#the bastard resplendent

[renesassing]

GOD OF KINGSLAYERS. GOD OF KINSLAYERS.

[dragqueenpentheus]

everytime i see a nessie plausible headline i start screaming and crying

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Rainy Season - Part 4

All You Ever

Azriel reflects on his past mistake including the night with Elain. Cassian makes a huge mistake.

A/N: Before reading this chapter please know that I am not condoning cheating or the actions of Azriel or Elain. I do not feel sorry for either of them in any way. I simply enjoy adding a little complexity to the story and selfishly love sprinkling in chaos. Also this is not proofread, I’m exhausted.

And for cauldron’s sake, please just trust the process before yelling at me!!! This is just one chapter from the two biggest idiots involved, not the whole story.

Part 3 Part 5

Warnings: Not proofread, Alcohol, Language, Unintentional ingestion of an aphrodisiac leading to sex

Azriel

He may have been a fucking idiot but Azriel’s self-awareness was painfully acute. His scar riddled hands were forever tainted with the essence of blood that even her plush lips couldn’t kiss away, his angel mate. What a cruel joke the cauldron had played the day that bond snapped between them. She was resplendent in sun shrouded glory and he was the devil who dragged her down. Just selfish enough to ignore the warning bells that he’d one day fuck it all up, just selfish enough to pull her away from her home and covet her within the walls of Velaris. In the beginning, he’d fought so hard to deserve her though she’d never asked him to. She wanted only him and knew he was unworthy of her, he always had been. It was exhausting - the mask. Constantly trying to hide from her that dark, sadistic side of him that was everything opposite of what she was.

She saw through it, of course. She always had. All she wanted was him, all of him. Begging him to show her beyond the good of him at surface level, she wanted all of his self-proclaimed bad too. She’d told him that dozens of times over the years but dropping that mask meant unpacking so much - so much more ugly than even he was prepared to reveal to himself.

At some point he began to resent her and he knew it wasn’t fair. He resented his perfect, pure, untainted mate. Wasn’t it ironic that she’d shown him everything beneath her own surface numerous times, unveiled that she herself was not the Angel he placed her on a pedestal as. She’d shown him everything and he still viewed her through that near-holy lense.

If only he could have put his stubbornness, his self-loathing aside and realized she would have done the same for him. It was too late for that now.

And now I'm without you, and it took distance to see that losing you, means losing everything

————

Something had been wrong for a while. He ignored it assuming that perhaps it was a mental blockade erected by a combination of fatigue and work tensions. He’d slowly distanced himself from his mate. He knew it hurt her, it hurt him too. His intentions were genuine, sparing her the pain of his own inner turmoil by distancing himself while he worked through it. He was simultaneously aware that he was a fucking bastard for doing so, she deserved an explanation but he couldn’t give it to her yet. He justified it as the lesser of two evils.

Unsurprisingly, the mating bond is a fickle thing. As he distanced himself, a chasm of emptiness opened within him that he’d desperately tried to fill with missions and various courtly duties. Training with the Valkyries helped, being there for Elain through her own struggles….

He took his duty to help her seriously, though it technically was not a duty even assigned to him. A distraction. It was a distraction. Ever the spymaster he spent their initial time together observing her, the things that brought a little bit of life back to those once bright eyes.

He’d sun his wings while she gardened and read across from her in the study, little things so she’d know she wasn’t alone. Eventually she began talking again. At first just a comment here or there but then there was communication, getting to know each other, small talk eventually becoming deeper topics. He learned of her resentment of the choice she felt was ripped from her, left with no time to mourn the loss of her mortal life or consider the implications on her relationship with Graysen because of it.

Not to mention the shock that one of the faces she blamed for being damned to the cauldron, one of the first faces she saw coming out of it was her mate and she was just supposed to accept it? Over time, Elain became a friend. A bright spot to the numbness created by the self-imposed gap between he and his mate. His mate….

It had taken some time to realize that he wasn’t feeling her through the bond, when was the last time he’d felt her? It was becoming fainter and fainter, more faint than it even should be with distance. He’d send feelings to her on occasion. A little spark of joy when he saw a lovely sunset or the moments when his desire for his mate heated his blood so thoroughly he had no choice but to excuse himself for relief by his hand.

He needed her to know he cared, he desired her, he loved her. A little time and space to collect everything he needed to bring to the surface, to give her all of him. He left her feeling like she wasn’t enough but she was everything. He just needed space.

Until she gave him space.

The devastation on her face the day she asked him to leave. Gods, damn him and the hurtful things he’d said. They’d be ingrained in his mind for the rest of his days along with the sound of her sobs as she fell apart before him. He’d done that to his mate. He was responsible for those tears. All because he’d been too selfish and prideful to share all of himself with her.

So, he left. She’d allowed him so much space, he could give her this.

I wish I could love you and make you believe it. It’s all you ever wanted from me

———-

The night with Elain

He couldn’t make it through dinner sober. Rhys insisted everyone get together at the River House for a friendly night of debauchery. Pouring himself a double shot of whiskey, he considered telling Cassian to send Rhys his regards and hole up in the house of wind for the remainder of the night. It was either, go to dinner and deal with all of the questions of “Where is y/n?” and “Why isn’t y/n here?” or deal with Cassian’s well-intentioned but annoying attempts of pressuring him into going, followed by a pout when he’d stand his ground on staying in, and then the inevitable intrusion from Rhys inquiring why he wouldn’t come to dinner.

He loved his chosen family dearly but they were busybodies through and through. All he wanted was to pass the time until he saw his mate tomorrow.

Begrudgingly he threw back his glass, poured another double, then headed to the River House.

Time moved slowly when all there was to do was dwell.

What had happened? He flew slowly to the River House. Going out of his way to circle far overhead of his true home, where his mate was. Was she waiting for him inside? Was she in town? Why couldn’t he feel her? Silence. Just as it had been for months. But the emotions he’d seen in her, they were so real. Shouldn’t they have sparked something in the bond?

As Azriel approached the River House he’d come to the conclusion that tonight he’d inform Elain he’d no longer be able to visit with her as he had been. He’d neglected his mate for far too long, this past week had given him the clarity needed to go home and give his mate his all. He could slowly open up to her, he could do it.

He just needed to make it through the night.

The night went by as usual. Good food, laughter, flowing liquor. He heavily indulged himself in the liquor anything to numb the impatience in waiting for tomorrow.

Feyre and Rhys sat closely together on a lounge, Feyre leaning into him, staring up at him like the stars in the sky.

Cassian and Nesta spent the entire time making bedroom eyes at one another, Cassian whispering dirty promises into Nesta’s ear that made even the queen of smut herself blush, Nesta taking any opportunity to brush her body against his in passing.

Gods, they were so in love it made him sick.

“Home.” He told himself.

“Soon.”

As the evening wound down, Cassian insisted everyone do shots to close out the evening. He was drunk enough that he stumbled carrying in the tray of shots and let out a battle cry of victory over the fact that he managed to not spill any of the liquor.

Azriel should have flown back to the House of Wind a while ago but he needed to talk to Elain.

Nuala and Cerridwen had been on duty with Nyx for the evening, compensated well to work overnight in case he awoke, giving Rhys and Feyre the now rare opportunity to go out to Rita’s. Mor, of course, drug Emerie along and went with them. Given that Amren would rather stick pins in her eyes than go out, she and Varian opted to go back to her place.

Azriel should have gone there, gone back to the River House, gone home and slept in the doorway until his mate let him in.

But he was so drunk. There was no way he was flying anywhere tonight.

Cassian and Nesta brought out a final round of shots. Elain winced, scrunching her nose as she threw it back. Azriel thought she’d be able to take her liquor better by now. Cassian and Nesta waggled their eyebrows suggestively at eachother before throwing theirs back. And damn, if Azriel didn’t wince when he took his shot too. That shit was awful. Had they drank through all of Rhysand’s good liquor? Did Cassian dig this out from the bottom shelf?

Once Cassian and Nesta left for the House of Wind, Azriel took the empty glasses to the kitchen, cleaning up a few of the remaining dishes throughout the seating area on the way. He barely made it into the kitchen before his head began spinning. That last shot had done him in. He couldn’t even remember the time last he’d been blackout drunk. Two centuries ago, maybe?

He still needed to find Elain.

The stairs felt longer and far less steady than usual, taking him more time than he cared to admit to make it up them. His hands felt tingly on the banister and damn, it was hot in the River House. No, he touched his face, flushed and hot to the touch. He was hot.

The tingling was simultaneously uncomfortable and pleasurable, spreading over his body with haste as he neared closer to Elain’s room.

He caught a glimpse of her and her scent hit him like a ton of bricks. Had she always smelled this good?

His breathing increased, nostrils flaring as he took in her scent and fuck - he was hard. It was too late to not say anything now as she stared at him expectantly. The stars in his vision cleared and all he could see was her, zeroed in on her fluttering pulse, those delicate features.

He needed to leave.

He just needed to - shit, what had he come here to say?

Azriel’s shadows whirled reminding him of his mate. His mate. He needed to go to his mate.

He needed to tell Elain something. He couldn’t think straight.

“Elain…”

And that was when she lunged at him.

Well is it too late, and are you too far to turn around and let me be

——————————

Elain

There was nothing the Cauldron loved more than Elain Archeron.

There was nothing the Cauldron hated more than Elain Archeron.

A thin line between the two, really.

She’d spend the rest of her life groveling for what conspired on that night. She never intended to sleep with him. She never, ever intended to hurt Y/N.

She remembered drinking more than usual.

She remembered Azriel finding her in the hallway.

She remembered a sudden rush of warmth, first from her chest, seeping outward through her extremities, low into her stomach and lower, lower.

She remembered Azriel having something important to tell her. She could feel nothing but heat. Her heart racing, breath becoming rapid.

Azriel’s pupils were blown wide, his nostrils flaring. Like every single sense was hyper aware of her state. His arousal wafted through the air, his irresistible cedar and chilled mist scent clinging to her like an expensive cologne.

They were so very intoxicated.

They couldn’t do this. If she’d been sober and unaffected by whatever was running through her veins, she would have left. Immediately.

She wasn’t one to wreck a home and Azriel loved his mate so, so much. The way he talked about her, it made Elain jealous. Not of them, not of her. Only jealous that Elain herself had struggled so hard to feel anything toward her own mate for so long. Lucien who played a role in her loss of humanity, Lucien who would do anything to make it up to her, Lucien who never meant for it to happen, who tried so hard to help her, to connect with her, who wanted nothing more than to love her. Lucien.

Then why was it Azriel? Azriel who was standing in front of her clearly affected by her, trying his damndest not to be. Why was she so drawn to him? A mated male.

Was she sweating? It was so hot. Her breasts ached and her blood thrummed through her veins so voraciously that she was certain she’d bleed out at any minute. And if Azriel could see beneath her gown right now, he’d see how tightly her thighs were squeezed together. How desperately she needed release and by the tightness in his pants - she knew he was in the same state.

“Elain…” Azriel spoke. His breath ragged.

And all it took was her name rolling off of his lips for her to close the distance. One kiss. She just needed one kiss to remind herself that this was wrong. To run the other way.

And it only took one kiss to remind her how much the cauldron loved her. How much it hated her.

The moment when she felt the mating bond snap between her and Azriel.

The alcohol, the liquor, the heat, the bond. A lethal combination leading to the biggest mistake of her life.

The night she’d fucked Azriel.

She could never let him know about the bond.

—————————-

Elain woke up with a brutal headache. She would have killed for some headache power. Her room was dark, shadows deepening the onyx black of night as slivers of moonlight lined the edges of her curtains. Still nighttime, then.

Her surroundings slowly came into focus, awareness sharpening as a soft sound caught her attention. Swiftly she turned her head to find Azriel asleep on the other side of her bed.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no, no, no.

This couldn’t have happened.

What had she done?

She threw on her dress and tip-toed out of the room in a state of panic. She was a sensible female. She knew too well the pain of losing Graysen, a human male, not her spouse, not her mate. But still, his rejection had hurt like hell. Elain would never sleep with another woman- female’s mate. No.

She paced through the library, back and forth, back and forth, praying she didn’t wake anyone up. The walls were closing in on her. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be.

Oh gods.

And the mating bond. How?

Her chest was tight, she couldn’t catch a full breath. She needed out.

Before she could stop herself, Elain fled into the empty street with no destination in mind. Anywhere but here, anywhere but the bed where she’d likely obliterated a marriage. She’d certainly obliterated her dignity.

The starlight illuminated streets of Velaris were endless, winding through alleys and lanes. In her panicked state, Elain had no clue where her feet were taking her as she blindly followed her gut. It wasn’t until she was in front of the door that she realized her heart had made its choice. It knew exactly who to go to, she only prayed it wasn’t too late.

She took a shaky inhale and raised a hand to knock but the door flew open revealing a shirtless Lucien, his bare, muscled chest heaving. “I felt you coming.” He gasped. “Through the bond.”

—————-

Azriel

The sun’s rays illuminated the edge of the curtains. Azriel’s stomach was tight, nausea from the previous night’s alcohol overwhelming him. His bed felt colder than usual, more stiff.

He looked around to find that he’d never left the River House. He was…

He was in Elain’s room.

“Oh, fuck!” He sobbed to himself as the previous night came pouring back to him. Setting his face in his palms, he cried. What the fuck had he done?

Azriel bathed, desperately scrubbing Elain off of him. By the time he was through, his skin was an angry red. He snuck out of the River House, flying to a grassy knoll high above Velaris. The spot where he and Y/N had first made love, where the bond snapped, where he’d proposed. He shifted uncomfortably as he tried to get comfortable, the unease settling in. It was blasphemy to desecrate such a sacred spot with his shame.

“What do I do now?” He asked aloud, the only response the whipping of the wind around him. He didn’t understand what had overcome him. He’d never been so “effected” before, even in his drunkest moments. Once Elain’s lips met his, his brain had shut down, nothing else mattered but the feel of skin on skin. His body needed release and acted on pure primal instinct.

And now, he had a decision to make. He could go home and lay it all out, slightly easing the guilt of holding in his greatest sin while completely and utterly destroying his mate.

Or, he could go home. Show his mate all of the love that he had been withholding for too long now, sweep her off her feet, take care of her and start opening up. Give her his all, even the ugly parts that he kept so deeply hidden.

Gods, she’d given him so many chances and he’d let her down at every turn. There were no excuses for the way he had treated her.

All she’d ever wanted was him, all of him, including those sides he’d never wanted her to see.

Now he could only go home and love her. Love her with everything he had and pray she believed it.

———————-

6 months after Y/N left

Azriel looked in a hallway mirror on his way to Rhysand’s study. Dark circles hallowed out his under eyes. The drink he’d had prior to flying down here did nothing to numb the violent ache within his heart. Would it ever quell? Would this puncture wound ever heal?

It wouldn’t. And he didn’t know if he wanted it to. He was a bastard and deserved every ounce of this isolated misery. Trapped in a prison of his own making. The ache in his chest a constant reminder of the love he’d squandered. And for what? A meaningless night with a pretty female. Had he not had enough of those nights in his life?

Not that Elain would speak to him. Though she had apologized, countless times. It didn’t matter. As far as he was concerned, he was the only one to blame. Occasionally he’d catch Lucien’s assessing glare, an infuriating blend of contempt and pity etched into his features. Azriel didn’t know which he hated more, he didn’t deserve pity.

Azriel’s skin had sallowed. Had he ever been this pale before? And the bargain tattoo on his arm. Fuck, he hated it. After his third attempt to infiltrate the Summer Court, Rhysand gave Azriel the option of a cell in the Hewn City or a bargain.

