beyond our shores—does it still remember us?"

Her daughter smiled, chewing thoughtfully before she spoke, her hair still tangled from the salt air. “The world is much the same. Men speak of heroes and wars, of treasures lost and found. They ask often of Father—of Odysseus, the cunning king.”

Telemachus paused, his smile fading. “And what do you tell them?"

She leaned back, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I tell them of Odysseus, the man of twists and turns. That his mind is as sharp as a serpent’s fang, his words as smooth as polished stone. That he is clever enough to weave lies into truth, and bold enough to sail where the sea itself holds its breath.”

Telemachus’s lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers worrying the frayed edge of his tunic. “And they believe you?”

“They do.” Her voice softened, a tender note in the cadence of her tales. “They listen as if the very earth might part to let him through. As if one day he’ll walk out of the mist, unaged and untouched, his ship cresting the horizon.”

His eyes drifted to the edge of the courtyard, where shadows crept with the dimming light. “You speak of him as if you knew him well.”

A silence settled over them, filled with the soft hum of cicadas and the distant crash of waves. “I only remember glimpses,” she said at last.

"His laughter, the way he’d lift me onto his shoulders. How he called me ‘my little naiad’ when I’d swim too far from the shore, more at home in the water than on land.”

Telemachus’s grip on his tunic tightened. “I wish I had such memories.” He hesitated, a raw edge to his voice. “All I am stuck with are legends of him—stories without a face, a father who’s more myth than man.”

The words hung between them, fragile as the thread Penelope spun between her fingers. Their mother’s hands stilled, her gaze drifting from her spindle to her children. “Legends live longer than men,” she murmured. “But I would trade every tale for just a glimpse of him.”

Her daughter’s expression softened. “Then I will tell them more stories, so he is never forgotten. So that when he returns, the world will be ready to greet him.”

Penelope’s face, so often a mask of patience, cracked with the smallest of smiles. “Your father’s shadow is long, but so is his love. He will see you, Telemachus. Both of you.”

Telemachus nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the empty sky. She reached for his hand, warm and steady, her touch a promise. He held on, and for a moment, the three of them sat in the courtyard—united by love, by loss, and by the stories yet to be written.

Silence settled over them, not uncomfortable but full. The kind of quiet that only families could share, where words were not always needed. (Y/N) closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the sun and the hum of cicadas wash over her.

Her mind drifted, not to the sea, but to whispers carried by the wind. She thought of the markets of Pylos, where a merchant had spoken of Hermes slipping through crowds unseen, his laughter ringing like silver. She thought of Delphi, where the sun seemed to burn a little brighter, as if Apollo himself watched from his golden chariot.

There had been moments—fleeting, like sea foam—where she had felt the weight of their gazes. An olive branch that had not yet bloomed curling toward her, a raven that had followed her ship for days, never straying too far. Signs, perhaps. Or mere coincidences.

She did not believe in coincidences.

"Are you thinking of leaving again?" Penelope asked, her voice as light as the breeze, but her eyes sharp.

She hesitated, brushing her thumb over the rim of her cup. "Not yet. I just got back, I'll be staying here for a while." she reassure her mother.

Penelope’s expression softened, and Telemachus leaned against her shoulder, his breathing slowing as sleep pulled him under. She wrapped an arm around him, cradling him as if he were still small enough to hold.

"Stay as long as you can," Penelope whispered.

"I will."

But the sea would call to her again. She could feel it, a low hum beneath her skin, a promise and a curse. And perhaps, somewhere beyond the horizon, someone else was listening, waiting—eyes as silver as twilight, as bright as the dawn.

AN: surprise! double update :DD these are kind of short, i apologise for that. i am currently finalising the chapters on my tablet, and i am not used to it- so hopefully once i get used to it then the chapters will be longer.

[minoulapin]

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

Pairing: Demon!Jungwon × Angel!Reader

Genre: Forbidden Love, Fantasy, Romance, Mystery

Teaser (prologue) wc: 1k

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

Release date: Soon I guess?!

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

Tag list: open!!

MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER

Where Heaven and Hell Collide

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But peace had never been easy.

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

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

Neither side trusted the other. Neither side ever would.

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

And then, one night, that illusion shattered.

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

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

The angels saw the brutality of the scene and knew.

Only a demon could have done this.

The demons looked upon the body and scoffed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Academy had been built to prevent war.

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

MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER

🏷️ @whateveridontcaresheesh @stormy1408 (comment to be added)

[dee-writes-anime]

Chapter 6: The Queen Rises

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

SUMMARY As Sukuna’s court gathers under the watchful skies of his domain, you find yourself thrust into a stage where loyalty is tested, strength is questioned, and whispers of rebellion threaten to crack the fragile balance of power. Facing scorn from lords and a direct challenge from a menacing curse user, you must prove your place at Sukuna’s side is not a weakness but a declaration of your unyielding will. 

CONTENT WARNINGS Includes depictions of magical combat with explosive energy clashes and descriptions of physical harm such as scars and burns, verbal and physical threats are made against the reader by a rival curse user, descriptions of severe scarring, missing body parts, and unsettling imagery of injuries, intense, charged interactions between Sukuna and the reader with suggestive language, physical proximity, and implied power dynamics, references to impending war, including the threat of large-scale conflict and the manipulation of alliances for power. 

PLAYLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

The morning light filtered through the shoji screens of my chambers, soft and muted, casting long, lattice-like patterns across the polished wood floors. The room was quieter than it had been the night before, but the stillness wasn’t comforting—it was heavy, expectant, as though the very air braced itself for what was to come. 

I pushed back the silk coverlet, the fabric slipping soundlessly to the lacquered floor as I sat up. My body ached faintly, the echoes of the trials I’d endured still pulsing through my limbs like the lingering memory of fire. There were bruises along my arms and shoulders, faint impressions left by the jagged tendrils of cursed energy I’d faced in the labyrinth, and a faint, dull burn in my chest where my own power had coiled too tightly. 

I let out a slow breath, the exhale curling faintly in the cool morning air, and shifted my gaze to the choker resting on its lacquered stand across the room. Its crimson gemstone pulsed faintly, a heartbeat that was not mine but echoed through the space nonetheless. Today, its light was sharper, brighter, casting restless patterns on the walls like the flicker of distant flames. 

It was a constant presence now, no longer just a symbol but a tether, an unspoken reminder of the position I had earned and the power I had yet to wield fully. I hadn’t touched it since removing it the night before, yet its energy threaded through the room like a whisper I couldn’t ignore. 

The faint murmur of voices from beyond the door drew my attention. They were hushed, urgent, carrying the clipped tones of commands and responses exchanged in rapid succession. The estate had been alive with tension since the feast, its usual stillness replaced by a bristling energy that rippled through the halls like the first tremors of an approaching storm. 

Below my window, the courtyard was a flurry of movement. Messengers in muted crimson robes darted between the gates and the grand hall, their figures blurred by the faint haze of morning mist. Guards stood at the perimeter, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons, their gazes sharp and unyielding. 

Something had shifted, though I couldn’t yet name what. 

A faint pressure brushed the edge of my awareness, sharp and deliberate. The weight of it coiled around me like smoke, heavy and inescapable, a presence I recognized instantly. 

The door opened without ceremony, the polished wood groaning faintly on its hinges as Sukuna entered. 

His robes whispered against the floor, the crimson and gold catching the morning light as his cursed energy swept into the room ahead of him. It was quieter than it had been the night before, more controlled, yet no less overwhelming. It clung to the air like the embers of a dying fire, deceptively calm but ready to ignite at a moment’s notice. 

I rose to my feet, my movements slow and deliberate, as his gaze swept over the room. His four eyes gleamed with sharp intensity, two half-lidded with amusement while the others tracked my movements with a deliberate precision that made the space between us feel smaller. 

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice low and cutting as he surveyed the room. 

“Comfort isn’t something I’ve had much of lately,” I replied, keeping my tone even as I met his gaze. 

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, as he stepped further into the room. “Good. You’ll find it’s overrated.” 

I folded my arms, the weight of his presence pressed against me, heavy but not suffocating. It was different now, less like the prowling of a predator testing its prey and more like the steady hum of power acknowledging an equal—or at least someone worthy of notice, “I assume this isn’t a social call.” 

“No,” he replied, stepping closer, his cursed energy brushing faintly against my senses. “They’re weaker.” 

“And more dangerous because of it,” I said, my tone firmer. 

His grin widened, the faint glint of his teeth catching the light. “Dangerous, yes. But not to you.” 

The certainty in his voice was sharp, cutting through the faint tension that lingered in the air. I held his gaze, searching for the mockery I was used to, but found none. Instead, there was something steadier, something unspoken that tightened the space between us. 

“Stand beside me,” he said suddenly, his voice dropping lower, softer, but no less commanding. 

The words sent a ripple of heat through my chest, the memory of his proposition the night before curling at the edges of my thoughts. He didn’t push the question now, but it lingered between us nonetheless—a presence that neither of us acknowledged but couldn’t ignore. 

“And if I don’t?” I asked, my voice quieter now, but still steady. 

His grin softened into something sharper, more deliberate. “You will,” he said simply, his tone carrying the weight of certainty. 

I clenched my hands at my sides, the pulse of the choker quickening faintly as the tension between us thickened. “The court doesn’t see me as you do,” I said, the edge of defiance creeping into my tone. 

“No,” he said, his gaze narrowing slightly. “But they will.” 

The weight of his cursed energy pressed against me again, heavier now, but it wasn’t meant to intimidate—it was meant to anchor, to steady. “They’ll see what I see,” he continued, his voice low but deliberate. “Someone who doesn’t bow. Someone who survives when others would fall.” 

The air between us crackled faintly, charged with something I couldn’t quite name. There was no question in his tone, no room for doubt. 

“You think it’s that simple?” I asked, my voice softer now, though the tension in my chest refused to ease. 

“Nothing is simple,” he said, his grin widening faintly. “But you don’t need simplicity. You need to show them that you’re not just here to survive—you’re here to rule.” 

The words struck like a blade, sharp and precise, settling into the quiet between us. I exhaled slowly, the pulse of the choker steadying as I held his gaze. 

“And if they challenge that?” I asked. 

His grin sharpened, his eyes gleaming with something darker, more dangerous. “Then you remind them who they’re dealing with.” 

His cursed energy flared briefly, brushing against me like the edge of a blade before settling into the charged silence that lingered between us. 

He stepped back toward the door, his movements slow but deliberate, the weight of his presence retreating but not disappearing entirely. 

“Don’t disappoint me,” he said, his voice quieter now, though it carried the sharp edge of a command. “You’ve earned your place, little witch. Now take it.” 

The faint click of the door closing behind Sukuna echoed in the quiet room, the weight of his presence still lingering in the charged air. I exhaled slowly, running a hand along the edge of the lacquered table where the choker rested, its faint pulse a constant reminder of the role I had been thrust into. 

Before I could gather my thoughts, the door opened again—not with the commanding weight of Sukuna’s entry but with a brisk, efficient movement that made me turn sharply. 

Uraume stepped inside, their pale eyes sharper than usual, darting around the room as though expecting someone—or something—to follow them. Their normally composed expression was faintly unsettled, the edges of their movements carrying a tension I hadn’t seen before. 

“Good morning to you too,” I said, folding my arms as I watched them close the door behind them with deliberate care. 

They didn’t reply immediately. Instead, they crossed the room in a few swift strides, their gaze scanning the walls as if ensuring no unseen ears lingered within the shadows. 

“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice firmer now, the unease radiating from them beginning to seep into me. 

When they finally looked at me, their expression had settled into something closer to their usual calm, though their movements remained brisk, deliberate. “The court gathering,” they said, their tone low but carrying a faint edge of urgency. “It’s not just a formality.” 

“Clearly,” I replied, leaning back slightly. “Sukuna didn’t exactly leave me under the impression it would be a casual affair.” 

Uraume’s gaze narrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing their features before they continued. “You should understand what you’re walking into,” they said, their voice sharper now, though it wasn’t directed at me. “The lords are restless.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “Restless how?” 

“There are factions among them,” Uraume said, their words deliberate, chosen with care. “Some are loyal—those who understand the weight of Lord Sukuna’s power and what it means to stand under his rule. But there are others who... waver.” 

“Waver,” I repeated, the word settling heavily in the air. 

“They question him,” Uraume said, their pale eyes meeting mine directly. “Not openly, of course. But in whispers, in careful movements. They see his favor toward you as a sign of weakness.” 

My chest tightened, though I kept my expression neutral. “So I’m a liability.” 

“To some,” Uraume replied. “To others, you’re a threat. It depends on their ambitions.” 

I moved to the window, staring down at the bustling courtyard below. The lords’ discontent wasn’t entirely surprising, but the weight of their perceptions pressed against me nonetheless. “And the gathering today?” 

“It’s more than an announcement,” Uraume said, stepping closer. “It’s a stage. Some will use it to affirm their loyalty. Others will use it to test yours.” 

I turned to face them, my jaw tightening. “Why warn me now?” 

“Because Lord Sukuna expects you to succeed,” Uraume said simply, their voice steady. “But more importantly, because if you fail, you won’t just lose his favor—you’ll lose everything.” 

Their words sank in like a blade, cutting through the lingering haze of confidence I’d carried from the feast. “You think I’m unprepared?” 

