#reclaimed linen

[flyingclubhouse]

https://www.etsy.com/listing/1193010257/block-print-sew-on-patch-support-your

The new patches are in my shop.

[be-a-cute-scientist]

god why is moving so much fucking WORK

[reopenfile]

Living Room Library in Toronto Inspiration for a mid-sized, enclosed, coastal living room renovation with a light wood floor, white walls, a regular fireplace, and a wood mantel.

[louexuv]

Master Bath (Los Angeles)

[decayedgloria]

sundress szn

ft. Capitano, Dottore, Columbina, and Arlecchino

Summer’s finally come, so you decide to wear something that fit the occasion- much to your lover’s excitement.

Tags: First 4 harbingers x afab!reader (minus Pierro and Pulcinella), nsfw under cut, established relationships, Capitano may be ooc bc we have nothing on this man lmao, mdni

Word count: ~2.2K, not proofread

Capitano

Capitano was ever the hard worker. If he wasn’t in his office at Zapolyarny Palace, then he was off fighting in the name of the Tsaritsa, far away from your home in Snezhnaya. Naturally, you miss him dearly- and clearly he had observed how you seem to linger around him more often when he’s around, or how much more clingy and desperate you’ve become in bed. Arranging for a short trip to Natlan, his home nation, you had hoped to reclaim the time you lost with your husband.

The climate in Natlan was drastically different from Snezhnaya. It was warm all year round, and this time it happened to be particularly hotter than any other season. You had packed clothes accordingly, though it was hard as weather like that never shows itself in the coldest nation in Teyvat. Though there was one piece you purchased that caught your attention, and you knew for sure your husband would absolutely love it on you.

Capitano sat on the edge of the bed, patiently waiting for you to get ready. His hands found themselves fiddling with the hem of the loose linen shirt he donned, which appeared to be tight on his massive, defined body, though he did not mind. He was proud of his physique, even more so at the fact you seemed almost obsessed with his broad shoulders and muscled arms. Chuckling to himself, Capitano finds it hard to resist you, his little wife.

“Dear, are you ready? We have the whole day ahead of us.” Capitano called out. You shuffled around in the bathroom, putting on the final touches of your makeup and making sure everything is in place before you emerge. Immediately, his eyes were on you- more specifically, the garment that you had chosen to wear. It was a sundress, of course. It was sheer, but not so much that it didn’t cover anything. It was perfect for the hot weather, especially its length, or lack thereof. Barely reaching over your ass, in fact.

Somewhat shyly, you give a little twirl in front of your husband. “Do you think this outfit is okay? I wasn’t sure it was my size so…” He had foregone his mask for the day, which gave away to his surprised face, blushing and staring as if he was hungry.

“You look amazing, my dear.” As you turn back to face Capitano, you were suddenly greeted with your husband’s chest. Leaning down, he places his large hands on your hips, giving them a light squeeze that illicited a giggle from you. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, taking in your tantalizing scent and grinning as you pull him closer towards you. 

“Irresistible, in fact. I think this is just the right size for you.” His voice was low, almost muffled as he placed light kisses on your skin. You sigh, running your fingers through his long hair, traveling lower onto his chest and then feeling the familiar shape beginning to form in your husband’s pants. You almost laughed when Capitano groaned at your touch, who unconsciously moved closer to you to relieve himself some.

“I thought we had plans for today?” Your honeyed voice only added to his increasingly needy gestures. He couldn’t help but let his hands roam across your body, touching and squeezing at your curves through the dress. Your small stature, so soft against his, in a dress that accentuated everything he loved about you…

Well, he did say that you both had the whole day, so why not spare a few more hours together?

Dottore

As his lovely lab assistant and partner, Dottore decided to bring you along with him to an expedition in Sumeru to collect some sample for his latest research endeavor. At first, you were hesitant and a bit confused as to why he didn’t just send one of his clones or subordinates to go fetch it instead, but he had insisted that the sample was of “utmost importance” and that only he would be able to verify its integrity, whatever that meant.

So that’s how you found yourself in the sweltering desert heat, sitting in a tent that barely blocked out the sun. Your sweat had drenched your clothing since the early morning, so a change of attire was in order. As you sift through your belongings, you groaned as you realized you’d only been packed clothes that the Fatui deemed ���suitable” for Snezhnayan summers- that is, clothes that were still too thick to wear. 

You sigh as your eyes scan the room for another solution, stopping at the shopping bag you had left on your desk. The little free time you had before entering the desert was spent shopping around Port Ormos, in which you had purchased a dress you thought was cute. You weren’t expecting to wear it so soon, but it wasn’t like you had much of a choice…

Dottore worked on his paperwork, writing his report in a different tent from your shared one. Engrossed in his research, he barely noticed your presence enter the tent, nor did he notice the dress that barely clung onto your body. He hummed in response to your greeting, hearing you shuffle around and do the tasks you were assigned. 

It just so happens that the moment Dottore looks up happens to be the same moment you bend over to pick up some books on the floor, much to his wide-eyed pleasure. Your behind was deliciously accentuated in the new garment you wore, barely peeking out of the dress. In a flash, Dottore’s focus was taken away from the papers in his hands and instead was aimed at you, his cute little lab assistant.

With not much noise he rose, making his way over to you in silence as you gather all the books in your hands. You hadn’t noticed your lover’s presence until you feel a firm grip on your hips, suddenly knocking you against Dottore’s familiar legs. You let out something in between a gasp and a sigh as you crane your neck to look at him, slightly embarrassed as you felt his growing erection rub your ass.

“Now, you know I’m a busy man, darling.” Dottore’s husky voice sent a shiver down your spine. “So what’s with the distraction?”

“Look, it’s how outside and this is the only thing I can wear-“ A moan escaped your throat as you felt a sharp smack land on the plush of your behind. He smirked, shushing you as he pressed you closer against him. His hands grew erratic as they clawed at your dress, almost ripping it apart while he touch any and every port of your soft skin.

“A punishment is in order, don’t you think?”

Columbina

You sighed as you walked through the Palace greenhouse, on what seemed like your tenth lap of the day. Columbina had promised to meet you there after meeting with the Tsaritsa, but it had been hours- surely, a meeting wouldn’t take that long would it? 

You gaze dejectedly at the lily flowers by your side, blooming in spite of the coolness outside. The greenhouse felt like summer all year round, allowing for plants like the one you had in your hands to bloom effortlessly every year. It was quite impressive, such a large structure protecting plants from all over Teyvat from Snezhnaya’s cold. 

Given that, it really wouldn’t make sense to wear your normal Fatui uniform here, so you opted for a dress that you hadn’t worn in ages, and clearly it showed: the dress was a little tighter on you than you had remembered, accounting for the muscles you had gained while training, and it certainly was too short to comfortably move in, but the humidity of the room left you little to no choice. 

Your mind was somewhere else when you feel a hand snake around your waist from behind, relaxing when you catch a glimpse of magenta strands from the corner of your eye. Columbina made herself comfortable holding you so, nuzzling into your neck. Her quiet, melodic hums filled the air as you turned to look at your lover, a smile blooming on your face.

“What took you so long, love?” You gently tucked a strand of her long hair behind her ear, admiring her beauty. She chuckled, pleasant and light, before burying herself into you once more. 

“The meeting is still going,” she purred, her hands now barely grazing your hips and waist. You blush as you realize what she’s doing, glancing around to make sure there weren’t any idle soldiers or officers. “it was too dreadful. Sneaking out to see my lovely wife was much more important than some trivial talk of war tactics.” Oblivious to your growing panic, Columbina pulls you closer as she moves her lips against your own, smiling gently.

It didn’t take long for the kiss to turn passionate, with gentle pecks now turning into harsh smacks as your tongues worked against each other. With each kiss, your hands clawed at Columbina’s clothes, shredding off layers as her hands tug at your hair. 

Haphazardly, you both managed to find a nearby bench to continue your liaison on more comfortably. As you breathe heavily through your swollen lips, Columbina places herself over you, smiling as she dips down for a kiss one more time.

Arlecchino

Ever since Arlecchino was dispatched to Fontaine by the Tsaritsa, her mind was utterly consumed by you. Not that it normally wasn’t, thoughts of you always permeated her brain one way or another, but at least in Snezhnaya she was able to have you physically there to meet her demands- wether it was an affectionate cuddle or something more intimate, your presence was always just a call away.

However, ever since landing in Fontaine, Arlecchino’s thoughts only consisted of two things: the mission at hand, and you. How she missed the way you would saunter up to her, tease her in a way nobody else would dare, and how your legs would stay quiver and shake around her cheeks every time her tongue explored inside you-

Ah, she was getting carried away again. Arlecchino groaned internally at the paperwork that was placed in front of her, glaring as if it were an enemy. Well, in her mind, anything that kept you away from her was considered an enemy to an extent…

A knock on her office door snapped her out of her thoughts. Sighing, Arlecchino commanded them to come in, placing her chin on her palm, bored as ever. Her face must have conveyed some sort of annoyance as the poor fatui agent that came in visibly shivered a little, lowering their head as they said their greetings.

“What is it?”

“There’s a letter from Senzhnaya, my lady.” She did not miss the quiver in their voice, “It’s from Lady (Y/N).” As the agent reached out to give her the envelope, Arlecchino all but snatched it from their hands, all of her attention now devoted to the piece of paper in front of her.

“Leave.” Her voice left no room for reply, with the agent thankfully getting the hint and scurrying away. Once the heavy doors of her office closed, her ruby eyes inspected the envelope intently, taking in every detail that you may have left her. Just as quickly as she snatched the letter, she opened it, revealing its contents: a neatly folded letter, and what looked like a thin sheet wrapped with something.

She wasted no time in unfolding the letter, taking a note of the way the package smelled just like you- sweet, almost sickening. Her lips curled into a grin as she read the words that danced across the page, her heart leaping at all the praise and sweet nothings you seemed to litter across the paragraphs that you had written. How much you missed her, and yearned for her; all of it made Arlecchino’s head dizzy with pride and delight.

She was too absorbed in reading and rereading your letter that she had forgotten about the other item that you had delivered. Tilting her head, she gathered the thing in her hands gently, taking off the wrapping to reveal a picture taken with a camera- a picture of you, clad in what Arlecchino could only describe as barely a dress. A sheer fabric that did little to conceal your cleavage or your thighs as you pose, somewhat scantily, in a move she was sure was made in order to highlight your curves.

Arlecchino’s fingers subconsciously gripped the photo tighter, a shot of warmth suddenly coursing through her body. She sighed heavily, pink dusting her sheeks as she felt the familiar sensation of aching in between her legs. Tentatively, she took off her gloves and slowly travelled her fingers to the zipper of her pants, breathing growing ragged as she frantically tried to relieve whatever spell you had cast on her.

What a tease.

A/N: here it is! writing this lowkey killed me :,) but i really hope yall liked it. its not full on smut (i dont trust myself to write those with the harbingers just yet for fear of mischaracterization) but its what i can manage. really, im just testing out the waters.

can you guys tell i have a favorite? lol. itll have to be split into two parts since its long enough.

[cordeliawhohung]

Touch Me 'Till I Vomit (pet!au) [11]

pet!au | ghoap x fem!reader | tag list

old memories

cw: non-con, PTSD, anxiety, slight suicidal ideation, manipulation, extremely unsafe handling of firearms

No matter how many years pass, Johnny’s still in that tunnel. 

Those damp walls follow him everywhere, and the humidity clings to his body like a second skin. Smothers every pore of his body until it’s screaming for air. Or, is that blood? The substance that trickles down the side of his face, sticky and warm? It envelops the line of his jaw like a tender lover. Like devoted fingers caressing the pain that florescences on the soft side of his skull. He needs the nails to puncture the bone. Seep into the tissue of his brain and remove the anguish that festers like a bad wound. 

A great roaring volume drowns out his senses as hands paw at his chest. He’s shaken like someone attempting to rouse their child from slumber but he doesn’t want to wake up. He needs to seep into the concrete. Liquify and soak into the cold, unforgiving ground, but he won’t. The hands dragging him by his vest refuse to allow it. He can’t die because someone wills it otherwise. Then comes the metal. Tongs and needles; scalpels that slice and tear; saws that grind marrow into dust — it hurts worse than the impact. Worse than an entry wound that bubbles and flattens into a cavern nothing can reach.

When he opens his eyes, there’s nothing but white. Walls, linen, clothes; it’s a blank canvas for him to paint on, and yet he can’t see the image. Gentle shapes and sounds, he tries to remember his cousin’s name but can’t. Wants to shape his mouth into the word but his tongue has forgotten the dance. He can’t remember the number assigned to him when he used to play keeper in football. The memory of his mother’s voice is distorted. Something is broken about his father’s face. He can hardly recall the name of the man always at his bedside. 

Ghost. Is that it? Weird bloke with the mask and dark eyes. There’s vague memories about him. Good ones. Ghost barks at the nurses and doctors who come to see him, always questioning what they’re doing. Why they’re injecting him with certain things. Johnny watches him. Thick fingers clench and relax like waves along the coastline. There is more to his name. It’s shrouded in fuzzy memories. Wading through the static, he plucks the word and lets it sit on his tongue until he’s able to get the useless muscle to move. 

“Simon?” 

Things hurt more after he says that word. That name. Calls upon the devil; sells his soul to a demon with dark eyes and lips that can’t properly curl anymore because of the scar tissue. He fights. Shreds skin with sharp teeth. Doesn’t care who the skin belongs to. Johnny’s regressed. Gone backwards in evolution. Has turned into nothing more than a bad dog locked in a cage, left alone to lick his wounds. Only the clink of his collar keeps him company. 

But the only thing that makes a dog bad isn’t because they bite or bark — it’s that they’re scared. Confused. He flails and howls lamenting cries as he tries to make sense of the collar and cage, or why his name seems to be something he can’t recapture. The only thing that’s there, repeating in his mind like a broken record, is the bullet. Gunshot ringing loud, lead ripping through his cranium; all he knows how to do is fight. Fight dirty. Fight hard. Slicing claws, bared teeth; something in him still craves blood. Still covets the taste of iron in his mouth. 

That desire is siphoned out of him. Drawn free from his body until not a single drop remains. It breaks down and decays in his body until there’s only fuzz left. A distorted reality. Things are better this way. Happier. Now, there’s nothing but that collar and cage and Simon and Simon and Simon and Simon —

“Fuckin’ hell, Soap, wake up!” 

Instead of the unforgiving metal bars of a kennel, Johnny feels a plush mattress. Sheets and blankets twist up his legs like ivy reclaiming some man made structure — something that doesn’t belong — and his limbs thrash in an attempt to free himself. He’s restrained. Thick arms wrap around his torso, pinning his appendages to his chest. Lips press against the shell of his ear as Simon grunts in frustration, attempting to hold his misbehaving dog down. 

“Easy now, easy. Down boy,” he murmurs. 

“Ah need tae go home,” Johnny rambles, hands pawing at Simon’s forearms. His chest heaves. Rib cage expanding just to crush right back into his lungs as he exhales, throat constricting like it suddenly feels the weight of the collar around it. “Need tae go home.” 

Simon shushes him. Demanding fingers grip Johnny’s forearms as he pulls him closer. He’s become a living straight jacket. Yanking back on his mutt’s leash until he calms. Until the storm passes.  

“You are home. Home with me, ‘member?” Simon attempts to coddle. The softness is foreign to his voice, but he tries anyway. “Look, even Bonnie’s here. Yeah? Your sweet bird? Look at ‘er. Look at ‘er, Johnny.” 

Confused eyes peer through the darkness until he finds you standing to the side of the bed, your back against the wall. Your parted lips look heavenly in the dull glow of the moon seeping through the windows, and he finds his heart quelling in his chest. Then he looks at your eyes. Wide as saucers. Dilated. Chest heaving. Breath escaping you. 

“Yeah, you see ‘er now. You’re home with me. Home with Bonnie. Better now?” Simon asks. 

“Ah still feel it. Digging ‘round in mah fuckin’ skull,” Johnny babbles, feet still kicking at the cloth that holds his legs hostage. His teeth grit so tightly he can hardly get the words to flow between them. 

“Need ya to relax, Johnny,” Simon huffs. Frustrated eyes glare at you, and your throat visibly bobs as he motions for you to come back to the bed. “Want Bonnie to help?”

Following Simon’s orders, you crawl onto the mattress. You shuffle along on your hands and knees, head bowed low but your eyes stay on the men in front of you like they’ll bite if you don’t. Johnny sees the trepidation that lurks in your gaze. Can nearly smell it as it collects like sweat on your skin. He doesn’t like it. That fear in your eyes. Are you scared of him? Why do you look at him like that? 

“Good girl, Bonnie,” Simon praises flatly. Without warning, his hand dives into Johnny’s boxers where he greedily palms at his cock. It’s still soft, having no chance to harden, and yet Simon is unrelenting. Johnny feels the urge to jolt, to fight back against the stimulation as he watches you sit back on your haunches, bottom lip quivering. “You want ‘er, dontcha boy? ‘Course you do. You picked ‘er out and everything. Doesn’t she make ya feel better? Feel at home?” 

There’s a dull buzz in the back of Johnny’s mind that attempts to rewire his brain. To slice away the coax seal and bare the metal cords to the damp air of his skull. To weave things until the pain stops. Until things make sense. But that buzz wanes and dies as his cock begins to harden and he becomes drunk on Simon’s words and the way he tugs at him. When he looks back at you, you are excited. Body quivering with anticipation, on your knees waiting for him like there’s nothing else in the world that can satiate your desire but him. 

“Aye. Ah do,” Johnny groans. 

Simon smirks against his ear. 

“Good boy. Go fetch.” 

Johnny eats you alive after that. Takes you while you’re face first into the mattress, cock pumping into your cunt at an abusive pace. You cry this time. You’ve been good about keeping it bottled inside, tears along with it, but seeing him screaming in his sleep has your anxiety high. Watching him thrash like that, curse, and beg. Like he had been possessed. Like he was somebody else. Fear courses through you like it’s the only component that builds the cells of your blood. Guttural sobs and wails are muffled by the way Simon shoves your face into the bedding and barks at you to quiet down. You are thankful that this time he fucks you on the bed. There’s no unforgiving wood to press into your palms or the side of your face as you grieve into the blankets. Still, it hurts all the same. Your cervix splits and bruises, walls stretched impossibly wide as he pistons into you, ripping you apart from the inside. 

He feasts on your cries. Mumbles that you sound so beautiful, moaning like that. 

All for him. 

When Johnny’s finished, he goes back to sleep. Curls around you like a devoted dog, arms lazily slung over you — nothing but dead weight. Before long, both men are snoring while you sniffle and writhe. There is no sleep to be had, not with the wounds that plague you. After so much time spent in the den of these beasts, you were hoping that your skin would become thicker. Calluses would form from use, and eventually this agony would remit. But scars can’t form if you don’t allow the wound to heal, and Simon is all too willing to tear at the scab until you’re bleeding all over again. 

He likes the taste of brine and iron. 

Morning comes and you still haven’t slept. 

It was a foolish idea to believe you could have. Laying with monstrous men and listening to the rattle of their breathing keeps you awake worse than any creature that could go bump in the night. You promise yourself you’ll sleep when they’re awake. You’ll sleep when Simon’s hands are busy working away at the garden and Johnny’s drawing sketches of your motionless body. It’s easier to rest when the sun is up. When you can open your eyes and make sense of your surroundings and not be swallowed by darkness and terror. 

Simon is the first to rise. He always is. Even the sun lags behind him in sputtering rays as he slinks out of the room. His movement is enough to rouse Johnny who finally relinquished his grasp on you in favor of turning to lay on his stomach. You breathe easier without the weight of his arm on your chest, but it does nothing to quell the ache that still burns in the pit of your stomach. That never-healing wound. That scar which will never quite mend. 

You stir when you hear the shower begin to run. Its creaky faucet strains against the old pipes, squealing as the liquid shoots through it. Lifting yourself up, you muffle your groans behind gritted teeth as you slip off the side of the bed. You’ve gotten good at being quiet. Soft as a mouse trotting through rotten walls. As silent as the flap of an owl’s wings in the dead of night. Even as you dress — fresh cloth pulling over soiled skin — there’s nothing, not even a peep, out of you. Johnny huffs, body missing your presence. You ignore him as you leave the bedroom. 

Morning birds chirp in your willow tree. You’ve decided it’s your tree. Beautiful branches, dancing leaves — Simon has Johnny, and Johnny has you, isn’t it only fair that you have something of your own? Finches chatter as they buzz from branch to branch, excited feet scurrying as they chase one another. They peck and chew at berries and nuts they’ve foraged in the bountiful forest that lay beyond the property, and you stand in front of the window for a moment watching them. 

They force an old memory to resurface. Something from when you were a child. A science class lecture that’s been buried in the grey matter of your brain for so long it had almost gotten lost. Evolutionary pressure. Finches are an example of this. Darwin’s finches, especially. They’re diverse. Changing for better survival. There are some with fat, wide beaks, others with small, dainty growths. Animals evolve fast to adapt and survive. To endure the earth and her cruel games. 

You wonder if you could test this on yourself. Stress your body to the point it has no choice but to morph into something stronger. Something better. If you climbed to the top of this house, or the ridge of those trees, and jumped, would you survive? Would your body scream and cry out for you to change and sprout wings before you hit the ground? Before you’re caught in Johnny’s maw for good? Is this just some foolish notion? Would you just shatter on the pavement below? 

Your sigh mixes with the chirping, free and sovereign. Either way, it would not be an issue for you anymore if you failed. Your wounds would never heal, but you’d be too dead to care about it. 

Simon’s shower turns off with a squeak and the sound snaps you back to reality. This is all a facade. You are not a bird, you are not a woman, you are a pet — nothing more. 

Knowing breakfast is soon to follow, you preemptively wander toward the dining room. If there is one thing to be grateful for in this meticulously crafted hell of yours, it is that you are well fed. There is no such thing as going hungry under Simon’s careful watch. He is not a good man — a good person — but he at least knows how to take care of his pets. You turn into the room —

— there is a gun on the table. 

Solvent hangs faintly in the air next to bottles of cleaners and old toothbrushes that dot the tabletop. It’s the same set up you recall seeing a few weeks back when Simon cleaned his rifle — when he reminded you that hunting season is fast approaching — but there is no rifle on the table. A hand gun sits in its place, resting on its side, aimed toward the wall. It’s not gutted. Each spring and screw lies perfectly in place. Primed. Ready to kill. 

It’s a proper handgun. At least, you think it is. Not one of the six shooters you always see portrayed in old American Western films. It’s deadly. Something officers or Army men would use. Your stomach sinks as you approach it, like it’ll decide to discharge from a mere glance alone. Sleek black metal covers the frame and grip, making it all look uniform, save for some wear and tear scratches. Some of the scratches look deep — long and gnarly gashes like the item itself had been through hell and back. You reach a hand out, floating and careful; your fingertips brush against the grip; wary, like it’ll bite.

“Shouldn’t be touchin’ that.” 

Retracting your hand, you jump as Simon’s voice cuts through the air with as much venom as a viper. You step back as your eyes jump to look at him. Shirtless, skin still freshly wet, he stands like a drowned barbarian as he stares at you. An apology bubbles up in your throat, but you won’t let it escape. You keep it trapped in your larynx as he slowly approaches with feet more quiet than you could ever wish to be. 