Ironically the bargain served as a prison of its own. He was not allowed to go anywhere near the Summer Court or communicate with Y/N in any way. The only method of communication he was able to find a loophole with was the tugs on the bond. He’d pull and pull, nothing.

If only he could try to explain, apologize, anything.

Breaking his gaze from the shell of a male in the mirror, Azriel stepped toward the study.

Cassian’s booming laugh barreled through the cracked open door.

“Trust me, Feyre will love it. I’m sure you guys could use a little spark at the end of the day. You’ll be rolling in the sheets all night.”

Rhys only chuckled.

Cassian continued, “Tastes nasty as hell though. Here’s an extra vial, just in case. The first time Nes and I tried it, it didn’t work. Not sure why.”

Azriel let out a huff, stepping into the study. Cassian and Rhys ceasing their conversation in his presence. They’d been painstakingly obvious in not talking about their mates or anything relationship related in front of him since his mate had left. He refused to speak to anyone about why she left, too embarrassed to admit to this bed of his own making. They knew it was his fault and that was all that mattered.

Azriel scowled. “You don’t have to stop talking about your mates just because I’m around.”

Cassian awkwardly raised his arm, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry brother. We just don’t want to make things harder for you than they have been.”

“Considerate.” Azriel sneered, jerking his head toward the vials. “What are those anyway?”

Cassian smirked, “Oh, just some aphrodisiac potions from a new apothecary in Velaris. Really powerful shit. Nes and I-“ Rhys elbowed Cassian. A warning to not take the conversation too far. They could talk of their happy relationships without absolutely rubbing Azriel’s face in it.

Cassian quieted for a moment before continuing. “It tastes gods awful but the payoff is totally worth it. Remember those shots we took after everyone left dinner several months ago? We mixed it into Nes and I’s glasses and didn’t notice the taste. Didn’t work either though. Must’ve been a dud. Lady at the shop gave us a replacement vial the next time we were in and…. well, let’s just say we keep it in stock at the House of Wind now.”

Azriel went preternaturally still. His shadows growing angry as he ground out, “The night you two did a parting shot with me and Elain?”

“Uh…… yeah?” Cassian replied.

And before Cassian could realize what he’d done, Azriel pummeled him. Hauling him out the study doors and onto the lawn, not even making it to the sparring ring before his fists met Cassian’s face - the two Illyrians disappearing into a frenzy of fists and feet and glowing siphons.

The only sound over the impact of their hits and feral growls was Cassian’s confused, booming voice. “What the FUCK, Az!?”

————————————————

A/N: I am sorry for giving you an entire chapter of Azriel and Elain content but I will make it up to you with fluffy Eris and reader content in the next chapter!!!

@going-through-shit @kalulakunundrum @lisanna2000 @fxckmiup @sheblogs @emryb @one-big-fangirl @historygeekqueen @isa1b2h3 @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @theravenphoenix26 @sidthedollface2 @i-am-infinite @caraaaaugh @evergreenlark @darkbloodsly @piceous21 @anxious-study @chessebookgirl @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @crazylokonugget @mysticalfuncollectorus @starsinyourseyes @b0xerdancer-writes @inloveallthetime

[morgana-ren]

Bit the bullet and did the power-hungry ending on my exploratory playthrough to get it over with. I always love my boy, but he does very much turn into a bastard. Wrote this very quickly as a quick exercise because I hated that I had no dialogue that felt right. Anyway, enjoy the trash. Nothing explicit happens but a lot of dubious, awful shit is implied so please read at your own risk. Spoilers, obviously.

“And of course, I couldn’t have accomplished all this without you, and one wicked turn deserves another,” His eyes flash crimson beneath his pale lashes, glowing ominously in the firelight. “So tell me, my love, what is it that you desire?” 

He expects her glossy elevator eyes and a seductive smile. For her to reach for him with her soft, little hands and pull him close, aching to feel him– to taste him in all of his newfound resplendent glory. To offer her neck in submission, pleading for him to change her, to become like him, to sit at his side eternally as he rules from his throne on high as his most beloved spawn. His first and most revered creature of the night. His queen.

But she doesn’t.

Her brows furrow, the corner of her lips tugging inward as she purses them. It’s not the reaction he was expecting, to say the least. He frowns as he inspects her expression, trying to suss out exactly what it is that plagues her. She looks worried– anxious, even. She pulls her gaze away from him, stepping back away from him ever so slightly, staring at the dirt for a moment before speaking. 

“I just wanted you to be happy, Astarion. You were always so afraid, so paranoid that something or someone was going to come for you in the night. I never wanted you to have to worry about that ever again.” “And now I don’t,” He arches a pale brow. “Isn’t this what you wanted, my love? We’ll never fear anything ever again.” He feels her uncertainty vibrate the air around him, a sense of unease that permeates through her pores. It is not love and adoration and undying loyalty that she offers, but trepidation. 

“I know. I know it’s everything you ever wanted, and I’m happy for you, but it just seems like–” “Just seems like what?” He cocks his head, narrowing his eyes at her. 

“It seems like it’s changed you somehow. You’re– you’re different,” She reaches a tender hand up to caress his cheek, and he fights the instinct to lean into her touch. 

“I am different,” He insists, his voice raising slightly. “Power beyond imagining. There has never been a vampire such as I am now. I feel it coursing through my veins, practically bursting at the seams with it–” That familiar habit crawls up his tongue, and he slips the words before he even thinks them over. “And we did it together. I’m untouchable now, and thus, so are you. It’s our world to take, darling. I love you. Isn’t that what you wanted so desperately?”

There’s a twinge of something he doesn’t quite recognize from her. Hurt, or perhaps… disappointment?

“Asto, I never wanted to strongarm or manipulate you into loving me. I care deeply for you, but that’s my burden to bear. I never wanted more from you than you wanted to give.” 

“Then what did you want?” His lips curl downward into a frown, and he closes the gap between them that she created, stepping close enough to her to have her shifting.

“I just–” She pauses, her words hanging heavy in the air and on her mind as she says them. “--I had hoped you would have let go after killing Cazador. Realized that you don’t need power everlasting to be happy. I guess I thought you would have learned something from all of this–”

“Learn what, exactly?” His tone shifts, his words pointed and cruel as he spits them out, fists furling at his sides. “You naive, silly little girl. You’ve no idea what it’s like– what the world is truly like. You dare to condemn me after what I’ve seen? You’d judge me for taking strength where I find it? Strength that I use to protect both of us? To save your pretty little neck from all those creatures who seek to spill your blood? You dare pretend to understand?

He feels it through the tadpole— The whip and lash of barbed grief against her heart, ripping through her chest like a fanged maw. It's enough to almost bring him to his knees, but if it wasn't for their bond, he wouldn't have the slightest idea. Her face hardens and she betrays nothing at all: a slow blink in his direction, emotionless face creaseless as porcelain, not a thing betrayed—

—Save her eyes. There's something in her eyes that tears at him. Panics him. He cannot place it but fear creeps up his spine, taking hold in his brain. Something disappears from them as he speaks and they glaze over, empty and melancholic. As if she is letting go. 

She shakes her head, the column of her throat twitching ever so slightly as she hard-swallows. "You're right. I— I don't. I'm sorry," She turns her eyes from him, and her expression hardens into something unreadable entirely. "I'll leave it then. I don’t want anything from you. Enjoy your power, Astarion.  You’ve– you’ve earned it." 

There is something unspoken in her words that batters at his brain, panicked and flapping about as a freshly caged bird. He prods at their connection and feels her recoil from him— feels her retreat into the recesses of her mind, severing their connection where she can, and blanking him out where she cannot. She is locking him out— and he realizes that it is perhaps for good. 

His lip curls as she turns from him without another word, walking away, abandoning the conversation— abandoning him. There's a flash of sanguine rage and a pulse of power not entirely his own yet and his hand extends of its own will, fingers grasping at her throat and drawing her again, nails digging into the same flesh he'd once caressed so tenderly. 

"Don't you walk away from me! Don't you ever turn your back on me again! Do you understand?"

Fear. That's what's in her eyes now. Not fear of him, but fear of what he has done. Of what she has allowed him to become. She searches him for a trace of the man she'd cared for, the man she shed blood for— both hers and countless others— to save. All she finds is a twisted mockery of it. The man she has helped him become— if a man is what you can call him. 

She has created a monster, and now he has turned his blood-red gaze on her. 

"Astarion—" 

He feels her pulse in his palm, rabbiting away in her ribs, the scent of her rushing blood palpable in his lungs. The very same scent as when she stares down a pack of howling gnolls or a murderous cultist with a knife to her belly. It is a scent that so often fades when he is near enough to her for comfort, but it is more powerful than ever as he bears down on her now. 

"That's not how this is going to work, darling," He hisses, yanking her so close he can see himself in the whites of her wide eyes. "You are never to walk away from me again. Am I clear?"

The force of her rage hits him, edged with red, raw disgust. Her lip twitches, eyes narrowing on him as the malaise of her mourning is devoured by a tidal wave of both her pride and her indignant anger. "I am not your servant. You do not command me." 

"Is that so? Isn't that what you wanted? Hmm? To lose yourself in me like you told me once upon a time? You wanted me to care for you– to love you– and I’ve told you that I do. You sought something from me and now you dare to turn your back on me?"

"I wanted to be with you! I cared about you! You're not some toy to be played with or some vessel for pleasure! I never wanted anything from you that you didn’t willingly give!" She stumbles over the words, shame seeping through her like a thick, viscous ink. "I didn't know what it meant. I didn't know what he had done to you—" 

"And it doesn't matter," He sneers, sharp eyes locked on hers. "You gave yourself to me that night, did you not? You saw me through everything standing at my side, cut down as many bodies as I, handed me the knife I used to carve Cazador's skin, gave me your eyes so that I might sign the contract that pledged my soul and countless others to the hells, and now you dare to pretend your hands are clean as you point a finger at me?" 

"I wanted you to feel safe! To never have to look over your shoulder in fear ever again! To never again have to sleep with one eye open like we do now, just waiting for the creatures that stalk the shadows to swoop down upon us! For the first time in your life, I wanted you to know for certain that you could kill anything that threatened you or your freedom! I never wanted to tear down Cazador's tyrannical throne only to place you upon it— but it seems that's exactly what I've done!" 

Something in his body snaps, and his reaction is a visceral, violent scarlet slash of fury. He squeezes her neck, baring ivory fanged teeth down on her as he would a prey. "Do not ever compare me to him!"

Her eyes are wide with fear– with disgust– as she croaks out the words from beneath his palm.

“Look at yourself, Astarion. Am I wrong?” 

He looks down at her, at the woman he claims to love as he chokes her and she suffocates on his power, her bruising throat flexing in strain beneath his steely fingertips. He can just barely make himself out in the dewy sheen of her eyes as they begin to water, and what stares back at him isn’t a man– it is a monster. 

Something in him shatters like glass, the last threads of his sanity slipping away through his fingertips. He is too far gone now to turn back, too lost in the red mist to find the light. 

But he will not wander it alone. He will never be alone again.

"I am whatever I say I am, and you are what I say you are, and you will do as I command. Your place is at my side, now and forever," He challenges her, fingers squeezing tighter on her throat as he breathes in the sweet, saccharine scent of her terror; the palpating, rocketing pulse of her thrumming heart. "And you will acquiesce to me. It’s not a request."

"Don't you dare presume to order me about like I'm your slave!" She claws at his wrist, trying to wrench free of his grip. “I never agreed to that!” 

“You don’t have to, my love,” He leans down further, pressing his forehead to hers. “Because I have decided for you.” 

“You do not get that right!” She snarls, baring her own teeth back at him. 

“Oh, but I do, darling. But I do. You don’t seem to grasp how this is going to work, so allow me to explain it to you.” 

He shoves her hard to the ground, releasing her throat only to leer over her from above, stepping on either side of her body. Her will is iron, but the flash of fear across her face is unmistakable. 

“You gave yourself to me, and I intend to keep what is mine. Your body is so fragile– so frail– You’d never survive without me, and I have no intentions of letting you go now that I have you. So you will stay by my side always. It’s what’s best for you, my little love, and you belong to me.”

“I don’t belong to anyone.” 

“Yes,” He says firmly, as if scolding a small child. “You do.” 

“I don’t have to obey you!” She hisses. 

“Not yet, perhaps.” 

Horror grips her and realization takes hold. “You wouldn’t, Astarion. You can’t do this–” 

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” He bends his knees, leaning down as he brushes the hair from her neck, thumb stroking tauntingly over her pulse point. “I wanted you to come willingly. I wanted you to ask for it, accept my gift of your own volition. But you’re a foolish, willful girl. You don’t know what’s good for you, do you? So I will show you.” 

“After everything? After everything you’ve been through? After everything we have been through?” Her voice breaks, and with it, her heart. Her strength slips away, and he can feel it swallow his senses in a wretched black void, sending him drowning him in her abyssal anguish– her betrayal at his hands– but he shoves it down and locks it away. Something he cannot place claws and tears at his own heart with a need so violent it almost sends him reeling, something begging him to stop, that this isn’t right– to her of all people– but he silences it. He will not lose her. He will not. 

Even if he must place a collar around her neck to keep her and keep her leash pulled taut.

And what she has to say about it is of little consequence. 

“This doesn’t have to hurt, my sweet girl,” He says softly, flicking his tongue over a fang. “But I know you like when it does.” 

“Astarion, please! I don’t want to have to hurt you–” He laughs, vicious and cruel, cackling like a hyena over carrion. “As if you could! I’m untouchable. The very power of the night bends to my commands, and so too shall you. Even your blood sings for me, eager and ready and willing. Begging for me,” He places his hand softly on her chest, just above her rips, feeling the gentle pump beneath. “You want this, even as you play coy. You want to belong to me. So I will give it to you what you desire.”

“Is that what you’re telling yourself?” A single silver tear slips down the gentle curve of her cheek. 

He blinks at her, and for a moment, he freezes upon seeing her tears and she can see a glimpse of him in there. Somewhere deep and far, screaming and thrashing and desperate against his own might, fighting a war against his very nature. He looks at her with the same eyes that revere her, crave her, love her– but above all, honor her. 

For a fleeting moment, he is the Astarion she loves. His lip trembles and quakes and the urge to hold her is overwhelming. To comfort her. To hold her close and keep her safe and protect her, to strike down all her fears with his bare hands. To love her. 

And yet he is the source of her pain. 

“Yes.” 

And then he is gone again. The light goes out and his eyes become inky black pits, nothing in them but her own miserable reflection as he leans down ever further, his warm breath against her neck as he teases her throat with a fang. 

“Give yourself to me, now and always,” He whispers, blasphemous and terrible as it runs a shiver down her spine. “By my side now and forever. It’s all ours, my love. Everything we lay eyes upon. We can have it all. Wealth, power– each other. Centuries upon centuries stretching into the endless horizon of eternity. I want it all, and I want to share it with you.”

She could raise a hand to him. She could try and fight him off with tooth and nail and flame. She could kick and crawl, scramble away back to the safety of camp. She could–

But she doesn’t. 

“I don’t want this, Astarion. A beloved slave is still a slave. A diamond collar is still a collar. A leash held by someone you love is still a leash. I love you, but you can’t force this. Please–” She exhorts, trying to swallow back a bout of fresh tears. “Please don’t do this. Not to me. Not to you.” 

He inhales raggedly, hand slipping up to her cheek to cup it, savoring her warmth one last time. 

“I have to. I won’t lose you. Not now, not ever. Not to age or blight or foolish notions. I cherish you, and I’d see you safe.” 

“A gilded cage is still a cage.” She closes her eyes, hand furled in his doublet. 

“And I will carry it with me. Always.”