“I think you’ve proven your strength,” they said, their tone softening slightly. “But this isn’t about strength alone. It’s about survival. About knowing where to place your power—and where to withhold it.” 

Hints of something unspoken lingered in their gaze, a quiet warning that carried the weight of experience. 

“Who are my enemies?” I asked finally, my voice quieter now. 

Uraume’s lips quirked faintly, almost a smile, though it lacked warmth. “It’s not that simple. In Sukuna’s court, allies and enemies shift as easily as the wind changes direction. Today, someone may test you with hostility. Tomorrow, they may bow to you in feigned loyalty.” 

I folded my arms, the weight of their words pressing heavier against my chest. “And you?” 

They tilted their head slightly, their pale eyes narrowing faintly. “I’m not your enemy,” they said, their voice carrying a faint edge of amusement. “If I were, you’d already know.” 

The faintest flicker of a smile tugged at my lips, though it didn’t last. “What do you suggest, then?” 

“Be careful,” they said simply, stepping closer. “Watch their words. Watch their movements. Power is only half the battle in a place like this. How you wield it—and when you withhold it—will determine how long you survive.” 

Their gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, their expression unreadable. “They’ll test you. They’ll provoke you. And when they do, remember this: nothing they say matters if they’re kneeling before you by the end of it.” 

The words hung between us, sharp and deliberate, before they stepped back toward the door. 

“Thank you,” I said, my voice quieter now, though the weight of the conversation pressed heavily against me. 

They paused, their hand resting lightly on the doorframe as they glanced back at me. “Don’t thank me yet,” they said, their tone soft but edged with something faintly like concern. “The hardest part is still to come.” 

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the room in a tense silence. 

I turned back to the choker, its faint pulse steady and insistent, as though echoing the weight of Uraume’s warning. 

The courtyard stretched wide before us, its jagged stone columns reaching toward the overcast sky like fingers clawing at the heavens. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the faint metallic tang of cursed energy, a reminder of the immense power that suffused Sukuna’s domain. Ancient trees bordered the space, their gnarled branches casting shifting shadows over the smooth stone paths that wove through the gardens. 

At the center of it all was a raised platform, its edges carved from dark, jagged stone that gleamed faintly in the muted light. Surrounding it, Sukuna’s lords and emissaries had gathered in loose clusters, their silks and armor a riot of colors that clashed against the stark elegance of the courtyard. 

Their conversations were hushed, their glances sharp as they exchanged words too quiet to carry. Unlike the feast, this was no place for celebration. This was a gathering steeped in unease, its purpose clear in the tension that crackled through the air like the promise of a storm. 

I walked at Sukuna’s side, my hand resting lightly on his arm. His cursed energy coiled around him like smoke, brushing against my senses with every deliberate step. The pulse of the choker at my throat quickened faintly, its rhythm steady and insistent as I matched his stride. 

The lords fell silent as we entered the clearing, their voices dying as their gazes turned to us. The weight of their attention was sharp, assessing, but not unfamiliar. They had seen me before—at the feast, at the labyrinth’s end—and their unease now was not born of ignorance but of something deeper: doubt, suspicion, and the simmering undercurrent of jealousy. 

We ascended the dais, Sukuna’s pace unhurried, his presence commanding without the need for words. He didn’t need to take the jagged throne at the platform’s center to assert his authority. The air itself seemed to bend under the weight of his power, pressing against the gathered court with an unrelenting hand. 

I straightened as we reached the platform’s edge, the faint hum of the choker grounding me as I met the lords’ gazes. Some held my stare, their expressions carefully neutral but their eyes sharp with calculation. Others glanced away, unwilling to meet the force of Sukuna’s silent challenge. 

“You know why you’re here,” Sukuna said, his voice cutting through the silence like the edge of a blade. “You’ve all seen what she’s capable of. You’ve witnessed her strength.” 

The words weren’t an introduction—they were a reminder, delivered with the precision of a hammer striking iron. 

“Yet some of you still question,” he continued, his tone colder now, carrying the faintest edge of mockery. “You whisper in the shadows, cling to the hope that she is a momentary indulgence. That her strength is a flicker that will fade.” 

The tension in the courtyard sharpened, the silence thick with the weight of his words. The lords shifted uneasily, their discomfort rippling through the gathered court like a wave. 

Sukuna’s grin widened, razor-sharp, as his crimson eyes swept over them. “Let me make this clear,” he said, his tone dropping lower. “She stands under my protection. Not because she asks for it, but because she has earned it.” 

A murmur ran through the crowd, faint but unmistakable. The lords’ unease wasn’t born of ignorance—it was the result of their own ambitions being stifled, their doubts clashing against the undeniable reality of Sukuna’s decree. 

I held my chin high, the weight of their stares pressing against me but failing to crack the composure I had built. These were no strangers to me—they had seen me before, judged me before—and I wasn’t about to shrink under their scrutiny now. 

One of the lords, his robes deep red and lined with gold, stepped forward slightly. His expression was calm, but the sharpness in his eyes betrayed the calculation behind his every move. “We do not doubt her strength, my lord,” he said, his voice measured. “But strength alone is not enough to hold a place in your court.” 

Sukuna chuckled, the sound low and sharp, resonating through the courtyard like distant thunder. “Do you think I’ve chosen her lightly?” he asked, his gaze narrowing as he turned to the lord. 

“Of course not,” the lord replied smoothly, though there was a faint edge to his tone. “But loyalty is not given freely. It is earned.” 

The challenge hung in the air, subtle but deliberate, and the lords around him exchanged wary glances. 

Sukuna didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze to me, his grin sharpening into something colder, more deliberate. 

“Do you doubt her loyalty?” he asked, his voice soft but carrying a weight that pressed against the court like an iron hand. 

The lord hesitated, his composure faltering for the briefest of moments before he answered. “I do not doubt her loyalty to you,” he said carefully. “But loyalty to this court is another matter.” 

Sukuna’s laugh was sharper this time, cutting through the tension like the crack of a whip. “And who here dares to claim that their loyalty to this court outweighs their loyalty to me?” 

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of his words pressing down on the gathered lords until none dared to answer. 

“You’ll see soon enough,” Sukuna said, his tone softening into something more dangerous. “Her loyalty, her strength—they are not yours to question.” 

His cursed energy flared briefly, brushing against the gathered court like the edge of a blade. The lords bowed their heads, their unease spilling into reluctant submission. 

I stood beside him, the pulse of the choker steady against my throat as the weight of Sukuna’s declaration settled over the courtyard. Whatever doubts they held, whatever whispers they exchanged in the shadows, one thing was clear: 

They feared him. And now, they feared me too. 

The air shifted as a figure stepped forward from the edge of the gathering, their presence drawing every eye like the first roll of thunder before a storm. They moved with deliberate slowness, the heavy thud of their boots against the stone courtyard sending faint echoes through the unnerving silence. 

The curse user’s appearance was nothing short of grotesque—a study in violence rendered in flesh and bone. Their dark robes hung in jagged layers, stitched together with thick black thread that seemed barely able to contain the raw power radiating from their form. The fabric was frayed at the edges, as though scorched by fire, and lined with deep crimson patterns that twisted and curled like veins of molten lava. 

Their staff was a monstrous thing, carved from blackened wood that gleamed like obsidian under the flickering light of the braziers. Jagged shards of stone jutted from its surface, their edges sharp enough to draw blood with a touch. At its top, a misshapen crystal pulsed faintly, its glow erratic and wild, casting flickering shadows across the curse user’s face. 

And what a face it was. 

The left side of their head was marred by a jagged scar that stretched from their temple to the corner of their mouth, the flesh puckered and twisted as though melted by acid. Their skin was a patchwork of scars, some thin and pale, others thick and angry red, standing out starkly against their sallow complexion. A piece of their ear was missing, the jagged edges of the wound long since healed into a grotesque reminder of violence endured and survived. 

Their right eye was a pale, clouded white, its sightless gaze unyielding as it fixed on me with an intensity that made my chest tighten. The other eye, gleaming a sickly gold, burned with malice, its unrelenting glare heavy with judgment. Beneath it, their mouth twisted into a cruel grin, their teeth jagged and yellowed, bared in an expression that promised pain. 

The curse user’s body was no less unsettling. Their hands, skeletal and gnarled, clutched the staff tightly, their knuckles scarred and bruised as though they’d spent a lifetime breaking them against unyielding surfaces. Long, uneven nails curved like claws from their fingertips, blackened at the edges and faintly cracked. Their exposed forearms were corded with sinew, the muscles wiry and taut beneath skin that bore countless overlapping scars. 

As they moved further into the courtyard, their dark energy coiled outward, brushing against the gathered lords like the icy breath of a predator. It wasn’t the overwhelming, controlled power of Sukuna—it was raw, jagged, untamed. 

The murmurs that had filled the air moments before faded into a tense silence as the curse user stopped at the edge of the dais. They tilted their head slightly, their gaze sweeping over me with the slow, deliberate precision of someone cataloging a weakness. 

“Well,” they said, their voice low and rough, like gravel grinding beneath a boot. The sound carried effortlessly, slicing through the quiet like a blade. “I wondered if the whispers were true.” 

Their grin widened as they turned their golden eye to Sukuna, a mockery of deference in the slight dip of their head. “The great King of Curses, reduced to parading around a pet.” 

The tension in the courtyard thickened, the weight of their words pressing against the gathered lords like a vice. No one spoke, no one moved, their collective discomfort a silent acknowledgment of the curse user’s audacity. 

Sukuna didn’t react immediately. He stood motionless beside me, his crimson eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable. But the faint ripple of his cursed energy told a different story—a subtle, ominous shift that made the air feel sharper, colder. 

The curse user’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened, their yellowed teeth catching the dim light as they gestured toward me with a sharp jerk of their chin. “This is what you’ve chosen to represent your court? A witch playing at strength? Tell me, Sukuna, has she bewitched you so thoroughly that you’ve forgotten who you are?” 

The words struck with deliberate force, their mockery a weapon wielded with calculated intent. The other lords shifted uneasily, their gazes darting between Sukuna and the curse user, the weight of the brewing storm pressing against them like the tide pulling back before a wave. 

“You’ve grown soft,” the curse user continued, their voice rising, laced with disdain. “Indulging a creature like this. She weakens you, Sukuna. She diminishes your reputation. Your enemies will see this for what it is: a crack in your throne.” 

They slammed the base of their staff against the ground, the sound reverberating through the courtyard like the toll of a bell. “And when that crack widens, it will shatter you.” 

The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of their challenge pressing against my chest like an iron hand. But I didn’t flinch. 

My grip on Sukuna’s arm tightened slightly, the pulse of the choker at my throat quickening as I met the curse user’s golden gaze. There was no fear in my expression, only a sharp, simmering defiance that burned against the malice they aimed in my direction. 

Sukuna’s grin widened slowly, his crimson eyes gleaming with dangerous amusement. But he didn’t speak, didn’t move. 

Not yet. 

The hall stood frozen, the air sharp with anticipation as the curse user’s mocking words settled over the gathered lords like a veil of smoke. Whispers stirred faintly at the edges of the crowd—uneasy murmurs exchanged between wary glances, though a few lords allowed smirks to curl their lips, relishing the unfolding spectacle. 

Others were less amused. Shifting uncomfortably, they avoided looking directly at Sukuna, as if fearing that their silent observations might invoke his wrath. The air itself seemed to hum with tension, the braziers’ flames flickering erratically as cursed energy rippled faintly at the edges of the dais. 

I felt the weight of every gaze, the sting of every sharp glance, but I didn’t shrink beneath it. Instead, I stepped forward, the hem of my crimson gown whispering against the smooth stone as I placed myself between Sukuna and the curse user. 

The shift in the air was immediate. 

The lords’ murmurs grew louder, their voices rippling with a mix of surprise and curiosity. Some leaned forward slightly, their expressions sharp with intrigue, while others sat back, their eyes narrowing as they waited for me to falter. 

“You have a lot to say,” I said, my voice cutting through the quiet with a calm precision that carried far more weight than the venomous mockery that had preceded it. 

The curse user’s golden eye flicked to me, their scarred lips curling into a grin that was equal parts amusement and malice. “And the witch speaks,” they said, their tone laced with mockery. “Have you come to defend your master’s honor, little pet?” 

A faint ripple of laughter echoed from one corner of the hall, quickly silenced by a sharp glance from Sukuna’s crimson eyes. 

I tilted my head slightly, the faintest smile tugging at my lips as I met the curse user’s glare head-on. “You’re bold to stand here, speaking of honor,” I said, my tone smooth but edged with steel. “Bold, or desperate. Perhaps both.” 

The curse user’s grin faltered for the briefest moment, their expression hardening as a faint murmur ran through the lords. 

“I see no desperation in my standing,” they said, their voice colder now. “But I see plenty in yours. A witch clinging to the coattails of power, pretending to be more than what you are.” 

I took another step forward, the choker’s pulse steady against my throat as I allowed the faintest ripple of my own cursed energy to thread through the air. It wasn’t overwhelming—not yet—but it was enough to make the lords shift in their seats, their discomfort rippling outward like the widening circles of a disturbed pond. 