“Ever seen one before?” he asks. He crowds you, forces you back another step as he reaches for the pistol. Large hands dwarf the metal frame as he turns it over in his palm, showing it off. “A gun like this?” 

You shake your head. Knives are plenty common in England, but handguns? Something other than a hunting rifle? You thought handguns were banned. Though, Simon’s never been one to shy away from illegal acts. 

“Yeah. Didn’t think so. Fittin’ for a civilian,” he chuckles with crass humor. 

Simon does something unthinkable — he hands you the gun. 

There’s nothing but care as he holds it out, grip faced toward you, muzzle off to the side pointing at neither of you. Your heart leaps into your throat, swells in your esophagus, and then throbs. All you can do is stare. It stares back. Screams at you. You’re all too aware that this item acts not only as your executioner, but as your ticket out of this place. 

“Take it,” he urges. 

Like always, you obey. It feels too thick in your palm, and when he lets go, it’s heavy, much more than you could have anticipated it to be. Everyone in the movies always wields them so flippantly — as if they’re light as air — but the weight it holds screams its deadly intent. Simon’s fingers brush against you, adjusting your grip, and you try not to grimace at the feeling of his skin and tainted metal against your hand. 

“Is it loaded?” you question. You don’t know why you ask it. Maybe you want to know so you can be wary. To not hurt yourself. Or maybe you want to know so you can see if the risk raging in the back of your mind is worth taking. 

“Dunno,” Simon shrugs. Once more, he repositions you. Gently prods your hand higher and higher, elbow bent, muzzle resting against your temple. Maneuvers your pointer finger until it’s hooked around the trigger. A dead woman walking, he forces you to stand there with the gun to your head. “Wanna find out?” 

What a cruel world this is. The earth with her singing birds and sprouting flowers and bright blue skies, and you’ve hardly been able to enjoy any of it. All it has been is pain, and here you are wondering if you’ll ever get the chance to heal from it. Your heart thumps like an amateur drummer; without sense and rhythm. It demands to be heard. Forces you to listen to his cacophonous melody as it drowns the rush of blood in your ears. Your finger twitches, and the trigger gives way, but not enough for anything to happen. 

“C’mon. We’ll get you matchin’ with Johnny, huh? Ugly fuckin’ scar on the side of your head.” As he says it, he eyes the spot where the mouth of the gun meets your trembling flesh. He says it like he’s already imagining the gaping hole. “Pull the trigger, Bonnie.” 

It can’t be loaded. You’re certain of it. There’s no way he would leave something that dangerous around within reach. But it’s so heavy. As if it’s crammed to the brim with bullets ready to riddle your body full of holes. Your breathing stutters. Seizes the muscles of your chest and forces them to jitter. You stare at Simon’s chest. Nothing but pale, thick skin stares back at you. If you pull the trigger, you might paint him red. Red and pink and yellow. You wonder if that’s what he wants. If the feeling of water never feels as warm or embracing to him as fresh blood does. 

“I told you to pull the fuckin’ trigger.” 

Panic writhes in your stomach — you don’t want to die yet. 

Click!

The hammer strikes against nothing and dry fires. It rings louder than the terror in your mind and the vibrations that rattle your trembling body as your arm gives out, gun lowering away from your head. Of course it’s empty. How stupid of you to think of anything different. Simon would never allow you to leave before he’s ready to let go. 

When Simon laughs, your stomach lurches so fiercely you nearly vomit. Once you’re able to force yourself to face him, you’re met with the largest smile you’ve ever seen him wear. Crooked teeth sit between scarred lips as he swipes the gun out of your limp fingers. Taking a step back, he nods; utterly amused. It isn’t long before that sneer wipes off of his face and he’s back to wearing that biting, stoic expression he always does. 

“Atta girl,” he huffs. 

Sliding the gun into the waistband of his sweatpants, Simon saunters past you into the kitchen, leaving you to stand alone next to the table. Unstable knees nearly give out as your palms slap against the top, slowly dragging your body into a rickety chair. It hurts to sit, soreness jolting through your core with unforgiving electricity, but you refuse to make a sound. You sit there with tears welling in your eyes as you try to forget the way deadly metal feels in your hand. 

This is Simon’s greatest round of torture yet. He’s given you the keys meant to aid in your escape, but he’s changed all the locks. You bite into your bottom lip to get it to stop quivering. After living here, you’ve learned pain is the best enforcer. Only, it doesn’t quite work as well when it’s self-inflicted. 

Another click sounds, and you wince at it. Holding your breath, you wait for something else to follow — a sonic boom, a scream, a death rattle — but the only thing you hear is the sizzling of bacon on a hot pan as Simon prepares breakfast.

[dhampling]

ivory tower 18+ ASCENDED!ASTARION X AFAB!READER, 4.6K

Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city; but you want this.

woah boy! my first ascended astarion piece, so please be kind! dal is back babey! woooo! thank you to @bhaalism and @lipstickghoulie for dealing with me while writing this i love you both endlessly. wc: 4.6k cw: afab reader, female language used. breeding, mind-control, p in v, ascended astarion, public fingering, private banging, great times all round, as always if there are errors no there aren't, creampies, yippee

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep. Not really.

She sometimes slows just enough to find some purchase amongst the muddle, though - tiptoes lazy through highsun in soft linens, the burgeoning swell of soap suds and sunny rosemary through wide open wooden shutters. Lingering - sweat-soaking worn leathers, the sore of the flex in the arch of your foot splayed over cobble. As if to grasp at the memory, your fingers stretch out from your side and on to the dark oak of the armrest, in a moment of sheer jubilance. Summer. The sun. Wide bright mornings. Hopeful and hot as a bated breath. 

The city ambles onward this evening, no different despite the inclement weather and the din of an early darkness. Half-lidded through dark streets as rain smatters the roofs with wet, glistening something dozy under the tall oil street lamps and swirls of ever-present heavy fog. Gurgling whilst each drain fills with water and swallows deep into the sewers. 

Scatters the hay, bears the slip; sings a slow drunken stutter of thunder-wind whiling at the windows into the small hours. There’s a comfort to be found in it. 

The harbour bell will go on to toll for every sail weary ship coming in from the fog; the crescent caress of the Gate’s waiting arms lit low with oily dots of amber. That even this late into the night the bands of trawlers on the dock work crates and barrels into cargo holds with worn hands and ruddy cheeks. The gulls and their scattering squawks. The flapping of their fat feathered wings up into the clouds. 

From where you sit in the Ivory Tower you can hardly see anything at all. Fog obscures the streets to a point, other than the light patches under the oil lanterns out on the ramparts. The window runs dripping wet with condensation. Pools under the pane. 

A hideaway of sorts within the manor. Newly reclaimed by Astarion in some deal with the quivering council in order to keep him sweet. Not that he has any armies of undead in his retainer to command as yet, but they don’t need to know that. There’s time. You’re still blessedly mortal and able.

Astarion. 

He should be skulking the halls somewhere below with that unnerving silent step he’s taken to using. Your cheeks grow warm, the blanket over your shoulders pulled closer into your chest as you allow your mind to run wild; the scald of bliss to your brain like that of some ironmonger’s poker, split straight to the core. 

Your love. Your lover. 

Amongst his many newfound desires and passions seemingly includes the impetus to redesign a centuries-old palace from scratch, and while you doubt he has the want nor willpower to take the project anywhere near to completion you’re more than happy to indulge him during this burst of creativity. A designer’s eye. Lavish yet not ostentatious, he tells you. Your own private wing of the palace, and one you’ll share together. He has no need for his own private chambers. You’re the only one he wants to be beside. You understand that at its essence, it isn’t even necessarily a want to design for creativity’s sake, it’s important to you both to have every memory of the residence’s former owner gone. Every threadbare tread of carpet, every scuff on the wall; every painting being demounted by workers downstairs and shipped to the auction house first thing in the morning. You can hear them if you still enough, heart still beating in your chest and the low chunter of layman gossip.

The version of him you knew before his ascension was so very scared. Beautiful, but wavering. You loved him of course; and you always will  - it was that version of him, the one lost in the wilderness that you fell for, and gods; you fell hard - frenetic and whiny, fleeting as light snow never to settle on the forest floor. Wild-eyed. 

But this Astarion - the real Astarion, as far as he is concerned - has you completely and utterly enraptured each day you wake together, the same as ever, from the second your eyes open. Wrapped in those Daerlunian-import plush linens atop your gargantuan newly-installed four poster bed. Face of marble with those cattish dark lashes and eyes of carnelian crush. Enchants every room he walks into, as he always has. 

You don’t know he’s with you until a hand ghosts your shoulder, sinewy; with those deft pale fingers deep encroaching on your collarbone in his grasp. 

“I didn’t hear you, lover.”

“But I heard you.’

He circles round the velvet armchair, resplendent in his home finery. Not a crease to be seen. Voice soft, yet laced with a bristling concern.

‘Why do you insist on sitting up here?”

You err for a brief moment. 

“I can hear the rain on the roof, here. See some bustle when the fog clears. The city goes on.” You shake your head with a smile as he crouches beside you, nestling his head in the crook of your arm.

“But it’s cold. Dark. Come down - I can light the fire in our sitting room if you like?” 

“We have so many centuries yet to see together! What sense is there in not observing the world as it is now? Keeping record of the city as we saved it?”

His head lifts and his eyes meet yours, some churlish quirk of a brow in the low light.

“An archivist, now? Is that to be your profession alongside me? Whilst you raise our young?”

“If I wish it to be, yes.”

He laughs, a gentle low hum.

“Then an archivist you’ll be - the most renowned in all the lands. We’ll make it so.’ He stands once more and takes your hands from your lap, bringing them clasped to his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. 

‘I’ll begin planning on your archives - I presume you’ll want a library? Or something similar in your wing, maybe even an office. Who knows?”

Astarion looks to the room around you, the shapes covered with old canvas and the rickety floorboards underfoot. Cobwebs in the corner. There’s no grimace nor displeasure. He simply surveys as cool as still water. Objective.

“I’ll have some of the merchants relay their contacts come morning too. If you insist on expanding your territory up here then it must befit you.”

“Befit me?” You grin now. His hold on your hands remains secure.

“If you want me to say it, then I suppose I will. As many times as it takes to get it through that heavy skull of yours.’

His smile reaches his eyes as he circles back behind your chair, fingers splayed over your shoulders once more in a deep round kneading pattern.

‘There’s nothing you won’t have if you want for it. Nothing too good for you to covet, my solace; Saviour to the whole Sword Coast and every plain mite within its bounds.’

There’s a small pause as he bows to kiss the top of your head.

‘And I thank the stars every day that I can provide for you. That you saw the potential in me and lifted me higher, to such profane glory amongst the swill of common man. That my gold, my influence, and terror, and each lift of my blade is at your command and yours alone. That you stayed at my side.” 

He doesn’t like to mention the gods, hence the stars. Pointedly brings the grimace back into play, occasionally even furrows with the slightest twinge of anger brewing at his brow. The gods had no role to play in your shared victories. No divine intervention saved him from two hundred years of torment, from certain death after the crash of the nautiloid along that sun-soaked span of rocky beach;-

You did. You with your strange inclination toward the weak man he once was. The shell he lived in like a hermit crab on the shore, nothing more.

-

On bright days, you thank him for giving you time.

Time to live, time to breathe with full lungs. Time to allow you to burn your eyes in the beating sun with a silver pot of fresh coffee and whatever ridiculous spew the papers hold between the pages today. 

You know as you sit in comfortable silence that your time dwindles, and that your turning is inevitable. Your eternal wedded bliss is to be alongside him and will be as vivid in nature as all the colours of the astral plane, if he’s to be believed - and there’s no reason not to see his word as gospel. You can see each moment as crystalline as sea glass on sand. Forever with the man you love more than you’ve ever felt inclined to love anything. The bridal ceremony is but a drop in the vast ocean of your lives together. 

He thanks you too. Often alongside you with eyes closed in some dozy recline, forearm hanging lazily whilst he takes the sun on his skin like a blessing. A loose linen shirt akin to the one he wore back at camp at the start of your journey together, strings wide open, a blaze of blinding flesh at the corner of your eye each time he shifts.

The veranda on a clear day. Astarion has assured you he’ll never take this from you. He’ll never take anything that you don’t willingly give him with a clear heart - and why would you give him your ability to bask in the sun, like a street cat in days-warm dust? What purpose does that serve either of you, beyond making you a less useful weapon in his prized arsenal?

At one point, all you wanted was to talk to him - and it rings true even now. The want to be the bearer of all his tales. To learn about him, to be close to him; to hear him tear the world apart with that dulcet snarl, walking alongside each other on the barren dirt trails out in the wilderness. Hop-skipping to keep up with his quiet gait. Giving him back as good as you got. The glimmer of his hair in the sunlight, the way he’d sometimes just stop.

Close his eyes. Feel the heat. The gentle burn of highsun on tender flesh. A soft inhale.

That morning out in the clearing after your first night together. Arms outstretched in a welcome to the light. It had taken a few minutes for it to click as you’d silently watched on, why his sun salutation was so fond. So open.

It’s to be a long engagement with regard to your transformation whilst the manor undergoes renovations. Reason after reason as to why now isn’t the ideal time to commit you to eternity. You know why he wants to keep a hold on your precious mortality for the time being, of course; and that keeps you from the forever embrace of his Dark Kiss. It never changes. 

You’ll allow him to sire your children. You want him to. Crave it. Him.

Your very own lineage together, he whispers; frenzied by your ear as his fingers crawl the bare span of your thigh. He can breed you full like fate intended and you’ll have something - besides him - that’ll also last forever. Something of your own surpassing the death of all of your contemporaries. The Vampire Ascendant and The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate, flesh-on-flesh, skin smacking skin; his debauched groans and lewd whimpers as he buries himself inside you, your cooing breaths;-

You’ll wed normally too, for the interested eyes of the city. Some dull ceremony with the elites adorning all tables as gilded pieces might some decorative chess board, deceptive vows. Legally it makes things easier should anything befall either of you but the hassle almost makes the whole thing undesirable - gods, especially because he already treats you as some smitten newlywed might. Adores you. Follows you around the manor, stalking; like some wolf cub after its mother. Carries you to bed each evening and ploughs you senseless, until spit gathers in the corners of your wet, wanting mouth and you can’t see straight through grey-blear eyes.

He likes the idea of you taking his name by law. Melds with your own like it were meant to be, from the starter threads of whatever cosmic tapestry pulled you together, the marriage of your first name to his last, interwoven by a scholar’s hand in gold-shining delicate point.  

Ancunín. The House of.

Tapestries. Large, spanning the halls. The Sarsantyr's over in Waterdeep - they’ll be able to create what you’re picturing. 

A familiar gaze meets yours. It’s then that you realise you aren’t alone in your mind once more

“If you want tapestries, you only have to ask.” 

“In fairness - you didn’t give me a chance to.”

He hums, tilting his head a little in the sun’s glare.

“I’ll send for them. The Sarsantyr's, yes? Have them pack up all their little-’

He pulls a face and lifts his hands in some kind of puzzled shake.

‘Sewing bits? Textiles? I’ll send carriages. They can come and stay in the lower rooms. Create the masterpiece you envision.” Astarion sniggers a little at the thought of putting them in the old dormitory while you remain lost in thought.

“Okay. Check them through first though, yes? 

The real event - the wedding - will give you total ecstasy beyond your wildest preconception, you know this. Unfettered and euphoric. Books and books on the topic stacked clumsily beside your bed, reds and greens; the turning of a vampire bride in leather bound prose. You know what to expect in florid detail. You know to trust your lover, that the rabid creature you’ll become is only a temporary mental state precursing an eternity alongside him. 

And yet, you wonder about the children. They’ll be here by then. However many he decides is enough, naturally; assumedly under the care of some hired help whilst you engage in your thoroughly bastardised pastiche of a wedding ceremony. You laugh now. He’s still in your head, mulling over your thoughts as soon as you can think them. 

Will you miss them? Will they be your last thought before you pass away; Astarion unable to complete this ritual alone as he was unable to before? Will your death lead to his, leaving your dhampir offspring to ravage Baldur’s Gate unsupported by the windfall of knowing parents? There’s still no hesitation, though. You will bear his young. You want to. The consequences either way are vast and long-lasting, and you’d rather be at his side than facing his ire- 

“Love, what are these thoughts? What on earth is going on in that very pretty head of yours today?” His voice is a low drawl, pitying yet laced with affection. He sits straight in his chair whilst a hand lazily searches for yours atop the sun-warmed table; beyond the scope of the ramparts wall the low meander of city life continues on.

“Mulling things over.”

“You don’t need to do that, pet. Come now.’ He beckons you onto his lap and wraps his arms around your middle, hand searching for the soft pillow of your chest as your ass backs up to his abdomen.

‘You want me to make it better?” 

You nod gently, the sun catching your eye in a particularly bright beam and making you squint. 

“Please.”

“Poor thing. It’s okay.” As he coos; one hand finds the curve of soft flesh at your chest, holding the weight of your breast firmly as he starts lightly thumbing at the nipple through your nightshirt.

“There, now. Good girl.” Your head falls back onto his shoulder, a deep sigh as he lulls you into a new state of calm astride him. Birds sing overhead whilst you nuzzle his neck.

“I will miss this warm flesh of yours, you know. Terribly so.’ His other hand moves to your nightskirt, gently hitching the material bit-by-bit up your thighs until you sit exposed to the air. Nobody can see you from here - the faceless crowd little but colourful dots below; Astarion giving a small tense laugh as he feels your pulse quicken against him. 

He toys with your skirt, edging ever nearer your exposed cunt; and your eyes flutter closed. 

‘But the greater purpose… I just can’t let it go. Us. Our lives together. I sincerely doubt you want to wither away to age; to lose your extraordinary beauty-’

A gentle groan as he feels your warmth.

‘Do you, my most precious flower?” 

“Of- Of course I don’t. I want to be with you, as we are; forever.”

“Then we’re going to need to make a concerted start on the only thing setting us back, are we not?” His fingers gently tap on the crux of your pubic bone, threateningly close to your clit. You feel the familiar seep of your slit leaking onto the bunched skirt fabric and you think of honey. Some kind of sweet glaze.

“Yes.”

As you sink further into him his fingers move down just a little to meet your clit; and in response to your delighted sighs he very lightly begins to stroke either side of the engorged flesh. There’s no urgency to his movement nor his demeanour; just a treacle-thick teasing grin as he turns his head to kiss your blazing cheek.

“Good.”

There’s something borderline celestial about the gentle way he touches you, coaxing more of your slick from you with every gentle jerk. He deftly motions ‘come hither’ with a soaking middle finger dipping lightly at your hole then brings your arousal up to wetten your clit once more.

“You want this, don’t you?” A finger slips down to your cunt, this time slipping and nestling deep inside as you feel yourself writhe on him. One arm scrambles around the back of his neck to support yourself while he begins to curl at your spongy spot, and the anchor of your arousal shifts free.

“I’ve been rifling through that glorious mind of yours these past few days and I see you now. You want comfort. To comfort. To seek shelter in those warm lights on the horizon, to know you aren’t alone in the late hours.”

You nod furiously, wincing, desperate to feel him deeper. Thicker. You need more, your fox-eyed paramour giving only the barest minimum he can do to watch you squirm.

“You, with my babe in arm;- oh the image alone does things to you, doesn’t it?”

It’s as if he’s creating the visions in your head as he speaks them, bringing them to the forefront of your mind in hushed coos and silent gasps. As if by magic, the only thing on your mind is a primal need for him to fuck you full. Nothing else, no mind for coffee nor completed manor renovations. 

You will be round. You will brim with life before he turns you, and you’ll take to his seed the minute he offers it to you. You’ll accommodate him like no other across Toril could hope to. You wonder if he has the power to decide how many, as he adds another finger to your unbridled torment. If he could choose to speed the process up with a celebration of twins, triplets. An heir and two spares. Maybe he’d wait instead until the first was born, just to ensure the viability of his bloodline. A test.

He’s doing this; you become starkly aware as he withdraws his fingers, spiderwebs of glistening drool clinging to your inner thigh as he brings them between his lips and suckles. He’s giving you these ideas of grandeur because he can. Because you are his. Because you wouldn’t want to belong to anyone else, to be tied to any other notion of whatever a fulfilling life is, if it weren’t one shared wholly by him. With him.

“Let me take you inside, sweet one. Let’s take care of you properly, shall we? Curb this fever, hm?”

Please, you think. Please take this burning hole in my womb and make it full with you. Extinguish the flame with your unholy spend and give me children. Give me oud and orchids and a life of warmth, however long we both may live.

“Use your words, my love. Tell me you want this.”

“I want this. Please.”

-

On the bed you now lie, the room cool and dark; balcony doors open wide with light-billowing curtains. Sweat consumes you as your thoughts run wild, the smell of your arousal, clammy hands and deep breaths in the low light. Astarion approaches like something from a dream, shirtless now; smirk plastered cheek-to-cheek as he leans over your trembling form with confidence - your lust-addled fingers reaching for his steady form like a ship to harbour. 

“You want to feel it, little dove? Feel how you set me alight?”

He pries your wrist from him with gentle urgency, taking your hand under his and skating both downwards; down the plane of his tight torso, slowing to a stop just above his pelvis.

“Tell me - do you want to feel it?”

A small smirk plays at the corner of your lips, but he doesn’t seem to notice - watching the way your hand twitches under his.

“Hm?”

His groan is guttural. Thick. He doesn’t even try to mask it, eyes wide as his hand shifts yours just a little further down and over the blistering burn of his heavy cock through loose linen trousers. A hazy sigh as he moans a small whimper at your touch.

“Please, Astarion. I beg you.”

It’s like his fingers are enchanted, the way they reduce you to this sodden mess. Unable to think unless guided delicately by his superior whim. 

“I need to bury myself inside you fully for this to take. I need your full attention, submission; your devotion to our lives together. Do I make myself clear?”

He’s giving you one final chance to withdraw. Your head clears for one sweet moment and you can do little else but stare at his bulge with heavy lids and your mouth agape.

“Crystal. I ache for you. Please, give this to me.”

You lift to meet him in a soft kiss, jaw slackened and cunt ablaze. Nothing else matters, no complications, nor possibilities of horribly mangled spawn from your womb as a result of your copulation. This scalding stupor that sends you insane won’t go away until he quenches it with his seed. 

Your response has satisfied him, if the way he stands sharpish and unties his trouser laces is anything to go by. The glassy head of his cock stands purple at his stomach, leaking wild at the slit and red-hot as your hand reaches blindly for him in your hunger.

He gently taps you away and back down onto the sheets. 

“Magic?” You hear yourself mumble, still amazed at how surely swollen he must feel with how sore he looks. Has to be. 

“Just me.”

There’s a tenderness in his eyes as he crawls back over you, legs instinctively parting and lifting at the knee to accommodate him. Something that compels him to hold your face in the hand that isn’t supporting his weight and just look at you, fondly; for what feels like an age.