[zorosdimples]

DUSK, RESPLENDENT

pairing ⟢ astarion x gn!reader

warnings ⟢ minors: please do not interact! i will block you. not sexually explicit, but highly suggestive… smut-lite! descriptions of blood, blood sucking, bite marks, scars, etc. this occurs after astarion first feeds from tav. reader has breasts and a vagina and is called “beautiful” once (i swiped a line from the game).

word count ⟢ 1208

notes ⟢ this particular scenario has been rotting my brain since september. my first official bg3 fic—please enjoy!

It’s impossible to miss the heat of his crimson gaze scorching your flesh.

You’ve felt it ever since the night you discovered his secret: that quiet evening when the stars shined as silent sentinels, the embers of the campfire danced into ash, and the ghost of a breath roused you. You offered Astarion your neck—swanlike, untouched, vital—prey allowing predator a taste of divinity as he buried his glistening fangs into your skin. Agony bled into a hazy euphoria as the vampire fed on your lifeblood. You barely had enough stamina to push him off (lest he leave you drained and lifeless), rivulets of you the color of his irises running from his gums to his chin, dripping onto the forest floor.

Many moons have since passed, though your mind always revisits the feeling of his weight atop yours, the strength of his jaw, the vitality in his sated stare. The sun starts its golden descent as you bathe in a creek by camp. You scrub your skin with vigor, almost without care as you seek to shed layers of sweat, grime, and gore. The midsummer air is stifling and the cicadas play their shrill song, but the chilly caress of the water makes you giddy.

It takes no small effort, but once your hair and body are stripped bare (clean enough), you remain in the water and watch pinks and oranges and yellows bleed and bloom across the wide sky. Some may say that resting for even a moment in a situation like yours—with a mindflayer parasite in your brain—is to accept death. But if you were to die at this very moment, surrounded by beauty? You couldn’t dream of a more peaceful end.

You feel your visitor’s presence before you see or hear him. It starts as an itch at your nape, nagging and unsettling—insistent. “Enjoying the view?” The playful lilt of Astarion's smooth voice never fails to set your nerves alight.

As you turn to face him, the water laps at your collarbone. You spy the pale elf along the bank, donning only his breeches. Cheeky bastard. “I could ask you the same,” you quip.

“I am indeed.” Lithe fingers tease the waistband of his pants. “But I can't help but feel as though something is missing.”

Walking a few steps toward the shore, you reveal more flesh, water skimming the top of your breasts. “It wouldn’t happen to be a rogue vampire, would it?”

“And if it is?”

“He should join.”

You sink beneath the creek’s surface, allowing him some privacy and urging your face to cool down. When you plant your feet on the silty ground and stand up, you rub crystalline droplets from your eyes and blink a few times before your companion comes into focus.

“Hello, beautiful,” he greets with a smirk before approaching you, dexterous fingers grasping and pulling at the fat around your hips. “I can't help but feel as though you’ve been avoiding me.”

Without thinking, your fingers weave through Astarion's moonbeam hair, gently tugging on the curls. The elf pulls you closer with a pleased hum. “Whatever gave you that impression?” you ask.

“Don’t play coy; I haven't so much as gotten a breath alone with you.” His gaze softens; you see a flash of vulnerability, but all too soon, it disappears. “Do you…regret this?” A chilly thumb grazes the puckered scar on your neck. The featherlight touch plucks a shudder from you, your spine bowing—strung for him.

“Quite the opposite,” you admit. Your attention flits down to his lips. Maker, you know they would feel divine dancing with your own, slipping down to carry the tune across your flesh, skating lower and lower until—

“So,” he says, palms sweeping up your arms and the slope of your shoulders until they rest on either side of your neck. He strokes the delicate flesh, his touch unhurried yet charged; restless. “You wouldn’t begrudge me another taste, hm?”

Perhaps you should be embarrassed by how eagerly you want this to happen, how many times you’ve envisioned him tasting your blood again—and perhaps tasting something more (such thoughts have fueled many solitary searches for pleasure within the canvas walls of your tent). But living in the dusky shadows of near-certain death has made you hopelessly brazen.

You lean in, petal-soft lips grazing one of his pointed ears. “It’s yours for the taking.”

Astarion’s irises darken at your words, pools of congealed blood. He drops his head and presses a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to your scar, his molten breath warming your body, melding you to his touch.

He bares his fangs and bites you, piercing the puffy tissue, a satisfied groan rumbling his throat and resonating in your veins. The pain is dizzying but dulls quickly, the jarring sensation of knife-sharp incisors tearing your flesh carried away by the flow of the creek. Fuzzy pleasure soon clouds your mind. The sloppy lap of the elf’s tongue against your wound is all you can discern; you want to feel him everywhere.

The vampire’s moans shudder deep within his chest and reverberate through your body from where you're connected, vibrating lower until they settle in your core. A delicious pressure rocks against your belly and seems to relish the softness. It feels like he gluts for an eternity—like this is all you know—housed within a single, precious breath.

When Astarion surfaces, fangs retracting, you stumble in his embrace, coming down from your high. The ache of want remains as you rest your forehead against his freckled shoulder, and morphs into need as your vision clears. His eyes are unfocused, crazed with bloodlust; you’ve never seen them so red, glowing like moonlit wine. His chin is slick with ichor, and—absentmindedly or not, it’s impossible to tell—his tongue darts out to mop up some of the remnants of your sweetness.

One, two, three heaves of your chests pass before you crash together with a swiftness that betrays desperation, errant waves succumbing to the tide.

You never liked the tang of your blood until you tasted it on Astarion’s silken lips. It’s…cloying. The syrupy copper overwhelms your senses as the elf smears a claret gash across your mouth. He drunkenly sucks on your tongue, fangs nicking the muscle, urging you to give him more. Your fingers twist and twirl the pearly down that covers his chest as he squeezes your ass, pulling you so close that not even a whisper could get between you. You’re engulfed in a heady fire, one that can’t be put out by the cool water around you—especially as the vampire’s cock nestles between your clenched thighs, bumping against your clit.

A crashing sound in the surrounding forest interrupts your shared bliss. The moon ascended and the stars awoke while you were wrapped up in one another. Lightning bugs glimmer and flit through the dark woods, and you know that you both need to leave. Supper will be soon; any absences will be noticed. But before he pulls away, Astarion places a prim kiss on your lips.

“Meet me by the campfire after everyone else has fallen asleep,” he whispers against your cheek.

Your heart trills as you watch him disappear into the night—excited for the adventure to come.

[magnoliasandarson]

the first gala

Jason was uncomfortable. His skin chafed against his stupid silk suit, his dumb tie was strangling him, and his shoes pinched his heels with every step. Worst of all- he was staring down at a crowd of Gotham's wealthiest- decked out in all their resplendent jewelry and finest clothes. It made him vaguely nauseous.

Bruce patted him on the shoulder, fingers clasping firmly for just a moment before swanning down the stairs, smiling broadly at his adoring army of socialites. It was a sickening sight. Just an hour prior, Bruce had sat with him, tied his tie, and told him what to expect. That he wouldn't be the same person at the Gala that he was when they read together. It made Jason's chest clench.

He carefully followed down the stairs, eyes locked firmly ahead, jaw clenched. Dick warned him that the snooty bastards would not be kind, that they wouldn't accept him. They hadn't accepted Dick at first, but his stupid smile and stupid charm eventually won the hearts of most of the stupid crowd. Jason exhaled deeply through his nose, he needed to stay calm.

Once he reached the main floor, his eyes strayed from their laser focus to find Bruce Brucie. The billionaire was playing his part remarkably well, an arm wrapped around a stunning blonde woman- the other gesturing with a half-empty champagne glass. The sight of Bruce downing the rest made Jason's stomach roll.

A withered hand gripped his shoulder and made him freeze in place. He followed the hand up and found the hooded eyes of one of the many rich old ladies that had popped up on Dick's PowerPoint. He distantly remembered a giant red circle and big black letters that said AVOID AT ALL COSTS.

"And what dumpster did Wayne pull you from, boy," a little bit of saliva passed her red painted lips, splattering onto Jason's face.

Jason felt a dark blush bloom across his face, turning his tan skin the color of a tomato. He shook the arm off and opened his mouth to respond, when another idiot materialized, "Leave the wretched thing alone, mother," the idiot smiled a stupid smile and Jason found himself wanting to punch those dumb perfect teeth in, "you know how sensitive Wayne gets about his charity cases."

Jason's upper lip curled up into a violent version of a grin; his ears were red, and his fists clenched. Venom pooled on his tongue but he curbed the desire to shout and curse, "I'll be goin' then."

The 'son' laughed that stupid rich fake laugh, his stupid gelled hair not moving a millimeter when he tossed his head back, "No no no, the other one did these delightful tricks," he swirled his glass of champagne, "why don't you do something amusing for us. Show us why Wayne rescued you from whatever hovel he pulled you from."

Jason felt more than saw the presence at his back, and all of a sudden, the gelled-haired idiot was on the floor, clutching his jaw with his champagne glass shattered next to him. Bruce smiled like he'd just read an article taking down Lex Luthor, "My apologies, Preston, Veronica," he shifted to partially obscure Jason, "my hand must have slipped."

And in that moment, watching an aristocrat spit blood onto the polished floor (those perfect teeth covered in red), Bruce's fine tailored suit protecting him like a shield, in a stunned silent room- Jason smiled a real smile for the first time that night.

[khuzena]

Friends

Jing yuan x g/n!reader

Summary: The xianzhou citizens don't often indulge in romance, to love is to one day see yourself fall into the embrace of mara— to let your lover witness it. Some still love, some deny themselves of such feelings.

Cw. Angst, unrequited love (not really), getting drunk, mixed signals, implied sexual stuff and a little bit of that but they don't actually do it (i think), no fluff no comfort because that shit is for the weak

A/n: Did I cry writing this? Yes. Was it worth it? I don't know.

Love.

noun

an intense feeling of deep affection.

He wonders if you ever noticed how he felt about you. Lingering gazes lasting deeper than it should, ‘accidental’ brushes against your hand or how he finds himself dropping everything he's doing just to be with you.

“Jing yuan, your move.”

Your words snap him back to reality, he awkwardly bit his lip, his focus back on the board. Right.

He wonders as he moves his piece two tiles forward, would you ever get wind of these growing feelings of his? If you did,

“Checkmate.”

Would you feel the same?

A light chuckle leaves his lips, the sight of your frustrated expression ingrained in his mind, like every memory he has of you.

A loud slam echoed in the room, “How do you always win?”

“You make brash decisions on the board,” Jing yuan backtracks the pieces before the soul-crushing checkmate, he positioned your pieces, “It should've gone here, you could've blocked my move.”

An exasperated sigh escapes you, clamping chunks of your hair frustratedly after realising you could've won, “I hate you.”

The man laughs as he tidies up the table, eyes still trained on you.

He doesn't know how and why you both ended up in this position.

Your relationship was complicated.

He doesn't understand you.

Sometimes you'd hold his hand, tell him all your secrets like he were a priest at a confessional, take care of him and everything of the like.

Yet, you always pushed him away. He'd sit right beside you, looking over your shoulder to read the novel you recently took interest in. As if he were a bug, you'd swat him away for being too close.

“Ji, don't get too close. I'm melting from the heat.” you say, but it was winter?

He doesn't understand love at all.

He loves mimi, he loves starchess, he loves his family (the high-cloud quintet, or should I say, ex-family), he loves tea, he loves his home.

Sometimes you two would go out to the library, indulging in me-time, faces buried in pages.

“Jing yuan, have you found a book about that one novel I told you about?” He shook his head no, he doesn't indulge in fictional work that often. But you loved novels.

“I think I found it.” He wipes the dust off the book spine. ‘How to fall in love with a genius’, what a strange book title.

“Really?” quietly tiptoeing towards his direction, the library lady eyeing you two; you had a habit of making too much noise, leading to the bookkeeper scolding you both.

“Here,” he blew over the cover, dust particles puffing in your face.

“Bastard—” words barely audible as you spoke in-between coughs, “Thanks though”

The bookkeeper glaring at you two, sending shivers down your spine. The idiot laughs again, you slap his back.

You both get kicked out.

Friends don't get drunk together, friends don't cuddle, friend's don't do this.

Like ‘friends’, you cling to him in his bed, head nuzzled in his neck. Jing yuan was scared to hug you or even dare to hold your waist.

He can only get a taste of heaven but never the real thing, you can hug him yet when he reciprocates he's too close.

He envies at how audacious you are. That you're not afraid to hold him like he's yours but he could never call you his. How you could just stare at him with those loving resplendent eyes but he could never stare longer at yours.

This time however, he wishes he slept in, he wishes he told you he was busy, that he doesn't want to hang out today.

One drink turned to two, two drinks turned to three. More, more and more, until you're on top of him, all of him you can see.

“Ji.”

How cruel you are. Straddled on his lap as he was laid against the pearly sheets of his bed, your eyes devoid of light as your free hand tug on the hem of his shirt, “Jing yuan, I'm sorry”

You cried again, gripping his shirt tightly. Why can't he push you away?

Tears spill out as you desperately wanted to love him, as he did too. But was it really love?

“I love you.” he accidentally slips out.

Your eyes widened in fear, you tried to convince yourself you didn't hear anything as you grind your hips on his lap, croaking out a guttural moan.

“Please,” you grinded faster, your hips burning, you prayed to god that what you heard was a lie, that you misheard him.

He groans in desperation, hands on your hips, “I really love you.”

Without a second thought, as if you were sober, you swatted his hand away and got off his lap. He stares at you like you were a madman— why did you suddenly stop?

He wishes he was drunk enough to indulge in you that night, but sober enough to have never said that.

He sat up, his hand reaching out for you but you swat it away again, “Stop.”

A sob stuck in his throat, heavy breaths drowning out the wanton moans from earlier.

“I…”

He wishes he never even loved you in the first place.

Tomorrow came, those lingering gazes on each other no more, those playful banters dissipated into thin air.

He can't bring himself to confront you, too scared to accept what's become to the two of you.

“Ji— General. Documents from Madam Yukong”

The way your eyes dart to anything but him, he bit his lip anxiously, “Yes, thank you. You may leave now.”

As if nothing happened last night, you bowed your head and ran away as quickly as possible. Does he even have the courage to ask you for another game of starchess?

Days passed yet no progress. Your relationship has turned into a strictly professional one. So cold to each other, yanqing and fu xuan can't wrap their hands around what could've happened but they don't have it in them to ask what happened.

The general signed paperwork, like usual. Not noticing loud thumping footsteps nearing his desk.

“General,” a part of him wished it was your voice.

“Yes yanqing?”

“They've turned in their resignation paper”

Oh. Huh?

He thinks yanqing is joking. Not when his dear retainer thrusts the documents to his hand does he realise he's really lost you.

“For what exactly?” he asks as if he doesn't know the answer.

Yanqing sighs, “I'm not sure either, but they talked about retiring.”

“They're too young to retire,” the man scratched his head, his mind racing with a million thoughts and a million regrets.

“General, they're 630 years old”

“Oh right,” he gave his retainer a weak smile, hoping the young boy doesn't notice the uneasiness in his eyes when he read through the contents, “I shall talk to them before I approve their resignation. You may leave.”

Yanqing nods, taking his leave as Jing yuan trembles. He's lost the high-cloud quintet, does fate have to take you too in its stride, far away from him?

He was okay with just being friends with you.

Jing yuan called for you in his private garden, he didn't expect you to actually come especially after that.

“You came.”

“You called,” your eyes as empty as that one night.

He tried his best to hold back the tears, heart burning yet he had to remain professional. After all, he was your boss.

“Yanqing brought me your resignation request.” he pauses, unable to find the right words.

Normally, if an employee of his decides to resign, he'd sign away their request and carry on with his life but this— how could he just sign so easily?