“Pretending?” I echoed, my voice soft but sharp. “Pretending is what you do when you stand here, trying to convince yourself that your words carry weight in his court.” I gestured faintly to Sukuna, whose expression remained unreadable, though his four eyes gleamed faintly with a dangerous amusement. “But they don’t. You’re nothing more than a whisper in the wind—a hollow threat wrapped in a tattered robe.” 

A murmur swept through the lords again, louder this time, tinged with approval from some and disbelief from others. 

The curse user’s grin vanished entirely, replaced by a sneer as their fingers tightened around the jagged staff they carried. “You think you can intimidate me?” they growled, their voice low and rough. “You think your borrowed strength makes you untouchable?” 

I held their gaze, the faint glow of the choker’s crimson gemstone flickering like firelight against the polished stone of the dais. “I don’t need to intimidate you,” I said, my voice calm. “Your fear is already written across your face.” 

The words struck like a blade, and the curse user’s cursed energy surged in response. The air grew colder, heavier, as their jagged power coiled outward in sharp, chaotic tendrils that rippled through the hall like the crack of a thunderstorm. 

Lords flinched, some recoiling from the raw energy as it lashed against the edges of the gathering, stirring the braziers’ flames into frenzied flickers. 

The curse user took a step forward, their staff slamming against the stone with a resonant crack that sent shards of light splintering outward. “You hide behind him,” they said, their voice rising with a cold, biting fury. “But let’s see what you are without Sukuna’s shadow to shield you.” 

Their cursed energy surged again, twisting into a jagged arc that lashed toward me with a force that made the ground beneath my feet shudder. The air burned sharp and cold, the raw power snapping like the strike of a whip as it tore toward me. 

I didn’t flinch. 

Instead, I raised a hand, the pulse of the choker igniting as my magic flared to life. The air around me shifted, the sharp, deliberate tendrils of my own energy coiling outward to meet the attack head-on. 

The collision was explosive. 

A burst of light filled the room as the two forces clashed, the resulting shockwave rattling the columns and shattering several of the delicate ornaments that lined the hall’s edges. Lords recoiled, some shielding their faces as the force rippled outward, sending faint vibrations through the polished stone floor. 

The curse user pushed harder, their jagged energy clawing at mine with wild ferocity. But where their power was raw and chaotic, mine was deliberate—shaped by precision, guided by intent. 

I took a step forward, my magic coiling tighter, sharper, cutting through the chaotic tendrils like a blade through fabric. The curse user’s sneer faltered, the golden glint of their eye narrowing as the balance shifted. 

“You think this display makes you strong?” they growled, their voice laced with fury as they pushed harder. 

“No,” I said, my voice steady as I took another step forward. “But it makes you weak.” 

The final surge of my power lashed forward, cutting through their energy entirely. The jagged tendrils shattered, dissolving into the air like smoke, as the force of the blow sent them stumbling back, their boots scraping against the polished stone. 

The room fell silent. 

Every gaze in the court was fixed on me, some wide with disbelief, others narrowing with grudging respect. The air was still heavy with tension, but it was no longer oppressive—it was charged with the undeniable reality of what had just unfolded. 

The curse user straightened, their staff trembling faintly in their scarred hand as they glared at me with unrestrained fury. “You’ll regret that,” they snarled, their voice low and venomous. 

It was then that Sukuna moved. 

He stepped forward, his pace unhurried, his crimson robes whispering against the stone as his cursed energy surged with a ferocity that sent chills racing down my spine. 

The curse user froze, their golden eye widening as Sukuna’s presence swallowed the space between us like a wave overtaking the shore. 

“You’ve made your point,” Sukuna said, his voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. “And now you will leave.” 

The curse user’s jaw tightened, their grip on their staff tightening as though they were contemplating another strike. But Sukuna’s grin widened, slow and deliberate, and the faint ripple of his cursed energy grew heavier, pressing against the room like the weight of an oncoming storm. 

“Unless,” he continued, his tone softening into something colder, more dangerous, “you’d prefer to stay and entertain me.” 

The words weren’t a threat—they were a promise, and the curse user knew it. 

They straightened, their sneer returning as they took a step back. “Enjoy your moment, Sukuna,” they said, their voice dripping with disdain. “It won’t last.” 

They turned toward the gathered lords, their golden eye sweeping over the court with calculated malice. “This is what your king has become—a fool blinded by indulgence.” 

The curse user’s voice rose, echoing through the hall with a chilling finality. “War is coming to your domain, Sukuna. And when it does, I’ll tear down this court and everything you hold dear.” 

The silence that followed was sharp, cutting through the room like the aftermath of a blade’s strike. 

Sukuna’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened, his amusement gleaming faintly in the sharp light of his crimson eyes. “Then you’d better bring everything you have,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “Because the last thing you’ll see is my shadow swallowing yours.” 

The curse user didn’t reply. With a sharp crack of their staff against the stone, they turned and strode toward the hall’s entrance, their energy trailing behind them like the ghost of a storm.  

The sound of the curse user’s footsteps faded into the distance, but their words lingered like a poison seeping into the air. For a moment, the hall was silent, the oppressive tension hanging heavy as the gathered lords processed what had just transpired. 

And then, chaos. 

Whispers rose first, sharp and urgent, like the rustling of dry leaves in a rising storm. Lords turned to one another, their voices rising with each passing moment, their fear and unease spilling over into frantic exchanges. Some gestured wildly, their silk sleeves fluttering like banners, while others kept their words low, their gazes darting nervously toward Sukuna as though afraid he might catch wind of their panic. 

“What does this mean?” one lord whispered harshly, his face pale and tight with tension. 

“They’ll attack!” another hissed, his voice trembling. “If war comes, none of us will—” 

“Silence!” a woman snapped, her fan snapping shut in her hand with a sharp crack. “Do you want him to hear you?” 

But the murmurs continued to build, rippling through the court like waves crashing against the jagged rocks of Sukuna’s presence. A few shouted outright, their voices laced with accusations and fear. 

“He’s made us vulnerable!” 

“This witch has brought ruin to our doorstep!” 

“She’s a liability!” 

The words cut through the air like blades, sharp and unforgiving, each one carrying the weight of the court’s mounting anxiety. 

I stood beside Sukuna, my chest tight as I processed the magnitude of what had just transpired. The curse user’s retreat wasn’t a surrender—it was a declaration of war, a promise that blood would be spilled, and that Sukuna’s dominion would be tested in ways even his lords feared to imagine. 

The pulse of the choker at my throat quickened, its energy threading through me like an anchor, grounding me as the storm of voices grew louder. I refused to look away, refused to let the weight of their stares and accusations crush me. 

Sukuna remained seated, his towering presence unshaken as he watched the chaos unfold. His expression was calm, almost amused, as though the shouting and whispering were nothing more than a distant echo of a storm that couldn’t reach him. 

And then he moved. 

Rising from his seat with a deliberate, unhurried motion, he stepped forward, his crimson robes pooling around him like molten fire. His cursed energy surged, coiling outward in a wave that pressed against the gathered lords like an iron hand. 

The room fell silent in an instant. 

Every voice stilled, every head turned, the weight of Sukuna’s presence swallowing the chaos as though it had never existed. The lords froze where they stood, their gazes fixed on him with a mixture of fear and reverence. 

Sukuna’s crimson eyes swept over them, two half-lidded with faint amusement, while the others gleamed with a sharp, predatory focus. His grin widened slowly, deliberate and menacing, as though savoring the weight of their collective fear. 

“Are you done?” he asked, his voice low and resonant, cutting through the silence like the crack of a whip. 

The lords flinched, their discomfort palpable as they bowed their heads, some murmuring faint apologies under their breath. 

Sukuna stepped forward, his movements slow but deliberate, his cursed energy rippling through the air like the distant rumble of thunder. He stopped at the edge of the dais, his gaze turning to me briefly before sweeping back to the gathered court. 

“Let them come,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of absolute certainty. “I’ll enjoy this.” 

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike, their finality pressing against the lords with a force that left no room for argument. 

His grin sharpened, the faint gleam of his teeth catching the light as his crimson eyes burned with anticipation. “War is not a threat to me,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, almost a purr. “It is an opportunity. And I suggest you remember that.” 

The lords exchanged uneasy glances, their fear barely concealed as they bowed their heads again, their voices stilled by the suffocating weight of his presence. 

Beside him, I straightened, the pulse of the choker steadying me as I met his gaze. His expression didn’t soften—not for me, not for anyone—but the faintest flicker of approval glinted in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of my place at his side. 

The storm had come. 

And Sukuna stood at its center, unshaken, unrelenting, and utterly unafraid. 

The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of braziers casting shifting shadows across the lacquered walls. The faint hum of cursed energy lingered in the air, sharp and steady, as though the estate itself was bracing for what was to come. 

I stood near the low lacquered table at the center of the room, my fingers brushing against its polished surface. Uraume sat cross-legged at the opposite end, their pale eyes sharp and focused, their usual composure carrying a subtle edge of tension. 

Sukuna leaned against the far wall, his crimson robes pooling around him like molten fire. His four eyes gleamed faintly in the flickering light, their sharp intensity fixed on the map spread across the table. 

The silence stretched, heavy and expectant, until Sukuna finally spoke. 

“They’ve been planning this for some time,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. His tone wasn’t angry—if anything, it carried a faint edge of amusement, as though the idea of an impending war was more of an inconvenience than a threat. “They wouldn’t dare move against me without reason. Or desperation.” 

Uraume nodded, their fingers tracing the edge of the map. “The curse user who appeared today,” they began, their tone measured, “is Kaito of the Obsidian Claw. A known figure in the western regions. He’s ruthless and ambitious, but until now, he hasn’t had the power to challenge you directly.” 

“And now he thinks he does,” I said, my voice calm but edged with defiance. 

Uraume’s gaze flicked to me, their expression unreadable. “He wouldn’t have issued a challenge without allies. This isn’t just his doing. There are others—likely curse users and lesser lords dissatisfied with Sukuna’s rule. Their rebellion isn’t born of strength, but of collective arrogance.” 

Sukuna chuckled, the sound low and sharp, reverberating through the room like the tolling of a distant bell. “Arrogance is easy to crush,” he said, his grin widening. “But collective arrogance? That could be entertaining.” 

I glanced at him, my brow furrowing slightly. “You’re treating this like a game,” I said, my tone sharper than intended. “But they aren’t bluffing. Kaito isn’t the type to back down, not after a declaration like that.” 

Sukuna’s gaze shifted to me, his grin softening into something colder, more deliberate. “And why should I be worried?” he asked, his voice laced with mockery. “Do you doubt my ability to handle this?” 

“No,” I replied evenly, holding his gaze. “But dismissing them entirely would be a mistake. They’re betting on that arrogance.” 

The air between us crackled faintly, the weight of his cursed energy brushing against my senses. But I didn’t falter. 

“She’s right,” Uraume said suddenly, breaking the tension. “Kaito knows he can’t match your power alone. He’ll rely on numbers, on alliances that give the illusion of strength. He’ll strike where he believes you’re vulnerable—through your court, your lords, even your borders.” 

Sukuna’s grin widened, his eyes narrowing with sharp amusement. “And let him try. It’s been far too quiet around here. A little chaos might do everyone some good.” 

Uraume’s expression didn’t change, but their tone shifted, carrying a faint edge of urgency. “This isn’t just about the court, my lord. Kaito’s challenge today wasn’t just aimed at you. It was aimed at her.” 

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. 

I straightened, the pulse of the choker at my throat quickening as Sukuna’s gaze flicked back to me. 

“Of course it was,” Sukuna said, his voice dropping lower, almost a purr. “They see her as the crack in my foundation. The weakness they can exploit.” 

“They’re wrong,” I said sharply, my voice cutting through the tension. 

Sukuna’s grin widened further, his expression gleaming with dangerous satisfaction. “Prove it, little witch,” he said softly, his tone both a challenge and a command. 

Uraume’s gaze shifted between us, their pale eyes narrowing slightly. “If Kaito believes she’s the weak link, he’ll target her directly. He’ll aim to discredit her, to drive a wedge between her and the court. And if he succeeds, it won’t just weaken her—it’ll reflect on you.” 

The weight of their words pressed against the room, the charged silence stretching taut. 

I exhaled slowly, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “Then I’ll face him,” I said, my tone steady despite the tightness in my chest. 

Sukuna chuckled, his voice low and resonant. “Oh, you’ll face him, little witch,” he said, his crimson eyes gleaming with sharp intent. “And when you do, you’ll remind him why he never should have dared to stand against me.” 

Uraume’s lips pressed into a thin line, their expression unreadable as they inclined their head. “If we’re to prepare, we’ll need to gather intelligence—confirm his alliances, his movements, and the full extent of his plans. That will take time.” 

“Time I’ll give you,” Sukuna said, his tone soft but carrying the weight of command. He turned to me, his grin softening into something sharper, more calculating. “But when the time comes, you’ll be ready. Won’t you?” 

I met his gaze, the pulse of the choker steadying me as I straightened. “I’ll be ready.” 

Sukuna’s grin widened, his satisfaction gleaming faintly in the flickering light. “Good,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Because war is coming. And I intend to enjoy every moment of it.” 

Uraume inclined their head, their sharp, pale eyes lingering on Sukuna for a moment before flicking to me. There was something unsaid in their gaze—a quiet warning, perhaps, or an acknowledgment of the tension that crackled faintly in the air between us. 