Then he shifts once more to angle himself, decidedly spending no more time on preparation. The heat of his cock against your slit is unlike anything you’ve ever known, dizzying yet pleasurable; hard and yet still yielding, and as he thrusts a shallow dip into your core you swear you see angels overhead. Yes, you’re ready. You’ve never been more ready for anything than you are for the sheer ecstasy you know he’s about to give you, and he’s going to give you it in droves. Seismic tremors as he shifts a little and you adjust to him once again.

He nods. He hears you. 

Then, he snaps once more; and he’s lost.

Each glub of his cock meeting your spill as he ruts into you; the way you feel it running downward in long dribbles, with each and every mindless hump of his hips eking more honey from your cunt in spades. 

You hear the sounds of your shared carnal pleasure and it makes you clench around him in some kind of self-perpetuating cycle. Groans and whimpers and moans and hisses and the frequent egregious slaps to your thighs whilst he chases his high. 

He’s perfect like this. Halo of curls above you, voice silken as he calls you every pet name under the sun, his, always. Your legs ache already from being wound so tightly, interlocked around him, and you think of the prespill inside you already. How each fangy showman’s smile means he’s twitching at your cervix and leaking molten gold inside you with every thrust. 

It’s not until he nuzzles down to your neck that you remember to offer it, potentially for the last time on this mortal coil. 

“Are you asking?”

“Well, you didn’t offer.”

The immediate pang is one of violent nausea, subsiding quickly into a wooze coating the bottom of your stomach in black tar as he fucks upward. Unease. There’s something in his spit, you assume. Something that makes the gaping wounds a little more bearable, a little less raw as he kitten-licks the flesh between swallows. Ice courses your veins with adrenaline as it always does.

Astarion chokes down his first sip with an eager cough. The burgeoning panic wracking your limbs turns into a numbed haze as your lover feasts, big neat gulps whilst he clutches at your ribcage with fingers splayed deep and cock buried to the hilt, like a man starved. His hair tickles  at your jaw, the smell of something herbal. Slightly lemony. 

He splutters that he’s close and you feel yourself nearing your peak too.

There’s a profane desecration in what he’s doing, painting your walls in an attempt to get you pregnant. Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city. No villages to raise them, no cards nor flowers from friends or family; but you want this. 

You want him to taint you in his particular shade of crimson, visibly; so the realms know who made The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate come to heel. The man who compelled her through sheer love alone and to whom she gave everything. The indomitable force for whom you’ll die, only to resurrect forever as his.

Visions of your turning don’t scare you - all lightning and thunder, the cries of your dhamplings in some nursery down the towering halls of your palatial wing; and yet you’ll be safe in his caress. He wouldn’t let a single thing happen to you. He won’t. 

And as he cums; he calls your name.

Some rhythmic prayer over and over again; and with each kick of his cock he loses some of his bedroom charm and hurtles back to earth, humbly enraptured. More candid. His weary muscles tighten as yours threaten your own release around him.

“Cum for me, now. Milk me.” in a heavy whisper whilst he strokes the soft flesh of your cheek; and you do. You cum harder than you can remember ever before. Each wave of sheer pleasure some blackout tidal wave as you writhe, staccato in his arms. 

If you die during the ceremony, you’ll die happy. Should the younglings bite their way through your womb, it won’t matter.

You’re loved. He loves you, in soft kisses and gentle arms carried all the way to the waiting washtub. In the way he sponges your aching shoulders and brings a washcloth to your dazed face.

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep, not really.

But tonight it will, in the patient, visceral bliss of calm before a summer storm.

[cherhys]

Anything, Always

Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Rhysand has been running himself ragged, and it hasn’t escaped your notice. In an effort to quell old nightmares, Rhysand has an interesting suggestion…

Word count: 4.4k

Warnings: Mild angst (pining + UTM reminder whoops), Feelings™️

Notes: The longest fic to date! I was working on some Azriel WIPs when this piece just happened. I wanted Rhys to get some well-deserved, utterly devoted, loving. Thank you for all the support so far; it means more than you know! ♡

You noticed that as the week has passed, you’ve seen less and less of Rhys around the townhouse. First, it was less frequented dinners, followed by mornings spent alone. Being High Lord is no easy task, but it’s all the more reason for you to lend a helping hand where possible. Instead, all of your offers have been promptly shut down with a wry smile leaving little room for argument since it's nothing more than I usually deal with, darling. 

His words echo in your head as you approach his office, the ease with which he said them in juxtaposition with the dark circles beneath his eyes. You doubt he’s been sleeping very well; it was no secret that the High Lord preferred staying up in the evenings, but he always reclaimed that sleep the following morning. Recently you’ve observed his absence from the townhouse in favour of training even before Cassian, the earliest morning bird you know. This simply could not go on—he had to take care of himself. A male like him deserved better than that.

The door to his study was closed and after a brief knock, you slowly cracked it open to peer inside. His head didn’t so much as lift from where he was scanning his papers, a crease between his ink-dark eyebrows. The evening light filtered through the windows behind him, casting him in an iridescent glow befitting his title. He had changed into a loose linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal solid tan forearms corded with prominent veins. He scrubbed a calloused hand along his uncharacteristically scruffy jaw. The usual sparkle in his jewel-tone eyes was lost to his evident lack of sleep.

Despite this, he was still the most beautiful male you’ve ever beheld. Even feeling ragged, Rhysand was nothing short of magnificent. No amount of stress could take away from his plush lips, the delicate column of his neck, and the elegant sweep of his collarbones leading to the strong planes of his chest. The age-old flutter in your chest surfaced, a delicate thing you had neglected for so long. 

“You can come in, darling.” Finally, those tired eyes lifted to yours where you stood in the doorway. When you don’t move he sweeps a hand towards the cushioned chairs before his rich mahogany desk. You quash any semblance of that flutter until a deep void is all that remains in your chest; a talent you had mastered after all these years.

“I’d say I’m surprised to find my dearest High Lord secluded in his office on a Friday evening, but I made an oath not to lie.” You idle your way in, running your finger along the books on his shelf. You frown at the faint layer of dust over his more loved collections. 

“Well, Friday evening or not, doesn’t my dearest advisor have work to do instead of chatting me up like some girl at Rita’s?” Like a delicate brush stroke, his ebony brow arched. Rhysand’s eyes tracked your approach as you walked around the spacious office, feet padding against the soft carpet. The snack you had brought him earlier remained untouched on his desk, and you clenched your clasped hands behind your back. 

“Girls at bars aren't worth my time, though it wouldn’t hurt for you to try. All you do is hide away here; you’ll have the year-end papers done at this rate.”

He shrugged, nonchalant, “Better to be more prepared than found lacking, no?”

You stopped before his desk and stared, “It’s only springtime Rhysand.” At your unflinching gaze, he sighed.

“I was unimpressed with some of the projections submitted by the Court of Nightmares. Sloppy work.” His jaw worked in time to the pulse in his neck. You nodded, acquiescing as much. As Rhysand’s advisor, you were expressly aware of the substandard documents that Kier had submitted. Despite his abysmal summation of the Court of Nightmare’s projections, Kier could receive a verbal (or literal) lashing later. 

“Rhys, this isn’t an express concern at the moment.” He dropped his head back to his papers, dipping the fountain pen in the inkwell. The sound of your breathing and scratching on parchment permeated the silence. The dismissal was clear, though surprisingly cruel from your usual playful High Lord.

“Rhys, look at me.” Despite your pleading tone, he remained fixed on his writing. In a few swift steps, you rounded the desk. You placed a gentle hand beneath his chin, lifting his face to your searching eyes. Where his silence was defiant, now there is only weariness. 

“Rhysand… what’s wrong honey?” The endearment slips out, but your chest constricts at the sight of the defeated male before you. You miss your charming friend. Your thumb lightly caresses his cheek and his lashes flutter at the sensation. He gives you a wry smile and grips your fingers in his warm hand, “Nothing is wrong. I’m only a little tired.” 

You breathed deeply, willing yourself to remain calm. Rhysand was known to undertake everything by himself, an expression of his love towards his family. While you appreciate the care he tries to show, his selflessness couldn’t happen at the expense of his well-being. This was something different. 

Your silence unnerved the usually unshakeable male, and he seemed to deflate under your scrutiny. So you waited—let him process his thoughts, choose what he wanted to say. 

When his grip tightened on your hand but his silence persisted, you offered an olive branch.

“I have never been able to share my feelings with ease; to feel so much… it is an overwhelming burden. And yet–” You took a steadying breath, hesitant to reveal so much but unable to help him understand otherwise. His expectant gaze was patient, if not encouraging. 

“And yet, unravelling my feelings and sharing them with you is effortless. With you, I know I am safe. That I am understood. Rhysand, I want to be that person for you. You are welcome to share, and I will always be there to listen.”

When you finished, you shifted to perch on the desk space poised between his legs. Rhysand unconsciously moved his chair closer, his head pressing into your jointly entwined hands. He slowly inhaled, the scent of you a balm to his fraying senses. 

“They’re back. She’s back,” Rhys didn’t need to elaborate on who and what for you to catch his meaning. You had known that nightmares plagued him often in the time since his return from Under the Mountain. Years had passed since then but the horrors he endured were not easily forgotten, “I don’t know what to do.”

The defeat in his tone nearly brought tears to your eyes, but you reigned them in—this was his opportunity to be vulnerable and you must remain strong. 

“I think about all of the lives I–... I think about all of it, often. It is never not on my mind, but I can usually move past it. You all help,” At this, he squeezed your palm again, an earnest look in his violet eyes, “But sometimes the guilt–” He loosed a sigh, shaking his head, “It is unbearable.’

Rhysand pulled his hand away from yours, leaving it cold. He stared down at his hands between you both as if all of his sins were still visible. To him, you’re sure they were. 

His voice was lowered to a whisper now, “When I sleep, she taunts me. She stokes that guilt from an ember to a flame and eats away at me. All I can think to do is run myself ragged, in some form of masochistic repenting.”

Rhys glances up at you, his heart dropping when he sees your eyes are closed. Even you couldn’t bear to look at him after what he had done. Clenching his jaw, he begins to pull away and prepares for your imminent disgust. 

He doesn’t expect you to grip his cheeks, and pull him back to you. Rhysand’s eyes are comically large this close, your noses a hair's breadth away from touching. He has never seen your mouth set in such a serious line, your eyes blazing with such fire.

“Listen to me very closely. Everything you did? It was necessary for survival. For yours. For the Night Court’s. For our family’s. It is only normal to feel guilt—that’s what makes you the wonderful, kind male I know.” Your hands pressed almost painfully, as if you could physically push the words into his head, “But you should never regret what you did. Because it brought you back to us.” To me, but you left that part unspoken. 

When he seems to hesitate you reinforce, “Any of us would’ve done it for you. If I could've traded places with you I would have done so in a heartbeat, Rhysand. And it kills me to see you blame yourself. You can repay those you mourn by living your life to the fullest in their honour.”

He regards you for a moment, plush lip pulled tightly between his teeth. Rhysand nods slowly at your searching stare, the sorrow clearing from his eyes like clouds in a bright night sky. Those stars you so love wink back at you from his midnight gaze. 

Unable to help yourself, you swoop him up into your tight embrace. Rhys’s strong arms wrap around you in no time, his head at your breast. He can hear the rapid but sure beating of your heart and it brings him a peace that he hasn’t felt since the nightmares returned. 

“Thank you.” His soft words lift your heart and you place a swift kiss on the top of his head. 

“Always.” 

You stroke his raven hair in soothing motions, running your nails lightly along his scalp. Rhys visibly relaxes in your hold, his shoulders slumping with a weight unloaded. You dare to enjoy the moment, knowing that the likes of these are few and far between; you seldom let yourself get this close, the ache in your heart too much.

Finally, you pull away, a determined look on your face, “How can I help you, Rhys?”

His face softened, and he let out a light chuckle, “I doubt you can, darling. This is just one of those things.”

“It most certainly will not be one of those things. There has to be something; maybe if we help you relax? A sleeping draught?”

He winced at that, “No sleeping draughts, preferably. I’m not fond of drugging myself.”

You scratched your chin, “No, that doesn’t seem sustainable long term.”

While you brainstormed ideas to help the male before you, Rhys glanced at you through thick lashes. He had begun to fiddle with the fountain pen, twisting the top, “I think I may have a suggestion.”

You snapped out of your thoughts, “Already? What is it?” A beaming smile stretched across your face—anything. You would do anything to help him. 

He locked his eyes on yours, voice level, “Sleep with me.”

You blinked, unmoving. You stared at him a few seconds longer, the words failing to process. You’re sure you must have stopped breathing, the thumping of your heart overwhelming your senses.

Sleep with me. 

A nervous laugh bubbled out of you, “I’m sorry? ‘Sleep with you’?”

A million thoughts were spinning in your head, each faster than the last. Slick skin on skin; hands fisted in sheets, in hair, scratching down a tan, tatted back; clothes haphazardly strewn around the room; pleasurable pants filling the air. You shook your head. Surely you had misheard? Misunderstood? 

A cocky smile spread across Rhysand’s face, although the dusting of pink crawling up his neck isn't lost on you.

What dirty thoughts are you thinking, darling? That midnight voice lightly caressed your mental shields. 

Your cheeks were flaming if the heat under your skin was anything to go by. You persevered and pursed your lips in mock irritation. You would not be undone by his aimless teasing after all these years. 

Nothing that would involve the likes of you, the thought pushed right back at his adamantine mental shield. 

Rhysands thick lashes lowered, his bottom lip jutting slightly. You wondered what those plush lips would taste like. Although you knew he was playing at seducing you, it didn’t stop the primal need in you from rearing its ugly head. 

Would it truly be so bad with me, darling? You know I’d treat you well.

Your lashes fluttered; this had to stop before your heart wilted any further in your chest. 

“What is your real suggestion Rhys?” The serious cock of your brows sobered him up near immediately. The twinge in his chest only further cooled him; the way you brushed his teasing off irritated him for reasons beyond what he dared admit. 

“It is my real suggestion. I struggle with my sleep—therefore having you there will help.” The cool way he spoke, as if this was only a logical solution, helped to put you at ease. But you couldn’t help but wonder—

“Why me? How would I help?” 

He shrugged, “You seem peaceful.”

Your mind whirred at his laconic response. ‘Peaceful’? You couldn’t decide what to make of the situation, but one thing had always been clear. 

“I said I’d help you, however I could. If you believe me… sleeping beside you will be beneficial, then I’ll do it.” 

He nodded, the same calm look plastered on his face. Rhysand’s nonchalant manner bothered you: did this genuinely mean so little to him? If so, then you would treat it with the same aloof, professional fashion. 

“Alright then, we can try tonight if you’re willing?” 

His ink-dark eyebrows shot up, “You wish to begin right away?”

“The sooner the better, no?” You couldn’t allow any more sleepless nights; the faster you determined whether this would work, the more time you had to find different options before Rhys ran on empty. 

Rhysand’s head tilted, a panther sizing up its prey. Finally, he nodded in agreeance. 

Quickly, you stood from his desk, realizing you were still perched between his legs. You dusted off your skirts and swiftly moved to the door. With a hand on the frame, you turned, “Tonight in yours?”

He swallowed, your eyes tracking the bobbing of his Adam's apple along his smooth neck, “Yes, that’ll work just fine darling.”

You stepped away from his office, the final, sure look in Rhysand’s eyes burning through you even hours later. 

♡𝌀𝌀𝌀♥𝌀𝌀𝌀♡

You nervously tugged on your silken sleep shorts, psyching yourself up to knock on Rhysand’s bedroom door.

After leaving his office earlier, your heart had been in your throat all day. Even at dinner in the House of Wind, you’d had to be snapped out of thought multiple times by members of your family. While circumventing the reason why you had been so inattentive, your friends spared no insult and pestered you to high hell. Your face had flushed, sure that Rhysand could pick up on your nervousness. Instead, there were no teasing comments; he only returned to his meal. 

Now before his room, you took a steadying breath and lightly knocked, in the unlikely event he had fallen asleep. At his faint call you entered, softly shutting the door behind you. The room was aptly decorated for a High Lord. Rich jewel tones complimented Night Court black in various opulent fabrics. Pointedly ignoring the massive bed, you took in the polished mahogany furniture, surely crafted by a masterful hand. From the intricately designed rugs, to the velvet cushions, and the elaborate drapery; it was all magnificent. However, it all paled in comparison to the male inhabiting the room. 

Rhys was lounging on a plush divan, drink and papers in hand, looking fresh from the finest of paintings. The loose shirt from earlier was gone, baring his muscled chest. Your eyes tracked along the elegant dark swirls that decorated his tan skin. A pair of black sleep pants adorned his lower body, looking dangerously low on his waist. As you gently padded over, you tried not to focus on the light smattering of dark hair leading below the band. He glanced up at you, violet eyes sparkling like the stars visible through the windows beyond him. 

His eyes slowly roved over your figure, noting your bare legs; how you clutched your cream robe, book in hand, a delicate lacy strap peeking out. He took a restrained sip of his amber drink. You settled on a comfortable settee across from him, the book already splayed across your lap. 

“Good evening, darling. Care for a drink?” He waved his glass lightly, the ice clinking softly. 

You chuckled, shaking your head, “I’m alright, thank you. Is it not a little late to indulge?”

He inspected his drink as if he might find the solution to all his problems within the crystal glass, “I find it soothes the nerves.”

You cocked an eyebrow, “Are you nervous?”

Rhys lifted the drink to his mouth, only to gaze at you over the rim with heavy-lidded eyes, “With you? Always, darling. I mean—you simply strike such an imposing figure.”

You dramatically placed the back of your hand to your head, draping yourself over the settee with all the theatrics you could muster, “Oh, how I plague man with my beauty!”

A deep and joyous laugh broke the silence of the night. You glanced over at Rhysand in slight surprise to see his head thrown back, a hand to his chest. Your heart warmed at the clear mirth on his face. This was the Rhysand you had missed. You soon joined him, your laugh bubbling up with the vigour of a freshly opened champagne bottle. 

Gradually, you both settled into silence, and with a wink from Rhys, you both returned to your previous occupations. The cool breeze from the open window carried with it Rhysand’s citrus and sea smell, the faint note of jasmine like a goodnight’s kiss. You basked in the peaceful mood, snuggling closer to the settee with your book. You couldn’t help but look up at Rhys every few pages, taking in his striking profile as the ambient lighting cast shadows across his elegant features. Eventually, you noticed his eyelids beginning to droop and knew he was only stalling the inevitable. 

You yawned loudly, covering your mouth for effect, “I think it’s time we retire for the night.”

He smiled, gently placing his empty glass and papers aside, “I agree, darling. Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.”

Rhysand stood and stretched his arms over his head, and you quickly made your way over to his bed, refusing to stare any longer at his chest than necessary. You shed your robe and tossed it over a nearby chair while you both silently readied yourselves for bed. No longer was the silence comforting—instead, your heart threatened to burst from your chest. 

You didn't realize how stiff you were until Rhys settled under the covers beside you, the shroud of night concealing your reddened cheeks. You remained rigid, arms at your side like a soldier at attention. 

It’s only me, darling. The smooth voice slipped through the cracks of your mind. Rhysand’s low timber reminded you to take a deep breath—you turned towards him and lightly reached your hand out in the space between your pillows. Even in the stygian dark, his eyes shone brighter than ever. That midnight gaze fixed on your open palm. Slowly, he crept his large hand up and brought it to yours, strong fingers caressing your palm. You held your breath as he steadily entwined his fingers with yours, hand sliding across your own. You squeezed lightly in assurance, your eyes falling shut. 

Before the throes of sleep could claim you, a gentle caress to your conscience pulled you back. 

Can I hold you?

The whispered request was nearly lost in the haze between waking and dreams, but you would always come back for that voice. Beyond words, you pushed your consent to Rhysand’s mind.

Strong arms gently slid around you, pulling your back to a hard chest. Your synced breathing within that warm embrace finally lulled you to a peaceful sleep. 

♡𝌀𝌀𝌀♥𝌀𝌀𝌀♡

Light filtering through the window assaults your eyes, bringing with it the realities of the morning. You stretch like a cat in the sun, silken sheets sliding across your bare legs. You hadn’t slept like that in years, Cauldron, centuries even. The sweet haze lingering from your sleep washed away once you noticed the empty—albeit still warm—bedside. You quickly sat up only to be interrupted by Rhysand waltzing in through the doors, breakfast in hand. 

“Good morning, darling. I hope you’re hungry—I’m loving the bedhead by the way.” He swooped over to the bed, deftly handling the large tray in hand as he settled back beside you. You swiftly patted your hair down, “Yes, good morning Rhysand.”

Your dry tone didn’t damper Rhys’s wide smirk one bit. He was glowing this morning with an air of contentment; the full night's sleep had done him well. 

He gestured to the amalgamation of various foods before you, “I wasn’t sure what you would be craving, so I grabbed a little bit of everything.” The delicious smell wafted before you, your stomach grumbling without consent.

“If this is how I’m treated, I don’t think I’ll ever leave.” You popped a berry into your mouth, relishing its succulent flavour. 

“Consider it a thank you,” You paused, buttered toast halfway to your mouth, at Rhysand’s words, “For giving me, perhaps, the best sleep I have had in my five centuries.”

The earnest look in his eyes prompted you to butter your toast more vigorously, hoping he would miss the rosy flush seeping across your features.

“For what it’s worth, I’ve never slept better either,” You smiled gently, hoping to not sound too heartfelt in your admission, “And there is no reason to thank me, Rhys. You know I’d do anything for you.”

You held your breath at the candid confession, praying he did not understand the real meaning behind your words. 

Instead, his chest swelled with emotion. He brought his hand to the back of your neck, pulling you in for a swift kiss to your hair. 

“All the more reason for me to thank you, darling.”

♡𝌀𝌀𝌀♥𝌀𝌀𝌀♡

The next few weeks continued much like that night; you would both lounge around in the evening and then retire to bed. Only, your inclination towards one another had become irresistible. The moment you got beneath the covers, you found yourself instinctually reaching for Rhysand’s embrace. Often, he held you close, your head poised at his soft neck. Occasionally, on the more difficult nights, you would swaddle Rhys tightly to your chest, caressing his hair as he was lulled to sleep by your steady heartbeat. 

However much you enjoyed your time in bed with Rhysand, you couldn’t deny the increasing difficulty with which to hide your escalating feelings. What were once mere fleeting glances, were now lingering stares; no dark circles were to be found on his handsome face, his beaming grin a drug that would surely consume you. Rather than have the moments together soothe your ache like a balm, you only craved his attention more so. 

As you both fell into your usual routine for the night and settled under the covers, you finally ripped the bandage from the festering wound. 

“I think I may sleep in my bed beginning tomorrow night.”

Rhysand’s body froze beneath your touch, his arms still only half around you. Quickly, you continued, “Your nightmares seem to have passed—which I am eternally grateful for—therefore I don’t see any reason why I should continue to sleep here.” With you, the words didn’t need to be spoken; they loomed in the air around you. 

A beat of silence passed before he spoke, “Why not?”

You gasped as he seized you closer to his chest. His breath was heaving while he squeezed you tighter in his arms. You quashed the butterflies that fluttered in your stomach, reluctant to hurt your feelings further. 