“Have you not signed it yet?”

“No.” he can't bring himself to.

Your fingers found solace under the table, fiddling and fidgeting together but you'd rather die than let the man in front of you notice it, “Can't you just sign it?”

“It's just… you've been working with me since the high-cloud quintet and it's not that easy.”

“How so?”

“We’d lose an important member of society, your contributions to the mechanical team have been beneficial,” he tapped his foot aggressively, agitated. “Can't you think twice about it?”

Without hesitation, “I can't. I'm getting old, sooner or later I'd die—”

He listens, not interrupting you, “— I don't want to die without living.”

Living? What a lie. You've been more alive by his side more than anything.

“What exactly do you mean by living?”

He pretends to not understand, he wishes you'd just take him into consideration and talk to him like he was Jing yuan, not the general arbiter.

“You know what I mean,” the air sucked out of your lungs, why did he have to make you say it out loud?

“I want to live. I want to be finally free of my duties, get married, and retire.”

He nodded along with your words, he felt sick. Sicker than he ever was in his life.

“I wish you told me sooner”

“What good would it bring?”

“I just wished you were honest from the start.”

The words were once stuck again in your throat, trying to blink nonstop to not let those pathetic tears spill out, “This is for me—”

“What about me?”

Desperation laced in his tone, he wishes you'd give him a chance, that you'd let him in.

“What about you?”

You wonder, what about him? He wants to ask, what about us?

“This is about me,” neither of you could find the words, but you try.

“I want to live,” forlorn, not a glimmer of hope in your eyes, he wishes on a sliver of hope, “Is that too much to ask?”

Yet life is cruel. It was a mistake trying to be more than friends with you, again; he wished he stayed as friends with you. He would have been fine with anything.

For your own good, “I understand.”

Jing yuan reluctantly took his pen, staring at the paper. He signed.

“Thank you.”

He signed you away, at least now, there's no more need for formalities. He is no longer your boss, he is just jing yuan to you.

“I… “ his mouth snapped shut.

“No more words, general?”

As selfish as it sounds, he wants to tell you that he's willing to leave this life behind. That if you want to live, he'll live with you, if you want to marry, he'll marry you. If you want to retire, he'll retire with you.

But duty calls, he can't just stop being ‘general arbiter’ in a heartbeat for you. He wishes he could.

It's not that hot outside today, but he feels like burning.

“Ah, nothing. Where will you go now?”

“It doesn't matter, I'll just go somewhere, live alone or maybe start a new life.”

“I wish luck for your future endeavours.”

Jing yuan has never been selfish. This time however, he wishes he wasn't the general. He wishes he was just a normal man, he wishes he had the privilege, that he had the choice to be your man.

You could no longer handle being under this suffocating atmosphere, “Can I leave now?”

“By all means.”

That was the last time he talked to you, he wonders, he wishes, that he was anyone but him. Not even he could have foreseen this.

When your footsteps grew quieter as you were farther away from him, he cried.

It's been long since he's cried… years, centuries perhaps.

He's lost his family, he's lost you too. All because he wanted to be more than friends.

He wonders if you cried too, if you'd come back. It's for the best.

In due time, one of you will turn mara struck. He doesn't have the heart to see you in that state. But he wishes you gave him the chance to love you, even for just two years. A year or two is all he needs to be content.

None of that matters, he wipes his tears. Reporting back to the seat of divine foresight.

Note: not proofread so dont laugh. 😔😔😔 Before one of you bitches say, who hurt you, who hurt you? No, this is just me projecting with my cupioromantic and aromantic tendencies. ITS SO COMMON TO SEE MC BEING THE ONE GETTING REJECTEd BUT NOT THE CHARACTER GETTING REJECTED I NEED MORE FICS WITH THIS PLOT GRRRRR 😟. ITS 3:16 AM FUCK SLEEP FUCK IT ALL GRRRR

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[lokisgoodgirl]

The Red Dress [Avenger! Loki x Fem. Reader]

Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: (5) It's a big night for the team, and your outfit of choice makes quite the impression on one god in particular. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Hostility. Language. Jealously. Humour. Smuttish. Sexual tension. (w/c 3.7k)

Loki had been back from his latest mission for a whole week, and you were counting the days until he left again. It was the night of the annual Avenger’s shareholder party, the most important corporate night of the year. Mandatory attendance. A month and three days had passed since what you had come to term ‘the incidents’. Not that you were counting, of course. Memories of Loki’s dexterous hands roaming your body haunted you. How he made the world around you fade to darkness beneath his animalistic moans was still annoyingly clear as day, even in the dead of night. Particularly in the dead of night.

It was nothing. At least, that’s what you told yourself as a resplendent Loki Laufeyson descended the staircase to the party with a spring in every conceited step.

You smoothed a hand down the bodice of your red dress, the skater pleats of the silk skirt grazing your bare thighs. He was wearing some sort of tight tunic tonight, a mix of Asgardian and Earth fashion that could only have come from one of Stark’s legendary tailors. His flowing black hair was combed back, falling in an effortless train behind his shoulders. A familiar gold crescent adorned the material snug around his chest, the high collar straight against his devastatingly jawline. He wants everyone to know who he is, smug bastard, you thought venomously as you imagined how the cool metal of his sacred symbol over his heart would feel against your ass while you sat on his face. Because of course he does. The straight tunic brushed his thighs, a longer flap of material hanging teasingly over his manhood. Wise decision, Tony; you thought, remembering the ferociously primal stir his enormous bulge caused at the last event. Matte leather clung to his muscled legs, running down into formal knee high boots that made you want to scream. All black. Or is it dark green, you wondered; hungry eyes hovering on the creases appearing at his thighs as he gracefully made his way down the stairs alone. The whole thing was a blip, you told yourself. A moment of madness. Or two. If anything, you never thought about it at all. Seeing him swagger nonchalantly around the Tower with that token arrogance clinging to him like latex was unbearable, though. His whole demeanour, the haughty derision toward everyone and everything simmering beneath that perfect skin, brewing the next sarcastic quip. Unbearable. And what was even more unbearable was that the shithead was ignoring you. How many times had you grimaced at the ridiculous little cough of condescension that floated over your shoulder in the kitchen before he released a tepid barb? Too many, you thought; as your eyes scanned his proud features radiant in the reflections from the mirrorball. It was one of the many things you loathed about him. And yet now you finally had your wish that it would cease...somehow, it smarted. Like he was winning.

You’d fallen into the habit of talking a little louder in his vicinity when he graced the common rooms with his austere presence, saving your best lines for when he was close and could hear the rampant mirth you provoked. That he would see the scintillating hilarity he's missing by being a complete dick, you thought; running your eyes up his endless legs as he reached the bottom of the stairs, his eyes scanning the pulsing crowd with a self-assured smirk. Damn, he looks fucking good tonight, though you conceded reluctantly; grateful that the sway of your flouncy dress hid a slight involuntary thrust of your hips. He raised his chin, looking left and right; a glazed stare floating right past you. If you were honest, you had hoped that the perfectly fitted dress and the cleavage contained therein would lure him to you; drive him mad with longing or some damn thing. At least long enough to give him a taste of his own medicine. As he turned away, you realised that your cleavage would just as easily open the doors to Stark’s vault. And really, it wasn’t like you cared. Irritation marinated as Nat handed you a drink, your fingers absent-mindedly clasping the stem of the glass. She chattered over the music as you took a mental picture of Loki’s muscular body vacuum-packed into that ridiculous outfit to masturbate over later in the bath. Yes, you thought; your eyes crawling over his endless limbs as he greeted a flustered Rogers with a sarcastic bow. That will do nicely. “-hey, are you listening?” Nat said, in that peculiarly penetrating tone she saved for when she knew you were absolutely not listening. Your head tilted towards her with a strained smile, blinking several times. “Got distracted, sorry.” you said innocently. She nodded, taking a sip of her wine while observing the party’s latest arrival. Nat licked the faint stain of red from her upper lip. “You mean David Gandy over there?” she said, nudging her head towards Loki. You chuckled, an infectious giggle from Nat following. “I wonder what will give up first” she postured, folding her elegant arms. “Thor’s table manners or Loki’s new threads. He’s really poured in there, huh?” You snorted, shaking your head. “Loki’s manners more like.” you murmured to yourself, seeing Nat’s brow furrow. “Sorry, what was it you were saying before?” Her face softened, the placid expression returning. “Stark needs you on the bar.” “On the bar? You’re kidding me.” you whined, letting out an exasperated sigh. “How’s it going to look to the shareholders when one of the bloody team is on shaker-duty?” “Like good PR” she winked, reaching out and tugging down the neckline of your red dress to expose a tad more cleavage. “And no one makes a Martian Hard On like you, babe.” You sighed again, hating that she was right. “Fine.” you grimaced, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Come and talk to me later. If I get stuck with all the handsy drunk ones I’ll be mad.” you said, seeing her eyes light up at your words. “Those are my favourite.” she winked.

You made your apologies to those you cut across, dodging photographer’s flashes as they documented the party. “-Sorry!” you yelped, colliding with an unexpected wall of muscle. Stepping back, your face fell as Loki spun on his heels; looking down at you through half-lidded eyes. They narrowed, running appraisingly over your body, his brows knitted in a strange disapproval. “How did you get over here so fast?” you muttered, straightening as one of his long fingers re-adjusted a strap of your dress which had succumbed to the collision. “Keeping tabs on me, are we? I’m flattered.” he hummed, winding his arm around the shoulder of a mysterious smiling woman. You vaguely remembered seeing her face on the laminated VIP lists Steve had handed out at the briefing. Now you sort of wished you had read it. “Lead the way, barkeep.” Loki smirked, making you roll your eyes. You opened the hatch with a rough churning in your stomach. I did not join the Avengers for this bullshit, you thought as you grabbed the cocktail shaker from the back-shelf. Loki raised the woman’s hand, helping her perch on the barstool before setting himself down. You knew his thick thighs would be spread invitingly against the leather seat, the modestly flap casually set askew to accentuate the peek of the ever-present bulge in his always-just-a-little-too-tight trousers. He placed one forearm on the bar, eyes flickering upward to the side seductively in a way you could only assume was calculated. God, he looked so fucking- “What can I get you?” you said sharply, a manufactured smile stretched across your lips as a stressed-out looking Tony walked by, giving you a grateful nod. Loki pursed his lips in a theatrical ponder. “What do you feel like, darling?” he purred, turning to the woman by his side. She giggled, her cheeks turning pink as his bicep shifted beneath the tight tunic; clearly resting a hand on her leg. By day, she would be one of the most influential financiers in the country. But tonight, it seemed she was an eighteen year old groupie again. “Does she do cocktails?” the woman said coquettishly to Loki, her eyes not leaving his as he bit his lip. His tongue flicked out, running over his cupid’s bow. God, he was really laying it on thick. “She does.” he said thoughtfully, turning toward you with a knowing look. “And she has quite the speciality...remind me, what’s the name?” You sighed, the inevitability of his insider knowledge making you want to ram a cocktail stick in his eye.

“A ‘Martian Hard On’.” you said through gritted teeth, seeing the corner of Loki’s mouth twitch. “And how does one make this frankly delicious sounding concoction?” he purred, leaning closer over the bar with feigned interest.

“It’s not that good actually. Bit overrated.” you sniffed, wiping the damp cloth across the marble. Loki frowned. “I’ll just have Sex on the Beach.” the woman quipped, before gasping dramatically. “I mean the cocktail, not actual sex on the beach…” she drawled with faux-innocence, breaking out in a high-pitched laugh that made your teeth hurt.

You rolled your eyes again, turning to the rows of bottles on the mirrored shelves. In the reflection, you saw Loki lean towards her, the razor-straight line of his jaw twitching as he whispered in her ear. The high collar skirted the angle as he spoke, black slicing against the fairness of his skin. A token flash of his cheekbones that kept you awake at night made your stomach flip as the woman gasped, before giggling again. “Oh you are a bad man, Loki Laufeyson. Tony said I should watch out for you, and he was right.” She pushed his shoulder flirtatiously, watching Loki’s face crease in mock-hurt as he pressed a hand to his chest. His smile was uncharacteristically warm, twinkling eyes running over her admittedly pretty features like she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Hell, maybe she was. It’s just his job for the night, you thought, re-considering the liberal measure of peach schnapps you had poured for the woman now cackling at one of Loki’s over-inflated stories. He’s not actually going to- “Anything to report?” a rasping whisper floated over your shoulder, making you jump. “Christ, Steve…” you mumbled, before sliding the sloppily put together cocktail across the marble towards Loki and the woman. “Thank you, sweetheart.” Loki hummed condescendingly in your direction, passing the glass to his charge with a wink. “I’m just going to the restroom.” the woman said coyly after taking a sip, tugging at the stiff collar of Loki’s tunic. She leant closer, her lips grazing the smooth skin of his cheek. You could see her hand sliding up his thigh, your eyes widening as her palm cupped the bulge in his tight trousers. “Don’t go anywhere.” “Not even if I could, Madam...” Loki said coyly, making you choke back a reluctant laugh as Steve grimaced. The three of you watched the woman slink away, a prominent swing in her step. “That’s Tony’s biggest shareholder, Laufeyson. Don’t fudge it up.” Rogers spat when she was out of earshot, the vein in his temple twitching alarmingly. “I can assure you Rogers, I will not be fudging anything.” Loki drawled, inspecting his fingernails as his features softened to a knowing smile. “Unless she asks me to, of course.”

Steve’s cheeks flushed the same colour as his salmon shirt. “Now listen here, Laufeyson.” he hissed, “No funny business. You just need to show her a good time. Tell her a few jokes.” He raised a hand as Loki opened his mouth with a smart comment on the tip of his tongue. “PG jokes, thank you very much.” “He can handle it Steve” you sighed absent-mindedly, noticing a splash of something on the pleat of your dress. You frowned, looking up at them. “Just, drop it. She’ll be fine, she’s all over him.”

Rogers eyebrow cocked, his gaze running suspiciously between you and Loki as he patted his notebook against one soft palm. “So are you two...pals, now?” he said sceptically, noting the twitch of your eye as he spoke. “-Oh yes.” Loki drawled, throwing Steve a dazzlingly forced smile. “She’s warmed to me at last it seems. I did some charity work for her. Didn’t I, Agent?” You scowled, diligently polishing one of the ostentatious cocktail glasses Stark only brought out on very special occasions. “Charity work, huh?” Steve said, his eyebrows rising towards the god. “That’s spiff of you, Laufeyson. I’ll make a note for your review that you’re really inserting yourself into team culture.” “Oh yes. I’m all about inserting myself deep into the culture now, Rogers.” Loki murmured. “It was quite a desperate situation, really. Tragic, one might say. I simply couldn’t stand by and do nothing while the poor thing suffered.” You inhaled some of your own spit with a cough, spluttering with masked indignation. Loki’s face creased in faux-concern, leaning forward on the bar. “Are you alright, friend?” he murmured, a devilish smile tweaking his lips. Anger flushed through your blood, heat rising in your cheeks as you tried to stay calm. Charity. He’s got some fucking nerve, you thought, dabbing your mouth subtly with a napkin. Steve nodded briskly, scanning the room before giving someone a cheery wave and pushing away. You looked at Loki, his sanctimonious shit-eating grin doing nothing to dampen the conflicted whirl of thoughts in your mind. The music faded behind the thump of blood in your ears as Loki took sip of his manufactured-date’s drink. You were suddenly parched. The ridges of your tongue felt uncomfortable against the roof of your mouth. His cheekbones hollowed as he sucked at the edge of the glass, setting it down before licking his bottom lip with a low moan. The visceral feeling of Loki’s teeth sinking into the soft skin of your shoulder shuddered through you, seeing his eyes glint in the dim party lights, relishing your awkward reaction. “Delicious.” he growled, running his eyes down to your cleavage and back to your face. “Shame about the dress, though. A bit too garish for you, Agent. A bit too...attention-seeking, perhaps.” “You’re ridiculous.” you sniffed haughtily, clasping the edges of the bar with straight arms. Your shoulders flexed, pushing your breasts up. “And you of all people can’t lecture me about seeking attention...which is not what this is, so I don’t know why you-” “Oh?” Loki cut in. He leant forward, beckoning you with a double flick of one thick fingertip. “Well it seems that whether you want it or not...you have it.” There was a pause. You could feel your traitorous pussy sliding against your thin panties, his unrelenting smarm making you want to pull him toward you and shut him up in the only way that seemed to work.