“Then I’ll see to the preparations,” Uraume said, their tone even but carrying an edge of finality. 

Sukuna dismissed them with a wave of his hand, his focus already shifting. The door clicked shut behind Uraume, the faint sound swallowed by the thick, charged air of the room. The glow of the braziers cast flickering shadows across the lacquered walls, the firelight catching on Sukuna’s robes as he shifted. His cursed energy pressed outward in slow, deliberate waves, brushing against my senses like smoke curling around a flame. 

I stood still, my heart thrumming steadily against the pulse of the choker at my throat. Sukuna didn’t speak immediately. He turned instead, his movements slow and deliberate, his crimson robes pooling around him like molten fire as he leaned against the low table. 

When he finally looked at me, his four eyes held a dangerous gleam, their sharp intensity leaving no room for misinterpretation. 

“You’re holding your own well, little witch,” he said, his tone carrying the faintest edge of amusement. “But tell me—are you truly as fearless as you pretend to be?” 

I lifted my chin slightly, refusing to shrink under the weight of his gaze. “I don’t need to pretend,” I said evenly. “I’ve stood before you, haven’t I?” 

His grin widened, slow and predatory, as he pushed off the table and began to move toward me. The air seemed to thrum with his presence, his cursed energy coiling tighter, sharper, as though testing the limits of my composure. 

“Brave words,” he murmured, his voice low, a velvet rasp that sent a shiver racing down my spine. “But bravery and foolishness often walk hand in hand.” 

“And which do you think I am?” I countered, forcing my voice steady despite the tension tightening my chest. 

He stopped just a pace away, towering over me, his gaze burning with unspoken intent. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” he said softly, the corner of his mouth curling into a grin. “You’re still standing, which is more than most can say. But standing and enduring are two different things.” 

I didn’t flinch, even as his cursed energy brushed against me, warm and suffocating, its weight settling against my skin like a second heartbeat. 

“Maybe you’re testing the wrong person,” I said, my voice sharp despite the heat building between us. 

His grin deepened, his teeth catching the light like the gleam of a blade. “Oh, I know exactly who I’m testing,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower. 

Before I could respond, he moved closer, his hand bracing against the wall beside my head with a sharp crack that sent a jolt through the air. His other hand found my waist, his grip firm but not painful, pulling me flush against the cool surface of the wall. 

The heat of him was overwhelming, his cursed energy pressing against me with a force that left no space for air, no room for doubt. His crimson eyes burned into mine, their sharp intensity leaving my chest tight, my breath shallow. 

“You’re different,” he said, his tone softening into something more deliberate, more dangerous. “You don’t tremble. You don’t break. And I can’t decide if that makes you clever—or reckless.” 

“Maybe it makes me neither,” I said, my voice quieter now but edged with defiance. 

His grin shifted, softening into something darker as his nose brushed lightly against my temple, his breath warm against my skin. “No,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. “It makes you mine.” 

The words sent a rush of heat through me, the weight of their implication leaving me momentarily breathless. My hands twitched at my sides, caught between the instinct to push him away and the maddening pull that drew me closer. 

“You assume too much,” I said finally, my voice steady despite the storm building between us. 

His laughter was soft, a low rumble that vibrated against my senses. “Do I?” he asked, his tone dripping with mockery. “Or are you simply afraid to admit that you feel it too?” 

I turned my head slightly, my gaze locking onto his with a sharp defiance I barely felt. “Feel what?” 

His lower hand shifted, his thumb brushing lightly against the curve of my waist. “This pull,” he said softly. “This fire between us. You’re not blind to it—you’re just afraid of what it might burn.” 

The air between us crackled like lightning, the pulse of the choker quickening against my throat as his cursed energy coiled tighter, pressing against me like a vice. His gaze dropped briefly to my lips, the motion deliberate, maddening, before returning to meet mine. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” I said, my voice sharp but quiet, each word deliberate. 

“No,” he said, his voice low, a quiet growl. “You’re afraid of yourself.” 

The words hit harder than I expected, a blade that carved through the tension with unsettling precision. His upper left hand moved to tilt my chin upward, his claws brushing lightly against my jaw as he brought my face closer to his. 

“I see it in you,” he murmured, his tone carrying a dark satisfaction. “The power you keep caged. The fire you’re too scared to let consume you. But it will, little witch. One way or another, it will.” 

My breath hitched, the weight of his cursed energy suffocating, the heat of him leaving no space for thought, only sensation. His lips hovered just a breath away from mine, his gaze unrelenting, as though daring me to close the distance. 

“Stop playing games,” I said, my voice trembling between defiance and something far more dangerous. 

He chuckled softly, the sound low and resonant as his teeth grazed the edge of my jaw, the motion deliberate and maddeningly slow. “This isn’t a game,” he said, his voice a velvet rasp against my skin. “This is inevitability.” 

The words hung heavily between us, the tension suffocating as the pull between us became unbearable. And then, just as suddenly, he pulled back, his cursed energy retreating like a tide, leaving the air cold and empty. 

“Think on it,” he said, his grin sharp and triumphant as he stepped away. “You won’t resist forever.” 

He disappeared into the shadows, his presence lingering in the faint hum of the choker and the wild thrum of my heartbeat. I leaned against the wall, my chest heaving as I fought to steady myself, the storm he left in his wake raging long after he was gone. 

dividers by @strangergraphics

AUTHORS NOTE I'm trying my hardest to keep up a schedule of putting a new chapter out everyday, but my college classes have started up again, so be forewarned that I may not be able to have a new chapter out as consistently. I'll try my best to keep up, but know you have my sincerest apologies if I fail to make it.

TAGLIST @slutlight2ndver @surielstea @duhhitzstarr @arcanefeelings @numbuh666 @tejan-sunny @lavenderandoranges @after-laughter-comes-tears @maomimii @theplacetoputfics

[cabbihugger]

So, here's shit 8th grade Cabbi wrote...

I think he tried, I think each night, when the shadows grew long and the rest of Ithaca slept, Telemachus would slip from his chamber, silent as the moon's pale light. The suitors, ignorant of his movements, snored beneath the roof of his house, drunk on wine and dreams of conquest. Yet Telemachus, the son of the absent king, did not sleep. No, in the quiet, when the world was heavy with the scent of salt and pine, he sought something he could not name. 

The great hall was still at this hour, and the only sound that echoed against its stone walls was the soft creak of the door as Telemachus stepped into the dimly lit chamber. There, where the suitors once mocked and made merry, now sat the bow of Odysseus, resting upon the polished stone floor. 

A relic. A weapon. A father’s soul.

With slow, careful steps, Telemachus approached the bow. His breath was shallow, and his pulse quickened, but he did not hesitate. His fingers hovered over it, as though the very air itself held the weight of destiny, as though the bow itself might speak to him—if only he could listen well enough. 

He did not speak aloud, not even to himself. There was no need. The silence between him and the bow was a language of its own. Every night, for weeks, he had come here, drawn by an unseen force that gnawed at his heart, a hunger that no meal nor speech could still. He would sit before it, kneeling, tracing the wood with the pads of his fingers, seeking some piece of his father he could not grasp.

The bow was so much more than wood and string. It was the echo of a man who had been a king, a wanderer, a warrior whose name had been sung in lands far beyond the reach of these walls. Telemachus could feel that weight, a weight that pressed down on him like the sea upon the fragile shores of his youth.

The string was taut, but the wood was smooth beneath his fingertips, worn with the calluses of a thousand battles. He would press his palm against it, willing it to reveal its secret. What did it hold? What did it want from him?

He had tried to string it. He had tried to lift it, to pull it with all his strength, but each time, the bow had resisted, as if laughing at him, daring him to find the key to unlock its power. But there was nothing to be found in its curves or its strings, no hidden message inscribed upon the wood. It was as though the bow were waiting, waiting for something from Telemachus that he could not give.

Tonight, as the moon hung low and the stars cast their distant gaze upon the land, Telemachus sat, as he always did, and let his fingers trace the intricate carvings upon the bow’s shaft. A crescent, like the shape of the moon. A wave, like the sea he had never known. Symbols of home, of travel, of a life shaped by both the gods and the fates.

But none of it answered him.

He leaned forward then, his brow furrowed, his eyes searching the darkened corners of the hall as though some hidden god might be watching. He closed his eyes and let the silence consume him, the quiet of the night, the stillness of the bow, and his own beating heart. 

What was it he sought? A sign? A memory? The ghost of his father, still alive in the strength of the bow? Or perhaps it was something deeper, something that only the gods could answer—the question of his own becoming, of what it meant to inherit such a legacy. 

Telemachus did not know. But still, night after night, he returned, as if in the silence of these stolen hours, he might find some answer to the puzzle of his life.

His fingers brushed the bow again, slow and deliberate, feeling the grain of the wood. And in that touch, something stirred—though faint, like a whisper, like the wind tugging at his heart. He could feel it—something. It was not strength alone, nor skill, that bound his father to this bow. It was a bond of will, of courage that transcended blood and bone. 

And yet, Telemachus knew he was not his father. He had not lived the years of hardship. He had not sailed through storms, nor fought the gods and monsters that his father had faced. What could this bow possibly want from him—this young, untried prince who had only tasted the bitter edge of absence?

He did not know. But he could not stop himself from coming back.

Tonight, as his fingers rested against the bow, the world outside seemed to quiet even further. The wind was still. Even the waves, which normally pounded against the cliffs of Ithaca, were hushed, as though the sea itself had paused to listen. For in that moment, Telemachus felt—he felt—a connection. A faint, flickering spark, the distant echo of a father's presence.

But the bow did not bend. The string did not yield.

And so, as always, Telemachus rose from his place before the weapon, his heart heavy with the knowledge that the answer would not come tonight. Not yet. 

With a sigh, he slipped back into the shadows of the hall, back to the solitude of his room, the weight of the bow still in his fingers, still in his mind, still pulling him toward the place he could not reach. 

Each night, the bow would wait. And so would he.

[therogueflame]

The Bronze Reign Chapter 11 - Crown in Hand

hi,

this one is sad and also kinda frus tratin. i so sorry

The song for this chapter is No Choir by Florence and the Machine.

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Summary: In the aftermath of a mysterious tragedy, tensions rise swiftly within the Red Keep, reshaping alliances and placing Princess Vysaria's family in a precarious position. As whispers and schemes gather momentum, the fragile balance of power begins to shift dramatically.

WC: 5.3k

Warnings: 18+, depictions of fatal injury, major character death, emotional distress, political manipulation, otto being otto, family trauma (lol)

previous chapter

MDNI!!!!

Six months of preparations, a fortune in gold, and the realm’s finest knights—and now it had drawn to a close. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, but the air still carried the echoes of the day’s cheers, the clash of steel, the heavy drum of hooves against packed earth. The banners of great houses had snapped in the wind, their colors bold against the evening sky, while the last of the knights had fought for glory in the fading light. The realm had come to witness the spectacle, to see strength and skill on display, to celebrate the birth of the newest Targaryen prince. Baelon had slept through most of the jousts, too young to care, but not too young to squirm free of his nursemaid’s arms or shriek with delight when the horns sounded. At nine months old, he was heavy and curious and impossible to ignore.

Viserys had laughed, drinking deeply, basking in the moment. He had watched from the royal box, wine in hand, his eyes bright with something that had grown rare in recent years. He had clapped heartily as a young knight from the Reach unseated a seasoned veteran. He had nodded with satisfaction as Daemon rode into the lists, cutting through his opponents with the practiced ease of a man who had never known defeat. The crowd had chanted his name, and Viserys had lifted his cup in approval, the pride of his House swelling in his chest.

For the first time in years, he had felt like a king.

The weight of the crown had not pressed so heavily upon him in those hours. The burdens of rule had not lingered in the back of his mind. His grandson had been honored, the realm had been reminded of Targaryen strength, and for a time, there was no war looming on the horizon, no whispers of doubt creeping through the court. There was only this. The triumph, the pageantry, the familiar warmth of wine filling his veins.

He drank more than usual.

Otto had kept close, standing just behind him, speaking to him softly, carefully. The words never left the privacy of their conversation, their meaning lost beneath the roar of the crowd, but Viserys had listened, nodding, his expression shifting between moments of contemplation and fleeting indulgence. At times, his grip on his goblet had tightened, his lips pressing together in something almost like reluctance. But then another cheer would rise from the stands, another knight would fall, and he would lift his cup once more, letting the weight of Otto’s words drift away with the evening breeze.

The feast had gone late into the night, spilling from the tourney grounds into the great hall, where wine flowed freely and the lords of the realm toasted to the strength of House Targaryen. Viserys had remained at the high table, his goblet never empty, his laughter carrying over the din of conversation. He had watched knights recount their victories with flushed faces and loud voices, had listened as lords and ladies spoke of the day’s finest tilts and debated the skill of the competitors. He had smiled, nodding along, letting himself be swept up in the warmth of it all.

When at last the guests began to drift from the hall, some toward their chambers, others toward the brothels and gambling dens of the city below, Viserys rose slowly from his seat. The movement was heavier than it had been earlier, the wine in his veins slowing him, his body swaying just slightly before he steadied himself. Otto had been there, as he always was, a quiet presence at his side.