You sighed, eyes closing, “Again, there is no reason–”

“I want you here. With me. That is the reason why you should stay.” 

You audibly swallowed, taking his words with a grain of salt. Your voice took on a placating tone as you lightly placed your palms on his chest, “I understand that you’re worried about the nightmares–”

“Darling, you understand nothing,” You stared, dumbfounded at his earnest tone. 

“The agony of lost sleep pales in comparison to the loss of your presence. There is nothing more that I desire than having you here next to me as I fall asleep and as I wake. Seeing your radiant face every morning—I feel like the luckiest male in the world. And I am greedy; for your touch, your time…” He shook his head, putting his forehead to yours, “I know I am asking much of you since—”

You surged forward and placed a passionate kiss on his lips. His lashes fluttered before he was pushing back with just as much fervour. You pressed your body tighter against his, feeling the contours of his body moulding perfectly to your own. You wanted him closer—had you been one body right now, it would not have been enough. He thought he was greedy? He had no concept of the depth of your selfish desires, only scraping the surface with this ardent kiss. 

You pulled back, breathless and entirely at his mercy, “You could ask for all the stars in the night sky and I would scorch my hands to deliver them to you,” He brushed his nose against your own, your swollen lips lightly caressing, “There is no limit to what I can give you Rhysand, if only you’ll let me.”

His violet eyes shone with disbelieving wonder as if he was undeserving of your affections. Rhys kissed you gently; this kiss held a promise that the others lacked. It was a promise of love, of reverence, of total, utter devotion. Your heart soared in your chest and for once, you let it; a caged bird finally tasting freedom. 

That same gentle presence filled your mind once again. 

I would be honoured, darling. 

The message was bundled in the gossamer enormity of his feelings for you. With your heart content, you whispered under the cover of silky night, 

“The honour will always be mine.”

Final Notes: Anything for my bbg Rhys <3 (Can you tell I recently rewatched Pride and Prejudice for the millionth time?) Hope you all liked it!

[arcielee]

A love that burns.

Summary: Aemond is a man obsessed and you are the object of his unwavering devotion. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader Word Count: 1037 Warnings: Canon book Aemond, manipulation?, sexual themes, oral (female receiving), p in v, absolute depravity and murder. Author’s Note: This is a reader insert, but with the third person perspective, it is a bit Alys-coded kind of? (I rewrote one of her lines in F&B) A big thank you to @bhxrdy and @itbmojojoejo helping me fix some mistakes and for helping me choose the title 💜🦝 This story is dedicated to the wonderful, the talented @aegonx who gave me prompt #371 by @creativepromptsforwriting. She also made my nifty banner for my blog, so I owe her everything. I am always happy to attempt any requests, I just cannot promise a timely fashion, as it is more whenever the muse strikes. Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @sylas-the-grim @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @girlwith-thepearlearring @hb8301 @lovelykhaleesiii @darylandbethfanforever9

He was a dragon incarnate with the blood of Old Valyria knitted within the ichor that coursed through his veins. Aemond was proud, tall and lithe, his broad shoulders held back despite the burdened weight of his reputation that preceded him–Aemond the One-Eye, Aemond the Kinslayer, but those utterances only rolled like rain against the scales of Vhagar; he was unbothered, unharried, especially now his role within the kingdom elated with the title Prince Regent, and with it the Conqueror’s Crown to wear. 

The metal and rubies held a weight that now grounded him, reminding him of his purpose, and he went to reclaim Harrenhal with the intent of killing every Strong bastard. 

Here is where he had found her, an eerie calm amongst the chaos, silent despite the cries of mercy as each person was brought to the courtyard and slain. She had watched, unblinking, with an expression that was akin to when Aemond had watched his nuncle take the head of Vaemond Velaryon in the Throne Room a year prior; it had been a moment that kindled a bloodlust that thrummed beneath his skin, a vengeance that could not be forgotten. 

That night, when she was brought to his quarters, she greeted him like an old lover, a sweet kiss pressed to his lips, her soft murmur, “I have been waiting for you, my prince.” 

She came from a noble house without the wealth of Westeros, but revered still and old, old enough to carry the blood of the First Men and its mystical properties. She had followed her sister to Harrenhal when she was chosen to be the next wife for Ser Simon Strong.

Both were now dead and she did not seem to care. 

“Then why did you choose to accompany your sister?” Aemond had asked her after; it was that intimate exchange shared in their bared embrace, nestled on sex soaked linens with her plush thighs serving as a pillow.

Her fingers thread through his silver hair. “The Isle of Faces,” and she smiled, as if she were stating the obvious; she leaned forward to give a chaste kiss to his lips. “I came to listen to the whispers of the weirwoods.” 

Behind closed doors he was intoxicated by her proximity, with an unbridled lust that replaced the blood in his veins, as if she were the very embodiment of his siren call. They fell into one another, and he felt something that burned within him, something that perhaps was always there and only now  ignited by her soft touch, by her gentle pull that brought him flushed against her chest. 

Aemond would worship her through the night, drinking her very essence until the brim of her overstimulation, until he saw her lashes clumped together from her unshed tears, and only then would he shift his weight between her thighs, flushed and slick from her peaks. 

He would move to press his heady cock, heavy and wanting, against her silken folds, and despite their many nights together, she would still feel split open, aware of the ridges and the veins of his thick member as he sheathed within. Her soft gasps came in response to his thrusts that would begin again the crests of ravishment that warmed her blood; and he would not stop his pace until she was a mewling mess, until the lewd sounds of skin to skin mixed with her cries of release, until his name was a repeated reverent prayer that spilled from her lips. 

Aemond hummed her praises, his hot exhale against the curve of her neck. “The gods made you for me alone,” he would breathe against her lips and they would part in a silent cry, her skin pebbling with pleasure. “You were made to take my cock, and you do so well.” 

His words brought her to the precipice and when she felt his hot pulse within her velvet walls, her own clenched in response to chase another climax with boneless ambition, with a sobbed release as the air tore from her lungs but she was breathless to reclaim. Only then would they curl into each other’s arms, their skin aglow with the intimacy shared, with the soft murmurs and quiet exchanges of lovers in their post-coital haze.

“I will have your son,” she promised him. “I can already feel the flames warming my womb.” 

She was always at his side, devoted, everpresent, with a severe gaze that served as a balm for the Prince Regent in the most twisted way. They called her his Blood Queen as she seemed to encourage a sadism that pulsed beneath, speaking that the gods knew what had to be done and that he was the vessel of their actions, always encouraging him to listen to the beckon of the blood of Old Valyria. 

Aemond became a man obsessed and she fed into his depravity; she spoke with such conviction and he believed her every word, her every prophecy. When she would take a boat across the waters, he would remain on the shore pacing like an animal caged, while Vhagar roared overhead, the wind beneath her wings causing turbulent waves that crashed against the lakeside. 

She returned as her namesake with blood that covered her hands and her dress; she would whisper what she saw to him alone, of what was to come and what needed to be done. On one such day, she spoke of the betrayal in the Riverlands, of those who had chosen to ally with the Blacks and their false queen. 

Aemond called for Vhagar and they climbed aback; she was knitted against his backside with her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, and she could feel his rumbled command, “Dracarys,” to rain fire below them, scorching the very earth. She hummed her contentment, the scent of sandalwood and smoke, a scent that intimately belonged to the Prince Regent. 

Her arms curled around his slim waist and he looked down to see her small hand pressed against his chest. Though the histories would recall all the ugly things they had done, in this moment, as his palm reached to cover hers, all he thought was how their entwined fingers were so beautiful together. 

arcie's masterlist

[garadinervi]

Weaving to Reclaim (Fatme Elkadry and Fern Facette), Placemat, (cotton, linen), 2022 [© Weaving to Reclaim]

[fili-urzudel]

Hello!! Could you do 14, 15 and 31 with Fili? Romantic or platonic, up to you. Thank you 💜

13. Sitting together

14. Handholding

15. Sharing a blanket (potentially violent)

31. Stargazing

This combination is classic and oh-so-fluffy, and with my favorite Dwarf to boot! I went ahead and added another prompt as well.

Everyone lives AU, because there is no other ending in my mind.

BTW I'm sick :( but I'm going to try to get at least one other prompt request out this week

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.8k

Moonrise - Fíli Durin x Reader

The Durin's Day festival was always fun, but it was all the more spectacular in the newly reclaimed Erebor.

"The first autumn equinox since the mountain was reclaimed, can you believe it?" Fíli said with a bright smile, looking with pride at the crisscrossing bridges and vaulted ceilings of the entrance to the mountain. There was still plenty of work to be done, to be sure, but its improvement was impressive regardless.

"And in a couple days, the anniversary of when it was reclaimed," you nodded in agreement. "A few months after that, the anniversary of the first time you walked around by yourself."

"Hush, I'm trying to enjoy this," Fíli gave you a fake scowl, unconsciously probing the scar hidden beneath his tunic.

You changed directions. "Of course, my Prince," you teased. "You look very nice today."

You meant it. His hair was freshly washed, the slightly damp strands frizzing out in the cool morning air. Each bead was carefully placed, a few decorative gold ones added in place of a crown. His tunic was a smooth yet understated silk underneath his leather vest and wool coat. Every detail was precisely placed, the burnt oranges and browns blending seamlessly. He had clearly been seen to with the utmost care. He looked like royalty, even without the royal garb. Most importantly, he was healthy.

His smile softened, his cheeks turning a bit pink under his mustache. "Thank you," he glanced to the ground before looking back up at you. "And you're beautiful as ever."

You blushed deeper than him, unused to compliments. You plucked at the placket of your own wool coat, dyed a deep woad blue. It was your favorite. "Thank you," you said, choosing for once to believe him. "What duties do you have today?"

"None, surprisingly," Fíli breathed. "Thorin's let me have a break, so I can enjoy the first festival in our new home right alongside you." Something about that little word, our, set your heart ablaze. "You want to stick with me?"

"If you'll have me," he smiled again. That smile was impossible to resist.

"Of course I will."

Erebor had been steadily growing over the past year, but that day, it seemed more alive than ever. The market squares were full, overflowing into the wide side streets. Jewelry, blades, shields, ceramics, sculptures--anything made out of earth or in forges were certainly found somewhere in the expansive space. The Ereborian dwarves' tentative friendship with the Men of Dale caused new, less traditional stands to pop up as well: flower stalls, street food vendors featuring fish dishes, and clothing and homeware shops full of bolts of linen. The mountain had only dwarves—and Bilbo—in its halls, a presently rare occurrence, and so you were all free to speak Khuzdul, the sharp sounds ringing pleasantly in your ears.

The two of you strolled as quickly as possible through all the markets had to offer, determined not to miss the afternoon's performances. You exercised exemplary self-restraint, only stopping at one of every five stalls that caught your eye.

"No," became a very popular word as well, what with resisting Fíli's unceasing offers to purchase anything you liked.

"Well, if you will not spend any of your share of the treasure, I must spend some of mine and relieve what must be the terrible, stifling boredom of your living quarters, my friend," he teased, mustache beads swinging from side to side.

"I will have no prince wasting his money on me."

"Oh, it's never a waste if it's you," Fíli told you surely.

There he went again, saying things that made your palms sweat and your cheeks flush. "You're too kind."

Fíli smirked at the way you diverted your gaze. "Well, if I cannot buy you a rug, at least allow me to buy you lunch," he gestured to a permanent restaurant on the corner that was swarmed with dwarrow.

You couldn't help a smile at that. "Hot stew?" You asked, referring to the almost overpoweringly spicy meat-and-potato stew that was a dwarven classic. Benron's was your favorite.

"As hot as you like, of course," He agreed, guiding you forward with a gentle hand on your back.

The stew made your eyes stream in the best way, and you pulled Fíli out of the restaurant scarcely once he was finished eating. "We have to find good seats!" You reasoned as he raised an eyebrow, still wiping his mouth.

"You do realize that Thorin has the best seats, and by extension, we do as well?"

"Right," you said. You had forgotten. Somehow, none of the Durins were royalty in your mind. They were still your traveling companions, dirt poor and looked at as crazy.

"Still, it is sort of nice to take a seat before everyone starts filtering in and it gets too loud," Fíli reassured you. "After you."

The grand presentation began with a song to the mountain. In the ancient tradition, singing was a way to ask the mountain to reveal its secrets, a careful gathering of tones that would uncover its nature.

This song, however, was made more to please the ears of the listener. It was a song of thanks, of hardly believing that this mountain was once again the shelter for her people. You tried your best to control the tears that rose to your eyes.

Fíli leaned over, bumping your shoulder with his. You gave a small smile that he returned, and you could see in his eyes that he was thinking of all that it took to get there.

"We did it," you whispered.

"Yeah, we did."

The opening songs were followed by traditional dances, a speed-forging competition, and a few spars. You cheered on the brothers as they fought each other, with a healthy dose of brotherly teasing. Fíli let his little brother win, or so he told you. The look on Kíli's face was more than worth it. You congratulated him and let them both clean up as you headed to the gates.

The gates were still open, cool air pouring into the mountain as the sun dropped in the sky.

Dale was dimmer than usual—the city was empty. The men were lining the edge of the water with candles. This equinox now also marked the anniversary of the fall of Laketown and many of their loved ones. The dwarves tried their best to be respectful of their vigil.

You leaned against the wall and watched. You hoped they found peace and remembered to enjoy their new lives. Bard, standing at the back of the group, turned around. He caught your eye and nodded.

"Come with me, I think we should see something," Fíli's low whisper startled you from your reverie, and his hand wrapping around yours even more so.

"Where are we going?" You asked, not that it mattered. With his hand in yours, you'd probably follow him anywhere.

He led you on a trek around the front of the mountain, the setting sun turning everything orange and making his hair appear as flames as you went.

Caught in the daze of bliss, it took you a while to notice what was draped over his other arm. "Wait, is that—I told you not to buy that!"

It was the woven blanket you had noticed earlier, the tapestry depicting sunrays falling through a thick forest of firs. "And what if I bought this for myself? I have uses for it."

"Then it's alright, I suppose."

"You can keep it once I'm done with it, though."

"Sly fox."

"Coin pincher."

"Seriously, though, where are we going?" You asked.

Fíli smiled at you. "A certain very large staircase."

You gasped. "Leading to a secret doorway?"

"The very same. I figured, since we were both trying to help Kili, erm, not die, we missed the excitement, and now we can see it for ourselves."

"That's extraordinarily thoughtful of you."

"Eh, I'd say averagely thoughtful at best," Fíli shrugged.

"Perfectly suitable for me," you told him.

"Good."

The achingly long trip up the staircase was rewarded with a very nice sight: another, less decorative blanket spread across the stone, a couple flat pillows, and three lanterns, already lit and ready to face the darkness.

"When did you find time to do this?" You asked Fíli, grinning from ear to ear.

"I have my ways," he said mysteriously. "And help."

"That's where Bofur, Bilbo, and Dori disappeared to," you observed. "I see. Well, it's very sweet of all of you."

"I'm glad you think so," Fíli said, still holding your hand as he guided you to sit on the blanket with him.

The stairs had taken longer than anticipated, so the sun was already almost gone. You quieted as you realized how close the time was. The two of you watched in quiet admiration as the moon rose, bright and perfect, into the sky, before you turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of the door.

You gasped. "There it is!" The moonrise revealed the shape of a perfectly hidden keyhole. "That is very neat, indeed."

"Mmhm," Fíli agreed. "Beautiful." The keyhole was not what he thought was beautiful. He wasn't actually looking at the door at all, but rather you, and the way the moonlight reflected off every spectacular detail of your face.

He had never known quite when he started to feel this way, only that he didn't in the Blue Mountains, when he barely knew you, and he did now.

You turned your gaze from the keyhole once the wonder had made a comfortable space in your heart, and looked to the stars, all too aware of how close Fíli was.

You read out the constellations to yourself in the comfortable silence, assuming the prince was doing the same. You then heard him shift.

"Lay with me," Fíli offered, and you turned around in record time, cheeks blazing and eyes wide.

"What?"

He was already lying down with his head on one of the pillows. "To watch the stars more comfortably."

"Alright," you said, voice quiet. You scooted down until you could lay your head on the other pillow, before changing your mind. You decided to take a risk and settle your head on his chest instead.

"Is this alright?" You asked immediately. The last thing you wanted was for him to be uncomfortable in this situation.

"Of course it is," he said softly, his arm raising to hold your waist. "I enjoy being close to you."

It wasn't quite a grand confession, but it was good enough for your heart to begin hammering in your chest. "I enjoy being close to you, too."

[violettduchess]

Ahhh I hope I'm not too late! Thank you for opening requests! This is exciting! Would you mind doing some headcannons for Cyran, Chevalier, Clavis, and Matias with Emma at a Festival At Night prompt? Thank you! ❤️

A/N: Here you go @echoes-in-the-forest!

A final entry for the Sunshine and Starlight CC hosted by myself and @lorei-writes.

Featuring: Cyran, Matthias, Clavis, Chevalier

Note: Requests that were not written for the challenge may still be written! I just didn't have time to get them all done for this.

WC: 2k

Cyran

The stars above blaze with cold light like diamond-bright pinpricks across the black velvet sky. Over Cyran’s shoulder, the town answers with its own glow: the flickering of white fairy lights strung along the buildings and the stronger, warm orange of the bonfire at the town’s center. For a moment, the sight grabs your attention, holding it prisoner in illuminated chains. But Cyran reclaims it with the grip of his hands on your hips, the hot press of his lips to your cheek. Your eyes fall shut, enshrouding you in darkness but heightening every other sense: the whisper of the wind through the trees as it blends with the gruff sighs of your beloved when you pull him closer; the sweet echo of sparkling wine you can still taste on his tongue; the feel of the rough tree bark through your blouse, against your back; the soft linen of his tunic under your palms, the summer-sun heat of his mouth as it meets yours again and again.

“Seems like coming tonight was a good idea.” You hardly recognize your voice, your breath so shallow, the words rising and falling on an ocean of yearning. He grins against your lips, pulls you even closer. “It will be,” he murmurs with a playful bite to your lower lip. You would chastise him, but you’re laughing too much, giddy with desire and wine and Cyran. Not many have access to this side of him, this passionate, soft, sweet soul that has allowed you in where few have ever tread and holds you there, safe and loved.

“We should at least find somewhere….not quite so woodsy.” You love him and you want him, but you’re also very aware of the sounds of the music, still audible even from the trees where you have hidden yourselves, the laughter of the festival crowd punctuating the air. With great control, he steps away from you, pausing a moment to brush your hair from your shoulders, tuck an errant strand back into place tenderly before looking back at the twinkling village, his bright eyes scanning the night. Then he smiles, slow and satisfied.

“The carriage is not far away. I believe we told the driver we’d stay until midnight which gives us over an hour–” He doesn’t need to say another word. You’ve already threaded your fingers through his, leading the way.

Matthias

He watches the dancing crowd with serious blue eyes, the flickering flame of the torches illuminating their azure depths like frostfire. His tall, strong body radiates a stillness contradictory to the energetic fiddle music that surrounds you. You reach out, sliding your hand into his, wrapping your fingers around his prominent knuckles. A slight tug is all it takes. He glances down at you and tilts his head in inquiry.

“You want to dance?” It doesn’t take a soldier’s hawk-eyed vision to see the hope in your face, the bright question in your eyes. Anyone else would get a cool shake of his noble-head, a frown on his beautiful lips. But you aren’t just anyone. For you, he’d move mountains. For you, he’d raze villages. For you, he will dance.

Effortlessly he takes you into his arms and steps seamlessly into the moving crowd. Under his steady guidance you glide across the cobblestones of the town square as if they were smooth as ice, faster and faster. You are a petal in the wild wind, stardust blown across the snow-capped peaks of the Acroite mountains. You focus on him as the world spins around you. The warm torchlight highlights the blond of his hair and he looks as if he has been kissed by the flames. He quite literally takes your breath away.

You spin like twin planets to the fiddlers' spirited playing until, sadly, the bows pull their final stroke across the strings and the music comes to an end. With your heart racing and your cheeks warm with joy and exertion, he leads you away, sliding a strong arm around your waist as you try to catch your breath. He bends down, his lips close to your ear. “Is everything alright?” You nod, leaning into the strength of his side. When you meet his gaze, you find him studying you, concern tugging his mouth down into a frown. “It was a lively dance and we spun so quickly.” You pause, offering him a gentle smile. “But I do so love dancing with you, Matthias.”

The sincerity of your words pierces his worried demeanor and softens his expression, washing his handsome face in the soft watercolor of love. Spontaneously, he cups your cheek and bends further to kiss you, once, with more tenderness than anyone would think him capable of. You know there is more in that gesture than words could do justice. “My Rosebud.” And then he smiles, soft as morning mist over the mountains. “I love dancing with you, too.”

Clavis

The liquid in your hammered tin cup is a very aggressive green, even in the light of the bonfire at the town’s center. Skeptically, you raise your gaze to Clavis, meeting his delighted golden gaze. “What did you do to my whiskey?” He is still in the process of tucking the small packet of powder back into his jacket pocket. His grin never falters as he looks into your cup and then into your eyes. “Try it, my sweet lamb. I promise I’ve only made it even tastier than usual.” Noting the furrow of your brow, he traces his finger along your cheek. “Trust me, darling. I’d never deceive you.”

You soften at his words. He’d never do anything to hurt you…or make you ill. Ignoring the way your body wants to rebel at the noxious color, you bring the cup to your lips and drink. Flavor explodes across your taste buds. It’s the warmth of a hearthfire on a cold winter’s night. It’s the smokey-voiced whisper of a lover asking you to come to bed. It’s an explosion of amber rioting en masse on your tongue. It’s powerful and comforting and unlike anything you have ever tasted.

“Clavis,” you gasp, gripping his arm with your free hand. “This is amazing.” If he were a peacock, he’d be splaying his tail feathers right now. “I told you, my love.”  He links his arm through yours. “Come with me, let’s go watch the fire eater. I’ve heard amazing things.” You take another sip from your cup. “I drink more of this and I bet I can give them a run for their money.” He laughs as you walk together towards the grassy area where you can watch the display. “Perhaps I should be sure.” Pausing, he catches your chin and tilts your head up before leaning down to kiss you. You melt into the familiar feel of his lips, the comfort of his scent and touch. He takes a moment longer to open his eyes, savoring the taste. “No more flames here than the usual ones every kiss from you causes.” You shake your head, unable to keep from giggling. 

As you settle down onto the cool grass to watch the fire eater, Clavis sneaks a glance at your profile. Beloved, beautiful, the most dear sight in the entire world to him…..even if your lips have turned a most vivid shade of green.

Chevalier

There is so much to see! Acrobats tumbling across the grass, a bonfire right in the town’s center. Fairy lights are strung from building to building. Vendors ply their wares, selling everything from homemade jewelry and woven scarves to meat pies and whiskey. A lively band plays a jig and townspeople dance with glowing abandon, clasping hands and fluttering eyelashes. Young couples sneak off into the bordering forest while others take to the cover of the shadows between buildings. You finish your last bite of powdered pastry and turn to Chevalier who is watching the revelry with a neutral expression. “Do I have any sugar on my face?” He glances at you and the corner of his mouth lifts in an amused smile. “Naturally.” He reaches up, using the pad of his thumb to wipe away the dusting of white at the corner of your mouth. You’re contemplating playfully biting that thumb when you hear a wail from quite nearby.