Loki sipped the cocktail again, nudging his head subtly towards the seating area to the side of the bar. You looked over, seeing Thor displayed uncomfortably on the sofa. He was leaning forward, one meaty elbow resting on his knee with the fist propped beneath his chin. His thighs were spread wide, his eyes twitching with murderous intensity as he stared at you like dinner. “He’s flirting with you.” Loki purred, a smile tugging at his lips. You snorted, feeling your cheeks heat. “He is not. I don’t know what he’s doing but it’s not that.” you garbled, wiping the bar with a damp cloth. A fizzing knot grew in your belly as Loki’s fingers drummed the marble between you nonchalantly. “In Asgard, we have very particular customs around colours, Agent. Are you aware?” You huffed, hoping that the clawing in your stomach would pass. “By wearing that misguided little sliver of crimson silk, you have aroused some very deep-seated urges within my brother that you wish to bed him tonight. To be ridden like a fine Asgardian mare. A fabled red flag to a particularly lacklustre bull, one might say.” You looked again at Thor, now massaging his thigh; his darkened gaze undressing you. He bit his lip, one eye closing in a slow, calculated wink. “Oh god…” you murmured dryly. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Agent. He’s not very good, I’m afraid. Especially considering your recently elevated standards.” You snorted. “I find it hard to believe that you guys are used to women traipsing around in your ‘colours’ waiting for their chance to shag you.” you hissed, throwing Thor a sideways glance. “I am not going to sleep with him. That’s absurd.” Loki looked at you silently, a closed smile stretching across his placid face before he spoke. “Oh, believe it Agent. We Asgardian princes never wanted for company. Even if my brother was a little less...discerning.” He smirked, enjoying every second of your growing discomfort. “And as for your intentions with him tonight, I recommend you alert him to your little misunderstanding sooner rather than later.” “And what about your little ‘misunderstanding’? You know she basically thinks you’re some kind of superpowered gigalo, right?” you sneered, seeing Loki’s eyebrows rise. He chuckled, shaking his head just as the woman surfaced from the throng of the crowd. She had pulled the neckline down, and you could have sworn that when she had left she had been wearing pantyhose beneath that party dress. “Who says I’m not, Agent?” he whispered covertly, pushing himself off the barstool as he leant closer. His cologne filled your nostrils, the musky tang making your mouth water. “You of all people know I can be anything she desires.” He tore his hardened gaze from your eyes to the beaming woman with an exaggerated smile. “Amanda, darling. Let’s dance, shall we?” he announced, peeling his long limbs from the barstool.

Amanda, you scoffed with a grimace as she melted willingly into his lean body. The glass you had picked up became the most interesting thing in the room as you tried to maintain an air of indifference, polishing it casually. You could feel Thor’s eyes burning into you as you stared at the crystal held between your fingertips. The synapses of your brain were fizzing, the temptation to look up to the dancefloor...irresistible. Fuck, you thought; feeling your eyes rising to the busy centre of the room. The crowd pulsed beneath the lights from the mirrorball over the sound of a remixed version of Rasputin. In that suit, his body was endless. The wide rim boots cut in solid angles at his knees, the hard meat of his thighs rising to the hem of the tunic flexing visibly through the fabric. His hand slid over the curves of her hips, ghosting her ass before pulling the keening woman tight to his broad chest.

Your eyes flickered to Rogers lurking in the shadows watching them. Arms crossed, brow furrowed in disapproval. Loki’s outfit clung like a luxurious second skin, every inch reacting to the movement of his limbs as he gracefully swayed her body to his. Amanda’s fingers ran up his torso, bumping over the curve of Asgardian gold. She tucked a long strand of hair behind his ear, her eyes smouldering with singular intent to fuck this heavenly creature in whose arms she somehow found herself tonight. But she doesn’t know him like I do, you thought with a grimace. She doesn’t know what he’s really like-

Loki swung her gracefully outward, pulling her back to him with a timed thrust of his muscular hips; bucking gently as her hand travelled lower. The stem of the elegant martini glass in your grip snapped. Primitive jealousy like you had never known surged through your blood like napalm, a ferocious shiver rolling across every nerve making your hair stand on end. The audacity of the god cut deep as you smacked the towel to the marble bar, making straight for the hatch. White noise filled your ears as you made your way over to the seating area, a flustered looking Thor standing to attention as you approached. Your fingers scraped at his shirt, managing to snag an inch of material not plastered to his frame. He jerked forward, the rough stubble of his cheek scratching against your skin. “Dance with me.” you purred into his ear, feeling his huge frame shudder. He growled, striding forward and tugging you roughly to the dance-floor. The shards of light from the mirrorball stung your eyes as Thor whipped you into his bulging arms, the cotton of his shirt straining dangerously against freakishly large biceps. Oh god, you thought as the room spun. You were vaguely aware of his large hands slipping down your waist, pulling you toward him with a firm tug. “My lady, you tease too brazenly. For too long I have coveted this.” he grunted, his hair scratching your eyes as he began to gyrate in time with Boney M. “Wha-what?” you squeaked, thinking of the years you’d spent side by side with not a hint of the heated desire seeping from him as he wound his imposing body around yours. “That dress…my colours” he smouldered, his eyes darkened with lust, “...it has lit a fire within me. I must have you.” One hand slid over your lower back, grasping the folded material of the red silk skirt. He growled again, tightening his fist; burying his face in your neck as he swayed deeper against your frame. Thor’s hot breath skated over the place his brother had made his mark the month prior, the pale bruise still visible in the harsh light of day.

“Thor…” you gasped breathlessly, pushing a palm against his chest as one belonging to another roughly smacked him on the shoulder, casting him backward. You gasped as Loki shoved you briskly to the side, stepping toward the blonde. “Ordinances of the Colours do not apply in this realm, brother.” Loki snarled, baring his teeth. The disco lights glinted on the gold adorning his suit; his fierce eyes flashing in confrontation. Your pussy tightened, seeing Loki’s fists clench by his sides. “Ordinances or not, brother...she claimed me as hers for this dance.” Thor postured, squaring up to the dark-god with a solitary step forward. “And this night, I believe.” He added, suggestively. “Ask her.” Loki shot you a look that would kill the weak. You swallowed, fighting the feeling of your knees attempting to buckle. “It’s true.” you said, much more calmly than you expected, your stomach fizzing. “I did. The dance, anyway.” Loki rolled his eyes. “Aren’t they missing you on the bar, Agent?” he spat, gesturing to the small queue of people hanging against the counter-top expectantly. It was your turn to roll your eyes, walking past him with a shove of your shoulder. It hurt. Fucking Laufeyson and his fucking ego- you thought furiously, hearing the brothers bicker theatrically behind you. Roger’s frustrated drawl soon intervened between them as you stared resolutely ahead on your path. Who the hell does he think he- Suddenly you were tugged roughly to the side. The heels you wore skated over the smooth floor as you careened into the dark hall passageway away from the humming crowd and thumping music. Long fingers clasped over your parted lips, your back thudding against the nearest wall as Loki loomed above you; resplendent and menacing in the gloom. The skintight tunic pressed against your cleavage, his hardening cock dragging slowly upward against your body with formidable intent. The god’s bottomless eyes were dark liquid as he stared down at you, hair falling in curled tendrils against your cheek. A muscle in his clenched jaw bobbed as he wet his lips. “Lead me to your rooms, Agent.” he enunciated quietly, his chest heaving with slow, heavy breaths. “Immediately.”

Continued in The Red Dress: Ruined (w/c 2.5k) Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection

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[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms: Aemond POV

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter One

“You have each other. It would be nice if Helaena had a companion too.”

His mother’s words echoed in her chamber as the family sat down to eat their dinner. The King was not present of course. On the evenings he was well enough, he dined with Rhaenyra and her brood. Other times, he remained in his chambers being attended to by the Maesters. Aegon, engulfed in his cups, exuded the air of a habitual indulger, even in his young age, his shimmering silver locks catching the candlelight. Meanwhile, Helaena remained withdrawn, her violet gaze fixed on a tome detailing insects, intermittently glancing up between bites.

In stark contrast, Aemond’s unwavering focus on his mother painted him as the epitome of diligence, his attentiveness a testament to his filial devotion. It did irk him though. Aegon and Aemond did not have each other. Far from it actually, they could not have been more different. Aemond spent most of his time in his history and philosophy books, or with tutors attempting to master High Valyrian. Aegon, however, spent most of his time abed. And even when he was awake, he would terrorise the servant girls, secretly making his way down into Flea Bottom, or stealing wine from the kitchens.

Aemond wondered if things would have been different if Daeron had remained in Kings Landing, alas he was destined for Oldtown. From what he understood, it was a political strategy to ensure House Hightower maintained power as hosting a Prince of the Realm was a high honour. The brothers exchanged letters sometimes, but it was not like a physical friendship in the Keep.

The second son often found himself at the butt of his elder brother’s jokes, relentlessly teased for not having a dragon of his own to command; an injustice in Aemond’s eyes. Why should Rhaenyra’s very obvious bastards have dragons yet Aemond did not? Even Helaena had a dragon! Granted, she never spent a great deal of time with the beast. But still, they were Targaryens, and Targaryens were meant to have dragons. Nevertheless, Aemond just wanted to belong. They were supposed to be a family. Their father ignored them enough so they should at least stick together. Yet Aemond always found himself the odd one out.

“I need you to make her feel welcome and be on your best behaviour. Aegon,” Queen Alicent commanded with a warning, her brown eyes glaring at her oldest son.

Aegon rolled his eyes. “Why me?”

“Because you treat the servants horrendously already,” Alicent reasoned, taking a bite of her food. Aemond looked ahead at the empty chair in front of him, the chair that was meant for Viserys, but was mostly always empty. Perhaps it would be nice for the chair to be filled.

In the vast expanse of the throne room, every corner was adorned with intricate craftsmanship and lavish ornamentation. Gilded pillars rose to meet the high ceiling, where frescoes depicting ancient legends stretched across the expansive canvas. Golden sconces cast a warm glow upon the marble floors, reflecting the flickering light of the numerous candles that lined the room.

Alicent and her children, resplendent in their fine green attire, stood in a line, awaiting the arrival of their guests. Alicent's gown, intricately embroidered with delicate patterns of ivy and emerald thread, spoke of her Hightower lineage and refined taste. Aegon's doublet shimmered with silver accents, catching the light with every movement, while Helaena's gown, adorned with subtle hints of amethyst, complemented the violet hues of her eyes. Aemond, ever the dutiful son, wore a crisp green tunic embellished with subtle motifs of dragons, a symbol of his family's legacy.

As the grand doors creaked open, the imposing figure of Lord Jasper Wylde strode into the room, his presence commanding respect and deference. His short dark hair was meticulously styled, while his neatly trimmed beard added an air of gravitas to his countenance. Dressed in robes of turquoise and gold, embroidered with intricate patterns reminiscent of ocean waves and sunbursts, he exuded an aura of authority befitting his station.

Beside Lord Jasper, a young girl emerged, her presence a stark contrast to the solemnity of the room. Her dark brown curls tumbled in tight ringlets down her back, framing a cherubic face alive with curiosity and excitement. Clad in a matching ensemble of turquoise and gold, her dress sparkled in the ambient light, accentuating her youthful exuberance. With hands clasped together in anticipation, she approached Alicent and her children, her eyes alight with the prospect of meeting her new companions.

“Podgy thing, isn’t she?” Aegon snickered down Aemond’s ear as they approached, earning a smack on the back of his head from his mother. As they neared, Lord Jasper executed a deep bow, a testament to his reverence for the crown. The little girl, following her father's lead, curtsied gracefully, her demeanor mirroring his humility.

“Lord Wylde,” Alicent's warm voice echoed across the chamber, her regal presence welcoming them.

“My Queen, My Princes, Princess,” Lord Jasper acknowledged with reverence, his voice carrying a note of gratitude. “I must thank you again for this tremendous honor. May I present my eldest daughter, Lady Maera.”

Maera's face lit up with a radiant smile, her chubby cheeks flushed with excitement. “I am pleased to meet you all,” she said with youthful exuberance, her eyes bright with curiosity.

Alicent returned the smile, her heart swelling with joy at the sight of another young girl in the castle. “How old are you, sweetling?” she inquired, her tone gentle and inviting.

“Nine, your Grace,” Maera replied, her voice steady and polite, a reflection of her upbringing.

“She looks big for nine,” Aegon remarked with a mischievous smirk, his voice laced with playful teasing as he leaned towards his brother, Aemond.

“Aegon,” Aemond chided firmly, his gaze shifting to Maera, empathetic to her plight as she navigated the unfamiliar courtly environment.

However, Maera seemed unfazed by Aegon's jest, her composure unshaken as she turned towards him, curtsying once again with a twinkle in her eye. “And you must be Princess Helaena. I will be delighted to braid that unruly hair of yours,” she quipped, her words causing Aegon's smile to falter and even coaxing a giggle from Helaena, a rare and precious sound in the solemn halls of the throne room.

Lord Jasper's firm grip on Maera's shoulder sent a jolt through her, prompting her to whirl around and shoot her father a reproachful frown, silently demanding an explanation for his sudden intervention. “Forgive my daughter, my Prince,” Lord Jasper interjected, his tone carrying a hint of apology as he addressed the royal family. “Her mother has passed, she has no older sisters, and my wife has her hands full with her own children.”

He leveled a stern gaze at Maera, silently conveying his expectations. “Having many older brothers means she does not know the ways of a Lady. I am hoping that is something she can learn under your care, my Queen.”

Alicent nodded understandingly, her expression sympathetic as she regarded Maera. “Most definitely, my Lord,” she assured him with a gentle smile, extending her reassurance to the young girl.

Feeling the nudge from her father, Maera snapped back to attention, realizing her duty as a representative of House Wylde. With a graceful curtsy, she turned towards Princess Helaena, her movements guided by her father's silent cue. “Princess, in honor of our new friendship, I have brought you a gift you may enjoy,” she announced, her voice tinged with earnestness.

Lord Jasper's gesture summoned a squire who presented a small wooden box, a token of House Wylde's regard for the royal family. Aemond couldn't help but roll his eyes at the sight. What could a minor house possibly offer to a Princess of the Realm?

As Maera opened the box, revealing its contents, Helaena approached with a mix of curiosity and skepticism, her violet eyes alight with wonder. “Ugh, is that shit?” Aegon blurted out in disgust, earning a reprimanding dig from his mother.

“No!” Maera retorted defiantly, her cheeks flushing with indignation at Aegon's crude remark. She watched intently as Helaena reached into the box and delicately stroked the elongated brown lumps nestled within.

“They are chrysalises,” Helaena declared with a mixture of fascination and delight, her initial skepticism giving way to genuine intrigue.

Lord Wylde's laughter rang out awkwardly, breaking the tension that lingered in the air. He bent down to Maera's level, his expression a mix of amusement and mild reprimand. “What happened to the bracelet you made her?”