“I’ll have men escort you back, Your Grace,” Otto murmured.

Viserys waved him off with a lazy motion of his hand. “No need. I’ve walked these halls long before you were my Hand.”

Otto did not press the matter, only inclined his head. “Of course, Your Grace.”

A small smile tugged at the edges of Viserys’s lips as he turned toward the doors, stepping into the cool air of the corridor beyond. The castle was different at night, the torches lining the stone walls casting long shadows, their flames flickering in the quiet. The sounds of the city below still carried faintly through the open windows, laughter and music spilling up from the streets, but within the Red Keep, all was still.

Viserys walked alone, his footfalls echoing softly as he made his way toward his chambers. His limbs felt heavier now, the lingering warmth of wine settling deep in his bones. The quiet pressed around him, wrapping him in its embrace, and for a fleeting moment, he thought of his bed, of the comfort of silk sheets, of the rest that would come when his head finally touched the pillow.

He did not hear the second set of footsteps at first. Not until he turned a corner and found himself face to face with Ser Criston Cole. The knight stood at attention, his expression impassive, his posture straight as ever. His hand rested lightly against the pommel of his sword, his fingers curled loosely around the hilt.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Criston inclined his head. “Your Grace.”

Viserys exhaled through his nose, offering the man a small nod. He moved to step past him, but Criston did not move.

“The stairs,” the knight said, his voice carefully even. “Let me assist you.”

Viserys huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I am not a feeble old man, Ser Criston.”

“No, Your Grace.” A pause. “But you have had much to drink.”

Viserys’s lips pressed together, his expression flickering between amusement and mild irritation. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Very well.”

He stepped forward. Criston moved at the same time. A misstep. A stumble. 

The sound of his body hitting stone echoed down the hall. The king’s crown rolled several feet away, its polished metal catching the dim torchlight.

Criston stood motionless for a moment, his breath steady as he took in the sight before him. The king lay sprawled across the landing, his body twisted at an awkward angle where the stairwell curved. His head had struck the edge of the step, and already, blood was pooling beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the stone. The air was thick with the scent of wine, of sweat, of something heavier.

He stepped forward, kneeling beside the king, his movements measured. His hand pressed against Viserys’s throat, fingers seeking the flutter of a pulse. It was there—weak, but there. His breathing was shallow, uneven. The wound on his head had already begun to stain the wrappings of his cloak, the fabric darkening beneath the slow, steady spread of blood.

"Guards!" Criston called, his voice even.

The clang of armor and hurried footsteps sounded from down the corridor. The Red Keep had grown quieter in the late hours, but the presence of the Kingsguard was constant. The first guard appeared at the top of the stairwell, his eyes widening as he took in the scene.

"The king has fallen," Criston said, rising to his feet.

The guard hesitated only a fraction of a second before rushing down the steps, another man following close behind. One of them dropped to his knees, fingers ghosting over the king’s shoulder as if hesitant to move him. The other lingered, glancing toward Criston, his expression unreadable.

"He is alive," Criston continued, his voice as steady as it had been when he had called for them. "Fetch the maesters."

The second guard hesitated a moment longer before nodding sharply and turning on his heel, disappearing down the corridor at a brisk pace. The remaining guard pressed a cloth against the wound, though the bleeding did not slow.

Criston exhaled, adjusting the set of his shoulders. The torches lining the stairwell flickered, their dim glow casting shifting shadows along the stone walls. The castle was silent now, the last remnants of revelry long faded, but there was something different about the quiet that had settled here.

The guards shifted, glancing at one another, their gazes flickering briefly back to Criston. The landing was empty. The corridors leading to the stairwell had been quiet. No one had been near enough to see, no one had been near enough to hear.

The maesters would arrive soon. The whispers had already begun.

The king had been drinking. Too much. He had not walked as steadily as he usually did. He had laughed too heartily during the final feast, his voice carrying above the revelry, his cup never empty for long.

It was an accident. That was what they told themselves. That was what they repeated in hushed voices as the news spread through the castle, moving from corridor to corridor like a slow, creeping fog.

But not all were so quick to accept it. The fall should not have been enough to kill him.

The king had not been a feeble man. His steps had been slower in recent years, his body softer, but he had not been frail. He had woken that morning as he always had, broken his fast, attended court, spoken of the coming weeks, of trade agreements, of the next steps that needed to be taken for the stability of the realm. He had moved through the Red Keep with purpose, his voice measured, his mind sharp. And now, hours later, he lay unmoving, his breath shallow, his skin clammy with fever.

The king was carried back to his chambers, his body still warm, but unresponsive. The maesters hovered over him, their hands pressing against his flesh, their voices hushed as they worked. They drained blood, applied poultices, pressed damp cloths to his forehead in the hope of easing the swelling beneath his skull. They mixed potions, fed him medicinal broths, whispered quiet prayers beneath their breath.

But they could not wake him.

His breaths were ragged and weak, his face paler than ever. The wound at the back of his head had been cleaned, the bandages wrapped tight, but the blood had already seeped through the linen. There was nothing more to be done.

The King of the Seven Kingdoms, reduced to a pale, unmoving figure upon his bed.

Outside his chambers, the castle moved with uneasy stillness. Servants continued their tasks, but their hands moved slower, their voices quieter. Guards stood at their posts, but their eyes strayed toward the doors more often, their grip tightening on their swords as if expecting some unseen threat to emerge. Lords and ladies gathered in whispered conversations, their words cautious but edged with something sharper, something heavier. Concern, curiosity, calculation.

The news reached Aemma first.

The servant who came to her chambers carried himself with the stiff, uneasy composure of a man who knew he bore ill tidings. He stood just inside the doorway, hands clasped before him, shoulders squared, eyes carefully fixed ahead. His voice was steady, the words practiced, measured, lacking the frantic edge of panic that might have accompanied a lesser crisis. The king had fallen, he said. He was alive, but he had not woken. The maesters were with him now, tending to his injuries, doing all that could be done. The words were spoken with care, their delivery meant to prepare her rather than shock her, as if softening them might make the reality of them any less grave.

She did not ask how it had happened. She did not ask what the maesters had said or what wounds they had tended or if he had stirred even once since he had been found. The servant stood still, waiting for her to speak, waiting for some acknowledgment, some command, but she gave him none. She simply rose, one hand smoothing over the front of her gown, the other moving to adjust the fall of her sleeves, her gestures as practiced and precise as they had always been. The servant lingered a moment longer, perhaps expecting a question or a sign of distress, but she offered nothing. When she stepped forward, her posture was straight, her face unreadable, her pace brisk but steady.

She did not run. She had not run in years.

She moved through the castle with quiet urgency, her steps carrying her through the torchlit corridors, her breath slow and even despite the sharp pull beneath her ribs. The halls were not yet fully awake, the remnants of the evening’s celebrations still clinging to the air, the scent of spiced wine and burnt-out candles lingering in the cold stone. The echoes of her footsteps stretched ahead of her, filling the spaces where voices would soon rise, where servants would whisper, where lords and ladies would gather in hushed conversations, speculating, questioning, deciding what this meant for the realm.

She felt the shift in the air before she saw the guards posted outside Viserys’s chambers. They stood with rigid backs, hands resting on the pommels of their swords, their eyes sharp but careful. There was no need to speak. They stepped aside as she approached, their movements precise, wordless, automatic. They had been expecting her.

The door opened easily beneath her touch, revealing the chamber beyond.

The scent struck her first. The sharp, cloying aroma of burning herbs clung thickly to the air, mingling with something heavier beneath it, something metallic, something that did not belong. The fire in the hearth had been built high, casting long flickering shadows against the stone walls, the dim light dancing over the hunched figures of the maesters who moved around the bed, their heads bent low, their hands moving with quick, efficient precision.

Viserys lay still beneath the deep red blankets, his body slack against the pillows, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

She crossed the room without hesitation, barely glancing at the maesters, barely acknowledging the low murmur of their voices as they worked. Her focus did not waver, did not shift from the figure in the bed, from the sight of the man she had known for so many years now lying motionless, his face pale, his mouth slack, his fingers limp where they rested atop the blankets.

She reached for him, her movements careful but certain. Her fingers ghosted over his knuckles before she curled them around his larger hand, pressing her palm against his, feeling the warmth of his skin, feeling the wrongness of his stillness.

He was not cold. His body had not yet lost the heat that had always radiated from him, the warmth she had known since the earliest days of their marriage, the same warmth she had sought in the coldest of winters, the same warmth that had steadied her in the wake of every loss, of every sorrow, of every moment when she had needed him to be the unshakable thing that held them together. He was warm, but he was not there.

His fingers did not tighten around hers. His chest barely moved with each breath.

She had sat beside him many times before, through the weariness of the crown, through the nights when he had been exhausted by court, by council, by the burdens that came with ruling, but never like this. Never in this unbearable stillness.

She tightened her grip, as if she could tether him back to the world, as if she could will the warmth beneath her fingertips into something more, as if she could wake him with nothing more than her presence.

She did not cry. She had shed enough tears over the years. Tears had never undone what had been lost, had never reversed fate, had never changed the course of what had already been set in motion. There was no use for them now. So she sat beside him, her back straight, her hands firm around his, unmoving, willing him to wake.

Vysaria arrived soon after, Baelon cradled securely in her arms, his warmth pressing into her chest. She had been in the nursery when the knock came, firm but not frantic, a quiet but insistent summons that sent a slow, creeping weight settling into her ribs. The guard who delivered the message had spoken carefully, his words measured, as though he feared the wrong phrasing might bring some irreversible change. The king had fallen. He lived, but he had not woken. The maesters were tending to him.

She had not reacted at first. She had remained seated, Baelon resting against her shoulder, his tiny fingers curling into the fabric of her gown, his breath soft and steady against her skin. The fire in the nursery crackled quietly, the warmth of it wrapping around her, the scent of lavender and honey still lingering from the evening’s routine. For a moment, the words did not seem real, did not belong in the quiet sanctuary of this space. But the guard remained standing in the doorway, waiting.

She rose without hurry, adjusting her hold on Baelon, tucking the edge of his blanket more securely around him. She did not speak. She did not need to. The guard stepped aside as she passed, falling into step behind her as she moved through the halls. The castle felt different now. The tourney had ended, the last of the celebrations had long since faded, but the echoes of them still lingered in the air, clashing with the unease that had begun to spread through the Red Keep like an unseen draft. The corridors felt heavier, the servants who moved through them quieter, their usual glances and curtsies replaced with sidelong looks and hurried steps. The torches lining the walls burned just as they had the night before, casting the same flickering glow, but something in the air had changed, something in the way people carried themselves, in the way their voices dropped into hushed murmurs that ended abruptly when she passed.

The guards stationed outside her father’s chambers stood rigid, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords, their expressions carefully blank. Their armor caught the firelight, polished steel gleaming against the dark fabric beneath, their shoulders squared, their stance unyielding. One of them shifted slightly when he saw her approaching, his fingers twitching against the pommel of his blade before stilling again. The door opened before she reached it. No words were exchanged, no permissions sought. She stepped inside.

The scent of burning herbs clung thick in the air, mixing with the heat of the fire that burned too high in the hearth. The flickering light sent shifting shadows against the stone walls, stretching over the silent figures of the maesters who moved around the bed, their voices hushed, their hands quick and careful. The room was too warm, the air stifling, thick with the lingering traces of sweat and blood and smoke. The fire cracked sharply, and one of the maesters murmured something under his breath as he reached for a fresh cloth, dabbing carefully at the sweat that beaded along Viserys’s brow.

Aemma was at his side.

She sat stiff-backed in the chair beside the bed, her hands wrapped around Viserys’s limp fingers, her thumb brushing absently along his knuckles, her eyes fixed on his face. There was no desperation in her posture, no frantic movements, no wavering sobs. She was silent, still, her grip firm but not forceful, as though she could tether him to the world with touch alone. Her shoulders barely moved with her breath, her spine straight, her expression unreadable in the dim light, but there was something in the tightness of her jaw, in the way her lips pressed together too firmly, that betrayed the restraint it took to keep her composure intact.

She did not look up right away when Vysaria entered. Her fingers remained curled around Viserys’s unmoving hand, her head tilted slightly forward, her gaze never leaving him.

Vysaria took a slow step forward, then another, her hold on Baelon shifting slightly, her fingers pressing into the soft fabric of his blanket. Her mother’s presence beside the bed filled the room in a way the maesters’ murmuring did not, in a way that felt heavier than the warmth of the fire, than the thick air that clung to every surface. Aemma did not move, did not acknowledge her daughter’s approach, but Vysaria knew she had felt it, knew she was aware of every shift in the space around her.

Baelon stirred in her arms, shifting against her chest, his tiny face scrunching before he let out a soft sound, a quiet, curious hum. One small hand emerged from the folds of his blanket, his fingers flexing in the air, reaching toward something unseen.

Aemma inhaled slowly, her breath steady, controlled.

"He should see him," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers still curled around Viserys’s hand, her eyes never leaving his face.

Vysaria hesitated for only a fraction of a second before stepping closer, lowering herself carefully, her movements measured, deliberate. Baelon shifted again, blinking up at the dim light of the chamber, his violet eyes wide and unknowing. He did not understand the weight pressing into the room, did not recognize the stillness in the air, the tension woven into the silence. He was untouched by it, oblivious, his world no larger than the arms that held him and the warmth of the mother who carried him.