A small child of about five years old is crying, clutching a red balloon in one hand. She has dark curls that spill down her back, the rest of her hair tied up and out of her face with an enormous yellow bow at the back of her head. Her white stockings are dirty as is the smock of her buttercup yellow dress. Oh dear. After exchanging glances with Chevalier, you approach the little girl, kneeling so you are at her level.

“What’s the matter, little one?” The child tries to speak through her sobbing, knuckling at her teary brown eyes with her free hand. “My b-b-balloon flew away and I w-went to catch it. I followed it d-down an alley but once I had it, I looked and my mum was gone! I’ve lost her!” She collapses into tears again. You reach out, placing a soothing hand on her narrow back. “Shh…it’s alright.” You glance over your shoulder at Chevalier. He’s watching you both, his blue eyes dark in the dim light. “We’ll help you find her.” The little girl considers your words as tears slide freely down her round cheeks. She sniffles. “You will?” Then she pauses, suddenly realizing her situation as she takes a step back. “I’m not s-supposed to talk to strangers.” She reminds you of a fawn, trembling right before it sprints into the cover of the forest.

You glance over your shoulder and then turn back to her. “It is a good thing that he is a Prince of Rhodolite.” Brown eyes widen as she looks at Chevalier with newfound awe. “You’re a prince?” He nods once, curtly. “Indeed he is,” you continue. “And it is a prince’s duty to help his subjects when they are in need. Isn’t that right?” You give him a very pointed look and he blinks before answering. “Correct.” The young girl’s crying is forgotten as she studies him. “So princes have to help their people.” He nods again. “It is one of their most important tasks,” you add. She considers this a moment and then mirrors Chevalier’s nod. “Alright.”

You stand, turning to face the crowd of people. After a moment, he addresses the young girl. “You require a higher vantage point.” She nods as if she understands what he means and then lets out a whoop of delight when he lifts her up high onto his shoulders. Her red balloon still held firmly in one hand, she automatically scans the crowd. “There! I see her! By the popcorn stand!!” She thumps Chevalier excitedly on the head and you have to suppress your own laughter. Gruffly he lowers her and without hesitation, she grabs his hand, tugging him in the direction she saw her mother with you in tow.

When her mother spots her, she rushes forward, wrapping the little girl in her arms. “Oh, my love, you gave me such a fright.” A waterfall of gratitude falls from her lips as she thanks both you and Chevalier for your help. The little girl gently breaks free of her mother's relieved embrace and hurries towards Chevalier. She stops right in front of him and smiling brightly, holds out the balloon. “A present. For being a good prince and helping me.” He looks uncertain a moment until you press a gentle, unseen hand against his back. Clearing his throat, he takes the offering. “You’re welcome,” he answers solemnly. 

The little girl and her mother take their leave. As they depart, you can hear the mother’s voice as it fades. “A prince? Oh Lorei, do stop with your wild stories.” When they have disappeared from sight, you reach up, wrapping your arms around Chevalier’s waist and hug him tightly. He embraces you back with one arm, head tilted. “Yes?” 

You lean back to look at him, the red balloon bobbing above his head and smile. “I love you. That’s all.” He offers you one of his rare, open smiles in response before dropping a kiss on your forehead. “And I, you.”

Taglist: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage

@redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey

@mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight

@ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea

@chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja

@starlitmanor-network @sh0jun @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381

@whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @wordycheeseblob (Cyran is the first one!) @ozalysss (Chevalier)

[xxdemonicheartxx]

Most common funerary burials by flight:

Putting this one below the cut due to death mentions and burial descriptions I understand this can be a topic of discomfort no matter how vague one is when speaking on it <3

Arcane: opalization, the body is taken and layed in the shallows of intensely magic rich pools in a resting position, where it will rapidly opalize in a matter of weeks or months due to the volitile arcane energy of the land, sometimes individual scales are opalized instead and the rest of the body is cremated to be scattered amid their favorite place of study

Earth: mummification, the body is taken and embalmed, richly doused in spices, oils, and linen wraps, the organs removed are in canopic jars that resemble the dragon's own visage. Some earth mages practice petrification of the body as well upon request. Another practice is glass blowing cremated remains into colorful works of art, often colorful globes of glittering glass or glass sculptures of the deceased's visage

Shadow: the body is often cremated and the ashes greatly compressed into logs or bricks, before being soaked in spores and water to allow the mushrooms the the tangled wood to reclaim them and take them home. Other practices include burials or creating wrought iron burial markers. Celebrations of life are held around these burial sites

Light: due to the.... emperor problem.... graveyards have rapidly been destroyed and the fear of merging with Luminax sits like a stone in the heart of every imperial. Cremation is the most common practice as of now but celestial burials used to be common practice where the sun would always be able to touch you even in death (also known as sky burials) a new practice adopted from the earth flight includes taking these cremated remains and turning them into glass suncatchers

Plague: plague dragons believe that returning to the land you've survived is a must, dying of old age is a great achievement!! Often the body is returned to the land, buried or laid to be reclaimed by the ecosystem. Some more sentimental dragons or close loved ones will save scales or tan parts of wing membrane to carry close to their heart

Nature: burials are the most common practice, continuing to feed the shrieking wilds, some pathways have small markers or idols where loved ones frequent so that they can continue to pay homage in the labyrinthian jungle

Ice: ice dragons actually do not freeze their deceased, instead they take parts of membranes and tan them before tattooing a depiction of their loved one into their own hide, complete with a name, date of birth and date of death, its too cold to dig in this land so they cremate the remains and scatter them amid the tundra so in spring they can help the flowers return. The tanned memento is kept with a clan's priest, shaman, or spiritual leader with the rest of them, under expert care

Fire: forge pyres, often when fire dragons die their own heat resistance can make cremation a difficult process. So their remains are given to forge masters who are capable of reaching intense heat, working bellows and feeding the flames until the body is reclaimed by the flames. Other practices include caldera funerals, where the body is taken to be sunk in the lava of volcanoes or lava floes. Sometimes blackened skeletons can be reclaimed by loved ones in doing this

Wind: sky burials. The body is taken high up and laid under open sky for the sun and the wind to reclaim, it is believed that in doing this their spirit may continue to soar. Also refered to as celestial burials

Water: sinking of the body in designated graveyards is a common practice, often referred to as a burial at sea. Tiny tiny fragments of the dragon are often kept to be artificially put into oysters so that a pearl can be formed from their loved one's remains. Another practice is water cremation or Alkaline hydrolysis is another practice that is starting to gain traction

Lightning: the desert sand is not suitable for proper burials and grave markers aren't reliable in the shifting expanse, often the body is dehydrated first before undergoing electrical cremation, with no fluid the body will burn rapidly, the ashes then mixed with sand are placed amid one of hundreds of electrical storms with a tall metal rod in the center of the remains. To be struck by lightning turning them into "fulgurites" or "fossilized lightning" these unique and intimate structures are then returned to loved ones to be kept similarly to an urn

There are always exceptions to funeral practices. Dragons like obelisks and imperials often require additional care in the event the obelisk returns to stone or cremation is not an option for the imperial but these are the common or most popular practices in each region (non cannon)

As always I'd love to hear your own headcannons and takes too!!

[abyssal-ambience]

prefacing this with I'm not necessarily punk, but I like customizing my clothes. and i wanna help other people find stuff for battle jackets! (and other stuff) I'm not the authority on this, but I still want to give my two cents!! also don't expect much more to this, my profile is pure cringe.

If anyone is starting out and I can help, I'd like too!!

The spike/stud dilemma

one of the biggest issues i've noticed is "where do I find studs/spikes without fast fashion??" which is totally fair. something like that shouldn't have to be a minefield. obviously if you buy from a small business that re-sells them from aliexpress you're still indirectly supporting aliexpress.

im sure there ARE slow fashion alternatives and if anyone knows some please let me know so I can add it!!

BUT here's what I'd recommend.

-goodwill bins, sometimes they have old clothes or broken belts, very rare though. also any thrift store or reclaimed craft store.

-Local businesses, sex shops

-metal paper fasteners

-borrowing. it's inevitable, I know. JOANNs is definitely the best selection imo, but Hobby Lobby is better to steal from. Because They are Terrible. Michael's is OK but less selection usually. They use peal off tags usually which are easy to remove.

-also if you're feeling extra insane, hot topic uses mainly ink tags, which can be removed with heat (look up tutorials on) or just cut off a stud/spike belt. their studs are pretty easy to remove. same with bracelets, they break a lot. ofc it depends on the place whether they use beep beep tags.

-ask people for broken shit!

TEXTILES (the easy part)

-fabric samples are easy to find for free online. get whatever colors you want, i usually stick to black, white, grey and 1-3 other colors. they're usually pretty small so order around until you find the right size. you want cotton and linen, usually upholstery if you're painting on them. if you're not or you're ok working with leather, leather is easy to find too. A lot of companies mentioned how stretchy your material is something not stretchy most cases.

-FACEBOOK!! A.K.A the boomer method. This is where I got almost all of mine!! I recommend downloading FREEBIE as well! I got mine thru that, it links to facebook, nextdoor, and so on. Ofc you can pay for them- but you don't have to! I have lifetime supply of textiles basically bc of this. A lot of people get them for hobbies or work.

-the goodwill bins!!!! you can absolutely find fabric there, it's pretty common actually

-you don't need to steal this tbh it's easy to find second hand and less wasteful

PAINTING

-Facebook, goodwill, or reclaimed/used craft stores if you have them

-borrowing (same places)

-use something like Painter Eye (AR tracing app) and draw out any complex band logos etc.

-you can also use sharpies or whatever nobody's stopping you

Other stuff

-one of the best ways to find stuff is just GO FOR A WALK! Find little shiny objects!

-hardware stores are good so are army surplus

[vivid-ink]

"To Know You Again" Chapter 5 - Doubt No More

Pairing: Neteyam x fem!Omatikaya OC

Summary: “Do you remember our last night here? The night before my family left?” The warm, rumbling timbre of Neteyam’s voice washed over her. “Yes,” Naia whispered. How could she forget?... She had replayed the memory of his lips over and over numerous times. One corner of Neteyam’s mouth lifted in a small smile as his eyes tracked over the delicate bridge of her nose and over her steadily flushing cheeks. His gaze stopped to rest on her lips, “You gave me something that night. I think it's time I returned it."

An exploration of what if Neteyam had to leave a girl he was close to behind when his family fled to the reefs to seek refuge. AU - Set 7 years after TWoW, exploring the many emotions and the eventual romantic reunion between Neteyam and his love.

Warnings: Adult content 18+, MDNI Content: Romance, drama, angst, fluff, sexual content, smut, soulmates, bonding. Word Count: 8.9k

Previous Chapter 4 - The Great Mother's Blessing

Leylani watched, alarmed, as Naia disappeared out through the entry flaps of the tsahìk’s hut again, tearing away through the stronghold. The basket of clean linen lay haphazardly on its side on the floor, some of its contents spilling out of its tilted form. She called out in a half-shout, very mindful of the newborn asleep in her arms, “Manaia! What’s wrong? Manaia!”

Her friend had looked a fright. Naia’s eyes had been wide and frantic, as though she had just witnessed something terrible. Her expression had turned even more stricken when she had met Leylani’s gaze, and her face had crumpled before she had snatched her belongings and fled. Something was wrong.

Lithely pushing off the backs of her feet to stand up, Leylani quickly padded back around the wooden partition to return Amiria to her napping mother with a hurried apology. Gathering her long tresses and winding it all atop her head in a knot, she lanced a couple of long hairpins through the updo to make it stay and prepared to run after Naia. Leylani strapped her hunting knife to her hip and was about to step out of the hut when the flaps parted to admit an apprehensive looking Kikuna.

“Did Manaia come back this way?” Kikuna asked, her forehead creased with worry.

Immediately connecting the appearance of this young woman with the disappearance of the other, Leylani remarked in return, “Yes, why?”

Kikuna shifted anxiously on her feet and wrung her hands, “A few of us were chatting by the washing grove. She overheard and looked upset when she left us.”

Clearing her throat and folding her arms impatiently across her bosom, Leylani eyed the young woman acutely, foot tapping tetchily on the floormats, “Well? What happened?”

Kikuna and her gaggle of friends were insipid and notorious gossips. Leylani did not even want to guess what unpleasant comments had been said that had not been meant for Naia’s ears. Likely some distasteful comment about Naia’s plain appearance… or her bland fashion sense… The former of which was untrue, and the latter meant nothing at all in the grand scheme of things, when you considered what a generous and beautiful soul Naia was, even if her tongue was sharp.

“Tupou told me this morning that Neteyam has reclaimed his role as successor.” Kikuna began carefully, “I’m sorry Leylani, I know it’s meant to be all hush-hush still, but everyone is already talking about it. We were just talking amongst ourselves about it. You’d make a strong pair, you and Neteyam.”

Kikuna’s last sentence was delivered with a beseeching smile towards Leylani, as if the compliment would somehow atone for the inappropriate nattering she and her friends had engaged in. The realisation of what Naia had overheard and what she would have surmised was like a dowsing of frigid water over Leylani. Naia would have assumed the worst and worse still, her assumption would have been incorrect based off the gossip.

This was not at all how events were supposed to unfold… Naia was not supposed to find out until Neteyam spoke to her tonight… By Eywa, no one in the wider clan was supposed to know anything yet.

*** FLASHBACK TO EARLIER THAT MORNING ***

“Neteyam, wait!” Leylani speared through the draping flaps of the council shelter, hastening after Neteyam as he strode away. Reaching out, she grasped hold of his wrist and he turned to face her. The disappointment was plain on his face, but the unwavering resolution that reinforced his decision still remained.

“You can’t convince me to change my mind, Leylani. My decision is made.”

“I know, brother. But-” Leylani breathed with an exhalation. However, Neteyam interrupted her before she could continue.

“Then there’s nothing to talk about.” He was about to turn on heel and leave when Leylani firmly took hold of both his hands.

“Hear me out, you didn’t let me speak.” Leylani chided. She squeezed his hands hearteningly, “You would rescind your decision to decline and accept if you could mate Manaia, right? What if she was your tsakarem again?”

Neteyam’s lips parted and his brows furrowed low, reading between the lines of what she was implying, “What are you saying?”

Warmth unfolded in her heart as Leylani licked her lips and prepared to give voice to her own decision. She felt no disappointment, no resentment, because she knew this was her path and was at peace with it, “I’ll step down.”

Astonishment coloured Neteyam’s face and he blinked at her, shaking his head, “I can’t ask this of you.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.” Leylani pressed firmly. She graced him with a noble smile then and released one of his hands to press her palm over his heart, “This is right. It is what I must do for my people and for both of you. We’ll make things as they used to be, reinstate the original order of things.”

It appeared her words were still sinking in and Leylani could see him mulling over what they meant. Neteyam murmured, almost to himself, “That’s assuming Naia wants to be tsakarem again. She did give up the role after all.”

With a snort and an eyeroll that even Naia would have been proud of, Leylani retorted, “She gave up the role because she didn’t want to mate Tupou, because Tupou isn’t you. She is still the ideal tsakarem for this clan just as you are the ideal successor. She will go where you go. Manaia will stand by your side, trust me.”

Neteyam huffed out a laugh of delight and he pulled her into a firm embrace. No words were said, but Leylani did not need them to feel his relief and his gladness.

“Come! We must tell them. Before they dismiss for the morning.” Leylani said, tugging on his wrist again and pulling him eagerly back into the meeting shelter.

*** FLASHBACK END ***

The curse that rustled past Leylani’s lips was stifled, but still vulgar enough that Kikuna flinched in surprise. Leylani knew it was unlike herself to use expletives, but sometimes the situation warranted it.

“Tupou should never have told you, and you shouldn’t have gone and told other people!” Leylani moved to take Kikuna’s elbow, leaning closer so she could mutter by the other woman’s ear through gritted teeth.

Kikuna pouted and hissed huffily, “It wasn’t just me Tupou told. He told a few of the other warriors too. And how is it that Manaia doesn’t know? I thought she and Neteyam were close.”

“That is beside the point! Your gossiping has unnecessarily and incorrectly upset Manaia.” Leylani rebuked with pinned ears, her tail swishing crossly from side to side. There was not any way to correct Kikuna’s understanding of the situation without telling her the full truth. Considering what a chatterer Kikuna was, Leylani decided it better to give her the truth rather than leave her to potentially spread more assumptions and lies, “Neteyam’s decision isn’t final yet! He needed tonight to speak to Manaia first before the council formally made their announcement, because he won’t reclaim his position unless Manaia agrees to reclaim hers as tsakarem.”

Kikuna blinked several times as the facts settled in and then she turned to Leylani in shock, “So y-you’re not going to be mated to Neteyam?”

“No! He loves Manaia! But no thanks to you, you’ve now made it seem like he’s abandoned her behind her back!”

Kikuna paled to a lighter shade of blue and she bit her lip, realising the error and the consequence it had wrought upon Manaia. She could only squeak in response, “Oh.”

With an exasperated snarl of frustration, Leylani swept out of the hut in search of Naia. She did not regret how harsh she had been with Kikuna, but another part of her reminded her that the root cause of this situation was not, in fact, Kikuna. Another muted curse left her and she muttered under her breath to herself, “You wait until I get my hands on you, Tupou.”

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

Was it possible to go from the happiest you had ever been to the saddest in the space of one day?...

Night had fallen and it was well and truly the heart of eclipse now. Naia knelt at the foot of the Tree of Souls her hands braced against the peeling bark of the trunk as she wept. Even the unbroken flow of the ancestors’ voices through her bond with the Great Mother’s tree did nothing to soothe the upheaval in her heart.

She was well-versed with the symptoms of a panic attack. The revelation of Neteyam’s supposed re-acceptance of his birthright, and betrothal to Leylani by default, had sent Naia into a tailspin of irrational thinking. Her deepest, darkest fears had risen to the surface like a monstrous creature with sharp claws and gnashing teeth, seizing hold of her heart in its unforgiving jaws and terrorising her with her insecurities. Yet, try as she might to combat the crushing senselessness that came with the spell, Naia’s thoughts still swung from pole to pole; idyllic memories of the last few weeks warring with the ugly insecurities dredged up by her panic.

Why didn’t Neteyam say anything about the proposition?... Was that his intention all along? To return to the clan to reclaim his birthright?... But he told you he loved you; he came back for you… Then why did he keep this from you?...

Naia had fled the stronghold earlier that afternoon and her legs had automatically carried her towards the ikran rookery, intent on flying wherever her panicked mind sought to take her. She had reached the flat crag of the rookery before realising that Lortirea would still be weak from laying, so flying was immediately thrown out of the equation. Foolishly, she had let her legs carry her mindlessly and aimlessly down from the floating mountains to the forest floor, where she had continued to run herself to exhaustion.

The acute shaking of her limbs had ceased now at least, as had the painful tingling in her fingers. All that was left now were her sore muscles and scraped palms and knees where she had fallen earlier. Where her mind had reeled with irrational panic before, now it drowned in the unrelenting depths of her despair.

She could not lose Neteyam again… A woeful sob forced its way from her throat. Naia had healed the wound as best she could when his family had first left all those years ago. She had made a reluctant peace with his departure from her life, and convinced herself to be content with her memories and her girlish fantasies. But then he had miraculously returned and he had swept her off her feet with his promise of forever. So, why now had he agreed to mate another woman?...

An image of Leylani swirled into Naia’s mind, all lissom grace and stunning beauty beyond compare… The thought turned into a knife-sharp clench in her chest. Perhaps it’s obvious why, Naia… How could he resist her?... They would make a strikingly attractive pair… you would look mismatched next to Neteyam with your uninspiring plainness…

By Eywa, Naia knew she could not bear to go through life watching them together. Not after sharing what she had with Neteyam these last few weeks. Naia knew the separation would be so much worse this time, knowing what she would be losing; watching him wed Leylani; watching him start a soaia (family) with her; living with them as olo’eyktan and tsahìk... Naia felt sick and she swallowed another painful sob.

Better than Tupou being clan chief, at least… Neteyam had always been a natural leader and the Omatikaya would flourish under his leadership. However, the positive thought was of little consolation to Naia in the present moment. Her heart was selfish and it wanted to wallow in its hurt.

One of Naia’s hands flew to clutch the pendant at her throat, the only physical reminder she had that she had not dreamt up the bliss of the last while. Neteyam had given it to her, called her the most beautiful thing in his eyes… Had he lied?... Perhaps you were just a convenient roll-around in the moss while he awaited the council’s decision to reinstate him… She did not want to believe the horrid thought, but her insecurity reared its ugly head once more.

Naia knew that Neteyam had had other women. He was her first, but she was not his by any means. They had not spoken about this specifically, but there was a familiarity and a confidence in the way he touched her that spoke to his sexual experience. The idea had not bothered her before. After all, it had been her own personal preference not to explore intimacy with others. She would not begrudge him the freedom of not doing the same. But maybe she was not as special as he had led her to believe…

Naia sagged on her next sobbing exhale, uncaring that it hurt the scrapes on her palms to trail her hands forlornly down the harsh bark of the tree. Palms flat on the glowing moss, she bent forward to press her forehead against the backs of her hands, her entire form prostrate on the ground. Great Mother, please let this all be a nightmare… let me wake up and realise that none of this is true…

She was shattered both physically and emotionally. She was so tired. There was no way she would make it back to High Camp tonight. Scaling down the mountains and trekking to the Tree of Souls on foot had been a rash endeavour. There was a reason that those who wanted to visit the sacred site made the journey down on the backs of their ikran. Naia would have to spend the night here, and may Eywa protect her, lest any predators decide to make a midnight snack of her.

The pendant around her neck reminded her of its presence again as it clinked gently against the moss with her lurching breaths. She encircled the piece of jewellery in her palm, feeling the smooth texture of its looping pattern against her fingertips.

Lifting her head from the ground to sit upright, Naia unsheathed the dagger at her hip. It did not belong around her neck.

Neteyam had broken his promise, if he had ever meant it at all.

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

Leylani had been pacing at the edge of the stronghold overlooking the horizon for the better part of the evening, anxiously awaiting Neteyam’s return. No one had seen Naia since she had bolted earlier that afternoon and the small scout party that Tarsem had deployed just before eclipse had not located her anywhere in the stronghold or in the surrounding forest grounds below the mountains.

Naia’s mother had been disappointed and unimpressed to learn of the misunderstanding, but Ayepni knew her daughter and she knew Naia would not return until she was ready to. Naia had always been very independent and obstinate; she would not be found if she did not want to be. Ayepni had tried to reassure Leylani that Naia would return home when she was ready to, but this did not sit well with Leylani and it was well into the night now.

Leylani chewed on her bottom lip and wrung her hands. She had grown and learned the ways of healing and spiritual leadership alongside Naia since they were children. Naia was as close as a sister to her, and the thought of Naia thinking she had betrayed her trust too was a thorn in her side. Kicking some loose scree about with her foot, Leylani groused to herself again and wished the warriors would hurry up.