Maera shrugged nonchalantly, her tone matter-of-fact. “That? Oh, it was awful,” she declared with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Also, why would a Princess need a bracelet from me? I bet she has hundreds!"

Aemond couldn't help but chuckle to himself at Maera's boldness and unfiltered honesty. She was a refreshing departure from the usual courtly decorum, clearly intelligent and unapologetically herself.

Before Lord Jasper could issue a warning, Princess Helaena's voice cut through the conversation. “I do not recognize the pattern on the shell,” she observed, her curiosity piqued.

“They are called Perisomena. I do not think you have them in King's Landing,” Maera replied with a mischievous grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “We have lots of them in Rainwood, so I thought I would bring you some. I understand you have a keen interest in insects.”

Helaena's face lit up with genuine excitement at Maera's thoughtful gesture. “Yes, I do,” she admitted with a shy smile, her fingers brushing over her cheeks in a subtle display of uncertainty. “I have accumulated quite the collection.”

Maera's enthusiasm was palpable. “Truly? That is incredible! Do you have any beetles from Essos? My brother says in his letters they are much more colorful in the East.”

“Indeed. Would you like to see them?” Helaena offered, her eyes bright with anticipation.

“Yes, please!” Maera replied eagerly, her excitement evident in the way she bounced on her heels. Helaena seized her by the forearm, leading her away from the throne room to her chambers, the excitement evident on both girls’ faces as they shared a secret moment. Glancing over her shoulder, Maera waved goodbye to the others with a warm smile. Her gaze lingered on Prince Aemond, who returned her smile shyly, their eyes meeting briefly before she turned away.

As Maera’s head turned, Aemond’s attention was drawn to the striking silver streak entwined with her dark locks. He had never seen anything quite like it before, and though it was unusual, it only served to enhance her unique beauty in his eyes. A sense of intrigue sparked within him, igniting a newfound curiosity about the enigmatic girl who had just departed.

A chuckle escaped the Queen’s lips. “Gods be good. That went better than expected.”

“Indeed, my Queen,” the Master of Laws smiled. “I know my daughter is a little rough around the edges. But she will be a good companion to the Princess. Hopefully she will be able to bring her out of her shell.”

The days passed swiftly, and Aemond found himself immersed in the solace of the library, a break from the company of his brother or tutors. Rows of towering bookshelves lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes and scholarly volumes. The scent of leather-bound books and parchment permeated the air, mingling with the faint aroma of beeswax candles that flickered on ornate brass sconces.

Aemond settled into a cozy alcove, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating the pages of a tome written in High Valyrian. The book, its pages weathered with age, contained intricacies of the ancient language spoken by the noble houses of Valyria. With furrowed brow, Aemond traced the elegant script with his finger, committing the words to memory as he jotted down notes in a leather-bound journal beside him.

His quill scratched across the parchment, capturing the nuances of pronunciation and grammar, as he diligently practiced the tongue. With each stroke of the pen, Aemond delved deeper into the mysteries of High Valyrian, his thirst for knowledge driving him to master the language of his ancestors. He was not sure if this was genuine interest, or a way to prove himself, but it was a skill that would surely make him stand out as opposed to just being labelled ‘the second son.’

Delving into the intricacies of dragon commands, he was interrupted by the soft patter of approaching footsteps. Glancing up from the pages, he beheld the sight of Lady Maera standing a few paces away, her presence unexpected yet oddly intriguing.

“Good afternoon, my Prince,” Maera greeted him with a radiant smile, executing a polite curtsy with practiced grace.

Returning her greeting with a nod of acknowledgment, Aemond couldn’t help but feel a sense of curiosity stir within him. Why had she sought him out? What prompted her to engage in conversation with him? Though he resolved to maintain his composure and politeness, a subtle wariness lingered in his demeanor. “Should you not be with my sister?” he inquired, his gaze returning to the pages of his book, his curiosity veiled behind a façade of casual indifference.

“The Princess is in an embroidery lesson with her Septa,” Maera explained, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the folds of her sleeves.

“And you do not partake?” Aemond questioned, his puzzlement evident in his tone.

A blush painted Maera’s cheeks as she emitted an awkward giggle. “Truthfully, I am terrible at it. I do not think I possess the fingers or patience for such a skill,” she admitted candidly, her vulnerability shining through her words.

Aemond couldn’t suppress a genuine laugh, the sound rich and warm as it filled the air. Lord Jasper Wylde’s intentions to refine his daughter’s ladylike qualities were evidently not misplaced, but Aemond found himself appreciating Maera’s candidness and authenticity. There was a refreshing genuineness about her that resonated with him.

However, what caught him off guard was the sudden closeness of the girl, who scooted herself into the alcove next to him, her turquoise skirts rustling softly as she settled into a comfortable position. Aemond’s cheeks flushed slightly, his heart skipping a beat at the unexpected proximity.

“What are you reading?” Maera asked inquisitively, her green eyes sparkling with genuine interest, drawing Aemond's attention away from the words on the page and meeting her gaze head on.

Aemond drew in a steadying breath, his violet eyes meeting Maera's as she leaned in, her curiosity palpable. “It’s called Fire and Blood: A full history of House Targaryen,” he replied, his voice steady despite the slight flutter in his chest.

Maera's eyes widened with interest. “You enjoy reading about your ancestors?” she inquired, her tone laced with genuine curiosity.

“I think it’s important to remember the past, as well as learn from the mistakes of old,” Aemond declared, his conviction evident in his words.

As Maera nodded in agreement, she leaned in even closer, her proximity causing Aemond's breath to catch in his throat. He couldn't help but notice the subtle scent that enveloped her – rainwater with a hint of vanilla – a comforting aroma that stirred something within him. He watched intently as she squinted her eyes, studying the text on the page with keen interest.

“It is written in High Valyrian,” she concluded with a determined nod as she leaned back, her observation leaving Aemond momentarily stunned. Even Aegon struggled to identify some of the words on the page, yet Maera seemed to discern the language effortlessly.

“How do you know that?!” Aemond asked, a frown of suspicion creasing his brow.

“I am learning,” Maera stated with a raised brow, taken aback by the Prince’s reaction.

“Are not,” Aemond challenged teasingly, shutting the book abruptly to shield its contents from her view.

“Am too!” Maera retorted, her voice rising in defiance as she stood up from her seat, crossing her arms in a display of determination.

“Prove it,” Aemond challenged with a playful smirk, his gaze locking with Maera's as they stood poised on the edge of a friendly competition of wits.

Maera’s initial reaction to Aemond’s challenge was one of outward fluster, her cheeks flushing with uncertainty at the unexpected request from the prince. Despite her momentary hesitation, she squared her shoulders and jutted out her chin with determination, accepting the challenge laid before her. “Nyke gūrēñagon kesrio syt issa muñnykeā ȳdratan,” I’m learning because it was my mother’s language, she stated confidently with a cheeky shake of her head.

Aemond’s initial shock was palpable, his eyebrows shot up in surprise, and his lips parted slightly in disbelief as he watched her form the unfamiliar words with ease.The flicker of curiosity that had ignited within him earlier now blazed into a roaring flame of intrigue, his admiration for the young girl deepening as he realized the depth of her knowledge and skill. Her smirk widened at his reaction.

“Impressive. But your accent could use some improvement,” the Prince remarked with a playful glint in his eyes, a hint of teasing in his tone.

Maera simply laughed, her amusement bubbling forth like a spring. “Such criticism, and yet I have yet to hear you speak it,” she countered, her tone light and teasing.

Aemond couldn’t help but bite back a smile before responding in High Valyrian, “Nyke sepār gūrēntan ao kostagon ȳzaldrīzes ziry rȳ,” I am just surprised you can speak it at all, his words laced with a mixture of admiration and surprise.

Lady Maera hummed thoughtfully, uncrossing her arms as she took a step closer to him. “Good, but I do have one improvement you could make,” she remarked, her tone shifting to one of encouragement.

Aemond’s brow furrowed in curiosity. “Oh?” he prompted, intrigued by her suggestion.

Maera leaned in, her playful jab in his shoulder accompanied by a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Speak it with more confidence, or else no one will be able to hear you. You are a Prince, and should be proud you can speak the language so well,” she advised, her words carrying a genuine sincerity that resonated with Aemond.

Aemond’s mouth practically fell open at Maera’s straightforward yet uplifting feedback. There were no veiled compliments or hidden agendas, just pure honesty and positive reinforcement. They shared a moment of laughter, the tension dissipating like morning mist under the warmth of their burgeoning friendship. As they stood there, Aemond couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it was like to have a true friend within the confines of the Red Keep – someone who accepted him for who he was and encouraged him to be the best version of himself.

The moment between the friends was shattered by the sudden clamor of books crashing to the floor and the sharp rebuke of the Maester echoing through the library. Startled, Aemond and Maera turned their heads towards the source of the disturbance, their camaraderie momentarily interrupted by the chaotic disruption.

Emerging from behind the shelves, Aegon staggered slightly, his state of slight drunkenness evident in the unsteady sway of his movements. Aemond couldn't help but sigh inwardly at the sight of his older brother, his heart heavy with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. If the natural order of things had prevailed, Aegon would be the heir to the throne instead of their older half-sister Rhaenyra. Thank the Gods that would never happen, Aemond thought.

With a careless disregard for his surroundings, Aegon reclined back in the alcove, propping his dirty boots on top of the cushions without a hint of respect or consideration. Aemond and Maera exchanged a knowing glance, their silent communication betraying a shared sentiment of disappointment and exasperation at the elder Prince’s behavior.

“What are you two doing in here?” Aegon slurred, his words dripping with mockery as he let out a drunken giggle. “Reading dirty books?”

Before Aemond could formulate a response, Maera interjected, her voice steady despite the underlying tension. “Prince Aemond has been kind enough to give me a tour of the library, my Prince,” she declared, her tone laced with a hint of defiance.

“Awww, that’s so sweet,” Aegon sneered mockingly, his theatrics accompanied by exaggerated batting of his eyelashes. “Have you got your eye on her, Aemond? Perhaps when she flowers, you could ride her like the Pink Dread. She’s certainly built like him,” he added with a cruel laugh, his words dripping with venom.

Aemond felt his frustration simmering beneath the surface, his cheeks flushing with indignation. He could sense Maera’s questioning gaze upon him, but the memories of the Pink Dread – the cruel jape gifted to him – stifled his urge to confide in her. Instead, he redirected his attention to his brother, his voice tinged with thinly veiled irritation. “What are you doing in here?”

Aegon’s response was dismissive, his tone dripping with arrogance. “I am bored, dear brother, so I have come to seek entertainment,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug.

“Entertainment? You do not strike me as the type of person to find that within a library, Prince Aegon,” Maera retorted with a teasing grin, her boldness and fire evident in her words.

Aemond’s initial grin widened as he observed Maera’s boldness in teasing Aegon, a rare display of defiance against his usually unchallenged older brother. Her ease and fiery demeanor in addressing Aegon sparked a sense of admiration within Aemond, who found himself silently cheering her on.

However, Aemond’s grin faltered and his heart sank as Aegon leaned forward and cruelly grabbed a fistful of Maera’s hair, pulling her close with a mixture of confusion and malice evident on his face as he studied the mixture of colours.

“What is with this silver bit in her hair?” Aegon demanded, his fingers still tightly knotted around Maera’s locks, his drunken haze masking any sense of empathy or restraint. Aemond’s eyes widened in disbelief as he witnessed the older prince’s callous actions towards his friend.

Watching Maera’s reaction, Aemond’s heart twisted with a mixture of anger and sympathy. Despite the obvious pain inflicted upon her by Aegon’s rough handling, Maera remained resolute, her jaw clenched and her gaze unwavering. Determined not to give Aegon the satisfaction of seeing her falter, she refused to utter a yelp of pain, though tears welled in her green eyes, betraying the hurt she endured.

Aemond felt a surge of protective instinct rise within him, his fists clenching at his sides as he struggled with the conflicting emotions swirling within him. “Let her go, Aegon,” he demanded, his voice laced with barely contained anger.

His older brother simply laughed, his breath hot against Maera’s face as he leaned in closer. “Oh, my little brother is so taken with you. You are his delicate little flower. His Mayflower! Yes, I like the sound of that!” Aegon’s words were laced with mockery, his grip on Maera tightening despite her struggles.

Maera wriggled and twisted, attempting to free herself from Aegon’s grasp, but his hold remained firm. Aegon sighed theatrically, turning his attention back to Aemond. “If you can answer my question, Aemond, I will let her go,” he declared, his tone slurred with the effects of his drunkenness.

Aemond huffed in frustration, his mind racing as he searched for a response. He doubted his brother’s sincerity, but he couldn’t risk Maera’s safety by ignoring the demand. “She has a rare pigment condition. The reason the streak is silver is probably due to the fact she’s part Targaryen,” he stated firmly, his words carrying a note of authority.

Aegon’s surprise was evident in the faltering of his grip, allowing Maera to yank herself free and take refuge beside Aemond, who cast her a reassuring glance before turning back to his brother. He could still see traces of Maera’s brown and silver strands wrapped around Aegon’s fingers, a stark reminder of the confrontation that had just unfolded.

“You? You are part Targaryen?” Aegon questioned incredulously, his tone laced with skepticism as he eyed Maera with suspicion.

Maera could only nod in response, her composure regained as she stood tall beside Aemond, her gaze steady despite the lingering tension in the air. Aegon hummed dismissively. “I don’t believe you,” he retorted, his arrogance palpable.

“Have you not been listening at our dinners?” Aemond shot back angrily, his frustration bubbling to the surface.

Aegon snickered, his laughter tinged with disdain. “Of course not,” he replied flippantly, his disregard for their family’s conversations evident in his dismissive tone.

Aemond's frustration boiled over, irritation clear in the furrow of his brow as he realized he was the lone listener during their family's evening gatherings. “We all share the same great-grandfather, Aegon. Lady Maera is the granddaughter of Archmaester Vaegon,” he retorted, his voice edged with annoyance at his brother's ignorance.

Aegon's eyebrows shot up in surprise, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Oh, so you are not a real Targaryen then, are you?” he teased, directing his mocking gaze towards Maera.

“Neither are you,” Lady Maera hissed back, her voice tinged with defiance as she brought her hair around her shoulder, stroking it soothingly. “You’re part Hightower,” she added with a pointed emphasis, her words a sharp retort to Aegon's taunts.

Aegon's temper flared at her words, his fists clenching at his sides as he stood up from his seat, his towering form casting a menacing shadow over them. “I am more Targaryen than you,” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom as he advanced towards them.

Maera stood her ground, her stance defiant as she positioned herself protectively in front of Aemond, much to his shock as he attempted to pull her back. His heart raced with a mixture of concern and bewilderment at Maera's audacity, her willingness to stand up to Aegon both admirable and disconcerting.

“Only because of your ridiculous hair. You won’t even be the King,” Maera sneered, her words cutting through the tense atmosphere like a knife, her defiance unyielding in the face of Aegon's fury.

Aegon's anger reached a boiling point, his face contorted with rage as he struggled to find words to match his escalating emotions. “You insolent little-”

“Enough!” a voice boomed from around the corner, cutting through the heated exchange like a sudden gust of wind.

From behind the shelf emerged old Maester Mellos, his weathered features etched with annoyance at the disruption of his previously quiet library. Aemond and Maera clasped their hands together, their heads bowed in a display of respect and contrition, each feeling a pang of guilt for their role in the altercation. Aegon, however, scoffed at the old man's interruption, his defiance evident in the dismissive curl of his lip.