Viserys did not stir. 

The chamber remained heavy with silence, thick with the scent of herbs and the dim glow of firelight stretching long across the stone. The maesters moved carefully, their hands light but precise, their murmured words barely rising above the crackle of the hearth. Aemma did not release his hand, did not shift from where she sat, her posture rigid with the weight of waiting. Vysaria stood unmoving, Baelon warm in her arms, his quiet breaths the only sound that did not belong. The stillness pressed in from all sides, suffocating, unrelenting, but it would not last.

Outside the king’s chambers, the Red Keep had already begun to shift. The hush that had settled over the castle in the wake of the news was not one of mourning but of quiet, careful movement. Servants carried messages with lowered voices, their steps quicker than usual, their hands lingering just a fraction longer as they passed sealed letters between them. The air carried a weight that had not been there before, an invisible force pressing against the walls, filling the empty corridors with something watchful, something waiting. Conversations that had once been spoken freely over cups of wine in the warmth of the feasting halls now hushed when unfamiliar ears approached, replaced by the scrape of boots on stone, by the hurried flutter of fabric as courtiers moved with cautious deliberation.

Otto Hightower wasted no time.

The doors to the royal chambers were guarded more heavily than before. The men stationed outside were not the same who had stood there the day before. The usual attendants, those who had served the king for years, those who had known his habits, those who had moved through these halls without question, had been quietly replaced. The men who stood at their posts now were careful in their silence, their armor gleaming in the dim torchlight, their expressions unreadable. Their hands rested on the pommels of their swords, their grips firm but unhurried, their presence both a deterrent and a message in itself.

These were not men chosen at random. They did not belong to the household guard who had always protected the king’s personal chambers, nor to the trusted knights who had served the royal family for generations. These were Otto’s men, hand-selected and placed with precision. Their loyalty was not to the king who lay motionless in his bed, nor to the queen who sat beside him, nor to the daughter who had been named his heir. Their loyalty belonged first to the Hand of the King, to the man who, in the absence of a conscious ruler, now wielded power with quiet, careful certainty.

No one questioned it. No one had been ordered to.

The usual courtiers who might have noticed the change, who might have whispered among themselves about what it meant, had already been drawn elsewhere. Meetings had been convened behind closed doors, letters sent with urgency to those whose voices carried weight in the realm. Conversations unfolded in darkened corridors, in the quiet corners of the castle where words could be exchanged without risk of unwanted ears. Those who recognized the shift knew better than to speak too openly, and those who did not yet see it would soon learn.

Messages moved through the castle, carried by swift hands and careful tongues. Scrolls were pressed into waiting palms, their wax seals unbroken only for as long as it took for them to reach their intended recipients. Some were simple missives, confirmations of orders already spoken, reminders to those whose presence would soon be required. Others carried weight, their contents meant for only a select few, their words chosen with care. They moved through the Red Keep with precision, slipping between lords and officials, passing beneath doorways and through narrow corridors where only trusted hands were allowed to linger.

Each letter was watched. Each message was accounted for. Nothing entered or left the castle without Otto Hightower’s knowledge. His men handled them with practiced ease, their fingers careful as they peeled back wax seals, their eyes scanning the words inside before folding them neatly once more, sealing them anew with hands trained to leave no trace of their interference. They did not rush. They did not fumble. They worked with the efficiency of those who had done this many times before, their movements quick but deliberate. If there was anything of note, if anything within those pages bore reason for concern, Otto would know before the intended recipient ever laid eyes on the words written for them.

In the council chambers, the doors remained shut. The flickering glow of candlelight seeped beneath the cracks, stretching across the cold stone floors as those gathered inside spoke in measured voices, their words too muffled to be heard by those lingering beyond the threshold. The room had been full for hours, the air thick with the scent of ink and parchment, with the quiet scratch of quills as notes were taken, records kept. No formal declarations had been made, no rulings announced, yet decisions were already being shaped within those walls, guided by the careful hand of the man who now commanded the room.

Otto sat at the head of the table, his expression calm, his words precise. He listened as the lords spoke, as concerns were voiced, as questions were raised that none had the courage to answer outright. The king still breathed, but for how long? If he woke, what state would he be in? How much time would pass before the matter of succession was no longer a discussion but a necessity? There was no outright talk of replacement, no open speculation of what would come next, but it lingered between them, heavy and unspoken.

No one opposed Otto’s presence at the head of the table. No one questioned his authority as he dictated the flow of conversation, as he steered them toward the matters he deemed most urgent. It was not a seizure of power. It was not a demand. It was a shift, gradual and seamless, a quiet acceptance that the man who had long guided the realm in the king’s name would continue to do so now, whether Viserys woke or not.

Beyond the council chambers, beyond the steady rhythm of messages exchanged and orders carried out, the Red Keep itself seemed to tighten beneath the weight of unseen hands. Every door that was closed and every conversation that was had in hushed tones only reinforced what was already happening. By the time the night ended, Otto’s hold had settled over the castle, firm and unyielding. He had not announced himself as its ruler, had not declared himself anything beyond what he had always been. Yet the throne sat beneath his reach, and there was no one left to stop him from closing his fingers around it.

Vysaria remained in the nursery longer than she had intended, the dim light of the fire flickering against the walls as Baelon breathed softly against her chest. The weight of him was warm, steady, grounding in a way that nothing else was. She had not meant to stay awake, had not meant to sit in silence for so long, but sleep did not come easily. Her mind wandered back to the king’s chambers, to the sight of her father lying motionless beneath the blankets, to the quiet press of Aemma’s fingers wrapped around his hand, to the maesters working in careful silence.

She had known, even then, that there was nothing left to be done. The maesters would not say it outright, would not speak the truth in full, but their hands had already begun to slow, their voices already carried the weight of inevitability. The castle beyond those walls had already begun to move, shifting itself to accommodate the absence of the man who still drew breath but no longer ruled. Otto had wasted no time, the changes already settling into place, quiet and careful, shaping the days to come before the rest of the realm could catch up.

Baelon stirred against her, his tiny hand curling into the fabric of her gown, his violet eyes fluttering open before slipping closed once more. She pressed a gentle kiss to his silver hair, inhaling the soft, familiar scent of him before rising from her chair and moving toward the large bed that had been prepared for her. She settled onto the mattress carefully, shifting Baelon against her, keeping him close as she exhaled slowly, trying to will herself into rest.

Somewhere beyond the nursery walls, the castle was still awake. The halls remained lit by torchlight, the Red Keep shifting beneath unseen hands, power arranging itself in ways that could not yet be spoken aloud. But within these walls, within this quiet moment, there was only the slow, steady rise and fall of Baelon’s chest, the warmth of him pressed against her, the soft hum of the fire burning low in the hearth.

She closed her eyes.

Across the castle, Aemma did not sleep.

She had not left Viserys’s side, had not once loosened her grip on his hand. The maesters still hovered nearby, tending to the king with careful hands, their voices hushed, their movements efficient, but she no longer paid them any mind. Their presence had become background noise, their murmurs nothing more than a dull hum against the quiet of the chamber.

The hours stretched. The fire burned lower. The weight of exhaustion pressed at her limbs, but she did not move, did not allow herself the comfort of rest. The only thing that mattered was the faint warmth of her husband’s fingers beneath hers, the slow, uneven rhythm of his breathing, the way his chest still rose, weak but present, beneath the thick blankets.

Then, in the quiet hours of early morning, the rhythm faltered.

It was a small thing, barely noticeable at first, just the faintest hesitation between breaths, the space between them stretching too long. Aemma straightened slightly, her grip tightening.

Viserys exhaled. And did not inhale again.

She did not cry out, did not call for the maesters, did not move at all. She remained perfectly still, watching, waiting, as though some part of her expected him to stir once more, to take in another breath, to prove her wrong. But the stillness remained. The warmth beneath her fingers did not fade all at once, but it had already begun to slip away.

She let out a slow breath of her own, steady, controlled, a quiet release of something that had been held for too long.

The king was dead.

Beyond the chamber doors, the castle remained as it had been. The lords and ladies slept in their beds, unaware. The guards stood at their posts, their watch unchanged. The servants moved through the halls, carrying messages that no longer mattered, their footsteps quiet beneath Otto’s careful gaze. But the world they moved through was not the same. By morning, the realm would wake to a different order.

next chapter

All roads lead to war. Read ahead on AO3 (Ch 1–22).

[v-ividus]

37. The Dissonance Within: Unraveling the Fabric of Self-Respect and Interpersonal Integrity in a Fragmented Age

“The most fundamental aggression to ourselves, the most fundamental harm we can do to ourselves, is to remain ignorant by not having the courage and the respect to look at ourselves honestly.” — Pema Chödrön

At its core, self-respect is an intricate tapestry woven from threads of dignity, integrity, and sincerity, yet it remains perilously susceptible to the corrosive effects of societal disdain. We reside not in a vacuum, but rather in a kaleidoscope of expectations, judgments, and relentless comparisons, each contributing to an insidious erosion of our self-worth. When individuals forsake their moral compass, often in the pursuit of acceptance, they unwittingly engage in a betrayal of self, distorting their perception of innate value.

The contemporary social landscape exacerbates this fragility, introducing algorithmic biases that amplify self-doubt and resentment. These platforms create echo chambers where self-aggrandizement and vanity masquerade as authenticity, further ensnaring individuals in a web of superficial validation. Here, one must confront the bitter truth: the more we seek external affirmation, the more we distance ourselves from the foundation of genuine self-respect.

Moreover, this societal malaise manifests itself through the oppression of vulnerability; individuals are conditioned to guard their true selves behind a facade of what is deemed acceptable. The ironic consequence of this self-imposed exile is a moral disengagement that nurtures a climate of disconnection. How can we hold space for others if we cannot honor our own humanity? This inquiry invites a deeper understanding of the self as an integral part of the collective, where self-respect is not merely an abstraction but a catalyst for societal change.

As Pema Chödrön posits, ignorance breeds aggression against oneself, igniting a cycle of self-loathing that negates personal growth. Thus, the act of looking inward—equipping ourselves with courage and respect—becomes a revolutionary act in our journey toward self-respect. One must kindle the flames of introspection, however uncomfortable, to reclaim the dignity stripped away by an indifferent world.

Ultimately, as we delve into the labyrinth of self-respect, it becomes paramount to recognize that our worth is not contingent upon the fleeting opinions of others. The re-establishment of self-esteem hinges not on external approval but on internal acceptance. It is through this lens that we can begin to interrogate the nature and purpose of our existing relationships.

Interpersonal Relationships: The Paradox of Proximity

In an era marked by unprecedented connectivity, the paradox of interpersonal relationships becomes glaringly apparent. While technology propels individuals closer in a digital sense, it simultaneously erects barriers to authentic human connection. Social media perpetuates a curated existence, forcing individuals to present sanitized versions of themselves that cater to an insatiable audience, rather than fostering connections grounded in truth and vulnerability.

As we navigate this convoluted landscape, the erosion of dignity in relationships becomes stark. People find themselves ensnared in a transactional model of engagement, viewing interactions through the lens of utility rather than mutual respect. This paradigm shift engenders an environment where compassion and understanding are traded for likes and follows, breeding a culture that devalues the profound intricacies of human experience.

The psychological fallout of this disconnection is palpable, as individuals experience intensified feelings of loneliness and alienation despite a façade of social interaction. The very fabric of our relationships begins to fray under the weight of external pressures, leading to a generation plagued by anxiety, depression, and a pervasive sense of disillusionment. Here, the lack of genuine connection exacts a toll not merely on individuals, but on society as a whole.

Self-respect, thus, becomes compromised within these superficial exchanges. When our worth is measured by digital applause rather than real-world interactions, dignity erodes, fostering a cycle of self-deprecation and conflict. The challenge lies in recalibrating our expectations and priorities, shifting our focus from the pursuit of status to the cultivation of meaningful relationships grounded in empathy and authenticity.

To engage in this difficult dialogue, we must first confront the unsettling reality that many of our relationships serve as a mirror reflecting our own inadequacies. Are we truly connecting with others, or merely engaging in rituals that perpetuate our collective loss of self-respect? The answer may lie in the courage to seek out vulnerability, to embrace the complex interplay of human emotions, and to honor the underlying humanity that connects us all.

The Loss of Moral and Ethical Identity: A Societal Crisis

In this age of moral relativism, the erosion of ethical identity stands vividly illuminated. The pervasive narratives propagated by social, political, and religious institutions often prioritize conformity over moral integrity, encouraging individuals to align their beliefs with prevailing dogmas rather than cultivating personal values grounded in compassion and accountability. This dissonance between personal ethics and societal expectations marks the onset of a moral crisis.

As individuals navigate this landscape, the allure of acceptance often leads them to compromise their values in pursuit of belonging. In forsaking their moral compass, they not only forsake their self-respect but contribute to a broader societal disintegration of ethical standards. The quest for societal validation, then, becomes an act of self-sabotage—one that obliterates the possibility of genuine connection and accountability.