The warriors’ patrol party was late returning to base, although Tarsem had indicated this possibility to her. Their assignment today had been to patrol out to the farthest outskirts of Omatikaya territory and it was a decent journey there and back. This was a mission that was routinely done once every moon cycle to survey the land for any unusual activity or threat from neighbouring clans. The danger of the Sky People had been vanquished, but Na’vi were still territorial, and inter-clan relations were not always friendly.

Finally though, the caws and skreiches of returning ikran reverberated through the rocky cavern of the stronghold as the warriors swooped in and up to land. Leylani’s eyes zeroed in on her two targets dismounting from their beasts to her far right. She felt a dichotomy of emotions as she marched up to the pair, her relief at the sight of Neteyam sparring with her quickly firing frustration at the sight of Tupou.

“That frown isn’t a good look on you, Leylani.” Tupou jeered, though his heckle was short-lived when it became apparent in the next instant that the focal point of her frustration was him.

Jabbing him with a finger above the just-healed scar on his pectorals, Leylani spat at Tupou, “You!” She felt no remorse at Tupou’s hiss of pain and continued, “You big-mouthed bastard. If anything untoward has happened to Manaia, it will be on your head!”

The mention of Naia’s name instantly caught Neteyam’s attention and he swivelled away from his ikran to face them, “What’s going on?”

“Tupou has broken the confidence he promised you this morning! He told Kikuna and a few others that you’d accepted the proposition, except he omitted the one crucial detail that your acceptance was still dependent on Manaia’s own reclamation of her own role as tsakarem.” Leylani outed Tupou’s misdemeanour without an ounce of hesitation, and it was the maddest Neteyam had ever seen her, “And now, the entire clan is talking about it and Manaia thinks you have agreed to be betrothed to me!”

Vexed at Leylani’s attack, Tupou griped in return, “So tell her that’s not the case? I don’t see the big deal!”

“I would! Except she heard through the grapevine from Kikuna and her gossip gang and ran off upset! She hasn’t come back since!”

The news sunk in a weight of cold, stony dread into the pit of Neteyam’s stomach. It was a misunderstanding of significant proportions and he turned to glower at Tupou, “You couldn’t wait just one more day for me to discuss this with Naia first? I haven’t technically accepted yet.”

Tupou flung his arms up impatiently and emitted a harsh groan, “It’s as good as done anyway! Manaia will re-accept her old position, we know that! Why didn’t you tell her about the proposition in the first place? If she is your intended, then why did you keep this from her?”

Neteyam’s lips pressed into a thin line and his tail weaved in a low arc behind him. It was a valid point that he could not refute. He should have told her. It would have been the honest thing to do. He had known that keeping this a secret from her was not ideal, but he never envisaged his decision to do so would unravel and come back to bite him in the form of the messy misunderstanding they now found themselves in.

The simmer of unease in Neteyam’s gut began to bubble and froth with more intensity while he absorbed the full consequence of how Naia would have interpreted the situation. Eywa, she probably thought he had deserted her for Leylani…

Leylani shook her head at the misfortune of it all. She took hold of Neteyam’s elbow and gave it a pressing squeeze, “Do you know where she might have gone? She looked distraught. I hate that she has the wrong idea about all this.”

Thinking immediately of the grotto, Neteyam nodded, hoping that he was right, “I think so.”

“Tarsem said that if you don’t find her soon then he will dispatch another round of scouts. He wants to know she is safe.”

“Got it. I’ll come find you at your family’s shelter if we need to keep looking, but if you don’t hear from me then everything is alright.”

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

Hindsight was always 20/20 and regret almost always came hand in hand with it.

The night-time winds during the darkest part of eclipse were bitterly cold and Neteyam wished he had brought his flying shawl with him. In his haste to find Naia, the thought had not even occurred to him. He squinted down at the forest floor below through the whipping airstreams, searching for any sign of her. He was weary after his day’s work and even Tompa’s own fatigue was palpable through their bond as they flew. However, Neteyam’s concern for her safety far outweighed his tiredness.

None of this would have happened if he had been honest and open with Naia from the beginning.

The commlink in his ear beeped as yet another one of the other scouts reported they had searched and cleared their assigned area with no sighting of Naia. They had cleared High Camp, cleared the surrounding floating mountaintops and were now searching the forest floor in a gradually widening radius as Naia’s whereabouts continued to elude them.

Neteyam cursed under his breath. Where are you, Naia?... He would not rest until he found her. By Leylani’s accounts, Naia had been missing for hours now and though she had never been the reckless sort, part of him worried she might have done something rash in her upset.

To say that Neteyam’s heart had plummeted earlier when he had gone first to their grotto was an understatement. He had expected to find Naia there, but he had arrived to find the space vacant and cold. The rumpled nest of blankets had been as they had left it the previous night and not even a single ember glowed in the makeshift hearth. He had not been able to scent her in the vicinity and it was evident that she had not even set foot in the place that evening.

He had scurried to her family’s shelter next, in case he had missed her on her return home. However, he had been greeted by the apprehensive eyes of Naia’s parents, Ayepni and Tulut, their anxious expressions confirmation enough that Naia was not there either.

“Manaia has never missed last meal.” Ayepni had declared, and her worry had been tangible then, “No matter how angry or upset she is, Naia always comes home to eat. And then she might disappear again to go sulk wherever she goes, but she has never missed a meal like this.”

If it had not been for the dismal circumstances, Neteyam would have laughed. Naia did like her food. But this uncharacteristic departure from her routine was yet another stone on the already weighty pile of stones in the pit of his belly. Where was she?

The commlink beeped in his ear again followed by the rustle of static. The line connected and then disconnected several times, punctuated by harsh crackles and scratches like the person using it was fumbling around, inexperienced with the commlink device around their neck.

“Ah, hello? Can anyone hear me?” The voice was awkward, feminine and hesitant.

Neteyam’s fingers flew to the link at his throat, pressing the button to speak, “Leylani, go ahead. What is it?”

“I’ve found her! She’s at Vitrautral! I haven’t landed, but she appears alright, just praying.”

Balmy relief washed over Neteyam at Leylani’s words and he took a deep inhale before letting his breath rush out of him in a gust. He responded, “Copy that. I’m on my way there now.” The Tree of Souls was not far from where he was currently, it was just a bit farther out west.

Urging Tompa to bank left toward their targeted destination, Neteyam spotted Leylani departing on her own ikran in the distance. He let out an echoing ululation and returned her wave as she turned to depart for home. Leylani had insisted on joining the scout party and after Naia’s parents and himself, she was probably the next most concerned person. Neteyam had always held Leylani in high regard, both as a healer as well as a friend, but he had a newfound level of respect for her after what she had done today. Her unselfishness was truly admirable.

The dazzling vision of the sacred tree illuminated the luxuriant forest around it and Neteyam slowed on Tompa to circle the site. He spotted Naia within moments, knelt on one side of the tree’s mammoth trunk. The hallowed tree was positioned in the centre of a series of rocky escarpments which surrounded it on all sides, making it look as if it was situated within a natural geological bowl of glowing flora.

Making his descent, Tompa alighted elegantly on one of the scarps and the beast let out a low whine at the sight of Naia, who turned her head briefly in acknowledgement but remained stooped over where she was knelt. Patting Tompa’s neck in gratitude and murmuring his appreciation, Neteyam slid off his familiar’s back and carefully made his way down the steep scarp towards Naia.

Breaking into a jog once he reached flat ground, his eyes automatically scanned Naia for any sign of injury as he approached. She turned her head to face him and Neteyam’s heart squeezed in his chest.

Physically she was unharmed, but emotionally she looked broken.

Neteyam could smell the anguish pouring off her in the scent of her dried perspiration. The usually neat braids of her hair were windswept and little tendrils stuck out around her forehead and ears. Her nose was wet, her cheeks tracked with tears and her eyes were red-rimmed. Even the usually bright glimmer of the tanhì that freckled her all over were dimmed, the bioluminescent spots all flickering weakly like dying stars against the rich sapphire of her skin.

Naia did not rise to greet him and she held his gaze only for a few moments before her chin dropped to her chest again. The points of her ears turned down and her tail lay limp by her side. “Congratulations,” She croaked bitterly, her gaze still trained on her folded hands in her lap.

Shaking his head and feeling the sharp edge of regret cutting into his soul again, Neteyam’s voice was measured when he spoke to begin his explanation, “Naia, there’s been a huge misunderstanding-”

“About us? Yes, there has. One of us has made a grave misjudgement of the other.” Naia interrupted with a snap, immediately defensive.

“I’ve made a huge error in judgement, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you so you wouldn’t get the wrong idea, so that you knew where I stood about us.” Neteyam continued, calmy disregarding her interruption.

Naia had spent hours in solitude now, stewing away with only her tumultuous emotions for company. She had alternated between praying to the Great Mother for guidance in the despairing situation she found herself in and begging her to take the pain in her soul away. Her hurt and her anger had warred, battling each other for control, swinging back and forth between bouts of tears and bouts of resentment.

However, now that Neteyam stood in her presence her ire was winning and dominating. She did not need to hear his apology for what he had done; for the woman he had chosen over her. She did not want to hear it. Her ire flared and it mixed with her burning shame. To think that she had pledged her everything to this man, let him fill her with dreamy promises, and he had so easily cast it all aside.

“I don’t want to hear it.” Naia’s tone was harsh and her big eyes were full of accusation as she glared up at him. Her face twisted into a grimace and a spurt of rage pushed her to her feet before him, “I trusted you. I let you in and let you cajole me with your sweet words, and all for nothing!”

Neteyam blinked and he took an involuntary step backward in bewilderment. Confusion bloomed within him as he regarded Naia who stood there with wild eyes and clenched fists. What was she talking about? Her chest was heaving with her breaths and tears were pooling in her eyes. She looked on the brink of a breakdown.

“Naia, what are you talking about?”

Neteyam reached for her arm and Naia exploded in a violent hiss, twisting out of his reach, “Don’t touch me! You lied! You didn’t have to say all those things! You didn’t have to make me feel special if you didn’t mean any of it!” Naia’s words rushed from her in a torrential stream, her emotions running high on the fuel of insecurity she had stoked to a fever pitch in the hours leading up to this moment. Feeling vulnerable, she wrapped her arms around her shoulders, her screams fizzling to whimpers now as she began to cry, “You told me you loved me. I let you touch me.”

Horror dawned upon Neteyam when he realised that they were not at all on the same page about the grave error of judgement they were speaking about. They were not even heading in the same direction. He was referring to his own misjudgement of keeping her in the dark about the proposition. She was apparently referring to her own error of judgement and that error was loving him. She was still rooted firmly in her belief that he had betrayed her.

Neteyam watched, momentarily dumbfounded, as Naia wept openly now. His nose twitched and he detected hints of her various emotions, all eddying around in a negative mixture that tainted her unique and sweet scent with a sour tinge. By Eywa, he understood then that she had spent most of the day and night steeping in the unbalanced state he now found her in. She was distraught and she was not thinking rationally.

His arms ached to reach out to her, but he had to be careful. He did not want to distress her further. He needed her to hear him out, “Yawntu (beloved), listen to me, please. It’s not what you think-”

But Neteyam’s words ground to a sudden halt when Naia’s arms shifted, lowering to hug herself about her waist and leaving her bare neck open to his view. His soul-gift was no longer around her neck.

A spear of panic shot through Neteyam and he gasped, “Naia, where’s the necklet I gave you?”

With a petulant sniff, Naia murmured, “Probably at the bottom the river I threw it into.”

The words were a dagger in Neteyam’s heart and his expression turned pained. His pain was followed by an unbidden surge of anger that flashed hotly through him and it manifested itself as a rancorous snarl.

Naia’s wrath spiked and she hissed in return. How dare he be upset with her?

In truth, she knew her words were a lie. The necklet lay tucked in the safety of her sling bag, but she had lied to spite him. She wanted him to hurt too. She had sliced the cord of the necklet from her neck with her dagger earlier amid her sadness, but she had not been able to fling it away. The soft part of her heart that would always yearn for him had convinced her to keep it; it was the only reminder she possessed of her time with him.

But as always, Naia’s wrath made her tongue sharp and she hurled yet another pointed barb at Neteyam, “Why? Were you hoping I’d return it to you so you can give it to Leylani now?”

The roar that tore from Neteyam’s throat was full of raw emotion; a potent fusion of his pain, frustration and regret, and Naia flinched violently at the sound.

Neteyam could see how the misunderstanding had occurred, and he acknowledged that his decision to hide the proposition from Naia had contributed to it. But what hurt him the most was the fact that she had been so quick to condemn him. She had not even waited to speak to him, to clarify, before jumping to the worst possible conclusion of his character. After everything they had shared in recent weeks, she still doubted his love for her.

“Woman! I swore my love to you not even two days ago!” Neteyam boomed, “Why do you-”

Naia interrupted once more and her voice rose to meet his, “Then why did you accept the council’s proposition and agree to mate Leylani? You didn’t even tell me about the proposition and you’ve known for weeks!”

“I know and I should’ve told you-”

“How can you expect me to believe you and trust you-”

“Naia, let me explain myself!”

“-when you kept this from me-”

“MANAIA, BE QUIET! STOP INTERRUPTING ME!”

Naia recoiled at his bellow and her mouth snapped shut in fright. Neteyam had never raised his voice like that with her. Ever. She could not recall a single incident even when they were younger of him losing his temper. She knew she could be argumentative and sarcastic, but he had always been calm and collected with her. At most he had become a little snippy, but he had never shouted at her like that.

Neteyam saw Naia wince and knew he had scared her. Her wide eyes were wary as she watched him. His first instinct was to apologise for his outburst and the words were poised on his lips, but he withheld them, and the frustrated part of him quipped that she deserved it. Interrupting was a bad habit of Naia’s; always had been for as long as he could remember.

Breathing deeply, Neteyam squared his shoulders and fixed Naia with a firm look, “You always do this, interrupt people when they’re trying to speak. Stop it. I’m going to speak now and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt me until I say I’m finished.”

Still stunned, Naia gave a meek nod in agreement.

Neteyam trusted her answer, but to be safe, he decided he get the short and sharp facts out of the way first, “I’m not betrothed to Leylani. I haven’t fully accepted the council’s proposition to reclaim my birthright. Tupou is over-eager to step down and he should never have said anything to Kikuna or anyone else this morning. He only gave her half the story.”

He paused and raised a cautionary brow when Naia’s lips parted to say something, but she kept her word and she pressed her mouth closed again.

“Tarsem came to me with the proposition three weeks ago, soon after I returned to the clan.” Neteyam continued in an even tone, starting his explanation from the beginning, “I declined outright, because even back then I knew it was you I wanted.”

Naia’s ears perked up at his words and a green shoot of tenderness sprouted through the black anxiety that blanketed her heart. Although the urge to ask questions was strong, Naia made a conscious effort to just listen to Neteyam as he explained the council events of the last few weeks to her. He described how his grandmother had convinced him to make a counter-proposal to the clan council, that he would reclaim his birthright if he was not obligated to mate Leylani. He explained how the council had taken the last two weeks to deliberate and had ruled this morning to deny him his request because they wanted tradition upheld.

“I didn’t tell you about the proposition because I was afraid.” Neteyam admitted, and his gaze was sincere, “I was afraid, at first, of scaring you away with how deeply I felt for you if you knew I was banking the entire situation on being able to be with you. And then after we became close, I was afraid you’d pull away and push me to accept for the greater good of the clan.”

Naia looked dubious, but remained silent like she had promised. She briefly mused to herself that Neteyam clearly thought her much more altruistic than she actually was. She would not have pushed him away romantically to force him to reclaim his position for the greater good. After so many years of pining and after the bliss of loving him for real, she knew she would have been selfish.

It was a bold move considering the taut situation, but Neteyam had seen Naia’s eyes softening as she listened and he reached out gently to pry her wrists from around her waist. He was met with little resistance from her and he pulled her towards him to wind her arms around his narrow waist, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should’ve been open about it and none of this would’ve happened. And maybe if Tupou had shut up like he was supposed to too.”

“So why did Tupou tell Kikuna you accepted?” The words were out of Naia’s mouth before she could stop them, but it was because she sensed a lull in Neteyam’s flow of words as he was getting distracted running the knuckles of one hand over her cheek, and Naia wanted to know the rest of the story.

“Because Leylani stepped down this morning.” Neteyam breathed and Naia gave a sharp intake of breath at his words. He leaned down to kiss one corner of her mouth and then tilted his head the opposite way to kiss the other corner, “I told the council I would reclaim my birthright subject to the condition that you reclaimed your position as tsakarem.”

Naia pulled back a little to better regard him. Reclaim her position as tsakarem? The sentiment shocked her. She looked up into the face of the man she knew she would follow anywhere and give anything for. Her words eluded her though and she did not know what to say.

Neteyam filled the silence, “Only if you wish to. I’ll only reclaim my birthright if you will be the tsahìk at my side when I become olo’eyktan. But if you don’t wish to take that path then that’s fine too. I’m yours either way. You are what I came home for.”

A sudden and overwhelming shame overcame Naia and she felt rotten. With the actual truth of the situation now laid out before her, she perceived her irrationality and recognised how her inner demons had caused her to spiral into overreaction. She had assumed the absolute worst without giving him a chance to speak for himself.

Neteyam had apologised for his lapse in judgement. It was her turn now.

Pulling her hands away from his hips to cover her face when the burn of her shame forced fresh tears from her eyes, Naia whispered wetly, “Oh Great Mother, I’ve been so stupid today. I should’ve known better. I know you better. I’m so sorry, Neteyam.”

Hushing her softly, Neteyam enveloped her smaller frame in his strong arms and rubbed his cheek soothingly against her hair while she cried noisily into the crook of his neck. He felt her arms snake out from between their bodies to clutch at his back, her fingers digging with pressure into his skin, as if she was trying to press herself even closer to him. He noticed her body trembling slightly and he murmured by her ear, “Are you cold?”

Naia fought to control her hitching sobs and she shook her head, stuttering, “N-No. My muscles are j-just fatigued.”

Yet another realisation dawned on Neteyam and he remembered Naia’s ikran was out of action currently. Eyes widening in disbelief, he queried, “Did you make your way here on foot?”

“Yes.” Her response was barely a whisper.

Prying her gently away from his torso and stepping back to inspect Naia again from head to toe, Neteyam discovered her scraped palms and grazed knees. Her shins and calves were also littered with scratches and thin cuts from where, he presumed, the surrounding vegetation had whipped and snagged against her legs as she ran.

Neteyam cursed low under his breath, crushing her to his chest again and berating her softly by her ear, “You’re so stupid sometimes, Naia. It’s dangerous coming all this way on foot! You’ve hurt yourself.”

The gentle scolding only caused Naia to cry harder, “I thought I’d lost you again. I just needed to get away! I don’t know what I’d do if I had to live the rest of my life seeing you with Leylani!”

One of Neteyam’s hands cupped the back of Naia’s head against his shoulder and his other hand ran in warm strokes up and down her back, “How many times have I told you I love you? Why did you automatically think the worst of me, and Leylani too, huh?”

Naia winced a little at the recognition that she had also wronged Leylani. Sweet, sincere Leylani who was like a sister to her. By Eywa, she had been such a fool today. She did not know what to say. All she could do was repeatedly murmur wet apologies against Neteyam’s skin while she sobbed.

They stood together for a period and they remained enfolded in their standing embrace. Naia’s hitching sobs soon petered out and her breaths gradually steadied to the calming rhythm of Neteyam’s heartbeat. All the while Neteyam pacified her with whispered reassurances and gentle kisses pressed to the crown of her head.

Sniffling, Naia thought to herself that he was being too good to her. She felt undeserving of every hushed phrase and every small kiss he graced her with. Feeling much calmer now than she had since the afternoon, she snorted cynically, “You should be scolding me more. This feels like you’re rewarding my bad behaviour.”

A deep breath was pulled into Neteyam’s lungs, his muscular chest expanding beneath Naia’s cheek before it deflated again in a long sigh. Neteyam’s voice was hurt when he spoke, “I can’t believe you threw away the necklet.”

Biting her lip hard, Naia mentally smacked herself. With a grimace, she lifted her head to meet Neteyam’s pained eyes and squeaked, “I lied.”

“What?”

“I lied. I didn’t throw it away.” Naia admitted in a clearer voice, “I cut it off but I couldn’t bear to get rid of it, so I kept it. It’s in my bag.” She gingerly stepped away and moved to her bag, making a face when her thigh muscles screamed in protest as she crouched to fish the necklet out.

Cupping it preciously in her palms, she stood and presented it to Neteyam, shamefaced. The looping pendant and pearlescent beads were all intact and only the woven cord of it had been defiled where Naia had sliced it free of her neck.

Neteyam shook his head and rolled his eyes. He wanted to be angry with her, but he had never been the sort to hold a grudge and he forgave easily. Especially when it came to Naia. One look at her tear-stained face and beseeching gold eyes and his annoyance just fizzled out of him. He sighed once more, “I can make a new cord for it. And when I do put it round your neck again, it’s never coming off. Ever.”

“Sorry,” Naia peeped, her lower lip wobbling a little, “I’m sorry for overreacting and being stupid today.” Enclosing the necklet in her hands, she pressed a kiss to her closed fists. She returned to nestle it safely inside her bag again, not wanting to drop any of the beads or lose any.

“We don’t have this tradition in the Omatikaya, but the Metkayina have a ritual where everyone creates a gift for their intended mate. A gift from the soul that you present to the person you want to spend eternity with.” Neteyam said, watching as Naia’s face flushed deeply and her expression turned hangdog when she approached him again, “The necklet is my soul-gift to you. I don’t want you doubting what I feel for you anymore.”

Swallowing through an uncomfortably dry throat, Naia nodded, “I know, I just- I believe you, I do- but you can have anyone you want, so why-”

Neteyam heard and saw Naia struggle to express herself. It was unlike her in that she had always been quick-witted and well-spoken, but her self-doubt was plain as she stumbled over her words. No, he was not having anymore of this. If she could not truly comprehend through his words and actions how much he loved her, then he was going to have to show her that there was no doubt in his mind.

Closing the space between them, Neteyam silenced her stammering lips with a quick but fervent kiss before pulling away to declare, “I see you and I love you, Manaia te Txewì Ayepni’ite. Say you’ll be mine?”

The word ‘yes’ was just about to fall from Naia’s lips, but it was impeded by an abrupt gasp when she realised Neteyam had reached behind him to bring his neural queue forward from over his shoulder. The well of emotion inside Naia swelled almost to bursting point when perceived the true significance of what he was asking.

He was not simply asking her to commit to him exclusively. He wanted to bond with her, to mate her for life and beyond…

Neteyam added, “I’m sure of this. I want nothing more in this world. Your decision around whether you want to reclaim the role of tsakarem is irrelevant. Be mine, Naia, now and always?”

Naia’s heart sang for joy, the explosion of love in its depths a welcome reprieve from the icy ache that had besieged it for most of the past day. She felt the involuntary sting of tears in her eyes as her elation overwhelmed her. Thank you for this blessing, Great Mother…

Naia was unable to suppress the choked sob that slipped from her and she forced her vocal chords to work past the lump in her throat, “Yes, I love you. Of course I’ll be yours.” The dazzling smile she received in return was an image of him that would be forever imprinted into the core of her memories.