“My Prince,” Maester Mellos addressed Aegon calmly, his tone tinged with authority. “The Queen knows you are back. And she is looking for you,” he added sternly, his words a clear indication that further disobedience would not be tolerated.

Aegon huffed in annoyance and stormed out of the library, his departure leaving behind a palpable tension that hung thick in the air. Maera and Aemond released a collective breath they hadn't realized they'd been holding, their shock giving way to nervous giggles in the aftermath of the altercation, but their levity was short-lived as they were promptly chastised by the stern old man.

“This is a place of study, not a nursery. You must keep noise to a minimum,” Maester Mellos admonished, his tone carrying a weight of authority that brooked no argument.

“Yes, Maester,” Maera replied with a sickeningly sweet edge to her voice, her contrition palpable as she met the maester's stern gaze. “It will not happen again.”

The old man huffed in response before retreating back to his desk, leaving Maera and Aemond to pick up the fallen books scattered by Aegon's drunken stumbling, restoring order to the quiet sanctum of the library.

Once the books were back in their rightful places, Maera broke the silence, her voice soft with gratitude. “Thank you, my Prince, for sticking up for me as best you could,” she murmured, her eyes reflecting a mixture of appreciation and lingering unease.

Aemond smiled sadly and nodded, his gaze flickering with a hint of regret. He wished he could have done more to protect her, but the reality of his brother's towering aggression loomed large in his mind, rendering any attempt futile.

He watched as Maera made her way over to the alcove, gathering Aemond's scattered belongings before approaching him with a quiet determination. “And thank you... for remembering my mother, and our shared blood,” she confessed softly, her vulnerability shining through in the tremor of her voice. “In truth, I don’t get to talk about her often. I don’t think my father likes it.”

Aemond accepted the items from her, their fingers brushing in a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of electricity coursing through him, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. He cleared his throat, struggling to maintain his composure. “Like I said, it is important to remember history,” he replied earnestly, his words carrying a weight of sincerity as he met Maera's gaze with a shared understanding of the significance of their shared heritage.

As they exited the library and made their way down the corridor, Maera couldn’t contain a mischievous giggle bubbling up from within her.

“We should get him back for that,” Maera chortled with a twinkle of mischief in her green eyes.

Aemond watched her with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “What do you suggest?”

“Well… the Princess has a millipede we could use.”

Before he could fully comprehend her intentions, Maera grabbed his hand, sending a jolt of nervous excitement coursing through him. Feeling her touch, Aemond’s palms grew sweaty with anticipation as they ran down the corridor together, their fingers intertwined in a silent pact of solidarity.

Despite the lingering tension from their encounter with Aegon, Aemond couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope blossoming within him for the budding friendship he shared with Maera. In that moment, as they raced through the castle hallway hand in hand, Aemond dared to believe that perhaps the pair of them had found a kindred spirit in one another.

Notes: Thought we could all use a break and have some fluffy baby Maemond as well as Aemond’s perspective on everything. But to do that we gotta go right back to the beginning. So I’ll be posting these intermittently, probably maximum get about ten chapters out of him. But yeah, this was nice to write. Aemond POV chapter three though is going to be back to our usual nasty dark horrible shit 🤣 Also points to everyone who can point out callbacks from previous chapters 🖤

Tags: @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @0eessirk8

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[sunspearesque]

The Bereaved Dunes

Summary:

In the Bereaved Dunes, where shadows weep, A tale of love and sorrow, bound to keep. Elia, my sun, in your memory I tread, Through sands of despair, where tears are shed. I should've taken you far away, my dear, To Dorne's warm embrace, where skies are clear. But fate had other plans, a cruel twist of hand, In the Bereaved Dunes, where sorrows expand.

A/N: I've often wondered, 'How did Oberyn receive the news of Elia's death? How did his mind grapple with such a profound tragedy?' This curiosity served as my inspiration for writing this piece. It is crucial to delve into the pivotal event that laid the foundation for all of his subsequent actions. This prologue marks the genesis of my upcoming series, 'Whispers of Vendetta,' wherein Elia's death remains canon (and I made use of some famous lines from ASOIAF books), though I've allowed myself creative freedom in depicting Oberyn's reaction and the events that follow. Big thanks to my sweet, sweet friend @palioom for her unwavering support <3 I hope this piece meets your liking xoxo

Rating: M

CW: angst; canon character death (Elia Martell); grief/mourning; sibling loss; brief description of death/injury

WC: 1.6K

Read on AO3 • moodboard

283 AC

"We cannot simply remain still… spineless, awaiting news of her safety and that of her children!" Oberyn's voice rang out, filled with fervor, as he directed his words at his elder brother.

Doran, vexed by his brother's persistence, hissed back in retort, "I've entrusted four of our most skilled soldiers with her protection, Oberyn! They will ensure her safety. Cease your incessant hovering!"

Oberyn's eyes bore into Doran's, smoldering with anger and worry, "They had better return with her unharmed, or I shall part their heads from their bodies myself!"

Twelve agonizing hours passed without any word of Elia. Silence hung heavy in the air, and Oberyn's unease deepened. He understood that the Dornish princess was not their highest priority, knowing that no one would make her safety their concern—not even her husband, the father of her children.

Her husband, that fucking bastard.

I should have spirited her and her two children away to Dorne the moment she sent for me. The instant he crowned that Stark girl as the queen of love and beauty, forsaking his own wife. I should have sensed the despair in her ever-saddened eyes. She sat there, abased and broken, her belly swollen with his child. Those smudged words in her letter, likely stained by her tears, should have served as reason enough to bring her back to Dorne, where she truly belonged among her people and her land.

Elia was no viper; she was more akin to a dove—gentle, serene, fragile yet resplendent, graceful, and generous to a fault. She was too generous for the rapacious beasts that surrounded her. Here in Dorne, she walked among vipers, none of them would ever harm her. In King's Landing, she had found herself surrounded by dragons and lions… who had torn her asunder, both figuratively and literally.

Every hour drifted by like a languid stream, sowing a tempest of dread deep within Oberyn's core. Why does no one share in my fear? Neither her kin, nor our people dwelling here. Why does the world remain unperturbed? Am I truly the only one who understands the depth of their malice? Their hatred for us? For her?

Oberyn paced his brother's solar ceaselessly, a restless specter, his sword ever-present at his side, primed for any declaration. Doran, seated nearby, muttered words beneath his breath, prayers? curses? who knows; their nature concealed in the shroud of his quiet contemplation.

Suddenly, the reverberation of frantic footfalls pierced the air, accompanied by the panting of a disheveled soldier. "My... My Princes, Your Highness," the soldier stammered, his voice trembling as tears welled up in his eyes. Words eluded him, his courage shattered. "They have… they've killed the King... they've taken the Princess's life... and her children's." Oberyn lunged forward, seizing the young man by the throat, his rage ignited like wildfire, "I will sever your vile tongue if such words pass your lips again!" he hissed, fury coursing through every fiber of his being. How dare he utter such blasphemy?

Doran shouted at him, a frantic plea to prevent his brother from inflicting harm. Oberyn's grip on the soldier's neck tightened, threatening to snap it in half, "how dare you speak her name with such lies!" Oberyn's face was but a hair's breadth away from the man's.

"Oberyn!" Doran's voice boomed louder now, snapping his brother from the abyss of his wrath.

Reluctantly, Oberyn released the man, who fell to his knees, coughing and gasping, muttering apologies amidst his tears, "I apologize, my prince... I apologize... I apologize," he babbled frantically, his form trembling.

Oberyn stood frozen in place, the world around him becoming a cacophony of muffled sounds. Blood surged in his ears and pounded in his head, rendering his limbs feeble and numb. The frantic movements of those around him and his older brother's inquiries and orders blurred into obscurity, leaving only the sensation of his own scalding skin, burning him alive. He longed to rip his garments from his body, to tear his flesh asunder, as the air grew oppressively thick and sweltering, suffocating him as if he were submerged beneath water. The tingling sensation in his fingertips and the throbbing pain in his right eye pierced his consciousness. It was as though he were aflame from within, feeling the molten flow of his blood beneath his searing skin.

Their shared life flashed before his eyes in an instant. He remembered her fragility, how he cradled her in his arms and heart. Those days when he pushed her wheelchair with gusto, eliciting laughter from her. She was a year his senior, yet her fragility and ailment demanded his physical protection. In turn, she fortified his spirit, offering solace in a world that sought to alter him. He visited her chamber daily, sharing tales of their parents and elder sibling, and she listened, offering comfort and understanding. He was her bastion, and she was his serenity. He was her army, and she was his peace. They were inseparable, and the notion of existence without one another seemed unfathomable.

The sun no longer bathed Dorne in its usual warmth on the day her remains returned to their homeland. That Dornish sun, once radiant, now dawned upon a lifetime burdened by sorrow. She had been his sun, his compass… and he, the unwavering sunflower, had turned to follow her every step. But now, he stood alone, adrift in a sea of grief and rage.

The maesters had begged him to avert his gaze, especially from her visage—or what remained of it, to be precise. They wished to preserve her memory, to shield the image of her serenity from the abhorrent tragedy she had endured. Oberyn, however, bore the weight of her demise squarely upon his own shoulders. He harbored the belief that it was his heedlessness, his momentary acquiescence to his brother’s commands, that had led to her tragic end. And as penance, he needed to engrave the gruesome sight of her shattered skull and broken mandible to his brain, so that the searing memory might forever scar his psyche.

He craved the pain, the unrelenting thirst for vengeance, for it was this anguish that would serve as a relentless reminder. He needed her tragic fate etched into the very fiber of his being, so that if ever a trace of empathy for these monsters dared to creep into his thoughts, the vivid memory of what they had stolen from him—the essence of his sweet Elia—would rip through his soul, leaving him wounded, but resolute in his pursuit of justice.

The absence of a sibling is an ineffable experience… alexithymic; one that defies the boundaries of expression. You see, a person's existence in this world is akin to that of a tree; the parents, the grandparents, and all the ancestors serve as the unwavering stem, the robust trunk that grounds and anchors one's very being. Your children, they are the intricate roots, extensions of your essence that traverse the world, existing as a continuation of you, and you, in turn, live life through them. But siblings... they are the branches.

To lose a sibling is to lose a part of yourself, a limb perhaps, one that may not kill you but certainly inflicts the agony of phantom pain. It lingers, this spectral ache, an ever-present reminder that punctuates your happiest moments, like a persistent thorn in your side, incessantly prodding you to remember what you have forfeited. It leaves behind a lingering melancholy, not potent enough to suffocate you to death, yet substantial enough to hinder the prospect of living life to its fullest.

But how does one even go about living life in the semblance of normalcy?

For a sibling is more than a mere bearer of shared genes; they are witnesses to your enduring connection with stubborn parents, companions in the labyrinthine maze of childhood, fellow travelers through the terrain of trauma. They are the ones who have beheld every facet of your being, every iteration of your existence.

In the years that followed, he embarked on a ceaseless flight, fleeing from her shadow, from the haunting memory of their love. Her name, once a melody on his tongue, now tasted acrid, too laden with pain to be cherished or recollected. His heart, once a sanctuary of devotion, was now filled with a venomous brew of hatred, anger, and an insatiable thirst for retribution. He yearned to hunt down every man across the Seven Kingdoms, to rend their flesh from bone with his own bare hands. Yet, deep within, he nurtured a more profound loathing—for himself, for his own frailty and cowardice.

Her death had sapped his strength, of that he was certain. He could no longer gaze upon the sun without wincing, nor could he behold the graceful palm trees that adorned every corner of Dorne without feeling his gut wrenching, as though it were on the verge of rupture. Even the taste of figs, her favored fruit, had become an agony to bear. And when he cast his eyes upon his own brother, he could not help but wish it had been he who suffered such a wretched fate, rather than his sweet Elia.

On bended knee, he knelt beside her sandstone tomb, on the eve of his departure from Dorne, where he would spend the impending years in solitude, far removed from the land they had once shared. Whispering amidst tears that welled in his eyes and his aching heart, And unbowed, unbent, and unbroken, you must rest, my Sun.

[renesassing]

GOD OF CAUSALITY. GOD OF CASUALTIES.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

May I please request Daemon Blackfyre with the prompt: Summer Wine? (Feel free to delete this.)

Hello!Thank you for the request! I confess I have not yet reached the part of Daemon Blackfyre in Fire and Blood, but I will try to do my best. I hope you like this!

"Redgrass field"

Pairing: Daemon Blackfyre x Fem. Reader

Themes: Secret love / Lost love / Angst

Warnings: Alcohol use | Brief mention of kissing and intimate activities (very very brief and very very mild)

Word count: 600 approximately.

Summary: It is not everyone who captures Daemon Blackfyre's especial attention. But what happens after that?

Minors DNI | 18+

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You could still remember the first time you saw him.

The bastard son of Daena the Defiant, the one known to all as Blackfyre, rode up to the lists, all proud and tall and fierce, with his beaten silver hair and bewitching lavender eyes that could beckon even the most resolute of maidens like a siren's call. His silver spurs jingled sweetly even as they glinted wickedly in the brilliant summer sun. His milky white courser had been resplendent in red and black silks that swirled around it whenever it broke into a run.

It was the most beautiful of days, all bright and golden and glorious. The crowd roared every time Daemon broke his lance and unhorsed his opponent. They would gasp when his foe fell to the earth with a sickening clangor. They would applaud when the fallen knight struggled to his feet. Daena would cheer louder than all the rest, her eyes filled with unbridled pride. Daemon was her child, her light, her life, and her joy. And yet, it was not her he sought out, but you. Out of all the ladies present, Daemon sought you out.

"Victory would be all but assured, sweet lady," he had declared, "if I had the great honor of wearing a token of your esteem."

You honored him, bestowing upon him not just a bejeweled token but a great many other things even as the days melted into each other. It was you he came to for companionship; it was you he turned to in the dances. He would tenderly lead you, his feet as light as air, his touch as gentle as a feather. His laughter would ring across the grounds, as clear as dawn bells. There was magic as light and sweet as summer wine, and the two of you drank deeply during those heady nights.

Oh, how heady indeed were those nights. Daemon wooed you and courted you, his kisses tasting like strawberries and cherries and bright spring mornings. His hair smelled like warm summer nights. His skin tasted of sunlight. You both knew it would never last, for he was the son of a Targaryen princess, and you were of little consequence to be considered a worthy consort for one such as him. Still, the two of you made the most of what the Gods gave you that season, delighting in summer days and summer nights and sweet, sweet summer wine. And when he left, you wept not, content to hold onto the memories that kept you warm many a cold autumn night, thinking that perhaps, some day, he would come for you and take you for his own.

That would never be. He wed another, quarreled, and warred, and now you were here, in this faraway field, standing before the great winged warhelm that was all that remained of his grave marker. The wonder and terror of his age, your summer love, snuffed out in the blink of an eye. If you did not weep then, you wept now, your eyes filling and stinging with uncontrollable tears. Did he think of you, of those glorious days and nights the two of you shared? Had he ever considered seeking you out, even for a moment? Unspeakable grief welled up and spilled over like a mighty flood. The lady he would go on to marry had his children. You had nothing of him, save for his winged warhelm, and, of course, the memories of summer days and summer nights and sweet, sweet summer wine.

[blorbologist]

Astrid for your trick and trick prompts!

Trick! >:D This was super tricky(hah!) to pull off, but I wanted to poke at a bit of the other ramifications of the recent events in Wildemount, and Astrid is perfect for that <3 my gorl <3

--

The Soul don’t trust her. Wiser not to: her use as a witness against Trent was because she had been useful to him as a tool, and now she sat at the same table he had, lined with instruments at her disposal. 