Moreover, the absence of moral clarity extends beyond the individual, infiltrating interpersonal relationships and societal constructs. As people grapple with conflicting ideals, a pervasive sense of apathy surfaces, fostering environments where ethical dilemmas are sidestepped in favor of convenience. This relinquishment of moral responsibility breeds distrust, resentment, and a pervasive sense of disillusionment among those yearning for authentic relationships.

Pema Chödrön’s assertion that ignorance fosters fundamental aggression towards oneself resonates powerfully in this context. As individuals neglect their ethical responsibilities, they inadvertently engage in a form of self-inflicted harm, eroding their sense of purpose and belonging. To disrupt this cycle of ignorance, one must first engage in a rigorous examination of their own values, cultivating the humility to recognize and confront one’s shortcomings.

In navigating the complexities of moral identity, it is essential to embrace the journey toward ethical rejuvenation. This requires a deliberate shift from superficial conformity to an unwavering commitment to personal values, fostering an environment where integrity thrives. In doing so, we can begin to forge relationships where respect is reciprocal, enabling the cultivation of a community built upon shared principles and a collective sense of dignity.

Algorithmic Control: The Social Media Dilemma

The algorithms governing our digital engagements have insidiously infiltrated our interpersonal relationships, distorting our understanding of self and others. They have conditioned us to prioritize engagement metrics over meaningful connections, fostering a superficial culture where worth is quantified through likes and shares. This commodification of human interaction encourages us to mask our flaws and insecurities, thereby alienating us from our authentic selves.

As users of social media, we unwittingly become participants in a grand experiment—one where our mental and emotional well-being is sacrificed at the altar of engagement-driven content. Amid this cacophony of curated realities, individuals grapple with an incessant comparison to the seemingly flawless lives of others, stoking feelings of inadequacy that undermine self-respect. Such psychological warfare cultivates a fertile ground for narcissism, as users retreat further into self-absorption to shield themselves from an unrelenting tide of external judgment.

The social media landscape thus exacerbates the erosion of dignity within interpersonal relationships, as individuals find themselves engaged in performative acts rather than authentic exchanges. The act of self-presentation becomes a battleground, where vulnerability is vilified and façade is glorified. We painstakingly construct personas that align with societal expectations, all while neglecting the profound humanity that resides beneath the surface.

Regrettably, algorithmic control extends beyond individual experience—it manifests in a collective relegation of moral consciousness. As empathy dwindles in the face of a hyper-competitive digital landscape, the capacity for altruism diminishes, eroding the social fabric that sustains healthy relationships. People find themselves entangled in a web of impersonal interactions, wherein self-interest eclipses the moral imperative to honor the humanity of others.

To counteract this disintegration, it becomes imperative to reclaim agency over our digital engagements. This encompasses not only resisting the temptations of algorithmic validation but also fostering a conscious commitment to cultivating authentic relationships that transcend the superficial confines of social media. By embracing vulnerability and empathy, we can restore the dignity required for healthy and enriching interpersonal connections.

Rediscovering Humanity: Bridging the Chasm of Disconnection

In the aftermath of this moral and ethical erosion, we find ourselves at a crossroads—a moment that demands introspection and action. The process of rediscovering the humanity of others calls for an unwavering commitment to dismantling the barriers erected by societal expectations and algorithmic control. It requires us to confront the uncomfortable reality that our relationships, too often filtered through the lens of self-interest, lack the depth and richness inherent in genuine connection.

To embark on this transformative journey, we must embrace the radical act of vulnerability—one that necessitates relinquishing the armor we don to shield ourselves from scrutiny. In vulnerability, we uncover the power of authenticity, revealing our true selves to others while inviting them to do the same. This reciprocal exchange fosters a space for genuine connection, where empathy flourishes amidst our shared struggles and triumphs.

Moreover, the act of rediscovering humanity extends beyond mere interpersonal connections—it is an invitation to reclaim our collective moral and ethical identity. As we engage with others in a spirit of compassion and understanding, we begin to dismantle the insidious forces that perpetuate division and antagonism. This reclamation of shared humanity fosters a culture of respect, where the dignity of all individuals is honored, contributing to the reparation of our fragmented social fabric.

As we navigate this path toward renewed connection, we must confront the uncomfortable truths residing within ourselves. Acknowledging our roles in perpetuating disconnection and estrangement is not an act of self-flagellation, but rather a potent catalyst for transformative growth. In doing so, we position ourselves as agents of change, committed to fostering an environment of radical empathy and respect—a process that ultimately enhances our collective sense of humanity.

The Call to Self-Examination: Embracing the Discomfort

Ultimately, the journey toward self-respect and moral clarity compels an uncomfortable but necessary reckoning. Engaging in self-examination—prompted by Chödrön's powerful reminder of the harm inherent in ignorance—serves as a vital precursor to genuine growth and transformation. In confronting our shortcomings, we not only enrich our self-awareness but cultivate the courage necessary to effect meaningful change in our lives and relationships.

This introspective journey is fraught with discomfort, as we grapple with the darker aspects of our nature—the envy, selfishness, and inauthenticity that often bubble beneath the surface. Yet, it is precisely in this discomfort that growth resides. By facing our moral failings, we can dismantle the barriers that inhibit authentic connection, allowing us to reconcile with the humanity of ourselves and others.

To invoke lasting change, we must harness the power of vulnerability and empathy, consciously choosing to engage with the world from a place of authenticity. This commitment to integrity transcends the superficial confines of societal expectations, granting us the freedom to forge relationships rooted in mutual respect. As we engage in this transformative endeavor, we will inevitably rediscover the essence of our shared humanity—an anchor amidst the chaos of contemporary existence.

The devastating psychological and sociological implications of our current milieu demand urgent attention, beckoning us to confront the uncomfortable truths that lie within. It is through confronting these truths that we pave the way for renewed self-respect and healthier relationships. By embarking on this journey of rediscovery, we reclaim not only our dignity but also the sacredness of our connections with others, nurturing a collective moral identity that fosters compassion, understanding, and a profound respect for the beauty of human experience.

Conclusion: The Path Forward

As we emerge from this intellectual journey, we are left with vital questions that challenge the status quo of our interpersonal relationships and collective moral fabric. How do we reconcile the dissonance between our aspirational ideals and the cultural forces at play? The key lies in embracing the discomfort of self-examination, recognizing the latent potential for growth inherent in vulnerability and empathy. Each moment spent digging into our moral consciousness garners the momentum necessary for this pivotal transformation.

This journey demands diligence, humility, and a steadfast commitment to reconnecting with our ethical foundations—principles that can lay the groundwork for enriching, dignified relationships. As we navigate the turbulent waters of societal pressures, mindfulness and introspection become indispensable tools, guiding us toward authentic connections that transcend the superficiality of current social paradigms. Embracing our humanity implicates recognizing the shared struggle of existence, fostering an enduring sense of solidarity that binds us together amidst our individual complexities.

In this endeavor, we come full circle to Chödrön’s striking observation regarding the perils of ignorance. Remaining willfully blind to our moral and ethical identity not only undermines our self-respect but ultimately contributes to the deterioration of trust and dignity in our relationships. By cultivating an ongoing practice of self-reflection, we kindle the flame of honesty and respect, illuminating the path toward reinventing the interconnectedness of our humanity. Ultimately, it is this revival—not only of self-respect but also of our collective ethical integrity—that holds the key to a flourishing world, one where each individual is cherished and valued for their inherent worth.

[heatherblackman]

Please write your character backstory ❤️❤️❤️

My brother Who understand English better than me translate this in English😊

Heather Blackman was born on March 3rd, 1957 — into a world that wasn’t ready for a girl with a voice of her own. Her father, a passionate activist, died when she was only ten, trampled to death during a protest gone violent. It was the first time she felt the world was louder than her scream.

Left behind with her mother and younger sister, Heather's childhood faded into the background like a radio playing in a warzone. When her mother fell ill when Heather was just fourteen, she took on everything herself. She started singing in a dingy bar to support her little sister. Her voice — raw, broken, mesmerizing — was all they had.

At fifteen, her mother died. The bar became her new home. The music her only therapy.

At seventeen, the bar owner tried to rape her. She escaped. Barely. And she went back the next day — not because she was fine, but because there was no one else to pay for the rent or the food.

At twenty-five, it happened again. This time, he succeeded.

That night, she killed him.

And something inside her shifted.

She became addicted — not to the kill, but to the control. The power to destroy those who once destroyed her. The world had made her a victim; now she chose to be a predator. Quiet, selective, vengeful.

But fate wasn’t finished yet.

When she was twenty-seven, her sister — the only person Heather had ever truly loved — died. She slipped from a cliff, straight into Heather’s arms. Broken, bleeding, gone. And that scream — the same one the world ignored as a child — now tore from her chest in full.

Heather walked into the woods, ready to end her life. But instead of finding peace, she fell — into a pit, into blackness, into the gnashing teeth of bats. They shredded her body, and she bled into the dark earth.

🔥 But Hell wasn't done with her yet. (Sorry I had to XD)

She woke up as Echo — a demon, a creature with bat wings and a voice that echoed long-dead screams. Her cloak looked like wings; her staff bore a cruel smile. And in her eyes, there was fire — the kind you don’t survive twice.

She literally fell from the sky and landed on someone — Angel Dust, fresh from another toxic night with Valentino.

Their meeting was absurd, but the connection was real. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t cry. But she looked at him — and Angel saw someone who understood.

They became close, though never lovers. Their bond was deeper — one built on shared pain and mutual survival. Echo saw him for who he was. Angel didn’t flinch when she went silent.

But then came Valentino.

Echo signed a contract with him just to stay near Angel — a terrible price. He enslaved her, beat her, violated her. Just like Angel. Just like before.

Years passed.

And then came the Hazbin Hotel — a place of false hope, of fragile dreams.

There, she met Alain.

He was bloodied, shaking, missing an arm. He had escaped a city of cannibals. She saved him.

And from that moment on, Alain became her silent anchor. Not a hero. Not a lover. But a quiet force. The kind who drags you out of the fire without asking how you got there.

He saved her more than once — especially after the nights when she snuck back from Valentino’s chambers, bruised and barely standing. He carried her home. He never asked questions. He stitched the wounds and stayed until her breathing calmed.

And then came Clara — a fallen angel with autism, sharp honesty, and nowhere else to go. She wasn’t there to be saved. She just needed a place to stay. But with time, Echo started to feel again — warmth, comfort, even desire.

One night, the three of them — Echo, Clara, and Angel — went to a bar. Echo and Clara drank too much. When Valentino showed up, Echo, in a drunken haze, accidentally revealed their location. He chased them. They escaped.

But the next day, Echo disappeared.

She returned to Valentino. Alone. Silently.

And he took from her again.

Weeks later, while getting ready for another night of torment, Echo collapsed in the hotel bathroom. The truth hit like a blade:

She was pregnant.

Valentino’s mark ran deeper than blood now.

Clara found her mid-panic. Echo confessed everything — the abuse, the child. Clara didn't leave. Instead, she embraced her. She told Echo she loved her.

And for the first time in her life, Echo believed it. She kissed her — gentle, unsure, but real.

🖤 Now…

Echo lives between shadows and stolen moments.

She, Angel, Alain, and Clara form an unlikely family — broken, bruised, and still fighting.

Angel is her brother in blood and trauma. Clara is her sanctuary. Alain is her sword and silence.

Together, they’re searching for a way out — of Valentino’s contract, of their pain, of everything that chained them.

Echo still hears the echoes of her past every time she closes her eyes.

But now, she’s not listening alone.

(This is only short summary of my backstory XD….if you want longer version than text me. This is took me write 2 hours sooo…And my brother translate this(But sometimes He used deepl…. I hope you like it😌)

@alain-squirrely-mage

@tiredhazbinfan

@multifandomer537

[each-night]

Named by Fire. (sukuna x reader)

Part 3 of 'Shibuya Burns'

—They seek warmth. I seek you.

—Then seek me when you’re alone —you spat, turning violently.

At dawn the next day, you refused the shared breakfast; you asked for plain white rice and simple water. When Sukuna appeared—inevitably—in the greenhouse where you were studying talismans, you kept your eyes fixed on the symbols.

—Will you ignore every word I say? —he asked, with a tone almost amused.

—I’m just trying to remember who I am, and who you are.

—I am the one who holds your horizon so it won’t collapse.

—And also the one who has already devastated it. —You finally looked up—. Hands that kill cannot dress guilt in silk.

He didn’t step back. —Even so, these hands do not know regret. But they know the offering.

—I don’t want more offerings.

—Then give me a different price. —His voice dropped an octave—. Ask for what the heart spits out when it burns.

You couldn’t reply. Your heart pounded like a caged drum. You calmly set down the brush, turned around, and left him alone with the unused ink.

The Jade Courtyard – Outburst

That afternoon, dragged by the silent fever of guilt and unrest, you left your scrolls behind and walked toward the central courtyard: a circle of polished jade surrounded by ponds. Soft laughter echoed there.

You stopped behind a bamboo hedge. On the other side, Sukuna rested on a dark wooden divan. Two concubines knelt at his feet, offering fresh fruit; a third adjusted his sleeve; the fourth laughed behind a fan.

The scene was perfect. A pagan king, his court of lethal grace—and you… outside the frame.

Your stomach clenched. Jealousy, yes, but baked with rage and a pain you couldn’t classify. You clenched your fists, knuckles white.