Reaching back to trail her hand down the thick braid of her own queue, Naia brought it between them to mirror his previous action. She felt Neteyam’s free hand come up to cradle her jaw, his warm fingers caressing her cheek. She placed one of her hands over the back of his and leant into the warmth of his palm. He leaned downward and she instinctively tilted her head up to his face, but it was not their lips that met this time.

Neteyam gently stopped to rest his forehead against Naia’s. They were so close that the swell of her breasts pressed against his ribs and their thighs brushed where he had one of his legs positioned between hers. Nothing existed but him and Naia in that moment, just the beautiful stillness of two souls about to be united in the presence of Eywa.

Slowly but surely, the knuckles of their hands met, bringing their neural queues together. The delicately curling tendrils of their queues interlaced with each other’s, twining into a radiant rope of blessed union. Tsaheylu.

The profound strength of their bond rocked them, their eyelids clamping shut and their mouths going slack for several moments while their hearts, minds and souls aligned. It was ecstasy like neither of them had ever known. Their hearts began to beat in time in their chests and a rush of emotion and sensation forged between them in a neural bridge.

Blinking several times, Naia’s eyes refocused on the physical image of Neteyam before her and she pulled her eyeline up to meet his. His eyes were a little watery, but a beaming smile was stretched across his face and Naia felt a surge of adoration reach her through their bond. Then, even though his lips did not move, she heard him clear as a bell in her mind. You’re so beautiful, my Naia.

An image of herself flowed through to her and it was surreal how she was looking at Neteyam with her eyes, but she also saw herself through his eyes. There were no words used to describe her, just his emotions and fragments of bright things and happy memories that he associated with her. She saw herself as he saw her and she was beautiful. Naia laughed, the sound pealing through the gently blowing leaf-strands of the Tree of Souls and Neteyam took her in his arms to kiss her passionately.

The neural bond between them was pure and harmonious, but there was another rising urge beneath their mutual flow of emotion that was beginning to engulf them. They were united mind and soul, and all that was left now to seal their bond for life was the simultaneous joining of their bodies. 

Naia’s cool hands clutched at Neteyam’s shoulders and she pressed her torso tight against his, uncaring if the position meant her head and neck were craned almost all the way back to reach his face. She needed to be as close to him as possible, wanted him to be one with her body and soul. Neteyam had one arm looped firmly around her waist and its twin supported the back of her head while they lost themselves in the heat of their kiss.

It was as if they were entranced in a pleasurable daze, each fully aware of their own actions but also equally aware of the other’s. Time had ceased to pass, both entirely spellbound by the present moment they were sharing. There was no hesitation as they curled around each other on the mossy ground, arms and limbs tangling tight when they finally coupled their bodies in an intimate embrace. 

The erotic pleasure was immense.

Their bond had forged between them an endless feedback loop. Naia experienced every single pulse and stroke of Neteyam’s pleasure as he moved within her, and likewise, Neteyam’s own rapture was heightened by the gratifying fullness and deep pleasure that Naia felt of him filling her. Every gasp and every moan; every kiss, every lick and stroke of hands and tongues was amplified, and all the while the depth their love was an over-arching certitude within their bond. When the crest of their pleasure eventually consumed them, it was overwhelming and experienced together at the same time.

Neteyam’s breaths were ragged by Naia’s ear, his body shuddering still through the aftershocks of their climax. He shifted and was about to raise his upper body onto his palms to roll away when Naia whimpered and clutched him to her. She looped her arms around his shoulders and hooked her ankles behind his lower back. He sensed her thoughts; she wanted to keep them joined.

I’m crushing you. Neteyam protested through their bond.

Roll us over. Came Naia’s drowsy response.

Neteyam carefully and gently rolled them onto his back and the manoeuvre was a success. They remained pleasurably fused and Naia grinned in carnal satisfaction where her cheek was pressed to his chest.

Physically, Neteyam chuckled and he sent a thought to her. We have eternity to do this now, yawntu.

Pressing a small kiss to his pectoral, Naia snuggled down against him. She had an answer for him now, had made her decision. Inhaling the musky scent of him through her nose, she sent him her answer. Yes.

Lethargic now after their coupling, Neteyam did not catch on and Naia giggled as his somnolence fed through to her through their connection. Cheekily, she poked him in the ribs, which earned her a jump and the sensation of sudden alertness at her action. She clarified this time. Yes I’ll be your tsakarem.

Naia felt a burst of approval from him and she felt him smooth his hot hands down her naked back, down until he cupped her bottom on both sides. He squeezed the soft flesh there and swivelled his hips, eliciting a sensual gasp from Naia when she discovered he was hardening inside her again. Evidently Neteyam was very pleased by her decision.

Pushing off his chest to sit upright, Naia let her weight sink down to take his entire length within her and a carnal moan purred from the man beneath her. She shot him a coquettish grin and raked her gaze slowly over the musculature of his torso, appreciating every solid line and ridge.

Neteyam was her mate now. He was hers forever. Naia could hardly believe it. All her girlish hopes and distant dreams during the years they were parted seemed so far away now in the face of the truth they would now live as one heart and one soul.

The sentiment was echoed by Neteyam and their mutual joy at being mated coursed between them in a brilliant blaze of heat. They made their vows to each other, the spirit of Eywa guiding their words as they were shared in perfect unison:

From now, you are flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. What Eywa has made one shall never be parted; day or night, near or far, in sickness or in health. I give you my life and my love, even when the day arises and the Great Mother calls you home, I will remain yours thereafter, until such time they Eywa calls me home to be reunited with you again forevermore.

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

Author’s Note: Wheeeeee! Our two lovebirds have mated! Bring out the sugar, wine and the fluffies to celebrate!

This was supposed to be last chapter, but I’ve decided there will be a short epilogue that will be uploaded as the next chapter.

I’ve got some lovely fluffy ideas for the epilogue, but what would you all like to see? I’m happy to take requests, though I can’t guarantee I’ll use your idea(s) as it will depend on whether it fits with my vision of Neteyam and Naia. The epilogue will be set in the near future.

Share your thoughts and emotions with me, my lovelies. Throw me your epilogue requests. &lt;3

Thank you again, as always, for all your support, comments and kudos. Writing for you all is such a JOY.

[fleet-of-fiction]

Jake Kiszka // OC

Summary: The year is 1820. Jacob Thomas is the second born son of the Polish-American Kiszka family who have recently bought property in England. The affluent family have caused a stir in the old aristocratic London social circles after purchasing Belvoir Hall. A country estate which once belonged to the Hanover family. After the death of Sir Oliver Hanover, his debts too many to count, ashamed and disgraced his widow and two daughters move to live with their Aunt at nearby Ivy Grange, a small manor on the Kent border. After returning to recover some personal items, Eleanor Hanover catches the eye of the flirtatious second son. (All locations are fictional)

Warnings: Loss of virginity. All the usual foreplay shenanigans and sexual descriptions you have come to expect from the erotic corners of my mind. Nothing too nefarious. Just delicious regency era raunch.

Jacob was ascending the stairs when the bell began to chime. He turned, curiously, as the chamber maid appeared at the foot of the staircase to greet whomever stood on the other side of the door.

"Who is it, Kitty?" He asked, his boots making low thrums on the stone floored lobby of Belvoir Hall.

"It's Lady Eleanor, Sir." Kitty replied, standing aside so that Jacob could get a good look at her.

Immediately, he was amused by her. As was his nature. To stand there with an egregious grin that was neither comfort nor welcome. His long, dark hair surpassing his shoulders against a white linen shirt that was unseasonably open to his bare chest.

He liked the way her eyes were immediately drawn to his flesh. A small flush appearing in the apples of her cheeks as she lifted her gloved hand to cover her astonished mouth.

"Lady Eleanor." He said curtly, in the American drawl that had been talked about at great length between Eleanor and her friends. "What can I do for you?"

She was a bold thing, he noticed. Clearing her throat before gathering a stand-offish demeanour about her. Turning, ever so slightly, to ensure that her escort was still standing by the waiting carriage behind her.

"Would it be possible to speak with..." She faltered on the correct title,"...Mrs.Kiszka, please?"

Jacob's lips parted as he continued to smile. Enjoying the way she fiddled with her tiny little clutch bag, flustered and pained by his arrogance.

"My apologies Lady Eleanor, but my Mother is currently indisposed. May I be of service to you?" He said it with an edge of insincerity, as if the service he wished to provide her might not be the one she so desired.

Straightening up, she placed a hand to the edge of her bonnet. Careful to ensure her pretty, dark curls were still in place. His eyes followed the movement of her fingers.

"As I understand it, your Mother and Father procured much of our substantial library in the sale of our house." She managed to say, keeping her voice plain and steady, not wanting to give him any indication that she was completely intimidated. "There are a few titles which are dear to my heart and I have come to appeal to their good nature and ask that I may reclaim those books."

He was young and foolish. Never too enamoured with a girl to ask for her hand in marriage, but often interested enough to play with her heart until he was bored of it. Since arriving in England, the rogue in him had been left untamed.

The way he leaned against the door frame, his shirt unbuttoned, was making her uncomfortable. But still, he did not move to properly attire himself. He did not cease in his relentlessness to bribe a coarse word from her lips.

"I see no reason as to why you may not have what you desire." He said sardonically, opening the door a little wider. "Kitty, please show Lady Eleanor to the library."

There was a little hesitation as she approached the door. His arm slowly moving out of her way, his smile never once leaving his face as he watched her enter. Knowing her way to the library but following the servant obediently, she dared to glance back at him standing there as she turned the corner.

Kitty had also been part of the house sale. Similar in age to Eleanor, she had grown up playing in the endless corridors and secret rooms which littered the top floors of the manor. Taking her position as chamber maid on her fourteenth birthday. No longer Eleanor's playmate. It had made little difference, the two of them remaining friends in the convening years.

As the library door closed, Eleanor fell into her friend's excitement. Kitty, unable to retain her sense of propriety, embraced her old friend tightly, giggling as they both enjoyed a sweet reunion.

"Oh, Kitty! I have missed you!" She exclaimed, looking around the old room to happily notice that nothing had changed. "I feel as if I have come home."

Kitty smiled bittersweetly. "Oh, my Lady... the place hasn't been the same since you left. I dare say everything looks as it once did, but it's a different Belvoir Hall these days."

Grasping her hands tightly, Eleanor lead her friend over to the leather couch that centred the walls of book shelves. A table and a lamp that had once belonged to her Father sitting idly at the side. This room had been her absolute favourite. A quiet place to contemplate.

"You must tell me everything, Kitty! Mother has been dying for news over at Ivy Grange. She mulls over it day and night, how we lost Belvoir and everything within it. She's melancholy, I tell you. Simply ghastly. Aunt Helen has been at her wits end. Give me something I may take back for her that may make her smile, wont you?"

Kitty's eyes moved towards the door, afraid to speak ill of her new masters. Leaning in so that her whispers did not travel beyond her dear friend's ear.

"It's their children, my Lady!" Kitty said spritely, cupping a hand around her mouth. "The master and his wife, they are nice enough people. Came here because of a population boom, as they explained it, returning to their European roots. Although I was lead to believe they are Polish? I don't think they speak Polish. Anyway, their children are a different matter. The eldest one, Joshua, he is an odd creature if ever I saw one. Keeps to himself mainly. Rather studious and contemplative. He likes a drink though, and to converse with any who will listen after a few sips. The one who greeted you at the door, that's his younger twin. By five minutes as I understand it. He and their younger brother are tyrants. Jacob and Samuel. I have seen the youngest one with his hand up a few skirts, many a time. You remember Bessy? Your Father took her on just before he died. She did not stand a chance. He's had her up against the wall almost every night since they arrived. And Jacob? His tastes seem a little more sophisticated. But I've heard tale that he has refused to marry. The young girl, Veronica, she's been sent to a school somewhere up north. She was here all of a week before she was gone."

Their conspiring was etched all over their faces as the door clicked and opened. Kitty unceremoniously jumped up from the couch, flattening out her pinafore and hair as Jacob strode in with all the confidence of a man who knew his place.

"Leave us." He said, lowering his voice and his gaze.

Eleanor raised a protesting hand. "If it is all the same to you, good Sir, my escort is waiting outside and as a guest I am certain you must provide me with one whilst I am within."

The corner of his mouth turned upward. "As you wish."

Kitty stood with her back to the door. Her eyes firmly set on the window, overlooking the gardens outside. Fingers knotted together at her front, as she had been taught to stand whenever attending a room. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jacob take a seat on the opposite end of the couch. Certain he was being far too bold.

"You are welcome here any time, Lady Eleanor." He said smoothly, crossing his leg across his lap. "It must still feel like your home."

The kindness with which he spoke took her by surprise. His insincerity and arrogance were still bubbling beneath a veneer of charm, his arm outstretched towards her on the back of the couch. She noted the way he looked at her, without a hint of propriety.

The flush within her cheeks began to resonate between her thighs. The fabric of her petticoat becoming uncomfortable. Her corset feeling as if it might constrict her chest into breaths she could barely take in. The sensation washing over her completely unwanted, leaving her desperate to flee.

"You're very kind, Sir..." She began, trying to remain composed.

"Call me Jacob, I insist." He replied before she could finish, a subtle waves of his hand revealing the silver lines of an old scar running up his forearm.

"Jacob." She uttered, the name spilling out of her mouth like spun silk.

He liked the way it sounded on her lips. Admiring her budded peaks and poised demeanour as she sat bolt upright with her hands within her lap. Her attempt to hide her rosy cheeks beneath the rim of her bonnet made him eager to cup her chin within his hand and lift her gaze to meet him.

"You are not yet married, Lady Eleanor?" He asked, shooting a disparaging look towards Kitty, "May I be so bold as to ask why a beautiful woman such as yourself has not yet accepted the many proposals I am sure you have received?"

Kitty could feel his eyes burning into her. Her mouth was set in a thin line, biting back the urge to speak ill of her masters son.

"You may not." Eleanor replied, " I am here to collect my books, nothing more."

He noted the thin line transform into a triumphant smile on Kitty's face.

"Very well." He allowed, swiftly moving away from the couch. "Pick out your beloved books and I will have them sent to you as I'm certain there will be many."

There was a hint of reproach as he took his leave. Eleanor felt the wind leave her lungs as he closed the door behind him. The interaction so brief, so inconsequential. Had she imagined the way he had looked at her?

"Careful there, my Lady." Kitty warned, "He's a tyrant, remember?"

Ivy Grange was much smaller, less grandiose than Belvoir. It had taken Eleanor several weeks to acclimatise herself to the surroundings. Where once there had been a full service staff of housekeepers and groundsmen, stable hands and game keepers there was now only a handful of people to keep the land and rooms. It still felt somewhat shameful. To have lost everything so suddenly and to see another in the place where you once stood.

For days after returning from Belvoir, Eleanor did not feel quite herself. Taking air in the garden and keeping herself occupied with the piano in the day parlour. It had felt strange to be a guest when it still felt like her home. But it wasn't that which kept her unsettled.

As she strolled around the rose bushes, taking in their scent and admiring their soft, round pink petals she was reminded of that symbiotic stare. His arrogance and his kindness at war with one another. He was an enigma, she had decided, as she studied the rose stems.

Why did he come into her mind so vividly and so uninvited? She found herself irritated with all the thoughts which had plagued her. Wondering if he had meant to steal from her the emotions she had felt that day. Is this what tyrants did?

"Ellie?! Oh, Ellie... where are you?! Must you always be where I can't find you?!"

The voice chimed over the mid spring breeze. The child like call of Elizabeth Hanover, Eleanor's younger sister.

"I am here!" Eleanor called back, lifting her head to be seen over the pink and green. "What has got you all excited?!"

At fifteen years old, she was entirely the opposite of her sister. Eleanor was only bold because she feared the interrogation of being asked why she had not yet married. Elizabeth was still young enough to enjoy not being asked that question. Still full of hope and wonder. Eleanor had no desire to marry a man who would no doubt drink himself into a stupor every night and gamble away their wealth. Sir Oliver Hanover had much to answer for when it came to his eldest daughter.

"Oh, Ellie! There's a Gentleman come to call for you. He's ever so handsome! He's American, with that long hair. And he has asked to speak with your directly. Ellie...is he one of those Kiszka's that moved into Belvoir?"

Eleanor could see that her sister had been instantly charmed. She placed a loving hand on the cool, flushed cheek of her little sister. Her eyes looking up expectantly.

"I expect so, yes." She replied, looking up over the lawn towards the house. "He greeted me when I visited the other day."

Elizabeth clasped her hands together. "Which one? The youngest one? I have heard he is terribly handsome. And the man at the door was terribly handsome..."

"Lilibet, please." Eleanor said, stroking the cheek slowly. "Calm yourself down. They're just silly boys."

"You always say that." Elizabeth replied, feeling the excitement drain from her, "He's speaking with Mother. And I don't think he's a silly boy at all. I think I would be greatly flattered if one of them were to call for me."

Of course, it was Jacob. Under the guise of returning the books she had chosen from the library. A chest full of them stood at the foot of the door, a look of absolute satisfaction on his face.

Eleanor's Mother, Lady Anne Hanover, had already agreed to Jacob escorting her eldest daughter on a stroll around the gardens whilst the books were placed in the smaller library at Ivy Grange. A look of consternation was exchanged between Mother and daughter before Eleanor invited him out into the warm spring sunshine.

"I did not mean to cause offence to you the other day, Lady Eleanor." He began, following her lead down the path which meandered down from the back of the house. "I'm sure you are aware that I, too, am as yet unmarried and grow weary at being questioned."

Eleanor politely nodded. "There was no offence, caused. Sir...I beg your pardon, Jacob."

There it was again. That smile as she spoke his name. His entire body turned to face her. Still amused by her. Still charmingly arrogant.

"I dare say our parents were hoping a change of location would bring about some changes in our marital statuses. As yet, none of my siblings are betrothed. Although they hope that my sister will return from her schooling up north with news of a proposal."

Eleanor could feel that tightness in her corset again, that familiar ache in her stomach. She stopped to admire the flowers.

"May I ask why you have called upon me like this, Jacob? It seems to me that you have no desire to marry and courtship would be far too much of a commitment for you. Because, as you can see, I have no desire to be courted."

"Is that so?" He replied earnestly, gesturing for her to lead them further down the path. "I had wondered if Kitty had filled your head with nonsense about me and it appears that I was right."

She dared to look at him directly. The sun beating down behind him, forcing her to raise a hand against her eyes. She noted the details of his face for the first time. The sensual way his mouth moved, the tip of his tongue moistening his lips. A tiny mole on his cheek and a little upturn of his nose at the tip.

"Where did you get that scar on your arm?" She asked, deciding that she was going to humour him.

He was quite taken aback, but did not hesitate in his response.

"When I was a child my brother and I were having a disagreement. He thought it could be resolved with fists and so we fought. I ended up with my fist cutting through a glass cabinet that had belong to my Grandfather and the result was the opening of my arm." He traced the silver line with a curious fingertip. "Joshua saw the blood and immediately ran to fetch our Mother, who promptly fainted at the sight of it. I don't think either of us can remember what the disagreement was about."

Eleanor nodded and proceeded to guide him into the seclusion of the pond which sat behind a row of beeches. The lily pads were in full bloom and the fish scuttled up to the surface as their reflections appeared on the rippled surface.

"Am I to believe that you are not the tyrant I have been informed of?" She asked pertinently. "Is that why you have come here? To ensure that the stories which proceed you are not to be believed?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I would be interested to hear which stories are circulating. My Father intends to host a party in the coming weeks. To formally greet everyone and make their proper acquaintance. I'm sure you will receive your invitation shortly, but I would hate to be stuck in a room full of people who think me a tyrant."

The wind picked up. Pulling a curl from Eleanor's head. He took note of it immediately, reaching to push it back from her face. She did not flinch from the touch as he thought she might. There, at the side of the pond, they were completely alone and unescorted. Jacob sensed a shift in her manner with him.

"Only that you and your younger brother have had your fill of the women around here in such a short space of time. With no regard for their honour." She said curtly, with no regard for his feelings, eager to see if he would respond graciously.

He was no longer amused. No longer arrogant, even.

"I cannot speak for Samuel. He is younger than I am. Likely his behaviour will catch up to him if he is not careful." He sighed then, almost as if it grieved him. "My only wish is to find a girl who will run free with me."

Yes, he was a rogue. But he was no tyrant. She peered into his soft eyes and saw all the promise of a man who couldn't exist within the walls expected of him. Walls that had kept her, too, caged like a wild animal for others to spectate.

"Why is it that you carry yourself so arrogantly?" She dared to ask. "You do yourself no favours."

There was an errant smirk there on that beautiful mouth.

"Better to be thought of as something that I am not, than something I am failing at being."

Eleanor could not deny that she was intrigued by him. If she had ever been intimidated, it fell by the wayside as she watched him gently fan away a bee that came to buzz around their heads. Ordinarily, she would have panicked and swatted it away herself. But she could not keep her eyes off him.

"What, precisely, might you be failing at being?" She probed further.

"Romantic." He replied stoically.

There was a change in direction of the breeze. It brought about that curl from behind her ear. He would have trespassed a kiss, but the hour was growing late. Instead, he positioned that curl back behind her ear, his hand lingering a little longer at her face.

"I think it would be remiss of me to say that you are not without romance, Jacob." She said, almost breathlessly. "But I fail to see how any of that has anything to do with me."

He almost laughed. A low, breathy mocking sound that hurt her feelings.

"You are not blind, Lady Eleanor. Nor are you stupid." He said then, all the laughter fading. "You do well to be careful with me, I am but a man. And though I strive to do better, it is true that I have known my share of women."

"Perhaps you are tyrant after all." She said quietly, her eyes falling listlessly to his lips. "Perhaps I have need of one."

As the carriage pulled up outside Belvoir Hall, Eleanor Hanover smoothed out her emerald green dress. Adorned with lace at the neck and wrists, she checked her reflection in the carriage door window and admired the warm, welcoming lights resonating from her former home.

London society was buzzing with excitement for the first formal occasion hosted by the mysterious new American family. There was no mistaking that they were new money. Mr. and Mrs. Kiszka, without any further titles, welcomed Lords and Ladies to their sprawling home with all the uncertainty that came with being new money. But money they had, in abundance.

It was clear to see as Eleanor stepped into the ballroom. Adorned with silk flowers which hung ostentatiously from the ceiling and climbed in vines down the staircase. A string quartet were playing lively music in the corner while the waiting staff mingled with silver trays of champagne.

Aunt Helen was the first to make a comment on the choice of flowers. Lady Ann agreeing with her most excitedly as they tried to pick the place apart and make it appear that they were happy to attend a party in the place they had once called home.

"Where do you suppose the sons are?" Elizabeth asked, scanning the room for handsome young men.

Aunt Helen, although old and dithering, placed a firm hand on the young girls shoulder. "Now, now, Lilibet. Have a care for your reputation."

The young girl rolled her eyes. "It's a party, Aunt Helen. Am I not allowed a little fun?"

"Fun you may have." The old woman replied sourly, "Dance if you wish. But stay away from those Kiszka boys, I have heard... things."