But when her office clatters with the fall and tumble and screams of a dozen dozen magic items falling, inert (not dead), her Sendings don’t go through. Not to them. Not to Caleb. Not to Eadwulf. Not even, in desperation, to -

Astrid curls up on the floor, mouth agape. Her scar burns, again. Her glyphs boil, again. Her head strikes back at her for the arrogance to want to know why and know, and know, and know if -

(They are your leylines, Master Ikithon had purred, walking a nail through a sharp angle. Conduits to magic as those of Exandria. Roads to power.)

The king speaks in weak rage, anger born of fear, the Cerberus Assembly conspicuously headless. And Archmage Astrid Becke, littlest of their number, can think only of her chair at this table and who held it before her.

(Divinity is shackled, it seems. Magic struggling to follow leylines.)

(He’s free. Of course he is. Has to be.)

(She’s dead, screams the itch in her scars, a map to her obituary. Dead, dead, dead.)

But Master Ikithon is nothing but a footnote to his most resplendent and revered Highness King Dwendal, most insignificant of his name. Where is Ludinus, he bellows. Where are my wards? Who is responsible? What Crick did this? 

I don’t know, is all they can say, more unsettling for the people who usually know too much.

The rest - Uludan, Hass, the rest of the snakes. They knew what Trent did to them, they know she knows, they still see her as useful, a tool, even at the table. They look to her, Archmage of Civil Influence, not expecting her to be the one to. Making her play the part anyways. No, her people use Sending. Sending is not working. 

(No response. Has he already -?)

Hours of meeting. Increased security. Insistence to take advantage of the opportunity to dispatch a few daggers in key places. Astrid strides out and away, not looking at the other heads of her order. Keeps her own high, on swivel, because - 

She’s expecting the arm that grabs her. Expects the lines - they match, fit together, continue from her wrist to his bicep. 

“Eadwulf,” says Astrid. “Wulf -” 

“Blumenthal,” he replies, in croaking gasps. His shirt is undone - the silver raven feather gleams like a dagger, or death. “Ikithon.”

They go.

--

Of course. Of course. Even after it all. Astrid Becke at his seat. Astrid Becke who locked the collar around his neck. Caleb Widogast (not Bren Ermendrud) was the one he chose. The most naive of their three, the one who let the bastard live.

She cries, in the cradle of her mothers’ graves, that she dare be relieved.

🎃Trick or Treat! Send me an ask and you'll get a trick (angst) or treat (fluff) ficlet in return! 🎃

[proosh]

Gilbert has a scent kink and Francis indulges him in ways Gil didn't even know possible

oh my god this took so much longer than intended I'm so so sorry. please enjoy.

(side acknowledgement: eternal thanks to @grapeautumn for letting me borrow their ideas for Fran's apartment. please go ask them for specifics because it's glorious and terrible.) Pairing: FraPru/PruFra Prompt: Scent kink Rating: Teen? 16+??? (Sensual/suggestive but nothing explicit) Length: ~1.4k words Content Warnings: Scent kink, animal comparisons, gratuitous French petnames EDITED TO ADD: LINK TO FANART AT THE BOTTOM!!!

There was no way on God’s green earth Gilbert was at all ever trusting Francis’ driving, let alone in actual streets of Paris. That’s how he ended up walking from the train station with his bag slung over his shoulder and then hiking up three goddamned flights of stairs to get to Francis’ apartment.

The next world meeting was to be held in Paris, so it really only made sense for him to stay at Francis’ apartment for the duration. Three flights of stairs aside, it was a nice place. Kind of bougie, but familiar and suitable for the… thing they had together. Certainly not a capital-R-Relationship, but their… relationship. Whatever that was.

It’s how he ended up slightly winded knocking on the apartment door – which opened far too quickly for his taste.

Francis was smiling at him, feline, resplendent, shirt half-open to the belly to reveal everything from collarbone to sternum. He was holding a glass of wine.

“Bonjour! Please, do come in, I’ve been waiting.”

Gilbert did as commanded and stepped into the apartment, bracing himself against being enveloped by the Bohemian kitsch that dominated it. He failed, in no small part thanks to Fran appearing at his side and taking his bag and catching him off-guard in the process.

The apartment was familiar to Gilbert: Centuries blended into one another and competed for sensory recognition in garish colours and bold textures and… His nose wrinkled.

Francis was babbling about one thing or another – “–ly makes sense to share a bed, it would be discourteous of me to force you to the couch–” – but Gilbert tuned him out, pursing his lips and focusing on inhaling through his nose.

The usual light, familiar scent of antiques and Francis’ usual perfumes was being undercut by something else that was bringing him up short and making a strange part of his hindbrain sit up and pay attention.

Francis had noticed his distraction and had stopped talking, regarding him with a coy smile. Gilbert eyed him suspiciously, his nostrils flaring to try and narrow in on the… Something in the air. Francis was smiling far too indulgently for this not to be a mere something.

“What… Is that,” Gilbert asked, in a way that wasn’t really a question.

“What is what, cher?” Francis said, swirling the wine in his glass and sniffing it daintily, all in that lilting way that made Gilbert want to sink his teeth into his throat and shake him like a rabbit.

Curiousity and prey drive sufficiently piqued, Gilbert tilted his head to the side and noticed that Francis was not nearly as nonchalant as he was pretending to be��� he was keeping his gaze on Gilbert with a guarded, almost polite, wariness.

This was a game, then. 

He stepped closer to Francis, keeping his eyes trained on the man lest he get any ideas and try to escape somehow.

“You were waiting for me,” he stated plainly, watching the corner of Francis’ mouth twitch in confusion.

“Of course. I’ve missed you, cher.”

“You were waiting for me, so I would notice,” Gilbert said, ignoring the flutter in his chest and instead approaching with careful steps.

Francis backed up, and almost seemingly allowed himself to be hounded back against the apartment wallpaper – a floral display, much like the man himself.

Francis wet his mouth with a teasing tongue and looked much like the cat that had got the mouse. Conniving bastard was preening in his victory.

“An old thing. Don’t you remember? Back when it was the fashion to smell like an elk in rut.” He pouted, then, batting his lashes. “I found it while doing some cleaning. Do you not like it?”

Gilbert’s hand had switched from pinning him to gripping the lapel of his open shirt — silk, lovely, slippery like the man — and he made a confused noise somewhere between a growl and a whine.

“You— planned to wear it? To force me to work it out?”

The entire time something off had been in the air, a slight note ajar from the usual, familiar scentscape of Francis and his apartment: floral perfume, the smell of antiques, Francis’ own clean, natural musk, and… Then something atop that, that made Gilbert’s ears perk up and something in his hindbrain demand to be investigated.

He had him against the wall, now. They were the same height, so Gilbert pinned him with a firm hand across Francis’ collarbone and peered at him suspiciously.

Francis, to his credit, was back to giving him that coy smile. He was always a man who liked this sort of game.

Gilbert’s nose wrinkled again as he sniffed and was met with that something again, stronger now. He leaned in, thoroughly invading Francis’ personal space in the process and inhaled slower, letting the notes register on his palate — much like how Francis would be scenting his wine, almost.

He hummed blinking as he processed it, and then leaned in close enough that he could feel the prickle of excitement along the fine hairs of Francis’ throat, and the pulse of his heartbeat beneath his hand. It was richer here — whatever it was — and mingled with the natural scent of Francis’ own skin in a way that was making Gilbert’s teeth ache in a way he couldn’t quite identify.

Gilbert’s nose swung from his throat to his bared chest. Francis was hairy just about everywhere, and the golden fur of his chest might have been the prize of his pelt. He’d been showing it off, too. It was inviting and the musk was strongest here and Gilbert was pressing his nose against the soft hair—

The something clicked into his memory register like the cartridge of a rifle being loaded.

He was back to Francis’s face, nose to nose with accusation before the thought was even fully formed.

“What is that perfume,” Gilbert half-snarled with hazy recollection that was making his belly do uncertain twists of confused want.

Francis pursed his mouth in polite amusement and seemed thoroughly unbothered by the bordering on rough treatment.

“Yes, yes. My clever plan: to make you a madman of desire, hunting down your prey.”

His words had a slightly flippant tone that gave Gilbert pause.

“Am I,” he tested, lightly, “Doing something wrong?” 

Francis batted his lashes at him again.

“Mm. Marginally caught up in the details, cher. Allow me to recontextualise.” He pressed the pads of his fingers — when had he put down that wine glass? — against Gilbert’s chest lightly, and deliberately trailed them down his front. A coil of tense frisson followed.

“I am a humble elk in rut, you see,” he mused, “and you can smell. You, my sweet hound, have scented me, and now you come to hunt. How does that sound, cher?”

Gilbert did smell him. It had been a type of perfume Francis had worn extensively in centuries past, and it had been something Gilbert had chased after and it had been what was making his hindbrain react with such primitive hunting instinct: Francis was deliberately activating his prey drive. It made a growl rise unbidden in his throat. 

Francis didn’t have the opportunity to bat his eyelashes again before Gilbert was on him, pinning him fully against the wall and forcing his face into the space between his jaw and throat with hungry, savage kisses and bites and everything else in between.

He was pressing Francis back against the garish wallpaper and was forcing himself between his legs, slotting neatly against his body. Francis was hitching a leg up against Gilbert’s hip as they grinded together in a delicious slide of bodies and Gilbert attacked his neck with teeth and tongue to try and get more of that musky, rich scent.

Francis was patting him on the shoulder with some degree of urgency, which made Gilbert come up for air to check– 

He was beautiful, like this. Flushed and visibly winded, hair a mess and eyes wide and dark, mouth pulled into a crooked smile of delight. 

“–Ah, cher, would you like to relocate? I’m sure a more horizontal surface may suit our purposes bett–”

Whatever Francis had been about to propose was irrelevant, because Gilbert didn’t need a horizontal surface at all to shove his face back down into Francis’ chest to huff the collected musk and sweat there and nose against the lush blond curls.

Francis had gone through all this effort to present himself as prey to be hunted, and Gilbert was nothing if not dedicated: If Francis wanted to be mauled, then mauled he would be. 

EDITED TO ADD: thank you to kopifuran for this incredible fanart?? Please go show them some love!!

[bladeweaver-if]

Talia Maren - The Bastard

Height: 5'5"

Hair: A vibrant warm brown, expertly styles so the curls spill over her back and the front of her shoulders. Pinned up in an elaborate fashion for events or worn in any number of elaborate, unconventional styles.

Eyes: A warm, chocolatey amber colour. Talia's eyes are her sharpest feature, turning doelike to cruel and exacting in an instant when she's provoked.

Facial features: Has a so-called traditional beauty, offset by a sneer that often marrs her round face. A round nose, hollow yet full smile and perfect, slender eyebrows are some of her defining features. Has a medium brown skin tone.

Build: Curvy and elegant, Talia is able to make any dress or gown look absolutely resplendent, much to the disdain of her 'sisters' and 'mother'. She insists upon being trained in the basics of combat by her attendant, and is a novice with the blade, but keeps this fact well-hidden.

Age: Two years older than MC.

Personality: Years of growing up in poverty before her true father claimed her as an official heir of his house, giving her inheritance rights over her 'trueborn' younger sisters, has made Talia desparate not to return to such a life should her father, who has fallen ill, pass before she is able to secure her hold on the family. Thus, she makes herself bigger, scarier, like a cornered beast.

Talia is an exceedingly clever social climber, and seeks allies in all places, willing to hurt others to get what she feels she needs, she deserves. In private, however, once her guard is down, she can be witty, funny and even affable, given some patience.

Keywords: Self-assured, stubborn, aggressive, impatient, assertive.

Likes: Gossip, watching plays, sightseeing, debating.

Dislikes: Her family (except for her father), heights, the wind and the boring or weak-willed.

Talia will be introduced in Chapter 5: The Beast.

[wxnheart]

𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐃 - Perturabo and Rogal Dorn

'Let me out,' you wanted to scream from your gilded cage, a mantra of torment that's fallen on deaf ears. 'Let me out and I will be whatever you want me to be. Just stop. Stop and let me be free.'

You prided yourself on your observational skills so why couldn't you see this? How the hell did you find yourself in the crossfire of this... this senseless rivalry?! And so you lamented in your cage.

It had been an honor to serve the Praetorian, his stoic visage refreshing amidst resplendent gold. What an honor it was to behold his creations, to see worlds built anew in the name of the Emperor. What an honor it was... until it became one no longer.

There were whispers coated in murmurs and crafted in hushed tones, enigmatic glances, and scoffs. You thought you were crazy, you thought legion politics were beneath you all until you realized it came directly from some of Lord Dorn's most trusted. You didn't understand, didn't want to know until you saw for yourself.

Until you saw him, the Praetorian, stoic amidst resplendent gold, watching... you. Unabashedly so. 'My... My lord?' you asked, tentatively. And still, he stared, brows slightly furrowed until he didn't. Until he spoke your name and you felt it rumble throughout your entire being, until Dorn nodded slightly, as if to himself, and carried on with his duties. You tried to ignore the stares of the other occupants in the room but it was too much. The shame burned your cheeks and made you feel small. And it was only the beginning.

This damned war had cost you everything. Anger and sorrow seemed to be the two emotions you vacillated between. But what an honor it was to serve him, the staunchly loyal Praetorian whose contributions prevented Terra from falling to the hands of Chaos, what an honor it was to have survived, to play a part in watching the Imperium be built anew. What an honor it was... until it was one no longer.

You wanted to laugh to keep from crying. You would've done both if you weren't so damned scared. Of what exactly, you would never know.

You berate yourself constantly. In hindsight, you should've known something was happening when you saw the Imperial Fists more often than not and when you found your work personally supervised by the Praetorian himself (you always avoid his gaze). You should've known something was happening when you were suddenly isolated away from the others and became fodder protected by titans. You should've known something was happening when, in a flurry of bright flashes and loud blasters, thick fingers wrapped themselves around your wrist and absconded with you in the confusion.

You laughed afterward, mirthless and scared when you were brought face-to-face with the hulking Primarch. You felt tears of indignation and anxiety prick your eyes and blur your sight as you beheld the icy glare. Perturabo. The name felt metallic in your mouth and clouded your senses like smoke.

Perturabo. The Hammer of Olympia. The Traitor. You wanted to cry to keep from laughing again. But what good would that do? You figured he'd only brutalize you like he did that one poor bastard not too long ago. And so against your better wishes, you laughed mirthlessly. Again. And what good that did in the face of Perturabo's rage.

Reality was a blur until you found yourself cloistered in this... room. This prison. This cage. Iron and... and gilded. Emperor help you. You recalled the words of the Hammer, recalled the disgust in his voice, the crazed look in his eyes. 'It is true what they said about you...' What?

His imposter bastard of a brother was besotted (what?! LORD DORN?!). The Hammer proclaimed that Dorn was pathetic, a weakling, undeserving of such praise and adoration, undeserving of the reputation he built. You recalled the rant as Perturabo all but destroyed the room, recalled his screams that Dorn would know true loss, that this would be the greatest of fortresses, one that he would fail to penetrate. He had all that Dorn wanted. He had it all and would never give it back.

You had some nerve, alright. You had some nerve to ask the Traitor what made him dare think Lord Dorn would even consider accepting his challenge.

"He would," the Traitor replies smugly, "because I have you. And you will witness true craftsmanship." And you will be mine. Emperor help you.

'Let me out,' you scream later from your gilded cage, a mantra of torment that's fallen on deaf ears, 'Let me out and I will be whatever you want me to be. Just stop. Stop and let me be free.'

Perturabo smirks, cold eyes filled with dark humor, hatred, envy, and want. Perturabo smirks and awaits the rage he knows is coming. Perturabo smirks and reasons that if you did not want to bear witness to his magnum opus, he'll be damned if you ever laid eyes on Dorn's ever again.