The concubines noticed your presence too late: a leaf cracked under your sandal. Sukuna lifted his head and, upon meeting your gaze, something—guilt? disappointment?—flashed for a second in his pupils.

—My sorceress— he began, rising.

But you didn’t wait. You turned on your heel and fled down the corridor, the sound of your breath competing with the pounding in your ears.

—Wait! —his powerful voice cracked against the pillars.

You kept running until your chamber. You closed the door with a hollow thud and pressed your forehead to the paper shōji, struggling not to sob.

Silence followed. No steps. No knocks.

Only then did you understand that distance could be a weapon—but also an abyss opening at your feet.

You untied the obi with clumsy fingers, as if the silk burned. You wanted to hate him again. But hatred was a collar of thorns pressing against your throat from within.

—Why can’t I…? —you whispered, not finishing the sentence.

The night answered with wind through the trees. No perfume came. No new flower. Only the roar of your heart accusing you of a betrayal you still couldn’t name.

Whispers Behind Screens – The Unwitting Spy

Sleep became a fragile luxury. Every time you closed your eyes, you heard stifled laughter, whispers rolling through the halls like glass marbles. So, when Uraume mentioned that the concubines gathered at tea time in the southern gallery—where sunlight filtered through bamboo blinds—you chose to leave the silk behind and wear gray linen, becoming shadow.

You slipped through a side corridor, holding your breath whenever the wood creaked. You stationed yourself behind a painted wisteria screen, barely a gap between paper panels.

Inside, six concubines settled on cushions. Warm light glimmered in their high hairstyles and sleeves embroidered with golden thread. On the table, blue porcelain teapots and bowls of candied apricots. It looked like a painting—but their words clashed like daggers.

—Last night he said her name again —whispered one, playing with a spoon—. “My moon,” he murmured, “my moon.” —Has he called any of us that? —another arched a brow—. Not even in dreams.

There was a murmur of laughter, though envy pulsed behind polished smiles.

—The Master needs distraction —said the eldest, with a smoldering voice—. I’ve prepared the spikenard oil he likes so much. I’ll take it to him tonight.

—Do you think he’ll forget her? —asked the youngest, stirring her tea without tasting it.

—Every king forgets when war calls. —The woman let out a sigh, part satisfied, part sorrowful—. And she… She is a spark, not a wildfire.

The words chipped away at you like stones. You closed your eyes, feeling your fingers tremble. No one mentioned your power, your seals, your will. You were just the spark of a whim.

But the one speaking continued:

—Even so, when he sleeps without the sake guard, he still says her name. And I… —she swallowed— I ran away last time. I felt he was invoking something I shouldn’t hear.

A reverent silence followed that confession. The apricots stopped clinking in their bowls.

—Then —another murmured—, our duty is to distract him before the moon devours the sun.

They rose in small groups, forming a swirl of perfumed silk that faded down the corridor. You waited until the echo died, your heart pounding behind your ribs. Did Sukuna whisper your name? Did he dream until you became a mantra? The thought froze and burned you at the same time.

Facing the Mirror

That afternoon, you looked at yourself in the copper mirror Uraume had polished for you. The indigo kimono hugged you like living ink, and the jade hairpins glinted in your bun. Was that the spark they feared? Or the reflection of a fire beginning to rise without your permission?

You pressed your lips together. You decided that if they were going to call you moon, you would show them the hidden face.

You descended to the inner garden where the early cherry trees barely hinted at buds. You sat to copy talismans, the brush tracing symbols of silence and clarity. More than one concubine passed, pretending not to see you. Others stopped long enough to drop quiet comments:

—Beautiful calligraphy for a recluse.

—Silence is easy when you don’t know how to speak with power.

You didn’t take the bait. You kept writing. Seal after seal, like drumbeats. Your pulse aligned with every stroke.

Ghost in the Corridors

At nightfall, red paper lanterns were lit in the main corridor. You were walking toward the baths when, turning a corner, you almost bumped into Sukuna. His hair was loose, and he wore a dark yukata that cast shadows over his collarbone.

—Another coincidence —he murmured, smiling without showing teeth.

—Your palace still lacks enough space —you answered, voice sharp.

He tilted his head. —I heard you’ve been leaving withered petals in strange hands.

—What if withered petals are my answer? —you replied, holding your frost.

His eyes sparkled with something unreadable. —Dried flowers burn better, little one. But I won’t turn your will into ash.

You wanted to reply; he was already walking away, leaving behind a barely perceptible trail of spikenard. Something sank in your chest.

The Jade Pond – Revelation and Renewed Jealousy

Later, unable to sleep, you stepped out to the jade pond. There, beside the night lotuses, you saw him. Sukuna, seated on the balustrade, and around him four concubines. They weren’t leaning on him; this time, he was speaking softly, almost absentmindedly, but his relaxed posture allowed their closeness.

And you remembered the words “distract him.” Your heart turned bitter. You clenched your fist: your knuckles turned white.

A clear laugh erupted from the girl with the fan. Sukuna raised his head and met your gaze. Something—guilt? heat?—flashed for a moment in his eyes.

—Come, my sorceress —he called, gently.

But you didn’t move. The imagined betrayal stung too much.

—Are your distractions that urgent? —you asked, rage vibrating in your throat.

One of the women slid her hand down Sukuna’s sleeve with calculated grace. He ignored her, raising his hand toward you.

—They seek warmth. I seek you.

—Then seek me when you’re alone —you spat, turning violently.

You didn’t wait for his reply. A whirlwind of silk wrapped around you as you walked away. The sound of your breath drowned out the chirping of the crickets.

In your room, you threw the jade hairpins onto the tatami. The green shine seemed to mock you.

—No more silences —you whispered, feeling tears of fury cling to your lashes—. The spark will burn… or it won’t burn at all.

You collapsed to your knees, exhausted. Through the window, the forest swayed. And in that murmur, you could almost swear you heard his voice:

—My moon… how much cold do you need to recognize your own fire?

But perhaps it was only the breeze. Or the echo of your heart, torn between ice, embers… and something you still couldn’t name.

[luvpookie02]

Shadowed Legacy ~ Chrollo x OC ~ CH.1

001 - Sillune Zoldyck

A sinister atmosphere enveloped the mansion of the infamous Zoldyck family, known for their lineage of assassins. Kikyo, the wife of Silva Zoldyck, was hastily taken to her chambers as she prepared to give birth to the family's first set of twins.

"Are you both eager to meet your mother?" Kikyo asked with a quick smile, caressing her large belly despite the pain the twins were causing her.

Her smile faded as she felt a powerful movement in her abdomen. "You're already making me proud," she whispered, struggling to catch her breath just as her husband Silva arrived with his father, Zeno Zoldyck.

"What's happening? She wasn't like this when she had Illumi," Silva asked the maid attending his wife. The maid, emotionless, looked up and replied, "We don't know, my lord. She has been feeling this way since the first trimester, but it's worsened this month. The doctor hasn't arrived yet, so we're still waiting."

Zeno, deep in thought, offered an explanation, "Your mother reacted similarly when she gave birth to you." Though surprised, Silva kept his composure. "I see. We'll know for sure once they're born."

Soon after, a middle-aged woman entered the room and rushed to Kikyo's side, advising everyone to wait outside except for Silva.

Moments passed, and a baby's cry echoed from the room, bringing relief to those waiting. However, the relief quickly turned to alarm as a surge of nen filled the space.

Everyone was baffled by the strange nen.

Zeno was about to enter but halted as the nen inside the room intensified.

"What's happening?" Zeno murmured, watching as maids and butlers collapsed to the floor one by one. Outside the mansion, tourists near the gates and townspeople began to faint mysteriously.

Zeno finally opened the door to find Silva holding one of the newborn twins. "I did it," Silva grinned, dark energy surrounding him as he laughed loudly.

Zeno stood in shock, his gaze fixed on his new granddaughter. "After 800 years, the Jewel's eyes have returned," said Maha, who suddenly appeared beside them.

Both men stared at the infant Zoldyck, completely ignoring her twin, who had been crying the whole time.

Six years later...

In the dimly lit courtyard, Maha Zoldyck stood tall, his eyes sharp and calculating as he watched his granddaughter, Sillune.

At just five years old, she appeared small and fragile, but he knew better. She was the future of the family, destined to surpass them all. That's why he trained her harder than anyone else.

"Again," Maha commanded, his voice cold and precise.

Sillune, sweat clinging to her skin, stood unfazed. Her left arm hung slightly off from the force of their last exchange, the bone cracked. She didn't flinch. Not a tear, not a sound. She simply reset her stance, her expression void of emotion.

Sillune moved, her tiny body blurring as she dashed forward. She conjured a ball of lightning in her hand, crackling with fierce energy, and hurled it toward her grandfather. Maha dodged effortlessly, his movements fluid.

His fingers snatched her wrist mid-air, twisting it sharply. Her shoulder dislocated with a brutal snap, but she barely blinked, her focus unbroken.

"Better," Maha remarked, releasing her.

"But not enough. Power without precision is wasted."

Sillune's eyes gleamed. With a single flick of her wrist, the ball of lightning reformed in her hand, larger, brighter. This time, she shot forward with renewed speed, the ground beneath her sizzling from the energy radiating off her.

Maha met her head-on, his hand a blur as he deflected the strike with ease. He grabbed her by the neck, lifting her off the ground with a swift movement.

Blood trickled down her chin from a shallow cut he'd made with the tip of his thumb. "You'll surpass me one day, but not today," Maha said, setting her down.

Sillune's face remained blank, her eyes like ice. "I will," she replied simply, her voice calm.

Maha's lips twitched upward.. He is proud and thrilled about his granddaughter's futures.

On the sidelines of the courtyard, three figures stood in quiet conversation as they observed Maha and Sillune's relentless training. Sillune's father, Silva, watched with an expressionless face, his eyes tracing every movement of his grandfather and daughter with the trained eye of a seasoned assassin.

Beside him stood his wife, Kikyo, her eyes gleaming with pride as she watched their daughter battle. "She's incredible," Kikyo whispered, almost to herself, as Sillune hurled another ball of crackling lightning at Maha.

"At five years old and already showing such mastery over her abilities. She's going to be the strongest this family has ever seen. No one will match her" Silva glanced at his wife, his jaw tightening slightly.

"Strength isn't everything. She'll need control. The power she wields is dangerous, even to her." Kikyo waved a dismissive hand, her confidence unshakable. "She'll master it. Just like everything else. You see it too, don't you? She's not just talented. She's perfect"

"My perfect child" Kikyo blushed.

Meanwhile, from a short distance away, Sillune's twin sister, Sarielle, sat silently, watching them. Her bright black eyes were locked on Sillune, her small hands balled into fists at her sides.

It wasn't jealousy that clouded her heart-no, it was something far more complex. She wasn't envious of the attention Sillune received from their grandfather or parents. Instead, she longed for Sillune's gaze to fall on her, for her twin to acknowledge her.

Sarielle's heart tightened as Sillune's cold, detached expression barely shifted. There was no connection, no recognition. Sillune was entirely focused on her training, consumed by it, while Sarielle was left in the shadows, always on the sidelines.

She didn't want to be the favorite. She didn't need anyone's approval she just wanted her twin's acknowledgment.

Kikyo's voice pulled her from her thoughts as she stated "Sarielle, darling, you must be so proud of your sister. Look at how strong she's becoming"

Sarielle offered a small, forced smile. "Yes, Mother," she whispered, her gaze never leaving Sillune. But deep down, what she truly wanted was for Sillune to see her. To turn, just once, and recognize her presence.

As Maha grabbed Sillune's wrist again and effortlessly redirected her lightning strike, Sarielle's chest tightened. Not because Sillune was stronger or more skilled. But because she was drifting further away from her with every step she took toward greatness.

"I'll make her see me," Sarielle thought to herself, her resolve hardening. "I'll stand by her side, no matter what it takes."

Illumi watched from a distance, his sharp gaze following Sarielle's lingering stare at Sillune. He could sense the emotions swirling in his younger sister-the quiet desperation in her eyes, the way her fists clenched as she observed Sillune's brutal training.

Illumi, only three years older, was already a master of manipulation. He understood how people worked, and how emotions could twist and change people's actions.

He wouldn't allow it.

Sarielle and Sillune couldn't grow too close, not now, not ever. Emotions would cloud Sillune's judgment, weaken her resolve, and dull the sharp edge of her potential. Sillune was destined to be the head of the Zoldyck family, and attachments were distractions, weaknesses in disguise.

Illumi had made it his mission to ensure she remained untethered, focused on the path ahead.

But Sarielle-he could see the way she longed for Sillune's attention. It was dangerous. Illumi sighed inwardly, his face a cold mask as he stepped closer, placing a hand on Sarielle' shoulder.

"Don't," he whispered, his voice as smooth as ice. Sarielle looked up at him, startled.

"Don't let those feelings take root. Sil has a purpose far greater than us. She can't afford distractions."

Illumi's grip tightened slightly, though his tone remained calm. "She's the future of our family. She has to be the strongest, the most unfeeling. Emotions will only get in her way. You know that, don't you?"

Sarielle nodded, though her eyes betrayed her inner turmoil. Illumi softened slightly, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. "I love you both," he murmured. "But Sil has a destiny. We all need her to be perfect."