It didn't take long for their arrival to make heads turn. People gathering to ask how they felt in their old home, being hosted as guests. Eleanor took her opportunity to step back from the fray, smiling and nodding as she took a glass of champagne.

Parties had never sat well with her. The meaningless cycle of mind numbing chat and gossip. The judgements of those attending, pretending to like their neighbours whilst talking ill of them behind their backs. People getting far too drunk for their senses. The music and the joy which came from that was the only reason she attended. But tonight there had been another reason.

"That's Joshua Kiszka on the fiddle." Elizabeth announced, inexplicably coming forth with information she couldn't possibly have procured so quickly. "Look at him, Ellie! Isn't he dreamy?!"

Eleanor looked over the where the quartet were playing. A small, curly haired man playing a wistful tune.

"That man is twenty six years old, Lilibet. There is to be no more say on how he is dreamy." She scolded, watching her sister skulk off with her excitement yet again dulled.

Jacob was sitting quietly in the darkest corner of the room, beneath the staircase where he could watch the party unfold without engaging himself within it. He watched Eleanor arrive, keeping a close eye as she looked for him. Distracted by her sister's incessant wants, he found himself intrigued by the way she took herself to the edge of the room to spectate, in much the same manner he was.

His desire to make his presence known was quelled by the eyes he knew would be watching. To approach her in this room would have drawn unwanted attention. As he rose from his seat, he slowly made his way through the crowd. Nodding his head in greeting to those who raised their glasses. His eyes firmly set on Eleanor.

When she reciprocated his gaze, it was as if the music had stopped. She understood completely what was expected of her. The room fell silent to him, her shape was all he could see. He silently begged her to leave with him. From across the room.

"Lilibet." She said, leaning in to her crestfallen sister. "Do you think our rooms have been slept in by one of the boys?"

Oh, she was evil. To use her sister to such an end. But as Jacob ascended the stairs, his eyes reaching back to call her to him, she knew there was no other way to slip out unnoticed.

Elizabeth, predictably excited by the prospect of going to investigate, knew that she was being watched.

"Why don't you keep Mother and Aunt Helen occupied whilst I go and have a look? I can report back."

The idea was not without it's rewards. Elizabeth mulled it over for the briefest of moments before sidling off to keep her Mother and Aunt's attention.

Whatever madness was coursing through her veins in that moment, she heeded it. The candlelit corridor at the top of the stairs was where he waited for her. His shirt unbuttoned in the way it had been that first day she had returned to Belvoir. His hair cascading over his shoulders.

He picked up a candlestick and began walking down the corridor, Eleanor following his silent instruction. He halted at the door of her old room.

"This was yours, wasn't it?" He correctly predicted.

She nodded prophetically. "I suppose it is yours now."

His smile danced in the light of the candle. He opened the door and allowed her to slip beneath his arm, the light of the moon outside flooding in through the open window. He watched her run to the glass, placing her palm flat against it as she looked out over the gardens.

"You look exceptionally beautiful tonight, Lady Eleanor." He said, placing the candle down on the dresser by the door.

She watched him in the reflection of the window. Standing there like a ghost. Her heart fluttering wildly against her corset strings. He looked dangerous standing there like that.

"Thankyou." She swallowed, "You look rather dapper yourself, Sir."

She thought he might correct her, but to her surprise he didn't. He liked being called Sir. He had been called it more often of late. Drawing from it a need to hear it outside the realms of propriety.

"Why did you come up here, my Lady?" He asked, taking the buckle of his belt firmly into his hand. "I do not plan on being an honourable man."

"I know." She breathed, turning to face him in the flickering light of the candle flame. "I did not follow you to be honoured."

His breath ceased. If his expectation had been to steal a kiss, he began to wonder if she would allow him more.

The four poster bed was unchanged. Eleanor had spent many nights in those sheets alone, wondering what it might feel like to have a man at her side. As she glanced over at the bed frame, a flash of something emerged in Jacob's eyes.

"I must confess that I have been completely at your mercy since the moment I laid eyes upon you." His confession came unbound, unlooping the belt savagely from his waist.

Eleanor thought back to that day far more often than she cared to admit. He had ignited within her something which had been dormant. Perhaps opening an answer as to why she was yet to marry. In truth, all the men who had ever asked her had bored her to tears. Not once having elicited from her the visceral reaction in her core that Jacob had with one, fleeting glance.

"Would I be right in thinking that whatever may transpire here tonight, you have thought about it often?" She asked, noticing in the dull light the way his jaw was clenched tight.

"A fair warning to you, Lady Eleanor. If you have yet to know a man's touch. Let it be known before I lose control of myself."

He placed his belt down on the dresser slowly. Never breaking the way he stared at her.

There was a real sense of fear permeating from her in that moment. A kiss or two had been stolen by former suitors. One of them had even managed to draw her into a moment of feverish petting that had been interrupted at the precise moment Eleanor had come to her senses about the stupid boy. But nothing more.

"What kind of woman do you take me for?" She asked, knowing full well the sort of woman she was. " You are well aware that I am unmarried."

"Unmarried women do not always walk through life without carnal knowledge." He surmised, taking a step towards her.

He would have taken strides to cross the room and taken her into his arms without further question were it not for the door opening behind him.

The candlestick that entered first causing Lady Eleanor to retreat back towards the window. The hand which gripped it tightly belonging to her friend, Lady Jane Corbett.

Jacob, in his haste to remove her, caught her in a delirious grip. The hand that reached out to strike him landing in an iron grip around her wrist that would surely leave a mark.

"You brute!!!" She screamed, throwing the candlestick down onto the wooden panelled floor. "I knew you were a fiend!"

He stomped the flame out. Eleanor stood watching in horror as the poor girl was tackled on to the bed. His hand pressed firmly against her mouth lest her screams alert others to the predicament.

"Have you lost your damn mind, girl?!"

It appeared that she had. Eleanor had known Lady Jane all her life. The two of them navigating the same social circles that their Fathers expected them to find suitable husbands within. Coming of age in the same month. Confiding in each other their distaste for all the eligible men who had come forward.

"Release her, immediately!" Eleanor flared, coming to her senses as she realised how harshly he had dealt with her.

He did as he was bade. Stepping away from the crying girl with his palms in the air. Defeat etched across his distraught face.

"I only meant to calm her, Lady Eleanor. You see how distressed she is."

"Indeed I do." Eleanor agreed, helping her friend to rise. "And what is the cause of this distress?"

"I am." He replied solemnly.

"Be more specific." She added, wiping the tears that fell down Lady Janes cheeks.

Jane, certain she had behaved foolishly as she began to sober, looked up at the kindness being shown to her and regretted her decision to follow them.

Jacob had been all that she could think of. Consumed entirely by him. She had been his first conquest after arriving at Belvoir a month ago. Inconsequential to him. A mere plaything. Regretfully rebuffing her repeated advances thereafter.

Lady Jane was a creature of habit. And he had drawn from her a habit she ached to have more of. But she was not pretty in the way that Eleanor was. Nor as interesting. Jacobs desire towards her waning almost the instant he had kissed her.

For that was all it had been. One kiss. In the day parlour downstairs after the Corbett family had been the first to win the race to welcome the new owners of the largest estate in the county. And it had driven the poor girl mad.

"Lady Jane, I meant you no harm." Jacob said softly, with the most kindness Eleanor had seen him muster. "But this has to stop. I have no intention towards you."

She was limp in Eleanor's arms. "There was an intention towards me the day you kissed me..."

It was all to much for her. The champagne and the music and the crushing realisation that Jacob had never wanted her. Turning to Eleanor, sinking her head into her open arms, she was lead back out into the corridor.

"Come along, Janey... let's find your Mammar and Pappar and see that you get yourself home." Eleanor coddled, striking Jacob with the most venomous stare.

He was still catching his breath. "I mean to have you, one way or another."

She caught his scent as she escorted her friend out. His words echoing as she left him stood there. Returning to the party felt like an unfinished symphony. The evening playing out much as she had imagined it would.

Lord Corbett bundled his daughter into their carriage and apologised for her demeanour. There was much talk of her drunkenness in whispers thereafter. For Eleanor it felt as if she had embarked on a journey she'd had no desire to travel. Her eyes moving towards the staircase as Jacob watched her from his elevated position.

Perhaps he was both charming tyrant and the man she had always needed. Her attention was solely transfixed on him. It didn't even matter that her friend had been broken by him. She knew she was willing to enter into whatever this was by any means necessary. What was disturbed that night would remain alight until the next opportunity, she was sure of it.

Midnight was fast approaching when he finally descended. Passing through the remaining guests, ever watchful of her. Greeting his younger brother, who was decidedly drunk enough to have abandoned his shoes somewhere. Elizabeth was asking far too many questions, the inane babble of the older women forcing Eleanor to address them just so that she didn't have to listen to it any longer.

"Yes, Lilibet. I think that one of them has taken over the use of my old room." She sighed, "How strange to think what was once ours is now theirs."

"I'm tired." The young girl complained, "You were gone for so long I got terribly bored and haven't stopped dancing all night. My feet hurt."

"Well, perhaps we should do as our hosts do and remove our shoes." She suggested, "And then I will suggest to Mother that we go home, how does that sound?"

"Yes." She agreed, resting her head diligently on her sister's shoulders. "I've had quite enough for one evening."

"As have I." Eleanor whispered. "As have I..."

When Samuel Kiszka had come calling for Elizabeth she had pouted for days that she had not been allowed to receive him. The rebuff had been taken personally with the Kiszka's making a hasty visit to Ivy Grange to enquire as to why their son was not good enough for the young Lady.

Elizabeth's 16th birthday was fast approaching. All her romantic notions seemed to burn a wildfire once she realised Samuel was interested in her. Insufferable, almost. Amongst the chaos of it all there was was no Gentleman callers at the door for Eleanor, and she began to feel as if she should have trusted her initial instinct about Jacob.

Mr. and Mrs. Kiszka were homely people. They had known struggle. Their position was not yet secured in society simply because they had purchased Belvoir Hall. They seemed to understand this as they sat, nervously, in the day parlour with Aunt Helen and Lady Anne.

"You understand our position, do you not?" Aunt Helen asked, offering them some more tea, even though they had already drunk more than one cup. "Elizabeth is not yet sixteen until the week after next and we cannot have suitors arriving before that time."

It was a fair excuse. One that made little sense. Eleanor had been forced to receive suitors well before she had turned sixteen and now that she was closer to twenty it appeared that there was one person she wished would call for her, after all.

"Well now, we had hoped that our son would pick wisely." Mrs. Kiszka explained, her accent slightly off-putting to the older women. "Lord knows, he needs himself a good wife. And I can assure you, if she picks Samuel, she will be able to return to Belvoir and will want for nothing."

"Be that as it may." Aunt Helen interjected, "Wealth and power are all very good but what is any of that without a title?"

Mr. Kiszka shuffled in his seat. "It seems to me that young Lady Elizabeth is sweet on our boy. And he seems to feel the same, should we not let the young ones decide?"

Aunt Helen was not perturbed in the slightest. "She's a flighty young thing. In love with love. It shall pass, I dare say."

Eleanor was seated by the piano, her nose in a book. Trying to keep herself from entering into the debate as she raged inwardly at Jacob's absence.

"In any case, he's the only one of our sons that has shown an interest in marriage. Our eldest boys are perpetual bachelors." Mrs.Kisza revealed, causing Eleanor to look up from her book. "They have both returned to Michigan to complete some business on behalf of their Father. We don't expect miracles, but if one of them should bring a wife back that would be one less worry."

Aunt Helen raised her cup for more tea to be poured. "And when do you expect them to return?"

"Next month." Mrs.Kiszka replied, her words ripping through Eleanor with such force, she audibly whined.

It drew their attention.

"Whatever is the matter, girl?" Aunt Helen asked, visibly troubled by the sound.

Eleanor put her book down and made her excuses.

"Forgive me, I do not feel quite well..."

It transpired that a month felt unrelenting when the heart was longing for something. He was her twin flame. A scoundrel that was on the same footing as she. She wanted him to ruin her, to love her so passionately that there would never be a parting such as this between them ever again. As the days rolled by, Eleanor found herself in a state of constant melancholy. Frustrated with herself for allowing such a thing to happen.

Elizabeth's birthday arrived with such fanfare that it felt to Eleanor as if she had been asleep for a very long time and had been forced to wake up for the occasion. Her heart was set on marrying Samuel. Who wanted her simply for her status and purity. He would take great delight in that on their wedding night. Which made Eleanor want to burn down Belvoir Hall, with all the damn Kiszka's inside it.

"Why am I not allowed to be in love?" Elizabeth asked, on the morning of her birthday, sitting in the day parlour eating breakfast opposite her sister.

"What a stupid thing to say." Eleanor replied, "Of course you're allowed to be in love."

She watched as Elizabeth spooned a heap of jam onto her bread. Spreading it thickly across the wedge before shoving it into her mouth with little decorum.

"I'm not allowed to be in love with Samuel Kiszka." She added, chewing at the same time. "But you're allowed to be in love with Jacob. I do not find that fair."

Eleanor's head shot up. Her appetite completely withdrawn.

"I am not in love with Jacob Kiszka." She said pointedly, pushing her plate aside.

Throwing her a knowing look, Elizabeth rose from the table and brushed off the crumbs from her dress.

"I'm going to marry Samuel. And you're going to marry Jacob. And we're both going home to Belvoir. And there really isn't much you can do about it." She stated, skulking off to enjoy the rest of her birthday without Eleanor's incessant brooding.

Jacob hadn't known how he would feel upon his early return. The rolling hills of the Kent countryside filling him with a sense of serenity as the carriage rumbled on from the port at Liverpool. Sat opposite his twin and the bride he had brought with him that would surely make their Mother so happy that his absence would be barely noted if he jumped out and walked the rest of the way to Ivy Grange.

The mid summer heat was intense that day. So warm that he threw his coat over his shoulder as he disembarked. The crossroads that lead to Ivy Grange stretched out in the opposite direction of the road to Belvoir Hall.

"Tell Ma I'll be home later." He called, watching the carriage roll on without him.

With the sun beating down so fiercely, Eleanor took refuge in the conservatory. The glass panelled room was airy and light, with all manner of plants growing in the atrium to keep her shaded. It was the one room at Ivy Grange that Aunt Helen had insisted on. With the expanse of gardens below, the view was something to behold. And it kept her distracted whilst the house was busy preparing a birthday feast.

And then he was there. Completely unexpected. She was uncertain at first as she squinted into the midday sun. His form appearing at the bottom of the driveway, walking up the lawn with his coat draped across his shoulder. His shirt unbuttoned. Oh, that damned shirt.

She flew to the conservatory door almost flinging it off it's hinges as she ran to him. The ribbon in her hair trailing behind her wildly, her dress coming up about her knees as she flew down the lawn. He threw down his coat as she approached, opening his arms for her to reach.

He caught her in a spin. Lifting her off the ground. Wasting no more time to give in to the temptations which had been there since the very first moment. She allowed him to do as he pleased. No longer caring for propriety. He placed her firmly to the ground, lifting her chin to meet his waiting lips.

Her foot rising back as he kissed her. It was not a gentle kiss, nor befitting the sort of kiss that should be a first. He was enamoured by the way she seemed as possessed as he, her fingers knotting through his hair as she fought to have her fill of him. Her mouth opening beneath his, welcoming his tongue as if she had wilted at his request.

"You were gone..." She cried through the warm breath of his mouth against hers. "You left me..."

Her reproach was a dagger to his heart. Gripping her shoulders tightly he thought of the breadth of the country he had travelled to return to her. The way he had wrapped up his business in Michigan a fortnight early to make the odyssey back to her. He thought of how Joshua had begged him to stay, their hearts torn into two halves as Jacob pined for Eleanor and Joshua found a love to call his own. They had fought over it. And reconciled over it.

"You will never know what I have endured to be here...to return to you..." He said, so uncommonly soft, his hands resting at the crook of her neck.

She didn't need to. It was laid bare in his eyes as he peered down at her, desperate for more. In haste, she pulled him down the lawn towards the line of beech tree's that secluded the view of the pond from the house.

Pulling at his shirt, freeing him of it as he gathered her dress within the curl of his fists and reached inside the fold of her petticoat. He laid her down on the soft, summer grass. In the shade of the beeches. Her hair fell free of her ribbon, cascading down to reveal tresses of long dark waves. He held his breath against the sight of her.

"I have thought of nothing but this." He confessed, sliding her petticoat up the length of her thighs.

He parted her knees slowly, sending ripples of arousal through her core as he slipped his cold palm up the inside of her legs. She was breathing heavily, her bosom rising and falling against the tightness of her corset.

It was in his mind to take her then and there. The way she pleaded with him, her arms reaching out for his body to covet her.

"Will you be wanting it rough?" He asked, lifting her leg to rest upon his shoulder as he pulled down her stockings. "Or would my Lady like to be serenaded?"

She giggled helplessly. His eyes resting on the wet, gilded pinkness of her core.

"Whatever Sir desires..." She replied playfully.

Eleanor had never seen a man's desire before. She watched him closely, pulling down his trousers to reveal himself. Her eyes widened at the size of it. The way it seemed to be weeping at the tip, the pulse of the veins running down the shaft and how he gripped it fervently in his hand as he ran his curled fist up and down, taking the flesh with it.

"You are a virgin, Lady Eleanor." He said, a fact she had never truly revealed but one that he had known regardless. "I'll not be taking it from you too coarsely."

"Take it from me however you wish, Jacob. Like my heart, it is yours."

He lifted her with careful arms, pulling at the lace of her corset just enough for her breasts to spill over the lace edging of her dress. He marvelled at the round, soft peaks of her hard nipples. Not too big, not too small. Just enough to fill the cup of his hand.

"Take me, Jacob, please...I am begging you..."

She would only cry out in pain.

"No, my Lady...I will not take it from you in the manner I have taken it from others. If my being gentle with you the first time means that you will not think me a brute...as the others did... then I will court you with more aggression afterwards." He came down to her, pressing his hardness against her thigh. "Perhaps on our wedding night I will fuck you in all the ways you desire."

She balked at the way he said it so casually. Without asking for her hand, without formally putting forth his intentions to her Mother and Aunt first.

"You intend to marry me?!" She asked, her voice breaking on the prospect that everything Elizabeth had said that morning being prophecy.

He smirked. A dangerous look that made her begin to weep, too, from her aching centre.

"Oh, my love... look at the way you ready yourself for me."

He swept a poised thumb over her swollen, slippery lips. Immediately her body responded by arching. Moaning a muffled pitch of a sound that drove him to insanity. Her breasts lilting to the side, bottom lip held between her gritted teeth.

She felt like moist silk. He probed a finger at her entrance, pushing it in slowly to her tight walls. Her hips instinctually grinding against the sensation, pushing him to slide a second digit inside.

"The tightest little thing I have ever felt." He said in breathless confessions, leaning over the body as if to claim it for his own. "May I taste you, my love?"

There it was again, that word. That name. She nodded feverishly as he gathered the fabric of her dress and slid down to greet her waiting virginity. His mouth connected with her slit and she let out the most pained shriek. As if a banshee had possessed her. Never had anything felt so consumingly arousing.

As he flayed his tongue against her wet, throbbing clitoris she continued in her song. Whining pitifully against his moving jaw. Feeling how he moaned, too. The taste of her filling his mouth. Swallowing it like sweet honey. Flicking the tip of his tongue inside her as if to elicit more flow.

"Oh dear God...I am going to hell..." She said through agonised cries.

When he appeared from the peak of her mound, he was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand slovenly.

"If hell is a place where I get to do this every night of my life, I willingly submit myself to the devil himself."

Anyone could have chanced upon them. Taking the risk into consideration, she pulled him up to meet her mouth once more and there tasted herself on the tongue which brushed against hers.

"I fear we may be seen." She said, taking a moment to appreciate the way he had finally been romantic with her. "I would have a thousand sweet words from you and a thousand moments like this, but we are not yet married...and I fear we will be caught..."

It was as though he had just made the most astonishing discovery of all time. The way his eyes moved down to her breasts, his mouth following to suckle gently on her hard nipple. She felt as if she might die if he did not do what he intended. The awareness of his body so complete. Virgin or no, she wanted to be taken in any way that would mean she could be free of the mounting frustration.

She had thought he would not heed her words. But the next moment took her to somewhere lingering above the hell she had feared. A hot, searing fire tore through her middle for the briefest of moments as he entered her. But it was not hell that came for her. As the pain subsided, she felt his body weight on top of her moving slowly in thrusts that made her feel as if she had never known pleasure til this moment.

With one hand he lifted her leg to wrap around his waist. His voice low and gruff, his panting warm against her ear. Eleanor, in the midst of it, lapped her tongue against his ear lobe which made him squeeze down on her hip much tighter, leaving reddened marks in her flesh.

"Be loyal to me always..." He demanded whilst pumping into her freshly broken walls. "I must know that I am the only man you will ever love..."

It was his ego talking. The desperate love pouring out in a jealousy that had yet to be seen. Eleanor did not care. The intensity of his eyes had drawn her in long ago. She would have permitted him anything.

"Only you...I swear it..." She replied in hushed tones, feeling him grow quicker in his pace.

All too soon he had begun to fuck into her with all the force of a man who had been driven mad. She took such delight in the way he cast aside his gentleness in favour of depravity. His body falling forward into her bouncing breasts, the fabric in his fists almost tearing at the seams.

The balmy breeze caressed their skin. Jacob feeling near to completion, he pulled out of her slowly and tried to calm his nerves as his coated tip rested against her entrance. A moment he wanted to savour. His thumb running along her moistened mouth, her tongue lapping against it. His mouth lilting open in response.

"I want to see you finish, my love..." He said breathlessly, "Do you understand me?"

Eleanor had a small idea. In the whispers she had heard exchanged between her married friends. Of the crescendo at the end of love making, which sometimes came to them and sometimes did not.

"How will I know?" She asked innocently.

Jacob's smirk returned to his mouth as he kissed her passionately.

"Oh, you sweet girl...you will know. I promise." He assured her, returning his hard cock to the wet warmth of her.

He lightly tapped at her clit with his thumb, making a rhythm on it that made her entire body ascend. He pumped harder, so hard the grass began to give way beneath her into the earth below. Dark smears of mud grazing her hands as he reached for something to hold on to. That would tell her all of this was real.

"Oh, Eleanor..." He grunted, his entire body convulsing above her as he released his seed within her.

The crescendo did not happen as she had imagined it. Not at the same time his did, but after. When he was steadying his breathing and his thrusting had ceased. When his thumb pressed against her clit and she felt the moon and stars of night come out in the middle of the day.

"Oh....my.....goodness.....Oh....."

It would have been easy for Lady Eleanor Hanover to remain unwed for the rest of her life. Languishing at Ivy Grange, haunting the old place like her Aunt did. She was not the romantic little thing her sister was. But still, she found herself in an entanglement she could not free herself of.

Some said that she married beneath her on the day she gave up her title for the man she loved. Others were enamoured by the way their story seemed to be one of love. Lady Jane Corbett stood with silent tears trailing down her veiled face as she watched from the church pews. Vows echoing down the aisle.

And she did return to Belvoir, in the end. 

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